Near the station in Genoa, however, is the weak and ugly monument which the municipality has lately raised to Columbus.  The moon made the best of this, which stands in a wide open space, and contrived, with an Italian skill in the arrangement of light, to produce an effect of undeniable splendor.  On the morrow, we found out by the careless candor of the daylight what a uselessly big head Columbus had, and how the sculptor had not very happily thought proper to represent him with his sea-legs on.

V.

UP AND DOWN GENOA.

I had my note-book with me on this journey, and pledged myself to make notes in it.  And, indeed, I did really do something of the kind, though the result of my labors is by no means so voluminous as I would like it to be, now when the work of wishing there were more notes is so easy.  We spent but one day in Genoa, and I find such a marvelous succinct record of this in my book that I am tempted to give it here, after the fashion of that Historical Heavyweight who writes the Life of “Frederick the Great.”

“Genoa, November 13.—­Breakfast a la fourchette excellently and cheaply.  I buy a hat.  We go to seek the Consul, and, after finding every thing else for two hours, find him.  Genoa is the most magnificent city I ever saw; and the new monument to Columbus about the weakest possible monument.  Walk through the city with Consul; Doge’s palace; cathedral; girl turning somersaults in the street; blind madman on the cathedral steps.  We leave for Naples at twelve midnight.”

As for the breakfast, it was eaten at one of the many good caffe in Genoa, and perhaps some statistician will like to know that for a beefsteak and potatoes, with a half-bottle of Ligurian wine, we paid a franc.  For this money we had also the society of an unoccupied waiter, who leaned against a marble column and looked on, with that gentle, half-compassionate interest in our appetites, which seems native to the tribe of waiters.  A slight dash of surprise is in this professional manner; and there is a faint smile on the solemn, professional countenance, which is perhaps prompted by too intimate knowledge of the mysteries of the kitchen and the habits of the cook.  The man who passes his life among beefsteaks cannot be expected to love them, or to regard without wonder the avidity with which others devour them.  I imagine that service in restaurants must beget simple and natural tastes in eating, and that the jaded men who minister there to our pampered appetites demand only for themselves—­

  “A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,
  And water from the spring.”

Turning from this thought to the purchase of my hat, I do not believe that literary art can interest the reader in that purely personal transaction, though I have no doubt that a great deal might be said about buying hats as a principle.  I prefer, therefore, to pass to our search for the Consul.