The Traveller Who On His Way To Italy Passes Along The Riviera Di
Ponente, Through Marseilles, Nice, And Mentone To Ventimiglia, Or
Crossing the Alps Touches Italian Soil, Though Scarcely Italy Indeed, At
Turin, On Coming to Genoa Finds Himself Really At Last In the South, The
True South, Of Which Genoa La Superba Is The Gate, Her Narrow Streets,
The Various Life Of Her Port, Her Picturesque Colour And Dirt, Her
Immense Palaces Of Precious Marbles, Her Oranges And Pomegranates And
Lemons, Her Armsful Of Children, And Above All The Sun, Which Lends An
Eternal Gladness To All These Characteristic Or Delightful Things,
Telling him At Once That The North Is Far Behind, That Even Cisalpine
Gaul Is Crossed and Done With, And That Here At Last By The Waves Of
That Old And Great Sea Is The True Italy, That Beloved and Ancient Land
To Which We Owe Almost Everything that Is Precious And Valuable In our
Lives, And In which Still, If We Be Young, We May Find All Our Dreams.
