_Il Governatore son io per servirla!_ he replied, with a low bow.
You! _O che bel ceffo!_ thought I--"and what, Signor Governor, is the
use of your fort?"
"To defend the bay and town of Lerici from enemies and pirates."
"But," said I, "I see no soldier; where is the garrison to defend the
fort?"
The little old man stepped back two steps--"_Eccomi!_" he replied,
spreading his hand on his breast, and bowing with dignity.
It was impossible to make any reply: I therefore wished the governor
and garrison good morning; and disappearing through my trap-door, I
soon made my way down to the shore, where I arrived out of breath, and
just in time to step into our felucca.
* * * * *
If there be a time when we most wish for those of whom we always
think, when we most love those who are always dearest, it must be on
such a delicious night as that we passed at Sarzana, or on such a
morning as that we spent at Lerici; and if there be a time when we
least love those we always love--least wish for them, least think of
them, it must be in such a moment as the noontide of yesterday--when
the dead calm overtook us, half way between Lerici and Sestri, and I
sat in the stern of our felucca, looking with a sort of despairing
languor over the smooth purple sea, which scarcely heaved round us,
while the flapping sails drooped useless round the masts, and the
rowers indolently leaning on their oars, sung in a low and plaintive
chorus. I sat hour after hour, still and silent, sickening in the
sunshine, dazzled by its reflection on the water, and overcome with
deadly nausea: I believe nothing on earth could have roused me at that
moment. But evening so impatiently invoked, came at last: the sun set,
the last gleam of his "golden path of rays" faded from the waters, the
sea assumed the hue of ink; the breeze sprung up, and our little
vessel, with all its white sails spread, glanced like a white swan
over the waves, leaving behind "a moon-illumined wake." Two hours
after dark we reached Sestri, where we found miserable accommodations;
and after foraging in vain for something to eat, after our day's fast,
we crept to bed, all sick, sleepy, hungry, and tired.
* * * * *
We leave Genoa to-morrow: I can say but little of it, for I have been
ill, as usual, almost ever since we arrived; and though my little
Diary has become to me a species of hobby, I have lately found it
fatiguing, even to write! and the pleasure and interest it used to
afford me, diminish daily.
Genoa, though fallen, is still "Genoa the proud." She is like a noble
matron, blooming in years, and dignified in decay; while her rival
Venice always used to remind me of a beautiful courtezan repenting in
sackcloth and ashes, and mingling the ragged remnants of her former
splendour with the emblems of present misery, degradation, and
mourning. Pursue the train of similitude, Florence may be likened to a
blooming bride dressed out to meet her lover; Naples to Tasso's
Armida, with all the allurements of the Syren, and all the terrors of
the Sorceress; Rome sits crowned upon the grave of her power, widowed
indeed, and desolate, but still, like the queenly Constance, she
maintains the majesty of Sorrow--
"This is my throne, let kings come bow to it!"
* * * * *
The coup-d'oeil of Genoa, splendid as it is, is not equal to that of
Naples, even setting poetical associations aside: it is built like a
crescent round the harbour, rising abruptly from the margin of the
water, which makes the view from the sea so beautiful: to the north
the hills enclose it round like an amphitheatre. The adjacent country
is covered with villas, gardens, vineyards, woods, and olive-groves
forming a scene most enchanting to the eye and mind, though of a
character very different from the savage luxuriance of the south of
Italy.
The view of the city from any of the heights around, more particularly
from that part of the shore called the Ponente, where we were to-day,
is grand beyond description; on every side the church of Carignano is
a beautiful and striking object.
There is but one street, properly so called, in Genoa--the Strada
Nuova; the others are little paved alleys, most of them impassable to
carriages, both from their narrowness and the irregularity of the
ground on which the city is built.
The Strada Nuova is formed of a double line of magnificent palaces,
among which the Doria Palace is conspicuous. The architecture is in
general fine; and when not good is at least pleasing; the fronts of
the houses are in general gaily painted and stuccoed. The best
apartments are usually at the top; and the roofs often laid out in
terraces, or paved with marble and adorned with flowers and shrubs.
I have seen few good pictures here: the best collections are those in
the Brignolet and Durazzo palaces. In the latter are some striking
pictures by Spagnoletto (or Ribera, as he is called here). In the
Brignolet, the Roman Daughter, by Guido, struck me most. I was also
pleased by some fine pictures of the Genoese painter Piola, who is
little known beyond Genoa.
The church of the Carignano, which is a miniature model of St.
Peter's, contains Paget's admirable statue of St. Sebastian, which
Napoleon intended to have conveyed to Paris.
* * * * *
Beauty is no rarity at Genoa: I think I never saw so many fine women
in one place, though I have seen finer faces at Rome and Naples than
any I see here. The mezzaro, a veil or shawl thrown over the head and
round the shoulders, is universal, and is certainly the most natural
and becoming dress which can be worn by our sex: the materials differ
in fineness, from the most exquisite lace and the most expensive
embroidery, to a piece of chintz or linen, but the effect is the same.
This costume, which prevails more or less through all Italy, but here
is general, gives something of beauty to the plainest face, and
something of elegance to the most vulgar figure; it can make
deformity itself look passable: and when worn by a really graceful
and beautiful female, the effect is peculiarly picturesque and
bewitching.
It was a Festa to-day; and we drove slowly along the Ponente after
dinner. Nothing could be more gay than the streets and public walks,
crowded with holiday people: the women were in proportion as six to
one; and looked like groups dressed to figure in a melodrame or
ballet.
* * * * *
When once we have left Genoa behind us, and have taken our last look
of the blue Mediterranean, I shall indeed feel that we have quitted
Italy. Piedmont is not Italy. Cities which are only famous for their
sieges and fortifications, plains only celebrated as fields of battle
and scenes of blood, have neither charms nor interest for me.
On Monday we set off for Turin: how I dread travelling! and the motion
of the carriage, which has now become _so_ painful! Yet a little, a
very little longer, and it will all be over.