Then, Lights Begin To Shine In Genoa,
And On The Country Road; And The Revolving Lanthorn Out At Sea
There, Flashing, For An Instant, On This Palace Front And Portico,
Illuminates It As If There Were A Bright Moon Bursting From Behind
A Cloud; Then, Merges It In Deep Obscurity.
And this, so far as I
know, is the only reason why the Genoese avoid it after dark, and
think it haunted.
My memory will haunt it, many nights, in time to come; but nothing
worse, I will engage. The same Ghost will occasionally sail away,
as I did one pleasant autumn evening, into the bright prospect, and
sniff the morning air at Marseilles.
The corpulent hairdresser was still sitting in his slippers outside
his shop-door there, but the twirling ladies in the window, with
the natural inconstancy of their sex, had ceased to twirl, and were
languishing, stock still, with their beautiful faces addressed to
blind corners of the establishment, where it was impossible for
admirers to penetrate.
The steamer had come from Genoa in a delicious run of eighteen
hours, and we were going to run back again by the Cornice road from
Nice: not being satisfied to have seen only the outsides of the
beautiful towns that rise in picturesque white clusters from among
the olive woods, and rocks, and hills, upon the margin of the Sea.
The Boat which started for Nice that night, at eight o'clock, was
very small, and so crowded with goods that there was scarcely room
to move; neither was there anything to cat on board, except bread;
nor to drink, except coffee.
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