curious contrast to the somewhat uncouth language she spoke, a mixture of French and Patois, but her native politeness accorded well with her pleasing manners.'

The condition of the inhabitants of the valleys has been greatly improved of late years; and the King of Sardinia has shown great toleration towards them; but they do not seem to be highly advanced in civilization. It is of the town of La Torre that Miss

Costello is speaking.

"The people do not appear to be very poor, but are dreadfully dirty and slovenly goître prevails fearfully amongst them, and their intellects seem considerably blunted, so that the task is hard to bring them to a proper tone of mind, and it is extremely difficult to persuade them out of old habits and prejudices. It is possible that this obstinacy may be as much the cause, amongst the lower classes, of their adherence to their ancient faith, as conviction of its superiority to the Catholic belief. A peasant woman, who led the donkey on which I made a pilgrimage to Angrogna amongst the wild hills, told me of several marvels which had occurred respecting persons who, for gain, had forsaken their church; these were so startling, that the barrier between this credulity and Roman superstition, seemed to me singularly slight. There is much supineness and carelessness about the people; as an instance, I inquired of our landlady, if the priests, who, I observed, wore green crosses, were of any particular order: she was surprised, and said she had never noticed that they wore one at all, although she had always lived in the valley, and had seen them every day of her life at her threshold again she was not aware that the college was left unfinished, and exclaimed, when I spoke of it,-"Ah, mais à present que vous parlez de ça je m'en souviens que je ne l'ai jamais remarqué.'

The historical account which Miss Costello gives of the 'Slaughtered saints whose bones.

Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold,'

is highly interesting, but to dwell on it here would detain us too long from the more immediate object of her journey. We have also the charming gardens of Stupinigi, the Musco Egiziano at Turin, and the Improvisatori, who at once Italianize the scene, to cross the plains of Lombardy on the way to Milan.

At the Leone d'Oro at Vercelli, we have an amusing description of the art of making tea amongst the Lombards. We have ourselves met with some strange penchants to the process in more northerly latitudes:

Our breakfast apparatus, at the large rambling inn of the Leone d'Oro, entertained me exceedingly. The waiters seemed very proud of understanding the mysteries of tea-making, and, for kettle, brought and placed on a table near the long board where we sat, an enormous brass cauldron seated on a fiery brasiero, in whose depths the water boiled and bubbled in a manner to leave no doubt of its capabilities; main

force was requisite to move this Vesuvius of tea-kettles when water was wanted, and our zealous attendant returned more than once to our assistance on the occasion, proud of his skill and of the commendations bestowed on its results.'

We have also a curious account at Vercelli, of the famous satirist Ranza, whose whole life was so licensed that all he said was suffered to pass with the common expression, 'It is only Ranza,' and whose body when he died, and was being carried through a prohibited gate, was allowed egress by virtue of the same password. We come next to Lomellino, and meet with another graceful sketch:

'At a ruined town with a musical name, Lomellino, I first met with the beautiful head-dress of which I had often seen representations, and heard descriptions. Two peasant women were sitting at a dirty hut on a stone bench, knitting in the sun, and talking to the stable people who were preparing our horses: both were striking in their appearance, and I could not sufficiently admire their madonna-like heads, as they reclined carelessly and languidly against the ruined wall of their domicile. One of them, who was in a dark dress, wore over her shining black hair a scarlet handkerchief, with a white border, kept out by concealed pins, which gave it a square form. The other, who had fine commanding features and magnificent eyes, with long black lashes, wore a halo round her plaited dark hair of those long silver pins terminated by large round balls, which are disposed so as to form a sort of nimbus to the head of the pretty saint who thus adorns herself. This elegant head-dress contrasted singularly with the poverty of the wearer's domicile, and the slovenliness of the rest of her dress, which was however made up of colours just such as a painter would choose: the stained stone of the back ground harmonized well, and the bright blue sky and clearly defined shadows round, lying prone in the rich yellow sun, all combined to make a charming study of the graceful knitter of Lomellino.'

The female peasantry of the plains are not, however, all so attractive as the knitter of Lomellino, though they still preserve a picturesque head-dress, the band being sometimes covered with a handkerchief of brilliant colours, which is held out by long pins, the embroidered corners hanging down on the shoulders with much grace, but the heads themselves are not pretty.

Of Milan, Miss Costello has, of course, much to say. The streets first excite her admiration with their extreme cleanliness, which "puts to shame both Paris and London ;'-the beautiful balconies and rich awnings, striped orange-tawny, embroidered in purple and shining in rainbow hues from every window. Then follows the Duomo, with its fresh aspect, its marvellous detail of ornament, and its many incongruities. To this succeeds the crowd that throngs the streets with pretty women in Spanish mantillas, or light black lace or silk veils over their shining

hair, and armed with their fans, and the courtiers and handsome men of Milan. At the table d'hôte at the Hotel de Gran' Bretagna, Miss Costello was entertained by an Italian gentleman, who insisted upon displaying his intimate acquaintance with the English tongue and English customs.

'At the table d'hote of the hotel at which I stayed we found numerous English, German, and American guests: one elderly Italian gentleman had devoted himself to a shy Englishman, who appeared anxious to improve his own knowledge of the beautiful language of his companion: but probably the same view actuated the latter, for he persisted in replying to every question in English. One remark he made apropos to a dish at table, entertained me,-"You English," said he, "must always feel interested about sheep and mutton, for you depend greatly on wool: your Chancellor, you know, sits upon a woolsack to show the importance you attach to it."

The English amateur of wool now resolutely changed the conversation to an eulogium on home, intoning the lines quoted by Lady Morgan, and somewhat familiar to most wanderers, beginning "Časa mia,” in an accent which must have rendered them almost unintelligible to his friend, who however, after a time, caught their meaning, and subjoined in English, of similar quality: "Ah yes-you have got your song of 'Sweet Home,' just as appropriate." He then with much gesticulation went on to favour his mortified pupil with his version of the popular song, accompanying the words sotto voce with an improvised air.'

There have been so many and such various accounts of the condition of Leonardo da Vinci's famous fresco on the walls of the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, that we feel bound to quote the description of the latest traveller, herself, we believe, by no means unskilled in the art on which she dilates. Here is what Miss Costello says on the subject:

'So delicate, so shadowy, so fragile appears this vision of a picture, that one is awed on entering the silent hall which contains it, and cannot help fearing that, like a faint rainbow in the clouds, it will disappear from sight while the eye is yet seeking to trace its evanescent forms. I was fortunately alone in the large apartment, at the end of which the divine company look through the veil of time and destruction from their throne. I placed myself on a chair in the centre of the room, and fixing my gaze attentively on the marvellous group, waited patiently till its realities should become apparent. At first all is indistinct, except the general drawing of the groups, the architecture, and the faint sky beyond, but in a short time the eye gets accustomed to the effort of deciphering, and at length all appears sufficiently intelligible. One head, one face, one attitude, one expression then comes forcibly upon the sight and sinks deeply into the mind till every thought and feeling is absorbed in wonder at the power which could represent so sublime a figure in so sublime a manner. Little less than inspiration seems requisite to have produced such a result as the great painter's dreams and aspirations at last achieved. I had heard and read all that

has been said on the subject of this picture, but when I fouud myself before it, I recollected nothing, I was aware of nothing but the deep feeling of engrossing admiration which took entire possession of my mind. I cannot believe that any attempted restoration, any retouching or cleaning or scraping can have materially injured this magnificently beautiful head: whatever may have been done to it, no trace remains but of the original idea; it is true, it is only a shadow gleaming through the cloud of decay; there are no vivid colours, no marked features, no striking character; all is calm, and cold, and pale, and even the faintest tints in the sky as the last gleam of sunset fade into transparent grey, are all that pourtray that heavenly countenance, full of benevolence, tenderness, pity and sorrow: the latter feeling is perhaps the most vividly expressed, but so delicate is the combination, that it is hardly possible not to imagine that a momentary change comes over the face as one gazes, and that the perfect features are now more tender, now more pitying, now more full of regret for the incorrigible wickedness and ingratitude of man. In the glorious serenity of that countenance is beheld the history of the pardoned Magdalen, the reproof of the selfsufficient Pharisee; there may be read, as in a scroll, lessons of charity and peace so ill followed, though so often cited by erring men, who while they respect the gentle words of that divine tongue, allow the spirit to evaporate. There are patience, and forbearance, and endurance-there are knowledge, and power, and prescience-there is deep grief for treachery and crime, and, above all, there are pity and forgiveness. I should have thought it impossible that any picture could convey such wondrous meaning, and could express so startling a history, but it is no exaggeration to say that such is its effect. No one can gaze on it without awe and tears; no one, having once seen it, can forget the strong impression that inspired work created-that face will haunt the memory for ever, and the recollection of it will inspire consolation and hope. If all the pictures in Catholic churches were painted in so miraculous a manner, one might excuse enthusiasts for believing that there was more in them than mere human art, but I never beheld a head that produced an equal admiration in my mind; all other pictures seem of earth, but this of heaven itself. Even the very humble, unadorned hall, on the wall of which it is seen, is pleasing: such a work requires no adjunct, should have no adornment. The picture is defended by a wooden gallery, which is approached by a ladder; the curious can therefore see it closely, but the effect is then almost lost. Here and there partial daubings can be detected in the minor figures, but I think most of the heads have been respected. One circumstance struck me, namely, that no copy or print I have ever seen gives me so much as an idea of the original. Most of these make the long board and white table cloth conspicuous, and this had always distressed my eye, and caused me to question the great artist's judgment, if such were really the case. Instead of this, you may look for some minutes at the picture before you observe these minor details, conspicuous as they might naturally be from filling up the front of the piece. The chief personage in the group attracts the attention at once, and when the eye can quit that object it takes in the other heads in succession, and at the last, in observing the ensemble, you become aware that there is a table covered

with a white cloth, over which a grey shadow is thrown, which keeps it completely under, but the transparent white, thus shaded, serves to render more etherial the character of the scene.

It is thus that I was impressed while I looked on this immortal work of art, (would it were so indeed!) and I really believe that I gained nothing from enthusiasm; for, surprised into oblivion, I had so entirely forgotten all I had ever heard of its beauties, that it burst upon me as a thing unknown before: I do not imagine either that its indistinct appearance caused me to fill up defective portions with imaginary beauties; but I believe that I saw the picture as it was, and as Leonardo intended it should appear. I can even credit the assertion that he never entirely completed the glorious head of the Saviour, not having reached his own ideas of the required sublimity, but I think he went as far as mortal pencil could, and has nearly arrived at the acme of perfection and truth.

But we are lingering too long in Milan; we are beckoned to fresher haunts, and with a vast stride we find ourselves by moonlight on the Cape of Como, where

Rose the dark mountains, grand and solemn, gemmed with silver light then the high antique towers and pointed arcades looked majestic and palace-like: numerous gliding boats shot over the transparent waves, the firefly lights they bore glimmering in the blue depths: myriads of stars appeared far and near, like a caravan of pilgrims approaching the shrine of that enthroned saint whose glories streamed along the clear sky, and touched, like faith, every object it shone on with lustre and beauty not their own.'

Where, at the Palazzo Somariva,

Our pretty bark glided gently to the land and stopped at the foot of the marble steps. There was a perfect blaze of roses on each side as I slowly ascended to the several platforms, where fountains were throwing up their glittering waters amongst a wilderness of sweets. The marble balustrades were all draperied with-over-hanging rose-branches, crimson, white, and pink, and nothing could exceed the delight of resting awhile from the still increasing heat on the brink of a fountain, with the wild waters splashing and murmuring deliciously all round, in the thick shade of the arching, luxuriant shrubs.'

Again speaking of Somariva Miss Costells says:

"The terraced groves and gardens are so delicious that it is difficult to quit them when once entered, and I wandered from one bower of pomegranate and orange to another, from one jasmine-covered trellice to the next inviting terrace, all flowering myrtle and waving acacia, with a thousand nameless shrubs bending down with blossoms, till I reached a pine grove on a height surrounded by trees of the most luxuriant growth, where a whole concert of nightingales, concealed amidst the thickest shade, made the air re-echo with their melodious rivalry. I never beheld anything so exquisite as this secluded grove of tall pines, whose graceful stems were twined to an immense height with