great window, upon the marble mountains, all red and glowing in the
decline of day, but stern and solemn to the last, I thought, my
God! how many quarries of human hearts and souls, capable of far
more beautiful results, are left shut up and mouldering away:
while pleasure-travellers through life, avert their faces, as they
pass, and shudder at the gloom and ruggedness that conceal them!
The then reigning Duke of Modena, to whom this territory in part
belonged, claimed the proud distinction of being the only sovereign
in Europe who had not recognised Louis-Philippe as King of the
French! He was not a wag, but quite in earnest. He was also much
opposed to railroads; and if certain lines in contemplation by
other potentates, on either side of him, had been executed, would
have probably enjoyed the satisfaction of having an omnibus plying
to and fro across his not very vast dominions, to forward
travellers from one terminus to another.
Carrara, shut in by great hills, is very picturesque and bold. Few
tourists stay there; and the people are nearly all connected, in
one way or other, with the working of marble. There are also
villages among the caves, where the workmen live. It contains a
beautiful little Theatre, newly built; and it is an interesting
custom there, to form the chorus of labourers in the marble
quarries, who are self-taught and sing by ear. I heard them in a
comic opera, and in an act of ‘Norma;’ and they acquitted
themselves very well; unlike the common people of Italy generally,
who (with some exceptions among the Neapolitans) sing vilely out of
tune, and have very disagreeable singing voices.
From the summit of a lofty hill beyond Carrara, the first view of
the fertile plain in which the town of Pisa lies – with Leghorn, a
purple spot in the flat distance – is enchanting. Nor is it only
distance that lends enchantment to the view; for the fruitful
country, and rich woods of olive-trees through which the road
subsequently passes, render it delightful.
The moon was shining when we approached Pisa, and for a long time
we could see, behind the wall, the leaning Tower, all awry in the
uncertain light; the shadowy original of the old pictures in
school-books, setting forth ‘The Wonders of the World.’ Like most
things connected in their first associations with school-books and
school-times, it was too small. I felt it keenly. It was nothing
like so high above the wall as I had hoped. It was another of the
many deceptions practised by Mr. Harris, Bookseller, at the corner
of St. Paul’s Churchyard, London. HIS Tower was a fiction, but
this was a reality – and, by comparison, a short reality. Still,
it looked very well, and very strange, and was quite as much out of
the perpendicular as Harris had represented it to be. The quiet
air of Pisa too; the big guard-house at the gate, with only two
little soldiers in it; the streets with scarcely any show of people
in them; and the Arno, flowing quaintly through the centre of the
town; were excellent. So, I bore no malice in my heart against Mr.
Harris (remembering his good intentions), but forgave him before
dinner, and went out, full of confidence, to see the Tower next
morning.
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Dickens, Charles – Pictures From Italy
I might have known better; but, somehow, I had expected to see it,
casting its long shadow on a public street where people came and
went all day. It was a surprise to me to find it in a grave
retired place, apart from the general resort, and carpeted with
smooth green turf. But, the group of buildings, clustered on and
about this verdant carpet: comprising the Tower, the Baptistery,
the Cathedral, and the Church of the Campo Santo: is perhaps the
most remarkable and beautiful in the whole world; and from being
clustered there, together, away from the ordinary transactions and
details of the town, they have a singularly venerable and
impressive character. It is the architectural essence of a rich
old city, with all its common life and common habitations pressed
out, and filtered away.