unlading vessels, from anything one is accustomed to that the ancient times of Magna Græcia, when the busy ports sent corn to Rome, occurred; or rather, I confess, that with me another association was awakened. When excited, the mind is apt to recur to the impressions of childhood—like sympathetic ink exposed to fire—the covert but not expunged pictures which the soul first received, revive and become visible. Les Aventures de Télémaque recurred to my mind. I was haunted by the description therein given of the busy sea-ports of Tyre and Crete. The broad luminous sea before, the jutting headlands, the not inharmonious cries of the men at work, the frequent tread of their feet, formed a sort of picture which it seemed to me I had seen in childhood drawn by the pen of Fénelon. I went to sleep while it still flitted, as it were, beneath my closed eyelids.
The morrow came, and with it our guide, our chairs, our bearers—such a crowd. The thirty men had been disputing all night as to which among them had been chosen; the conclusion they came to was, that they would all go. Travellers often (I among the number) have had the whole pleasure of an excursion marred by a struggle with guides, muleteers, &c. It is often necessary to contest a thousand points, and to resist exactions, and the
