We were last night in La Scala.  Rossini’s opera of William Tell was advertised, and as we had visited so lately the scene where that glorious historical drama was enacted, we went to see it represented in sound.  It is a grand subject, which in the hands of a powerful composer, might be made very effective, but I must confess I was disappointed in the present case.  The overture is, however, very beautiful.  It begins low and mournful, like the lament of the Swiss over their fallen liberties.  Occasionally a low drum is heard, as if to rouse them to action, and meanwhile the lament swells to a cry of despair.  The drums now wake the land; the horn of Uri is heard pealing forth its summoning strain, and the echoes seem to come back from the distant Alps.  The sound then changes for the roar of battle—­the clang of trumpets, drums and cymbals.  The whole orchestra did their best to represent this combat in music, which after lasting a short time, changed into the loud, victorious march of the conquerors.  But the body of the opera, although it had several fine passages, was to me devoid of interest; in fact, unworthy the reputation of Rossini.

The theatre is perhaps the largest in the world.  The singers are all good; in Italy it could not be otherwise, where everybody sings.  As I write, a party of Italians in the house opposite have been amusing themselves with going through the whole opera of “La fille du Regiment,” with the accompaniment of the piano, and they show the greatest readiness and correctness in their performance.  They have now become somewhat boisterous, and appear to be improvising.  One young gentleman executes trills with amazing skill, and another appears to have taken the part of a despairing lover, but the lady has a very pretty voice, and warbles on and on, like a nightingale.  Occasionally a group of listeners in the street below clap them applause, for as the windows are always open, the whole neighborhood can enjoy the performance.

This forenoon I was in the Picture Gallery.  It occupies a part of the Library Building, in the Palazzo Cabrera.  It is not large, and many of the pictures are of no value to anybody but antiquarians; still there are some excellent paintings, which render it well worthy a visit.  Among these, a marriage, by Raphael, is still in a very good state of preservation, and there are some fine pictures by Paul Veronese and the Caracci.  The most admired painting, is “Abraham sending away Hagar,” by Guercino.  I never saw a more touching expression of grief than in the face of Hagar.  Her eyes are red with weeping, and as she listens in an agony of tears to the patriarch’s command, she still seems doubting the reality of her doom.  The countenance of Abraham is venerable and calm, and expresses little emotion; but one can read in that of Sarah, as she turns away, a feeling of pity for her unfortunate rival.