no opportunity of becoming acquainted with the two divinest masters of
the Italian art, Raffaelle and Correggio. There are not, I conceive,
half a dozen of either in all the collections together, and those we
do possess, are far from being among their best efforts. But Raffaelle
must not make me forget the Hagar in the Brera: the affecting--the
inimitable Hagar! what agony, what upbraiding, what love, what
helpless desolation of heart in that countenance! I may well remember
the deep pathos of this picture; for the face of Hagar has haunted me
sleeping and waking ever since I beheld it. Marvellous power of art!
that mere inanimate forms, and colours compounded of gross materials,
should thus live--thus speak--thus stand a soul-felt presence before
us, and from the senseless board or canvas, breathe into our hearts a
feeling, beyond what the most impassioned eloquence could ever
inspire--beyond what mere words can ever render.

Last night and the preceding we spent at the Scala. The opera was
stupid, and Madame Bellochi, who is the present primadonna, appeared
to me harsh and ungraceful, when compared to Fodor. The new ballet
however, amply indemnified us for the disappointment. Our Italian
friends condoled with us on being a few days too late to see _La
Vestale_, which had been performed for sixty nights, and is one of
Vigano's masterpieces. I thought the _Didone Abbandonata_ left us
nothing to regret. The immense size of the stage, the splendid
scenery, the classical propriety and magnificence of the dresses, the
fine music, and the exquisite acting (for there is very little
dancing), all conspired to render it enchanting. The celebrated cavern
scene in the fourth book of Virgil, is rather too closely copied in a
most inimitable pas de deux; so closely, indeed, that I was
considerably alarmed _pour les bienséances_; but little Ascanius, who
is asleep in a corner (Heaven knows how he came there), wakes at the