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 most ravishing melody, aye, that can hear nothing, and feel nothing
else, when moving pity speaks. But, so the world goes--men will weep over
a dying ass, then pitch a brother into the ditch. A play, oh, how they can
appreciate, and feel it, they are so sensitive; but a stern stirring fact,
they c