barefoot, and contrasting strongly with the well-fed, portly priests, with their nice black robes and cocked hats.

Genoa has been called the city of palaces, and these are all open to public inspection. Strangers from every clime wander through halls still elegant in their desertion, and beautiful in their decay. Any person may rent a palace at a less cost than he can hire a decent tenement among us, and beggars now tread where nobles used to live.

We tried to inquire about Christopher Columbus, but were only laughed at for our pains. Nobody seemed to know him, or to be familiar with a name which is associated with the greatest nation in the world, and which is respected by every man of science and erudition. A few only in that city know that that name is connected with an enterprise more honorable than the most glorious victory ever won upon the fields of blood.

The people of Genoa are very fond of amusements. Feast days and festivals occur so often that one can hardly keep the run of them, and operas and concerts are in full blast through most of the year. A recent tourist relates a circumstance to show the fondness of the Italians for music and mirth, which he himself witnessed in the opera. Clara Novello, the prima donna of the season, was singing and acting, when, in the pit and directly before the stage, "a man was suddenly seized with convulsions. His limbs stiffened; his eyes became set in his head, and stood wide open, staring at the ceiling like the eyes of a corpse; while low and agonizing groans broke from his struggling bosom. The prima donna came forward at that moment, but

1 Headley, Letters from Italy.

seeing this livid, death-stamped face before her, suddenly stopped, with a tragic look and start, that, for once, was perfectly natural. She turned to the bass

singer, and pointed out the frightful spectacle. He also started back in horror, and the prospect was that the opera would terminate on the spot; but the scene that was just opening was the one in which the prima donna was to make her great effort, and around which the whole interest of the play was 'gathered, and the spectators were determined not to be disappointed because one man was dying, and so shouted, 'Go on! go on!' Clara Novello gave another look towards the groaning man, whose whole aspect was enough to freeze the blood, and then started off in her part. But the dying man grew worse and worse, and finally sprang bolt upright in his seat. A person sitting behind him, all-absorbed in the music, immediately placed his hands on his shoulders, pressed him down again, and held him firmly in his place. There he sat, pinioned fast, with his pale, corpse-like face upturned, in the midst of that gay assemblage, and the foam rolling over his lips, while the braying of trumpets and the voice of the singer drowned the groans that were rending his bosom. At length, the foam became streaked with blood as it oozed through his teeth, and the convulsive starts grew quicker and fiercer. But the man behind held him fast, while he gazed in perfect rapture on the singer, who now, like the ascending lark, was trying her loftiest strain. As it ended, the house rang with applause, and the man who had held down the poor writhing creature could contain his ecstasy no longer, and lifting his hands from his shoulders, clapped them rapidly together three or four times, crying out over the ears of the dying man, 'Brava, brava!' and then hurriedly

placed them back again, to prevent his springing up in his convulsive throes. The song ended, and the gens d'armes entered, and carried him speechless and lifeless out of the theatre."

I slept one or two nights in Genoa, or tried to sleep. The hotel was a perfect bedlam; the streets were full of all sorts of noises; and in the house opposite the narrow passage was kept up a constant jabbering, which reminded me of the hideous jargon of the North American Indians, and more than once did I dream of the scalping-knife and the tomahawk, and start up to hear the merry laugh of a dozen young creatures, who, a few feet from my window, in the next hotel, were shouting, screaming, yelling, and dancing with all their might. When the people of Genoa sleep I do not know, but presume, from what I saw, that they are quite successful in turning night into day.

XXII.

LEGHORN-PISA-CIVITA VECCHIA - BAY OF NAPLES.

WE took the steamer from Genoa one evening, at six o'clock, with the fair prospect of a dreadfully unfair night. The winds howled; the sky was dark and overcast; and the waves rolled and tumbled, dashed forward and backward, rose and fell, as if angry with themselves and the little puffing steamer which was endeavoring to struggle through them. Directly over the cabin, in which about thirty of us were pent up, were six horses, which kept up a continual kicking within a few inches of our aching heads. Once, during the night, the stalls in which they were confined gave way, and the affrighted animals went capering about the deck, to the consternation of the passengers below, who knew not the cause of the commotion above. The whole company, with a few exceptions, sprang up, supposing we were going to the bottom; and as they huddled together near the door, jabbering in five or six different languages, the scene was indescribably ludicrous. Order was at length restored, the horses were captured, and the steamer, in due form, went bustling into Leghorn about sunrise. At the Hotel San Marco, we found one John Smith, who served us with a decent breakfast, after which we walked about the town. Leghorn is a dull place, the stores and houses all bearing marks of decay. Business seems to be stagnant and dead, and we moved about amid deserted habitations and silent streets.

About twelve miles from Leghorn is Pisa, a town of much interest, containing about twenty-nine thousand inhabitants, out to which we went in the cars. The town was preparing to celebrate the day of its patron saint, which is the 16th of June. A grand illumination was to take place, and such preparations, on a scale so grand, I never saw before. The saint to be celebrated is San Ranieri, who died 1356. He lived a vile and wicked life, abandoned by God and all things good. Before his death, however, he became an example of piety. We wish we could say as much for all the canonized saints. He was indefatigable in his labors for the poor, and died respected and beloved by all. The preparations made to celebrate this day were fine. Every house seemed to be covered with framework from which floods of light were to blaze out.

The great objects of interest are the cathedral, baptistry, leaning tower, and Campo Santo. The cathedral is one of the most elegant in Italy. The doors are of massive bronze work. The interior is of alternate layers of black and white marble, giving it a unique appearance. The dome is finely frescoed, and fine paintings adorn the walls. In the nave hangs suspended a chandelier, once beautiful, but now black and time-worn, and suspended from the center of the dome above by a black, dirty rope. This chandelier suggested to Galileo the idea of the pendulum, which has since been applied to so much advantage to the world. The pulpit is of ancient order, and is a superb structure of richly-carved marble; and the whole church is wealthy with paintings, mosaics, and sculpture. It is in the form of a Latin cross, and is bedecked with ornaments magnificent and costly. Candles burn on the altars, and music echoes along the deserted aisles. As