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My father brought with him, on his return from his first visit to America, a small, shaggy Havana spaniel, which had been given to him and which he had named “Timber Doodle.” He wrote of him: “Little doggy improves rapidly and now jumps over my stick at the word of command.” “Timber,” travelled with us in all our foreign wanderings, and while at Albaro the poor little fellow had a most unfortunate experience—an encounter of some duration with a plague of fleas.
This was the more agreeable, as I had heard within the same week, that Sir Walter Scott had done and said nearly the same thing. Half the compliment from two such men would be something to be proud of. Lord Byron's residence at Albaro was separate from that of Mr Hunt, and, in consequence, they were more rarely together than when domiciled under the same roof as at Pisa.
Dickens owns to a pang when he was "set down" at Albaro, a suburb of Genoa, "in a rank, dull, weedy courtyard, attached to a kind of pink jail, and told he lived there."
They would come in swarms, beautifully dressed, and with most elaborately arranged heads of hair, but the slightest of wettings with them was the equivalent of a bath. In the open bay at Albaro the current was very strong, and the bathing most dangerous to even an experienced swimmer.
Cervantes, if he meant to quote, must have trusted to his memory. que don Albaro de Luna, Que don Aluaro de Lu que Anibal Cartajines, Que Anibal el de Carta que Francisco Rey frances, Que Rey Francisco de Espa se queja de la fortuna. Se quexa de la fortu. In Guzman's case I reproduce La Barrera's transcription.
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