We ascended the tower of Santa Maria di Carignano to get a panoramic view of the city, with its embosoming hills and bay—saw the cathedral, with its banded black-and-white marble—the churches of the Annunziata and San Ambrogio, with their wealth of gilding and rich pink-brown marbles—the Palazzo Rosso, with its collection of eminently forgettable pictures—and the pretty gardens of the Palazzo Doria, with their flourishing green close against the sea.
A drive in the direction of the Campo Santo, along the dry, pebbly bed of the river, showed us the terraced hills planted with olives, and many picturesque groups of the common people with mules or on carts; not to mention what gives beauty to every corner of the inhabited world—the groups of children squatting against walls or trotting about by the side of their elders or grinning together over their play.
One of the personages we were pleased to encounter in the streets here was a quack—a Dulcamara—mounted on his carriage and holding forth with much brio before proceeding to take out the tooth of a negro, already seated in preparation.
We left Genoa on the second evening—unhappily, a little too long after sundown, so that we did not get a perfect view of the grand city from the sea. The pale starlight could bring out no color. We had a prosperous passage to Leghorn.
Leghorn on a brilliant, warm morning, with five or six hours before us to fill as agreeably as possible! Of course, the first thought was to go to Pisa, but the train would not start till eleven; so, in the meantime, we took a drive about the prosperous-looking town, and saw the great reservoir which receives the water brought from the distant mountains; a beautiful and interesting sight—to look into the glassy depth and see columns and grand arches reflected as if in mockery and frustration of one's desire to see the bottom. But in one corner the light fell so as to reveal that reality instead of the beautiful illusion. On our way back we passed the Hebrew synagogue, and were glad of our coachman's suggestion that we should enter, seeing it was the Jews' Sabbath.
At Pisa we took a carriage and drove at once to the cathedral, seeing as we went the well-looking lines of building on each side of the Arno.
A wonderful sight is that first glimpse of the cathedral, with the leaning campanile on one side and the baptistery on the other, green turf below, and a clear, blue sky above! The structure of the campanile is exquisitely light and graceful—tier above tier of small circular arches, supported by delicate, round pillars narrowing gradually in circumference, but very slightly, so that there is no striking difference of size between the base and summit. The campanile is all of white marble, but the cathedral has the bands of black and white, softened in effect by the yellowing which time has given to the white. There is a family likeness among all these structures: they all have the delicate little colonnades and circular arches. But the baptistery has stronger traits of the Gothic style in the pinnacles that crown the encircling colonnade.
After some dusty delay outside the railway station we set off back again to Livorno, and forthwith got on board our steamboat again—to awake next morning (being Palm-Sunday) at Civita Vecchia. Much waiting before we were allowed to land; and again much waiting for the clumsy process of "visiting" our luggage. I was amused while sitting at the Dogana, where almost every one was cross and busy, to see a dog making his way quietly out with a bone in his mouth.
Getting into our railway carriage, our vis-à-vis—a stout, amiable, intelligent Livornian, with his wife and son, named Dubreux—exclaimed, "C'en est fini d'un peuple qui n'est pas capable de changer une bêtise comme ça!" George got into pleasant talk with him, and his son, about Edinburgh and the scientific men there—the son having been there for some time in order to go through a course of practical science. The father was a naturalist—an entomologist, I think.
It was an interesting journey from Civita Vecchia to Rome: at first, a scene of rough, hilly character, then a vast plain, frequently marshy, crowded with asphodels, inhabited by buffaloes; here and there a falcon or other slow, large-winged bird floating and alighting.