Here followeth an instructive story:--A recent opera performed with considerable success at Monte Carlo and other Continental resorts is the work of a woman, stolen by a man. The facts are well known, as are the names of the hero and heroine of the sordid tragedy. A little love-making on the part of the male composer, who could show nothing of ability save the composition of a few amorous drawing-room songs--a confiding trust on the part of the woman-genius, whose brain was full of God-given melody--these were the motives of the drama. She played the score of her opera through to him--he listened with admiration--with words of tender flattery, precious to her who was weak enough to care for such a rascal; and then he took it away to be “transcribed,” as he said, and set out for the orchestra. He loved her, so the poor credulous soul thought!--and she trusted him--such an old story! He copied her opera in his own manuscript--stole it, in short, and left for the Continent, where he had it produced as his own composition. Had she complained, the law would have gone against her. She had no proof save that of her love. Before a grinning, jesting court of law she would have had to publish the secret of her heart. People would have shaken their heads and said, “Poor thing! A case of self-delusion and hysteria!” He himself would have shaken his dirty pate and said, “Poor soul! Mad--quite mad! Many women have had their heads turned likewise for love of me!” So it chances that only those “in the know” are aware of the story, and the man-Fraud is left unmolested; but it is a curious and suggestive fact that he produces no more operas.