all as gay and festive–looking as could be
conceived; while behind them was growing up a
gorgeous amphitheatre with stripes of colonnaded
palaces, all gaily dashed with silver and
gold. The whole seemed gradually to rise and
glow as we moved on slowly. Even the vessels
we passed seemed operatic and as gay as
theatrical ships, and with the rich blue bed of water
around them. As we wound on among them the
glistening amphitheatre seemed to enlarge and
grow more brilliant. There are the tall blocks
of houses rising out of the water with names
written across them ("Hôtel de la Croix de
Malte" is one), and a red gateway down at the
water's edge. Soldiers looking over the battlements,
boats shooting about with scarlet rowers,
and beside us our sister French packet with
its snowy white paddle–boxes, setting off on its
return home. All this—the harbour, the amphitheatre,
the colours—made up GENOA.

Breakfast now in the airy saloon, with every
window wide open and the breezes fluttering
through. And a very gay, lively breakfast
"according to the fork," with wine and solidities.
Great spirits. Then we go up and find a crowd
of boats with real operatic Italians out of
Masaniello waiting in the boats—frantic,
gesticulating fellows. Some, too, with boats laden
with fruit—a feast of colour. This is all an old
story a thousand times told—yet it was
inexpressibly delightful to one who had never seen
even a patch of Italian life, and in whose ears
was still clanging the rude noises of Coke on
Lyttleton, and the Common Bench Reports. In
a moment we are going ashore to fairyland, for
our ship was to lie here in luxuriant ease all
day long and take holiday.

Italian opera again on landing at a copper–
coloured gate like the entrance to a fortress.
Fairyland begins with the brick–coloured stevedores
in blue shirts loading and unloading, and
then we plunge into a sort of cool arcade that
seems half underground; where there are little
booths, with women in gold ornaments, roasting
and selling chesnuts, and openings at every
hundred yards, which show us patches of the gaudy
street. Hark! the jangling of bells; and we
stand up against the wall to let a string of
mules, all garnished with bosses of ruby–
coloured worsted, canter by. The music of
their hoofs on the earthy ground, the cracking of
the whips, the cries of the driver—this was a
true bit of character and of colour.

After that we emerge into hilly streets, gay,
gorgeous, yellow, amber–coloured, fluttering with
parti–coloured blinds; women with white veils
and gold combs and ornaments; open places, still
up a hill; every one chatting, lounging, crowded,
busy—the gayest and liveliest of scenes. Then
we change to a narrow street lined with great
palaces, whose windows are grated like bird–
cages, and which try to look gloomy but cannot,
and which only look cool and shady instead.
Everything is magnificent, massive, and
gorgeous—too heavy for the earth. Then we come
to a shady street again, where is a superb grey
palace, retired from business, with a court–yard
in front; and through the arch of which we see
orange–trees laden with oranges, and arcades
all round, where Italians are sitting and sipping
sorbets; fur this palace has become a café;
and we go in and become Italians, and sip
ravishing drinks, half–cloudy ice, which thus
cover the glass with a cool bloom. At our
backs are decayed frescoes. Then we go
wandering about, meeting fresh pictures at
every turn—open squares where there is the
theatre, and where every one is gathered reading newspapers, or doing 'Change work, or
taking ice or coffee—where the mountebank, on
his cart, is selling quack medicines. Then we
dive again into shady streets, and come to a
church built of black and white magpie marble,
but still splendid; and enter, lifting the mat at
the door, and find it dark, cool as a cave, all
covered with gold and pictures; and afar off, at
the altar, a dark figure teaching catechism to a
flock of little Italian girls—a picture in itself.
Then we find the evening drawing on, and that
our time is nearly come, so we saunter down to
the blue water's edge, and float over the waves
to our French steamer, which is nearly ready to
set off.

Of all the series of choice pictures which each
of us puts by carefully in the little portfolio we
call memory, none can show me the bright
colours of that Red–Letter Day, or the
unbounded delight and spirits with which
everything was welcomed. Rome came later, whose
gorgeous pictures the same hand tried to paint
for readers of this journal, but nothing ever
approached in delight that Genoa day.

READING MADE EASY.

IT is a pleasant thing for most of us that we
do not remember having learnt to read; that
the act of swallowing the alphabet is as utterly
effaced from our memories as our birthday
dose of castor–oil, our vaccination, or the
cutting of our first teeth. What a pity that
other things—mathematics and Greek—cannot
be as unconsciously taken in! Learning
to read must be, for youths and adults, a
particularly painful process. The difficulties attending
this acquirement after childhood seem to be
prodigious.

For some years past, our neighbours, the
French, have paid great attention to this subject.
Various curiously–named systems have
been devised called "Statilegie," from statim,
immediately, and legere, to read, and "Citolegie,"
from cito, quickly—for rapidly teaching
big children and adults to read; little children
and infants being left the happiness of learning
the genuine A B C from mother or nurse.
These systems have proved effectual; partly,
perhaps, in consequence of the great pains
bestowed in applying them.

The main objection urged against them is, that
pupils so taught to read, soon forget what they
have learned. Lightly come, lightly go. But
the objection is not good for much, so long as