The sail down the Mediterranean is delightful. At one time, high hills and bluffs project out into the deepblue wave, and then come sloping banks, at the base of which little towns and villages cluster, and whose sides are covered with verdure. On some of the hills can be seen the ruins of ancient fortifications which have fallen into decay, and which declare to the stranger the lessons of his own frailty.

Our passage down was rendered pleasant by the formation of new acquaintances, as we had on board several Americans and Englishmen with whom we had not met before. The time passed away in animated discussions upon various subjects, and those of us who loved the sea were not overjoyed when our steamer approached the land.

XXI.

GENOA.

AFTER a passage of twenty-two hours, we entered the harbor of Genoa, and shot up towards the town, which is situated on the side of the hill, in a semicircle, forming a beautiful amphitheater of palaces. At a distance, the town looks small, and one would hardly imagine that it contained one hundred and fifteen thousand inhabitants, crowded into its toppling dwellings, which are piled story upon story, until they seem almost unable to stand alone. Passing around the light-house, we lay under the guns of the battery two or three hours, while some useless formality about our passports was taking place, when the gens d'armes graciously permitted us to land, extorting from us a fee, of course. We at length escaped from gens d'armes, tide waiters, commissioners, valets, and beggars, and reached the Hotel de la Ville, which was formerly a palace, built in Tuscan style, with a rough stone basement, upon which rose an elegant structure, to the hight of some five or six stories.

It was fête day when we arrived, and the lads and lasses were all out, arrayed in holiday attire. The latter were neatly dressed. The headdress was especially beautiful and becoming. It consisted of a thin white crape or muslin scarf, thrown over the head, falling

down upon the shoulders, and reaching nearly to the feet. These pretty women were moving through the streets, hanging on the arms of gayly-dressed soldiers, who are paid only a few cents a day for their services, or riding with fast horses along the crowded thoroughfare, and presenting a spectacle at once unusual and animating.

The churches of Genoa are very superb, and are filled with all sorts of trumpery, from the bones of a dead dog to a marble Beelzebub. The old cathedral is built in alternate layers of black and white marble, and is an interesting, though not a beautiful building. Here the superstitious Catholics claim to keep the bones of John the Baptist in a little chapel, under a marble sarcophagus. The bones are in an iron box, enclosed in another of marble. I ran my cane through a hole in the box, but could feel nothing like bones, nor could I start the old saint into life again, though I conjured him to speak. A great amount of money is raised upon these bones once a year, when they are taken out and a frolic held over them. In this cathedral is kept a dish, probably of glass, which the monks say is formed of a single emerald, called the Sacra Catino. Some affirm that it was presented by the Queen of Sheba to Solomon; others declare that it was the dish in which the paschal lamb was put at the great feast; and others still assure us that it was the dish in which Joseph of Arimathea caught the flowing blood of Jesus as he hung upon the cross. What nonsense!

Over the door of one church I saw the unhallowed inscription," Indulgentia plenaria quotidiana perpetua.' The streets were filled with priests and friars, black, white, and gray, dressed very much like those we saw on board the steamer, but more filthy, many of them

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 tourist1 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 prin a donna came forward at that moment, but

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