k his dying eye with their useless splendor. Such a
system of oppression, disguised under the holiest name, can only be
sustained by the continuance of ignorance and blind superstition.
Knowledge--Truth--Reason--these are the ramparts which Liberty throws up
to guard her dominions from the usurpations of oppression and wrong.

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 pict