short time I passed there went by me in a dream.
I hardly think it possible to exaggerate its beauties, its sources of
interest, its uncommon novelty and freshness. A thousand and one
realisations of the Thousand and one Nights, could scarcely captivate
and enchant me more than Venice.

Your old house at Albaro--Il Paradiso--is spoken of as yours to this
day. What a gallant place it is! I don't know the present inmate, but I
hear that he bought and furnished it not long since, with great
splendour, in the French style, and that he wishes to sell it. I wish I
were rich and could buy it. There is a third-rate wine shop below
Byron's house, and the place looks dull and miserable, and ruinous
enough. Old ---- is a trifle uglier than when I first arrived. He has
periodical parties, at which there are a great many flowerpots and a few
ices--no other refreshments. He goes about, constantly charged with
extemporaneous poetry, and is always ready, like tavern dinners, on the
shortest notice and the most reasonable terms. He keeps a gigantic harp
in his bedroom, together with pen, ink, and paper, for fixing his ideas
as they flow, a kind of profane King David, but truly good-natured and
very harmless.

Pray say to Count D'Orsay everything that is cordial and loving from me.
The travelling purse he gave me has been of immense service. It has been
constantly opened. All Italy seems to yearn to put its hand in it. I
think of hanging it, when I come back to England, on a nail as a trophy,
and of gashing the brim like the blade of an old sword, and saying to my
son and heir, as they do upon the stage: "You see this notch, boy? Five
hundred francs were laid low on that day, for post-horses. Where this
gap is, a waiter charged your father treble the correct amount--and got
it. This end, worn into teeth like the rasped edge of an old file, is
sacred to the Custom Houses, boy, the passports, and the shabby soldiers
at town-gates, who put an open hand and a dirty coat-cuff into the coach
windows of all 'Forestieri.' Take it, boy. Thy father has nothing else
to give!"

My desk is cooling itself in a mail-coach, somewhere down at the back
of the cathedral, and the pens and ink in this house are so detestable,
that I have no hope of your ever getting to this portion of my letter.
But I have the less misery in this state of mind, from knowing that it
has nothing in it to repay you for the trouble of perusal.