It was a relief to get out of it，not withstanding；and to cross eventhe dismal dirty Papal Frontier．After passing through two little towns；in one of which，Acquapendente，there was also a“Carnival’’in progress：consisting of one man dressed and masked as a woman，and one woman dressed and masked as a man，walking ankle—deep，through the muddy streets，in a very melancholy manner：we came，at dusk，within sight ofthe Lake of Bolsena．on whose bank there iS a little town of the same nalile，much celebrated for malaria．With the exception of this poor place，there is not a cottage on the banks of the lake，or near it(for nobody dare sleep there)；not a boat upon its waters；not a stick or stake to break the dismal monotony of twenty-seven watery miles．We were late in getting in，the roads being very bad from heavy rains；and，after dark，the dullness of the scene was quite intolerable．
We entered on a very different，and a finer scene of desolation，next night，at sunset．We had passed through Montefiaschone(famous for its wine)and Viterbo(for its fountains)：an after climbing up a long hill of eight or ten miles’extent，canle suddenly upon the margin of a solitary lake：in one part very beautiful，with a luxuriant wood；in another，very baden，and shut in by bleak volcanic hills．Where this lake flows，there stood，of old，a city．It was swallowed up one day；and in its stead，this water rose．There are ancient traditions(common to many parts of the world)of the ruined city having been seen below，when the water was clear；but however that may be，from this spot of earth it vanished．The ground came bubbling up above it；and the water too；and here they stand，like ghosts on whom the other world closed suddenly，and who have no means of getting back again．They seem to be waiting the course of ages，for the next earthquake in that place；when they will plunge below the ground，at is first yawning，and be seen no more．The unhappy city below，is not more lost and dreary，than these fire-charred hills and the stagnant water，above．The red sun looked strangely on them，as with the knowledge that they were made for caverns and darkness；and the melancholy water oozed and sucked the mud，and crept quietly among the marshy grass and reeds．as if the overthrow of all the ancient towers and housetops，and the death of all the ancient people born and bred there，were yet heavy on its conscience．
A short ride from this lake，brought US to Ronciglione；a little town like a large pig-sty，where we passed the night．Next morning at seven O’clock，we started for Rome．“
As soon as we were out of the pig-sty，we entered on the Campagne Romana；an undulating flat(as you know)，where few people Can live；and where，for miles and miles，there is nothing to relieve the terrible monotony and gloom．Of all kinds of country that could，by possibility，lie outside the gates of Rome，this is the aptest and fittest burial—ground for the Dead City．So sad，SO quiet，SO sullen；SO secret in its covering up of great masses of ruin，and hiding them；SO like the waste placesinto which the men possessed with devils used to go and howl，and rendthemselves，in the old days of Jerusalem．We had to traverse thirty milesof this Campagna；and for twenty-two we went on and on，seeing nothingbut now and then a lonely house，or a VlajnOus—lOOking shepherd；withmatted hair all over his face，and himself wrapped to the chin in a frowzybrown mantle，tending his sheep．At the end of that distance，we stoppedto refresh the horses，and to get some lunch，in a common malaria—shaken，despondent little public-house，whose every inch of wall andbeam，inside，was(according to custom)painted and decorated in a waySO miserable that every room looked like the wrong side of another room，and，with its wretched imitation of drapery，and lop-sided little daubs oflyres，seemed to have been plundered from behind the scenes of sometravelling circus． When we were fairly going offagain，we began，in a perfect fever，to strain our eyes for Rome；and when after another mile or two，the Eternal City appeared，at length，in the distance；it looked lil(e—I am half afraidto write the word--like LONDON!!!There it lay，under a thick cloud，with innumerable towers，and steeples，and roofs of houses，rising upinto the sky，and high above roofs of houses，rising up into the sky，and high above them all，one Dome．I swear，that keenly as I felt the seeming absurdity of the comparison，it was so like London，at that distance，that if you could have shown it me，in a glass，I should have taken it for nothingelseflourish n．茂盛；华饰；兴旺
v．繁荣；活跃；装饰；炫耀rusty adj．生锈的，生疏的，腐蚀的straw n．稻草，麦秆；吸管；没有价值的东西
adj．稻草的，琐碎的，稻草色的descendant n．子孙；后代；后裔enchantment n．魅力，迷人之处；着魔；施魔法staircase n．楼梯，楼梯部分，梯子stab n．刺，伤心，剧痛
v．刺，戳；刺伤；刺痛abruptly adv．突然地；鲁莽地；意外地；陡峭地solitary n．独居者；单独监禁
adj．独自的；隐居的；唯一的；孤独的sullen adj．愠怒的，阴沉的，闷闷不乐的意大利风无
[英】查尔斯·狄更斯 取道比萨、锡耶纳前往罗马 对我来说热，那亚与斯培西亚之间的海岸大道是意大利最美丽的地方。大道的一边是蔚蓝浩瀚的大海，海上不时缓缓滑过几只漂亮的小船。海边是形状迥异的破碎岩石，海面时而在大道之下时而与之平行。大道的另一边是崇山峻岭，深谷中零星散落着一些白花花的村落，黑黝黝的橄榄树林，一座座的小教堂，宽阔明亮的塔楼，村舍都粉刷的让人赏心悦目，茂盛的野生仙人掌和芦荟长满了路边每一座山坡与小丘。沿路村庄的园子里，夏日紫色的颠茄开放丛丛；秋冬，金桔与柠檬芳香四溢。
几乎每个村子住的都是渔民。眼前景色令人神清气爽：渔民将大船拖到岸边，地上是映出的片片阴影，他们便在阴影中小憩；妇女和儿童在那里望着大海一边编织渔网，一边玩耍嬉戏。大道向下几百英尺的岸边有一座叫卡莫格里亚的小城，还有一座小港湾，海员大多安家于此。他们自古以来拥有众多船只，同西班牙和其他一些地方有着贸易往来。从大道上朝下看，这里就像波涛起伏的大海边缘的坐落的一个微型模型，在阳光下闪闪发光。沿羊肠小道下行深入城中，你会发现，这里简直是一座完美无缺，细致入微的古代航海之城的模型，这是我一生中见到的海风咸味最重，波涛最为汹涌而又最具海盗气息的地方。锈迹斑斑的铁环，抛锚用的链条、绞盘和一段段古旧的桅杆堆满了街道；小小的港湾内停泊着久经风浪的船只，石头上晾晒着水手们的衣服。在简陋码头周围的护墙上，几个家伙正躺着睡觉，他们好像两栖动物似的，双腿悬垂在墙上，仿佛海和岸对他们来说都一样；好像就算真的滑下水去，他们也会漂浮水上，在鱼群中舒适地打个盹儿。小教堂里摆放着海上的战利品与供奉的祭品，这些都是为了纪念在风暴与海难事故中生还的人。教堂并没有紧邻海湾，而是要沿着低矮黑暗的拱廊在曲曲折折的台阶走上一会儿才能到，仿佛非要经过黑暗中的摸索，经历各种困难不易才能真正到达船的底舱。鱼腥味、海藻味与腐烂的绳索味在这里四处弥漫。
夏天，在海岸大道卡莫格里亚城上方地段，尤其是靠近热那亚的那些地段因有许多萤火虫聚集，那些地段也因此闻名于世。我曾于一个漆黑的夜晚漫步其间，亲见这片被这群美丽的小生灵装点得耀眼明亮的夜空。在整个空中满是萤光，片片橄榄树林和小山坡也都熠熠生辉，连远空的星星都相形见绌。
然而，我们并不是在那般美丽的季节里踏上这条通往罗马的大路的。刚过一月中旬，这里异常潮湿，天空也极为昏暗阴郁。在路过美丽的布拉科隘口时，我们遇到了雾雨天气，于是我们一路似乎都在云中穿行，而地中海仿佛根本就不存在于世界上。只有当面前的大雾偶尔被一阵强风吹散，才隐约看见脚下咆哮的大海，它拍打着远处的岩石，疯狂掀起一阵阵泡沫。雨下个没完没了，山涧与小溪全都暴涨，水不停地倾泻着，咆哮声、轰鸣声，震耳欲聋，这都是我从前从未见过的。
