The coup-d’oeil of Genoa, splendid as it is, is not equal to that of Naples, even setting poetical associations aside:  it is built like a crescent round the harbour, rising abruptly from the margin of the water, which makes the view from the sea so beautiful:  to the north the hills enclose it round like an amphitheatre.  The adjacent country is covered with villas, gardens, vineyards, woods, and olive-groves forming a scene most enchanting to the eye and mind, though of a character very different from the savage luxuriance of the south of Italy.

The view of the city from any of the heights around, more particularly from that part of the shore called the Ponente, where we were to-day, is grand beyond description; on every side the church of Carignano is a beautiful and striking object.

There is but one street, properly so called, in Genoa—­the Strada Nuova; the others are little paved alleys, most of them impassable to carriages, both from their narrowness and the irregularity of the ground on which the city is built.

The Strada Nuova is formed of a double line of magnificent palaces, among which the Doria Palace is conspicuous.  The architecture is in general fine; and when not good is at least pleasing; the fronts of the houses are in general gaily painted and stuccoed.  The best apartments are usually at the top; and the roofs often laid out in terraces, or paved with marble and adorned with flowers and shrubs.

I have seen few good pictures here:  the best collections are those in the Brignolet and Durazzo palaces.  In the latter are some striking pictures by Spagnoletto (or Ribera, as he is called here).  In the Brignolet, the Roman Daughter, by Guido, struck me most.  I was also pleased by some fine pictures of the Genoese painter Piola, who is little known beyond Genoa.

The church of the Carignano, which is a miniature model of St. Peter’s, contains Paget’s admirable statue of St. Sebastian, which Napoleon intended to have conveyed to Paris.

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Beauty is no rarity at Genoa:  I think I never saw so many fine women in one place, though I have seen finer faces at Rome and Naples than any I see here.  The mezzaro, a veil or shawl thrown over the head and round the shoulders, is universal, and is certainly the most natural and becoming dress which can be worn by our sex:  the materials differ in fineness, from the most exquisite lace and the most expensive embroidery, to a piece of chintz or linen, but the effect is the same.  This costume, which prevails more or less through all Italy, but here is general, gives something of beauty to the plainest face, and something of elegance to the most vulgar figure; it can make deformity itself look passable:  and when worn by a really graceful and beautiful female, the effect is peculiarly picturesque and bewitching.

It was a Festa to-day; and we drove slowly along the Ponente after dinner.  Nothing could be more gay than the streets and public walks, crowded with holiday people:  the women were in proportion as six to one; and looked like groups dressed to figure in a melodrame or ballet.