Sudden angles, and leaving a place with a jerk, and
describing an irregular circle, and returning to the same place
with a twitch that startled one: as if it were looking for the
rest of the Glory, and wondering (Heaven knows it might!) what had
become of it.
In the course of two months, the flitting shapes and shadows of my
dismal entering reverie gradually resolved themselves into familiar
forms and substances; and I already began to think that when the
time should come, a year hence, for closing the long holiday and
turning back to England, I might part from Genoa with anything but
a glad heart.
It is a place that 'grows upon you' every day. There seems to be
always something to find out in it. There are the most
extraordinary alleys and by-ways to walk about in. You can lose
your way (what a comfort that is, when you are idle!) twenty times
a day, if you like; and turn up again, under the most unexpected
and surprising difficulties. It abounds in the strangest
contrasts; things that are picturesque, ugly, mean, magnificent,
delightful, and offensive, break upon the view at every turn.
They who would know how beautiful the country immediately
surrounding Genoa is, should climb (in clear weather) to the top of
Monte Faccio, or, at least, ride round the city walls:
