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of beautiful women, is quite like those effects of light and shadow which astonish us when we see statues in the night by torchlight. Such marble images then reveal in the terrifying truth their indwelling spirit and awful silent secrets. In like manner the whole life of the beautiful Italians shows itself to us when we see them in the opera; the varying melodies then waken in their souls an array of feelings, memories, wishes, and woes, which at once speak out in the movements of their features, in their blushing, their paleness, and even in their eyes. He who can read may then read in their beautiful faces many sweet and interesting things, stories as strange as the novels of Boccaccio, feelings as tender as the sonnets of Petrarch, whims as odd as the Ottaverime of Ariosto—often enough, too, frightful treachery and sublime evil as poetic as the Hell of Dante. Yes, it is worth while to look up at the boxes. If the men would only not meanwhile express their inspiration with such frightful noise. This insane applause in an Italian theatre becomes annoying. But music is the soul of these people, their life, their national cause. In other countries there are certainly musicians who equal the greatest Italian celebrities, but there is no musical multitude like this. Music is represented here in Italy, not by individuals, but reveals itself in the whole population; it has become the people itself.