I must here now copy the following lines from Mr. Headley: “I have seen, and heard much of an italian love of music, but nothing illustrating it so forcibly as an incident that occured last evening at the opera. In the midst of one of the scenes, a man in the pit near the orchestra, was suddenly seized with convulsions. His limbs stiffened; his eyes became set in his head, and stood wide open, staring at the ceiling like the eyes of a corpse; while low, and agonizing groans broke from his struggling bosom. The prima donna came forward at that moment, but seeing his livid, death-stamped face before her, suddenly stopped with a tragic look and start, that for once was perfectly natural. She turned to the bass-singer, and pointed out the frightful spectacle. He also started back in horror, and the prospect was, that the opera would terminate on the spot; but, the scene that was just opening, was the one in which the prima donna was to make her great effort, and around which the whole interest of the play was gathered, and the spectators were determined not to be disappointed, because one man was dying, and so shouted ‘go on! go on!’ Clara Novello gave another look towards the groaning man, whose whole aspect was enough to freeze the blood, and then started off in her part. But, the dying man grew worse and worse, and finally sprung bolt upright in his seat. A person sitting behind him, all-absorbed in the music, immediately placed his hands on his shoulders, pressed him down again, and held him firmly in his place. There he sat, pinioned fast with his pale, corpse-like face upturned, in the midst of that gay assemblage, and the foam rolling over his lips, while the braying of trumpets, and the voice of the singer, drowned the groans that were rending his bosom. At length the foam became streaked with blood, as it oozed through his teeth, and the convulsive starts grew quicker and fiercer. But, the man behind, held him fast, while he gazed in perfect rapture on the singer, who now, like the ascending lark, was trying her loftiest strain. As it ended, the house rang with applause, and the man, who had held down the poor dying creature could contain his ecstacy no longer, and lifting his hands from his shoulders, clapped them rapidly together three or four times, crying out over the ears of the dying man, ‘Brava, brava!’ and then hurriedly placing them back again to prevent his springing up in his convulsive throes. It was a perfectly maddening spectacle, and the music jarred on the chords of my heart, like the blows of a hammer. But, the song was ended, the effect secured, and so the spectators could attend to the sufferer in their midst. The _gens d’armes_ entered, and carried him speechless, and lifeless out of the theatre. If this be the refined nature, and sensitive soul, love of music creates, heaven, keep me from it, and my countrymen. Give me a heart with chords that vibrate to human suffering, sooner than to the