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with all the authorities. His copies of the wonderful work of King René of Sicily (on Tournaments and their Laws) are most accurate and beautiful, and were much admired in Paris. He continued for some years to draw in this way, and he and his sister were, in fact, the first who drew the public attention to illuminated MS. copying both in Paris and at the British Museum; and he executed many curious works before the art had become common, as it has of late.

"Soon after this, by some accident, he was induced to become foreign Correspondent to the Morning Herald-being a very good linguistand went to Hanover, where his own introductions from friends and relations caused him to be presented at court, and for his pleasantness he was much liked. He divided his time between Paris and London, always writing for papers and magazines, reading and studying to help his sister's works, contributing chapters to them, and enriching them with his notes, &c.: they, in fact, frequently wrote together on many subjects.

"He was an enlightened lover of art, devoted to study and literature, and possessed a memory of singular power, an accuracy of detail and a military precision in the fulfilment of all duties, that made him one of the most exact and reliable of men, but his charm consisted in his extreme gentleness and kindness of manner and of disposition."

Costello travelled frequently, and never returned without treasures of experience. In 1861, Mr. Virtue published thirty-six numbers of " Piedmont and Italy from the Alps to the Tiber," with engravings of the drawings of Bartlett, Harding, Brockedon, and a host of talent beside, to which were added photographs, and last not least, animated, spirited, learned, and graceful descriptions and historical notices by Dudley Costello. Seldom has information been so cheaply given, even in this age of cheapness, as in this delightful work on Italy. Without the plates, the word-painting would suffice for a guide. At this moment, when the energetic hand which traced these scenes is still for ever, a few extracts from the book will be welcome. Mr. Costello begins by "the approaches to Piedmont, taking them in the order of their succession from Switzerland to the Mediterranean," crossing St. Gothard, the Simplon, the great St. Bernard, Mont Cenis, Mont Genèvre, the Col di Tenda, and that "least frequented which leads from Oneglia by the Apennine pass of Ormea."

Before fairly entering Italy proper, Mr. Costello gives a variety of interesting details of the too celebrated valleys of the Vaudois, generally visited with religious devotion by the "serious traveller," whose Protestant recollections are called up by the terrible peaks and caverns of refuge once swarming with zealous fugitives from tyranny, whose "courage unto death" has rendered their struggle immortal; but, leaving sad memories, let us allow ourselves to be whirled away over viaducts, bridges, and tunnels, on our way from magnificent Turin to Genoa la superba. "The number of tunnels between Arquata and Genoa is 'legion,' the most remarkable being that at Busalla, called 'Di Giove,' which is three thousand one hundred mètres, or very little short of two English miles in length. If the monotony of so many underground courses be great, great also is the relief from barrenness and darkness when we see the sun shining upon the vines, the olives, the oranges, and the gaudilypainted houses which proclaim the vicinity of Genoa. But there are tunnels to the very gates of the city, the last being the Lanterna."

Wonderful, amongst other wonders in the splendid and squalid, gorgeous and grim, gloomy and gay city, are the bouquets manufactured at Genoa; "nobody who has seen them will deny that they are the largest a lady-no, we will not restrict their dimensions to what a lady can accomplish-the largest a sturdy facchino can carry." But, in spite of the reputation gained by Genoa on this particular, it is, in some measure, undeserved, for the Genoese do not love flowers for their own merits. All their flowers grow wild, and they take no trouble to cultivate them, as true lovers would. It must be confessed that, without doing so, such myriads of charming plants present themselves from hedge and wall, and in every ery field and grove near the city, that they excite to a successful commerce the trader most insensible to beauty. "A moderate-sized bouquet is about as large as an open umbrella, and formed like a cockade. It is invariably composed of circles of white, blue, red, and yellow flowers; it is, moreover, so artificially, one may say so wonderfully constructed with wood and wire and worsted, that to think of the flowers having ever grown in a garden is altogether out of the question."

We dare not linger over the animated description which Mr. Costello gives of the churches, the streets, the people, and the amusements of Genoa; we pause at characteristic Nervi, less known or less observed than its superb neighbour. "Of all the places in the vicinity of Genoa where bright colours are used to finish the exterior of the houses, Nervi is the most remarkable. This little town possesses a thriving population of orange merchants and vendors of maccaroni and vermicelli. Here, too, reside almost all the owners of the little carriages for four persons, which generally manage to hold a dozen, that are to be seen in the Piazza Carlo Felia, in Genoa, ready to start for any place you choose to name within reach of the capabilities of a single horse-or, it may be, beyond them. The greater part of these carriages are adorned with pictures of saints, and around them are inscriptions in their honour. But it is the manner in which the houses are painted that constitutes the peculiar appearance of Nervi. They are of all colours-yellow, red, green, blue, black, pink -every hue is to be seen. Italian house-decorators possess the art of completely deceiving the eye at a very short distance; all the architectural ornaments are painted in relief; but it is in the false windows that the fancy of the artist or the bad taste of the proprietor is exhibited. One of these will present the appearance of being open, and hung with curtains of the richest damask; at a second you will see a lady reading behind a blind; at a third hangs a birdcage, with a cat stealthily climbing; from a fourth a female servant seems to be shaking a carpet, while her lover, finding her thus engaged, passes his arm round her waist. What is not less extraordinary than these paintings is the rapidity with which they are executed. Scarcely have the masons spread the stucco on the walls than their place is supplied by the painters, who lay on their colours while the composition is still wet, and thus one party follows the other, till, in an incredibly short time, the fresco is finished."

The following descriptions in the course of the drive along the Riviera di Levante to Spezzia are graphic and singularly correct : "Once across the Col d'Alburo, the characteristic features begin to show themselves, the aloe and the cactus rising amid the rocks, the sheltered slopes revealing the vine, orange, olive, and fig, the last the fruit par excellence of the markets of Genoa. Villages succeed with Roman names, Quarto and Quinto-the latter claimed as the birthplace of Columbus-and wherever the road dips to the level of the sea, it crosses a bridge spanning some mountain torrent, or oftener the dry bed of one. The rapidity with which these water-courses are filled may be gathered from the following fact. Two diligences, between Genoa and Nice, met on the road one day, the carriage from the former place having traversed the bed of one of the streams without wetting its wheels. An hour afterwards, the other diligence passed the same spot, a sudden storm had intervened, the carriage was swept away by the improvised torrent, and three persons, together with the horses, were drowned."

Distant about twelve English miles from Genoa is the pretty town of Recco, with its gleaming white houses and lofty campanile strongly relieved against the thickly wooded mountain at the base of which it rests. Here begins a long but not a toilsome ascent, each step disclosing a wider view of the blue Mediterranean, shut in on one side by the broad promontory which has its northern angle at San Nicolo, and its southern extremity at Porto Fino. But the spot for the most beautiful view along this part of the coast is from the trellised terrace of the roadside inn, a short distance before reaching the tunnel of the Cima du Ruta, which opens upon scenery of a totally different character. Here, looking northward, the Bay of Genoa lies at your feet, extending as far as the eye can reach, the great city glittering midway, and the horizon bounded by the purple outline of the Apennines, that overhang the Riviera di Ponente.

Very different the scene and very different the atmosphere after returning to the high road and passing through the tunnel of La Ruta, meeting the south wind as it steals through the leaves of the far-spreading forests of chesnut which fill the valleys below:

E con perpetuo onore

Di non caductre fronte è verde 'l bosco.

The dark-green foliage of these forests is inexpressibly refreshing in contrast with the glitter on the sea, which is now lost sight of for about seven miles while crossing the base of the promontory of Porto Fino. But the Mediterranean comes in sight again as the road suddenly turns on the height above Rapallo, with the palm-trees of San Fruttuoso distinctly visible on the extreme right, and, midway between the two, the deserted convent of Cervara, where Francis I. saw the last of the land he coveted before he was carried prisoner to Spain. Rapallo is very beautifully situated on the shores of the bay to which it gives its name, and the mediæval tower standing close to the sea, which was formerly its defence, is a most picturesque object. Its numerous churches and very high and slender campanile add much to the general effect; nor is the interior without its attraction, the houses being almost all built on arcades, beneath which a numerous population of women and girls industriously ply their trade, lace-making being the speciality of the town.

It is between Rapallo and Chiavari, especially as the latter place is neared, that the Riviera discloses itself in all its beauty. Here the rocky heights are covered with arbutus and lofty stone pine, and the hollows are filled with masses of grey olive-trees or crouching thickets of fragrant orange and lemon; while bright villas and churches, with graceful campaniles, lie scattered about in most admired disorder. The road is seldom far from the sea; sometimes it hangs over its blue depths with nothing but a low wall for a barrier, a sheer descent of smooth rock lying on the other side; sometimes it sinks nearly to the level of the shore; then again it rises, climbing sinuously, till once more the waters are many hundred feet below, and, if the position of the sun be favourable, a grateful shade affords shelter all the way to Chiavari.

The joyous and tranquil inhabitants ("un' licta e riposata gente") of Chiavari are, however, a most industrious race. The whole people seem to have but one occupation-that of making chairs incessantly. They are the lightest specimens of household furniture that ever were seen or handled, and are very prettily made. But the town of Chiavari is itself a very interesting place. Like Rapallo, it is chiefly built on open arcades, with pointed and circular arches, and it contains several fine churches. Old and picturesque towers are also dotted about the town. From Chiavari the road runs on a level with the sea as far as Sestri, passing Lavagna with its castellated palace of sombre red. Mulberry-trees, festooned with vines, grow in profusion in the fertile country on the left hand, while the sandy shore on the right is bordered by tall aloes and cactus, which give quite an Oriental character to the scene. Sestri is charmingly situated on an isthmus at the foot of a small wooded promontory, and the traveller, not yet satiated with the beauty which has been all day long before his eyes, may yet linger late on the shore, to gaze on the magnificent sunset. It is impossible to behold anything more lovely than the hues which colour the western sky as the sun declines behind the mountain range above Finale; and when the rose hues are faded, and "all is grey," still he may linger to watch the magnificent stars as they gradually light up the heavens:

Risplendo dopo lui con lucid'urna
Il Fanciullo troiano. E'n una stella
Luminosa catena, ed aureo nodo
Fare di squammosa coda umidi Pesci.

We have lingered so long on the Riviera because it has seldom been so well described, and its little towns, in their paradisiacal sites, are generally passed over to arrive at better-known localities. We extract a word only about Verona.

"There are three great things in Verona-two of them present to the eye, the third appealing to the heart. In the Piazza de Brà stands the old Roman amphitheatre; encircling the greater part of the city winds the rushing torrent of the Adige; and around and above, in every part, hovers the memory of the immortal lovers whose fate is inseparably associated with the name of Verona.

"The Capulets and Montagues might still quarrel in the streets; the scene is unchanged, and Shakspeare's descriptions are marvellously exact. In Verona, as in a Spanish city, every house has its balcony, and the ladder has only to make its choice. Few cities have better preserved the character of the middle ages; the pointed arches, the trefoiled windows, the pillared houses, the sculptured corners of the streets, the vast hotels, with their bronze knockers, elaborate gratings and entablatures, crowned with statues and rich architectural details, which the pencil alone can render, carry you back at once to the past."

The Casa Cappelletti, in the Via Cappello, is still there; but if we look for the actual house, as it stood in the time of the Scaligeri, we shall be disappointed. "The palace is now an inn for vetturini, called the Stallo al Capello, the especial calling of the present owner being shown by a signboard, whereon is depicted a raging horse, held with difficulty by a groom, while another man is putting on the saddle; and that there may be no doubt of the hospitality which he sells, perhaps also to dispel any lingering illusion, a placard informs the gazer that Mario Faiter keeps a Trattoria, Locanda e Stallo de lo Capello'-the 'trat' (illspelt)-the cognizance of the ancient family being also hung up in effigy."

The church of San Zeno is very remarkable, both for its fine architecture and extraordinary carvings, not the least peculiarity being the painted statue of the saint himself, his features lighted up by that smile popularly known as " il riso di San Zenone." Why the saint is so hilarious, is explained in a comic note in the margin. "The campanile of San Zenone is one of the most beautiful of its kind in the north of Italy, and a conspicuous object in the general view of the city. No one should quit Verona without visiting the cypress garden of the Palazzo Guisti, where Dante walked beneath the laurels: the view from it is one of perfect beauty."

Of Padua, of Mantua, of Vicenza, there are interesting details, and much that is novel of often-described Venice. One treasure of art amongst the myriads which swarm in pictorial Venice has never been so well described, nor the charming palace where it is found.

"The palace of Prince Giovanelli may serve as a type of the grace and elegance of the abodes of the rich nobles of Venice in the present mode. All that Paris can yield of riches and exquisite taste adorns its numerous and beautifully-shaped saloons. Not a discrepancy can be discovered there, and in every room fresh thought and elegance appear: the draperies, the chandeliers, the colours of the walls, the furniture, the books -all are in perfect keeping, and each apartment is a little palace of itself. In one room, very simply adorned, hangs on the wall, entirely alone, one of the most unapproachable treasures by the hand of Albert Durer that Venice possesses. It is quite a small cabinet picture, representing Moses striking the rock and the people, half delirious from thirst, rushing to take instant advantage of the miracle. The costumes are of the painter's own time; the pots, the cups, and vases of his country; and the faces and figures all entirely belonging to him. The grouping, finish, perspective, expression, are perfectly marvellous, and this gem is as pure and brilliant as when the great artist gave it the last magic touch. This beautiful dwelling has a fine view from its first chambers; but across the small canal, at its side, the ruins of a palace once quite as gorgeous are peopled by families apparently in the lowest stages of poverty and dirt. The heavy splendid curtains of the palace windows may well be closed to shut out the contrast."

A sunset at Venice must close our extracts from the attractive account of the seductive city:

"The finest thing that can be imagined is a sunset at Venice when you are returning from the Lido, from Quintavalle, or from the public gardens. The line of houses of the Giudecca, interrupted by the church of the Redemtore; the point where the Custom-house raises its square tower, surmounted by two figures of Hercules supporting Fortune; the two rounded cupolas of the Salute, - form a series of marvellous accidents. These objects, cut sharply against the sky, make the background of the

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