Genoa the Superb, the city of Columbus ... Illustrated

Front matter

Panorama of tbe Port of Genoa. GENOA €^e THE CITY OF COLUMBUS BY VIRGINIA W. JOHNSON author of "the lily of the arno," "a royal physician," "the house of the musician," etc. Illustrates) GAY AND BIRD 27 King William Street, West Strand LONDON Copyright, 1892, Ry Estes and Lauriat. All rights reserved. ?Sn._rrsttn lirrss: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. TO 2Tfje ©utm of tljc iHElduterTatTcan, THE FAIR CITY UNMARRED BY CENTURIES, THESE PAGES ARE INSCRIBED IN MEMORY OF THE GREATEST OF HER SONS. Genoa, 1892. INTRODUCTIOX. IT is not vouchsafed to every wayfarer to launch forth boldly on the Mediterranean Sea in quest of remote lands of the Orient. Some there are, indeed, who hug the shore timidly in preference, after the manner of the earliest navigators of these limpid, blue waters. If any of the latter class are contented to furl sail with the approach of night, and the danger of being misled by clouds and dark ness, and drop anchor in the harbor of Genoa, he will find himself in one of the richest centres the world has to offer even to his most casual inspection.

A labyrinth of endless dreams may diverge from the marble pedestal of the Columbus monument, and the stranger may explore the past as a child rambles amidst the heirlooms, the chests, or the rusty armor of a manorial mansion ; but in the commonwealth which was the birth place of the discoverer of the New World, the visions of slumber are the crystallization of the years ; the coffers full of treasures are stately palaces of wrought marbles, and the limp armor once equipped vigorous warriors for the Crusades. To append a catalogue of works consulted in writing this volume would be to revert to a custom more in favor in the last century than in our own. A few of the books read in connection with the study have been :

Introduction

. vi " Annali della Repubblica," by Giustiniani ; " La Storia dell' Antica Liguria e de' Genova," by Girolamo Serra ; " Nuova Istoria della Repubblica," by Canale ; " Genovesi, Veneziane, e Pisani, Storia delle loro navigazione," by Fanucci ; some extracts from " Caffaro's Chronicles ; " " Banke's Popes ; " " Histoire de Genes," by Vincens ; Gib bon's " Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire ; " Sismondi's " Histoire des Re"publiques Italiennes " and " La Litt6ra ture du Midi de l'Europe ; " Villani's " Firenze,'* and Montalembert's " Les Moines de l'Occident." CONTENTS. TAGE

INTRODUCTION.

v CHATTEIi I. A Bird from over the Seas 1 II. A Genoese Balcony' 21 III. The Echo of a Great Bell 30 IV. In a Deserted Sanctuary 39 V. An Old Watch-Tower 64 VI. On Board the Yacht Reverie 80 VUL A Mediterranean Sea-Shell 104 THE ROOT VUl. The Bronze Tablet 109 IX. A Tiger Lily 122 X. An Idyl 141 XL " What 's in a Name '( " 147 XII. A Church Lamp 153 THE STEM. XIII. A Fruit from the Colonies 166 The Arab in the Gate 169 An Heirloom 173 A Branch of Coral 178 Concerning Fish 181 XIV. The Royal Asphodel 185 XV. A Carrier Pigeon ... 192 XVI. The Venetian Prisoner 199 XVH. The First Doge CONTENTS. viii THE FLOWER. CHAPTER PAGE XVIII. Daughters of Genoa 212 XIX. Saint George 220 XX. An Air-castle 230 XXI. A Pinch of Salt 233 XXII. Grandfather's Waistcoat 240 XXIII. The Death Ship 243 THE FRUIT. XXIV A Beacon Light 247 XXV.

In a Picture Gallery 270 XXVI. The Note of a Violin 281 XXVII. The Launching of the Boat 287 INDEX LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Page Panorama of the Port of Genoa Frontispiece Temple of Diana and Chinese Bridge, Villa Pallavicini . 7 The Columbus Monument 29 Equestrian Statue of Victor Emmanuel IL, Piazza Corvetto 36 Porta Pila 52 Piazza Acquaverde, Railway Station and Columbus Monument 67 Gardens of Pallavicini 82 View of the Water Front, Genoa 104 Panorama of Genoa from the Castello 123 Courtyard of the Palazzo Municipale 125 Ducal Palace, Piazza Nuova 129 Old Door of the Doria Palace 142 Detail of the Portico of San Lorenzo 155 Cathedral of San Lorenzo 165 Interior of the Church of the Annunziata 178 Interior of the Church of S. Amerogio 191 Doria Palace 207 Panorama of the Campo Santo (Cemetery of Staglieno) . . 238 The Great Lighthouse 255 Courtyard of the Palace of the University PUBLISHERS' NOTE.

The publishers are indebted to Messrs. Alinari & Co., of Florence, for the right to reproduce from their photo graphs some of the scenes herein depicted. GENOA THE SUPERB Were a star quenched on high, For ages would its light, Still travelling downward from the sky, Shine on our mortal sight. So when a great man dies, For years beyond our hen, The light he leaves behind him lies Upon tbe paths of men. Longfellow. I GENOA THE SUPERB THE CITY OF COLUMBUS.

Chapter I

A BIRD FROM OVER THE SEAS. GENOA rises from the brink of harbor crowded with shipping, the mole, and the lighthouse, to the crest of the encircling hills blooming with gardens and vineyards. The matchless beauty of the city as Queen of the Mediter ranean is never more apparent than on a morning of the month of May, when the sun is just visible above the higher range of mountains. Then the town still slumbers below in the drowsy shadow of night, — flights of steps, narrow by ways, and the massive arch of some church portal engulfed in darkness, while the sea extends to the horizon, gray, opaque, immobile, like a vast sheet of silver meeting a sky veiled in chill mists ; yet the advent of the great Day-God already quickens the sensibilities of all things, the gushing melody from the throat of a passing bird greets the first rays trembling in the eastern sky.

A fitful tumult of bells echoes from church towers ; hints of marble columns, faint, pearly reflections suggestive of lofty palaces rather than defined outlines, become visible out of the confused mass of roofs and walls ; and the sea warms to light and life with a delicate surface sheen, like the colouring of a flower, the bloom of a fruit, the polished recess of a shell. The miracle of the recurring sunrise is here repeated on the crags, kneeling " like hooded friars " to meet the benedic tion of the light and the summer sea, holding the fair city in their united embrace. The grandeur of the violet-hued dawn stealing over the austere solitudes of Alpine peaks and glaciers is softened, modified to richer tones of color ing on the Apennines enclosing Genoa landward. One half anticipates that the tinkling melody of convent bells ringing the Angelus in every hamlet of the adjacent slopes will be rivalled by some subtle fragrance of sacrifice to the day and the springtime, rising from the Pagan altars of temples, wreathed with roses and smoking incense-cups, hidden in the myrtle thickets and orange groves of shore and height.

Genoa is now devoutly Christian, having early embraced the faith of monk and Pope ; but she once be longed to heathen Rome, and made oblations to the Gods. Bountiful Nature rejoices, for — " ' T is always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore." The suburb of Pegli extends to the right of Genoa, and in the midst of the hotels of this cosmopolitan resort is an ancient villa. The mansion is built on a gentle elevation above the highway, and is square in form, like the majority of Italian country-residences, with an ornamented parapet, while the walls are painted a warm, yellowish-red hue. Frescoes representing the busts of certain classical poets, framed in alcoves, are still discernible between the case ments, although faded by the rains of many years.

Time and the vicissitudes of fortune have shorn the villa of ad jacent property, if it ever boasted of vineyard and olives. A rusty, iron gate opens on the white, dusty road, sur mounted by a crown and scutcheon, and having formidable spikes in the pattern of a double wheel of the Inquisition. A dilapidated and miniature mediæval tower flanks the entrance, serving as porter's lodge for the custodian and guardian of the premises, Lorenzo, who dwells here in con tentment, with his cheerful family, beneath a leaking roof which resembles a candle-snuffer. A path, paved with red brick tiles, with high walls on either side, leads from the rusty gate to the stately portal, still studded with nails, as if to resist a siege, and protected by an arch supported on columns of gray marble, forming a balcony above.

The wide terrace of the house commands a view of Genoa, the sea, and the amphitheatre of hills. Nearer at hand it over looks the famous Pallavicini gardens, duly visited by every conscientious traveller from other lands. The waves lapse softly on the shore in sparkling ripples, and a lateen sail, brownish-red in hue, flits past. A vessel is being built in a ship-yard of the shore, with hull and ribs already defined against the blue water and sky. A little Russian boy, with floating curls of flaxen hair, and curiously veiled gray eyes, launches on the strand a toy craft, fully rigged for any weather with brave array of white canvas. Farther along the beach the fishermen draw in their nets harvest of the calm night, brought near land by boats. The fishermen are ancient folk, tall, bent old men, bronzed and wrinkled, defying rheumatism with bare feet and knees immersed in the waves as long as tottering limbs will bear them, while their wives and daughters wait to receive a portion of the fish to vend about the town in baskets poised on their heads, or carried between two girls.

A group of idlers watch the slow labor of drawing the nets, each toiler having a strip of canvas carried over one shoulder, belt-wise, to which a cord and hook are attached, thus enabling him to pull on the central line in unison with his comrades. The hazard of fortune in drawing the net on the Genoese shore is full of excitement, hope, and speculative curiosity. The most ancient mariner of the line to the right, old Giacomo, takes a pessimistic view of the luck of this May morning, and begins to grumble in his white beard, — " The other net holds more fish than ours ! You will see ! " His old wife Marietta, with her kindly, furrowed face framed in the cotton handkerchief which invariably covers the head of the women of this portion of the Mediterranean coast at all seasons of year, even to the child of tender years, however slight the raiment of the rest of the body, makes cheerful response : " Eh !

We must take what God sends us." Then the old wife gazes out at the sparkling waves. In the expression of patience and resignation discernible on the rugged lineaments of her brown features, one realizes that she belongs to the sisterhood of fisher-folk of all lands. The sea supports, and has robbed her, like many another of the coasts of Norway, Scotland, and the Ameri can continent. In moments of confidence she speaks of the two fine sons taken from her, one wrecked in a temp est off Corsica, and the other put ashore on the African strand to die of fever in the white hospital among the palm trees on the margin of desert, leaving the old couple to struggle alone to the bitter end. She is a picturesque figure, the old Marietta. Her short gown is green and brown in tint, her jacket a grass-green, and her apron still another shade of olive, — the whole costume faded and blended by the spray of salt water.

Did she select her raiment with an eye to resembling an animated bundle of half dried sea-weeds ? Is it not far more probable that the practical aim of driving a shrewd bargain with some vendor of the quays and thoroughfares of Genoa dictated her choice ? A seafaring man of well-to-do aspect, with keen eyes, and gold rings in his ears, watches the morning laborers with lively interest. "Now which net would the signorino like to have fetch the most fish?" he demands, with a chuckle, of the little Russian. The signorino, with princely blood in his veins, pauses in launching the toy boat, stares at his good-humored inter locutor a trifle haughtily, ponders on the matter with childish gravity for a moment, and replies diplomatically : " I wish both nets may be very full of fish. So many ! " and he extends his arms with a vague gesture of amplitude. before dancing back to his own toy craft.

The retired mariner chuckles again, and proceeds to bet on the chances of the net to the right bearing a heavier freight than that to the left, with a group of young fisher men, wearing their red caps and sashes jauntily. Such is his morning diversion in port. Beyond extend the adjacent towns along the curves of shore, lofty, weather-stained houses huddled together in land, and connected with the highway by means of a stone, arched bridge, or bordering the shingle, with a spacious parish church of stately proportions in the midst of crumbling, blackened walls, flights of steps, and steaming factories. All day the women wash their many-hued household garments in the channels of the streams flowing down from the hills to the sea, and dwindled to shallow pools with the advance of the spring. Each local market-place is full of southern warmth of life and color, in the early hours of morning.

The girls gather around the public fountains to fill their copper vessels, chatting in the patois of the district ; the stalls of fruit and vegetables are scenes of animated barter. Rosy onions, scarlet tomatoes, great golden pumpkins in their season, destined to make the soup of all Liguria, with the addition of a little olive oil, and chestnut cakes as big as cart wheels, for the delectation of youth, invite purchasers. GENOA TIIE SUPERB. The railway is visible, — a glistening, black line coiled around the ledges, like the folds of a snake, with the trains coming and going, in those swift transitions which resemble suspended vitality, from the humid darkness of tunnels to dazzling light once more, with limpid waves bathing promontories of tawny rocks, dismantled towers, hamlets, gardens, and ancient convents rising on the hills above, surrounded by fig and olive trees.

The terrace of the old villa boasts a few oranges, starred with richly fragrant blossoms here and there, and an occasional tiny, golden ball of fruit. An arbor occupies an angle of the boundary wall, shielded by vines from sun and wind, yet affording glimpses of all surrounding objects. Here the loiterer who writes these pages may linger, charmed by the beauty of Nature, and meditating on the rich page of history afforded by the past and present of the city of Genoa yonder. On the fresh May morning one may — " Sit in revery and watch The changing color of the waves that break Upon the idle seashore of the mind." In the hollows of the slopes inland, where the delicate blue shadows of dawn linger, violets, hyacinths, gladiolas, and the red orchis bloom, — perpetual summer smiling be neath the shelter of the barrier of Maritime Alps which excludes, in good measure, the winter of northern Europe.

Beyond the parapet of villa wall extends the realm of enchantment of the Pallavicini gardens. The eye follows dreamily the labyrinth of paths and avenues wending amidst shrubbery and masses of foliage of every variety of form and tint, sunshine flickering on the waxen leaves of Ja ponica plants, interlacing branches making a soft twilight gloom of verdure, yet affording fine views of the city and harbor, and solitary palms rising toward the sky as if Temple of Diana and Chinese Bridge, filla Pallavicini. pencilled in outline on the pure blue of the heavens. A Genoese garden ! Does the earth afford a more favorable spot for the cultivation of rare blooms than these retreats of the nobles of the city ? The gaze strays languidly to the marble statues of nymphs, fauns, and Pysche gleaming in the pervading green of thickets, arches, belvideres, the tiny gilded bridges, a Chinese pagoda, with garlands of flower-like bells vibrating in the lightest breeze, a Turkish kiosk surmounted by a golden dome, a rustic hut, an obelisk, and a Grecian temple built in the middle of a miniature lake, guarded by Tritons holding conch shells.

Here lilies cluster in crystal pools, and fern fronds sway about the dark entrance of grottos, where water drips from stalactites with a musical splash ; there a sumptuous pavil ion invites to repose, the light glowing in rich tints through a casement of painted glass on frescoed dome and mosaic pavement, with volumes of Tasso and Petrarch temptingly at hand in the library of an alcove. A chair suspended, pendulum wise, in a golden hoop be tween the bridges of the lake, invites the uninitiated to swing, when he becomes veiled in spray, liquid threads spouting forth from water-pipes concealed beneath gravel paths behind clumps of plants, and wept from the hoop rim in a cross-fire of jets, thus recalling the somewhat coarse jests of the Middle Ages practised at the Castle of Hesdin by the Duke of Burgundy.

Who does not wish to journey to the Mediterranean shore, even as good Hans Andersen longed for the warm countries ? At a first glance the brilliant tones of coloring in spire the doubt of artificiality. Where have you before seen these villas embowered in myrtle, lemon, and orange trees, these terraces with marble steps adorned with urns and statues, these blue waves studded with lateen sails ? The Shakspearian scenery of the stage reproduces the en virons of Genoa. Desdemona might traverse yonder path, attired in yellow brocade with strings of pearls on her neck, or Juliet, in pale blue satin, linger on that balcony, or the opera hero, in velvet doublet, warble melodious farewell as he descends the marble steps to embark on one of the boats of Pegli. The Pallavicini gardens would afford a fitting spot for the enactment of one of those quaintly symbolical Masks of the Elizabethan era, the dialogues of Fletcher and Ben Jonson, Milton's " Comus," or Spenser's "Faerie Queene."

It is the month of May, and little maidens are visible, attired in snowy robes and veils, prepared for their first communion in their respective parish churches. May brides are abroad in the Jura, Lorraine, and Bresse, singing their songs and collecting alms to buy tapers for the Virgin Mary. Genoa, always devout in religious observance, pays homage to the month of the Madonna. Thought lapses so readily beyond the boundary of Christianity that the marble Flora, goddess of the gardens and the springtime, on the bank of the artificial lakelet of the Pallavicini Villa, is a still more radiant and tangible presiding presence. Flora is the winged shape wafted over southern seas, — " Whose mantle, every shade of glancing green Flies back in fragrant breezes to display A tunic white as May ! " Primavera reigns amidst the wealth of flowers in the gardens of Genoa, the fair-armed nymph who rifles the pale violets of their sweetness and the poppies of their color, to lavish on her votaries.

A tortoise sidles across the terrace, advances an inquir ing head and wrinkled neck from the margin of protecting shell, and snaps off a tiny daisy, which he devours with the relish of a fresh spring salad. Life at the old villa would be incomplete without the tortoise and his wife. They are supposed to eat slugs, and other insects. The couple, both of advanced age, vanish to hibernate snugly underground during the winter months, and reappear, in response to a tap of Flora's wand, to nibble the flowers and tender leaves of the parterres. Deep knowledge of the world is discerni ble in the eye of the father tortoise, as well as sagacity in the remarkable celerity with which he scrambles out of harm's way on all occasions, and repels intrusive curiosity on his habitation. Several swallows dart around the angle of the house, wings and forked tail sharply defined in flight.

The swallow is not only the harbinger of Spring, but the emblem adopted by invalids and pleasure-seekers on the Riviera, alike intent on basking in winter sunshine. The fleet little messenger is stamped on letter paper, in laid in the olive-wood trinkets of the region, and em broidered on table covers and cushions. And the human swallow ? The plain lady sketching on the shore may be a crown princess ; the old gentleman with a velvet cap on his thin white locks, and an abstracted smile, one of the world's savants; and the quiet person pacing before the Hotel de la Mediterran£e an American capitalist holding the destiny of many in his grasp. The old villa has been tenanted by swallows of all nationalities for generations. What a varied page of per sonal history the different apartments might reveal in every phase of human joy and sorrow !

The father tor toise sidles across the path, intent on his own affairs, and the birds, arrived from Africa, circle overhead while the stranger colony ebbs with the summer heat, and flows back with the cold season. The young count dwells chiefly among his birds in the lofty and faded chambers opening on the terrace, while his father, a tall, thin man of sorrowful mien, and with the aquiline features often seen on medallions of the Middle Ages, watches him from the shadow. Their history is a sad one. The proud and indulgent parent took his only child with him in the autumn villeggiatura to shoot hare and birds on the Lucca hills, and discharged his fowling piece at the lad hidden in the bushes, by a nearly fatal mistake thus maiming him for life. A son of Genoa, whose race has been closely allied with the city in glory or disgrace for centuries, the youth, cut off in his prime, moves about in a wheeled chair.

The spirit of a modern Colum bus burns in his breast. Fain would he become a traveller and explorer of renown in his day, hunting in the Soudan and Abyssinia, treading the inland ice of Greenland, cross ing the South American Pampas, and cruising about the islands of the Malay Archipelago. Fain would he gather the willow, Salix arctica, of Spitzbergen, or the cabbage, Pringlea autiscorbutica, of the Kerguelen Islands — those typical plants of two hemispheres — in their native soil. His juvenile imagination is ardent, and full of poetic im agery ; his brain teems with schemes. He will become an ornithologist. Already he is writing a volume on this favorite branch of study. The birds fly to him, since he may not journey to visit them in their native haunts. He is never weary of watching the alert movements and ob serving the traits of individual character of the feathered subjects of his kingdom, dwelling in wired enclosures on the southern side of the terrace.

Here is a perpetual tu mult of life and sound during the day, and a rainbow of flashing colors, purple, yellow, blue, and green mingling and separating. The amateur questions the golden and silver pheasants, trailing their silky plumage in the sun, the melancholy, stormy curlew, the house sparrows of western India, intent on nest building in any available corner, a Lebanon redstart, a white linnet, a Russian tit, a Chinese robin, with barred wings, the families of pigeons and finches, while the starlings, sun birds, parrokeets, and cardinals come and go in a broken prism of lovely tints. The little Java sparrows sit on the upper perches, like sober folk, a trifle dull yet very respectable. It is to be feared the great work on ornithology, if ever completed, will be garnished with many digressions of bird history partak ing of the nature of fairy tales.

The juvenile author, with the large, lustrous eyes, thin features, and eager smile, is especially charmed with the legend of the traveller from Frangistan who climbed Mount Argos to gather the magi cal plant with ten leaves around the stalk and the flower in the centre, guarded by serpents, and, failing in the attempt, destroyed himself, to be found changed into a book. The master of the birds will not attain manhood. The people about him, with the instinctive sympathy of the Italian race for misfortune, might lament in the symbolical language of Daphnis and Adonis the fresh beauty of spring destined to wither in the heat of summer, and the extinction of youthful genius by early death. A postern door in the wall opens, and a man enters the enclosure. He is young, bronzed by sun and wind, stalwart of form, and has restless, dark eyes, with curling black hair and beard.

He is recognizable, at a casual glance, as a sailor. He carries a macaw of the Antilles perched on his left wrist. If the hope of the mariner of all countries is steadfastly fixed on the haven of home, while braving the storms of ocean, the beacon possesses a radiant promise to the Mediterranean sailor. Thus the sanguine Bernardo, son of the porter of the family palace in town, and affianced to the pretty dressmaker, Francesca, eldest daughter of Lorenzo, the custodian at the gate of the villa, having reached Genoa on board the Italian bark " Stella " from Buenos Ayres at an earlier date than was anticipated, gains the path slyly, and trolls forth a welcome to the spot in a fine baritone voice, — " Of singing Stornelli I know a goodly store, Enough to freight four mighty vessels and more, Let who thinks to defeat me but come to the fore.

" Into all the four parts of the earth I have heen, And some little I know about matters marine. But Columbus, there 's no one can beat me, I ween ! " Exclamations of recognition and welcome ensue. "Bernardo has returned from America!" exclaims the young count, seated on the terrace in his wheeled chair. " He has brought me a bird from over the seas." The sailor has not forgotten the young master on his dis tant voyage. The poor little bark " Stella " has threaded her way across the stormy main, and back again, in a most commonplace and orderly fashion, bringing the gorgeous macaw, with plumage and tail of lustrous, emerald-green tints, a native of the New World, to the modern son of Genoa, the cripple in his chair. Does one of the group of Genoese gathered together on the terrace, from the silent father now moved to unwonted animation, the rosy Fran cesca, laughing and crying, the habitually taciturn Lorenzo, to the grandmother, nodding and smiling over the heads of the children, think of that other sailor who ventured forth on untried waters some four centuries ago ?

The fish-wife Marietta joins the company, with her basket poised on her head, a store of silvery anchovies, little mul let flecked with red spots, with an occasional prawn, shrimp, and scrambling crab. The nets have been slowly drawn to shore, and the pessimist Giacomo proved in the wrong, for his own haul is the most abundant, including a baby sole or two, a sea-horse, an infant octopus to be devoured whole by avenging mankind, while the tentacles, tough yet sweet to the palate, of larger specimens would be severed, a fine palombo (dog-fish), — an object of envy to all, — and carp. The sailor Bernardo laughs, showing strong white teeth, and permits the old Marietta, robbed of her two boys by tli-e cruel sea, to question and admire him. The women gravely select fish from the basket for the noonday meal, and even the count manifests interest in the anchovies.

As for Marietta, she rarely consumes her own wares, and deems herself fortunate if she can eat a handful of mussels, fairy clams with pearly shells, dredged along the coast, or any other frutta di Mare (fruit of the sea) with her daily crust. Ah, what a feast will be held in the little tower at the gate in honor of the returned mariner ! The master sends a flask of wine and a fowl ; Lorenzo returns from the market-place with a goodly supply of firm, fresh Parmesan cheese, and pasta of Genoese manufacture ; the women prepare to serve the contents of the net fried to a crisp condi tion in the oil of Liguria. The fine appetite of Bernardo will discover a delicious flavor in the harvest of Marietta's basket wholly lacking in the finny tribe of other seas, and the loaf possess a zest of home, just as Dante found the bread of exile, whether at Verona or Ravenna, salt and bitter, inducing longing for the unseasoned leaven of his own beautiful Florence.

Why does Florence not salt her bread ? Bernardo and Francesca, seated side by side, are types of the Genoese. Possibly some resemblance to the early Phœ nician may still be discernible in external appearance and inherited characteristics. The sailor is of medium height, broad of shoulder, and muscular, with a dark skin, and crisply curling black hair and beard, while his features reveal animation and intelligence. The girl is short of stature, plump, vivacious, with a clear complexion, and the vivid tints of health on cheek and lip. She wears the black lace veil of the region on her abundant tresses, on occasion, with a coquettish grace. Neither mariner nor maiden seems to justify the sarcasm hurled at the Republic by other Ita lian towns, as the earlier Greeks and Latins vilified each other in deadly feud of rivalry : Mare senza pesce, mon tagne senza alberi, uomini senza fede, e donne senza vergogna.