carriages started from the hotel, full of English
people in the best of tempers, on their way to
explore the lions of Genoa.

Of course, the first thing to be seen was
Andrea Doria's palace, but when we had nearly
reached the end of the Strada Balbi, we observed
two or three dirty persons running after the
carriage, and calling to the coachman to stop.
He did so, and they then told my husband to
desire Mrs. N. to present herself immediately at the
office of the chief of the police. He said that
he would deliver their message, when one of the
very dirtiest of the wretches came round to the
side of the carriage where I sat, and laying his
odious hand on my arm, addressed me as Mrs.
N., and desired me to come quietly to the police-office
at once with him! I shook away the
abomination of his touch, telling him I was not
Mrs. N., and ordered the coachman to drive on.
We had, however, only reached the statue of
Columbus, when we were again stopped by a
larger number of the dirty tribe, who, again
asserting that I was Mrs. N., desired us to turn
back, and accompany them to the police. Our
friends—scarcely knowing whether to laugh or to
be angry—now all with one voice declared that I
was not the lady in question, and that we were a
party of English pleasure-seekers on our way to
the Palazzo Doria. One of the unwashed then
signed to the coachman that he was to draw up
at the Palazzo Doria, which was only a few
paces further on, telling him to go adagio,
adagio! in order that he and his fellows might
walk by the side of the carriage without
inconveniencing themselves. We thus performed an
adagio movement, with an obligate police
accompaniment, to the door of the palace. Here
we all descended and entered the palace, where,
in admiring the lovely frescoes of Pierino del
Vaga, and enjoying the noble view from the
garden terrace, we quite forgot the noxious
insects we had left buzzing round the entrance.

When we came out, we found that their number
and their impertinence had doubled during the
interval. Dirty hands now seized hold of both
my arms, and once more I was told that I was
Mrs. N., and must come away at once to the
police-office at the Palazzo Ducale. Seeing that
matters were passing a joke, I now demanded
to see some legal warrant authorising my arrest
in my supposed name, or even the tricoloured
scarf which the police-officers are bound to wear
when on duty. My friends, too, gathered round
me in a stout little phalanx, producing their
passports, and pledging their word as British
gentlemen and M.P.s, that the police were
mistaken. In vain. On my husband's joining in
the protest, one of the men turned insolently to
him, and told him it was no use for him to speak,
as he had orders to take him to the Questura
too. Matters were not rendered more agreeable
by the crowd which had by this time begun to
gather round us. An Italian crowd is, however,
utterly blasé to such scenes, and the present
case was no exception to their general rule of
witnessing with silent and unprotesting disgust
every fresh example of illegality and oppression
on the part of the poliziotti. For nearly an
hour did we stand arguing and quarrelling in
the street; I, protesting that an arrest, without
a proper mandate or warrant being illegal, I
would not yield, except to force. At last, weary
of my obstinacy, the apparent chief of the crew
signed to some armed carabiniers, who had
hitherto stood apart, and who immediately came
forward and took up their position on each side
of my husband and me. There was then nothing
for it but to submit to this violence, and our
friends, gallantly electing to accompany us, we
proceeded in procession through the principal
streets of Genoa: the Strade Balbi, Nuovissima,
Nuova, and Carlo Felice, to the office of the
Questore, in the Palazzo Ducale.

Here we were taken into a little bare
white-washed room, where the majesty of the law was
caricatured in the person of Signor Ansaldo,
then deputy-questore: a little red-haired, red-eyed,
irritable being, the insignificant ugliness
of whose personal appearance rendered still
more striking the monstrous abuse of power
permitted him. My brother and Mrs. T. having
entered the room with me, he desired the former
to withdraw, and at once proceeded, in a singularly
uncourteous manner, to interrogate me as
to who I was, where I lived, how I occupied my
time, why I had come to Genoa, &c. When he had
tired himself with asking questions, he curtly
uttered the following insolence: " You have
spoken nothing but lies, you are Sarina* N."

To this I had, of course, nothing to say, and
he then called in my brother, Mr. T., and Dr. P.,
but treated their producing their passports and
offering to swear to my identity, with sovereign
contempt: curling his little red nose scornfully
at the proposition.

My brother—who kept his temper—nevertheless
remarked that such proceedings would
be impossible in a free country. This observation
nearly sent the small officer of illegality into
a fit. He started up, striking the table before
him with all the force of his little fist, and told
my brother that if he were not instantly silent,
he would arrest him too. At the same time he
violently rang the bell, and made a sign to a
satellite, which caused two carabiniers to
present themselves inside the doorway, in order to
awe the audacious Briton who had dared to
doubt the existence of absolute personal liberty
in a country blessed with such imposing
representatives of the law. Finding that my brother,
instead of sinking with terror, smilingly reminded
him that calmness of demeanour was a quality
calculated rather to add to, than detract from,
the dignity of a magistrate, he again irritably
commanded silence, and, turning to me, inquired
if I could name any " well affected" persons in
Genoa who could speak to my identity? I
mentioned the names of several "well affected"
bankers, deputies, &c., all of them individuals
well known in Genoa. Evidently he felt he
had made a mistake, though he did not choose
to say so. He made a pretence of sending to

* Genoese for Signorina.