c vein. The story is extremely silly
in itself, and most of the incidents take place before the curtain
rises. The overture is a long piece of programme music, which is
supposed to depict the bridal procession of Hoel and Dinorah, two Breton
peasants, to the church where they are to be married. Suddenly a
thunderstorm breaks over their heads and disperses the procession, while
a flash of lightning reduces Dinorah's homestead to ashes. Hoel, in
despair at the ruin of his hopes, betakes himself to the village
sorcerer, who promises to tell him the secret of the hidden treasure of
the local gnomes or Korriganes if he will undergo a year of trial in a
remote part of the country. On hearing that Hoel has abandoned her
Dinorah becomes insane, and spends her time in roving through the woods
with her pet goat in search of her lover. The overture is a picturesque
piece of writing enough, though much of it would be entirely meaningless
without its programme. When the opera opens, Hoel has returned from his
probation in possession of the important secret. His first care is to
find some one to do the dirty work of finding the treasure, for the
oracle has declared that the first man who shall lay hands upon it will
die. His choice falls upon Corentin, a country lout, whom he persuades
to accompany him to the gorge where the treasure lies hidden. Corentin
is not so stupid as he seems, and, suspecting something underhand, he
persuades the mad Dinorah to go down into the ravine in his place.
Dinorah consents, but while she is crossing a rustic bridge, preparatory
to the descent, it is struck by lightning, and she tumbles into the
abyss. She is saved by Hoel in some inexplicable way, and, still more
inexplicably, regains her reason. The music is bright and tuneful, and
the reaper's and hunter's songs (which are introduced for no apparent
reason) are delightful; but the libretto is so impossibly foolish that
the opera has fallen into disrepute, although the brilliant music of the
heroine should make it a favourite role with competent singers.

Meyerbeer was extravagantly praised during his lifetime; he is now as
bitterly decried. The truth seems to lie, as usual, between the two
extremes. He was an unusually clever man, with a strong instinct for the
theatre. He took immense pains with his operas, often rewriting the
entire score; but his efforts were directed less towards ideal
perfection than to what would be most effective, so that the