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!”

* * * * *