——查尔斯·狄更斯
Pictures of Italy
Charles Dickens
To RoME BY PlSA AND SIENA
There is nothing in Italy，more beautiful to me，than the coast—road between Genoa and Spezzia．On one side：sometimes far below，sometimes nearly on a level with the road，and often skirted by broken rocks of many shapes：there is the free blue sea，with here and there a picturesque felucca gliding slowly on；on the other side are lofty hills，ravines besprinkled with white cottages，patches of dark olive woods，country churches with their light open towers，and country houses gaily painted．On every bank and knoll by the wayside，the wild cactus and aloe flourish in exuberant profusion；and the gardens of the bright villages along the road，are seen，all blushing in the summer-time with clusters of the Belladonna，and are fragrant in the autumn and winter with golden oranges and lemons．
Some of the villages are inhabited，almost exclusively，by fishermen；：and it is pleasant to see their great boats hauled up on the beach，making little patches of shade，where they lie asleep，or where the women and children sit romping and looking out to sea，while they mend their nets upon the shore．There is one town，Camoglia，with its little harbour on the sea，hundreds of feet below the road；where families of mariners live，who，time out of mind，have owned coasting—vessels in that place，and have Waded to Spain and elsewhere．Seen from the road above，it islike a tiny model on the margin of the dimpled water，shining in the sun．Descended into，by the winding mule—tracks，it is a perfect miniature of a primitive seafaring town；the saltest，roughest，most piratical little placethat ever was seen．Great rusty iron rings and mooring-chains，capstans，and fragments of old masts and spars，choke up the way；hardy rough—weather boats，and seamen’S clothing，flutter in the little harbour orare drawn out on the sunny stones to dry；on the parapet ofthe rude pier，a few amphibious—looking fellows lie asleep，with their legs dangling over the wall，as though earth or water were all one to them，and if they slipped in，they would float away，dozing comfortably among the fishes；the church is bright with trophies of the sea，and votive offerings，incommemoration of escape from storm and shipwreck．The dwellingsnot immediately abutting on the harbour are approached by blind lowarchways，and by crooked steps，as if in darkness and in difficulty ofaccess they should be like holds of ships。or inconvenient cabins underwater；and everywhere，there is a smell of fish，and sea—weed，and oldrope． The coast—road whence Camoglia is descried SO far below，isfamous，in the warm season，especially in some parts near Genoa，forfire—flies．Walking there on a dark night，I have seen it made on sparklingfirmament by these beautiful insects：SO that the distant stars were paleagainst the flash and glitter that spangled every olive wood and hill—side，and pervaded the whole air．
It was not in such a season，however，that we traversed this road onour way to Rome．The middle of January was only just past．and it wasvery gloomy and dark weather；very wet besides．In crossing the fine passof Bracco，we encountered such a storm of mist and rain，that we traveledin a cloud the whole way．There might have been no Mediterranean in theworld，for anything that we saw of it there，except when a sudden gust of Wind，clearing the mist before it，for a moment，showed the agitated sea at a great depth below，lashing the distant rocks，and spouting up its foam furiously．The rain was incessant；every brook and torrent was greatly swollen；and such a deafening leaping，and roaring，and thundering of water，I never heard the like of in my life．
Hence，when we came to Spezzia，we found that the Magra，an unbridged river on the high—road to Pisa，was too high to be safely crossed in the Ferry Boat，and were fain to wait until the aftemoon of next day，when it had，in some degree，subsided．Spezzia，however，is a good place to tarry at；by reason，firstly，of its beautiful bay；secondly，of its ghostly Inn；thirdly，of the head-dress of the women，who wear，on one side of their head，a small doll’S straw hat，stuck on to the hair；which is certainly the oddest and most roguish head-gear that ever was invented．
The Magra safely crossed in the Ferry Boat--the passage is not by any means agreeable，when the current is swollen and strong--we arrived at Carrara，within a few hours．In good time next morning，we got some ponies，and went out to see the marble quarries．
