ld assuredly be
assassinated; that it would be no mere attempt, as in the case of the
Emperor, but a pronounced success. I did not tell my fears to any of
my family--I had not, to say the truth, informed any of them of
the incident which had imperilled my life, but I no longer felt any
curiosity to see more of Marseilles, and was sincerely thankful when I
found myself, betimes next morning, on board the Calabrese, bound for
Genoa. I never saw my murderer again, but I could make a fair likeness
of him, I believe, to-day. The trip to Genoa, and onward to Civita
Vecchia, lasted two or three days, the steamer generally pursuing her
course by night and laying up by day.

The first morning, soon after sunrise, found us approaching the bay
of Genoa, with the sun rising over the Mediterranean on our right and
throwing its light upon the curving acclivity on which the city stands.
The water had a beautiful blue-green color and was wonderfully clear, so
that, looking down through it over the ship's side, as we glided slowly
to our moorings, I saw sea-weeds and blocks of marble and other marine
curiosities which reawakened my old passion for aquariums. Indeed, to
be candid with the reader--as is my study throughout this
narrative--nothing in Genoa the Superb itself has, I find, remained with
me so distinctly as that glimpse of the floor of the bay through the
clear sea-water. I did not care to go up into the town and see the
palaces and churches; I wanted to stay on the beach and hunt for
shells--Italian shells--and classical or mediaeval sea-anemones. Of
course, I had to go up into the town; and I saw, no doubt, the churches
and the palaces, with their rooms radiant with the mellow brilliance of
precious marbles and painted ceilings, and statues and pictures,
under the personal conduct of no less an individual than Salvator Rosa
himself--for that was the name of our guide--and for years afterwards
I never doubted that he was the creator of the paintings which, in Rome
and elsewhere, bore his signature. I say I must have seen these things,
but in memory I cannot disentangle them from the innumerable similar
objects which I beheld, later, in other Italian cities; their soft
splendor and beautiful art could not hold their own for me beside that
cool translucence of the Mediterranean inlet, with its natural marvels
dimly descried as'I bent over the boat's side. It was for that, and not
for the other, that my heart yearned, and that b