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.