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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 to correspond, which you ring as long as
you like, and which nobody answers, as it has no connection
whatever with the house. But there is a rusty old knocker, too--
very loose, so that it slides round when you touch it--and if you
learn the trick of it, and knock long enough, somebody comes. The
brave Courier comes, and gives you admittance. You walk into a
seedy little garden, all wild and weedy, from which the vineyard
opens; cross it, enter a square hall like a cellar, walk up a
cracked marble staircase, and pass into a most enormous room with a
vaulted roof and whitewashed walls: not unlike a great Methodist
chapel. This is the sala. It has five windows and five doors, and
is decorated with pictures which would gladden the heart of one of
those picture-cleaners in London who hang up, as a sign, a picture
divided, like death and the lady, at the top of the old ballad:
which always leaves you in a state of uncertainty whether the
ingenious professor has cleaned one half, or dirtied the other.
The furniture of this sala is a sort of red brocade. All the

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