Ch. 4 - Genoa and Its Neighborhood

The first impressions of such a place as ALBARO, the suburb of
Genoa, where I am now, as my American friends would say, 'located,'
can hardly fail, I should imagine, to be mournful and
disappointing. It requires a little time and use to overcome the
feeling of depression consequent, at first, on so much ruin and
neglect. Novelty, pleasant to most people, is particularly
delightful, I think, to me. I am not easily dispirited when I have
the means of pursuing my own fancies and occupations; and I believe
I have some natural aptitude for accommodating myself to
circumstances. But, as yet, I stroll about here, in all the holes
and corners of the neighbourhood, in a perpetual state of forlorn
surprise; and returning to my villa: the Villa Bagnerello (it
sounds romantic, but Signor Bagnerello is a butcher hard by): have
sufficient occupation in pondering over my new experiences, and
comparing them, very much to my own amusement, with my
expectations, until I wander out again.

The Villa Bagnerello: or the Pink Jail, a far more expressive name
for the mansion: is in one of the most splendid situations
imaginable. The noble bay of Genoa, with the deep blue
Mediterranean, lies stretched out near at hand; monstrous old
desolate houses and palaces are dotted all about; lofty hills, with
their tops often hidden in the clouds, and with strong forts
perched high up on their craggy sides, are close upon the left; and
in front, stretching from the walls of the house, down to a ruined
chapel which stands upon the bold and picturesque rocks on the sea-
shore, are green vineyards, where you may wander all day long in
partial shade, through interminable vistas of grapes, trained on a
rough trellis-work across the narrow paths.

This sequestered spot is approached by lanes so very narrow, that
when we arrived at the Custom-house, we found the people here had
TAKEN THE MEASURE of the narrowest among them, and were waiting to
apply it to the carriage; which ceremony was gravely performed in
the street, while we all stood by in breathless suspense. It was
found to be a very tight fit, but just a possibility, and no more--
as I am reminded every day, by the sight of various large holes
which it punched in the walls on either side as it came along. We
are more fortunate, I am told, than an old lady, who took a house
in these parts not long ago, and who stuck fast in HER carriage in
a lane; and as it was impossible to open one of the doors, she was
obliged to submit to the indignity of being hauled through one of
the little front windows, like a harlequin.

When you have got through these narrow lanes, you come to an
archway, imperfectly stopped up by a rusty old gate--my gate. The
rusty old gate has a bell