I am here above most earthly annoyances, and on a level with the heavenly influences.It has always seemed to me that the higher one gets, the easier it must be to write; and that, especially at a great elevation, one could strike into lofty themes, and launch out, without fear of shipwreck on any of the earthly headlands, in his aerial voyages.Yet, after all, he would be likely to arrive nowhere, I suspect; or, to change the figure, to find that, in parting with the taste of the earth, he had produced a flavorless composition.If it were not for the haze in the horizon to-day, Icould distinguish the very house in Naples--that of Manso, Marquis of Villa,--where Tasso found a home, and where John Milton was entertained at a later day by that hospitable nobleman.I wonder, if he had come to the Villa Nardi and written on the roof, if the theological features of his epic would have been softened, and if he would not have received new suggestions for the adornment of the garden.Of course, it is well that his immortal production was not composed on this roof, and in sight of these seductive shores, or it would have been more strongly flavored with classic mythology than it is.But, letting Milton go, it may be necessary to say that my writing to-day has nothing to do with my theory of composition in an elevated position; for this is the laziest place that I have yet found.
I am above the highest olive-trees, and, if I turned that way, should look over the tops of what seems a vast grove of them, out of which a white roof, and an old time-eaten tower here and there, appears; and the sun is flooding them with waves of light, which I think a person delicately enough organized could hear beat.Beyond the brown roofs of the town, the terraced hills arise, in semicircular embrace of the plain; and the fine veil over them is partly the natural shimmer of the heat, and partly the silver duskiness of the olive-leaves.I sit with my back to all this, taking the entire force of this winter sun, which is full of life and genial heat, and does not scorch one, as Iremember such a full flood of it would at home.It is putting sweetness, too, into the oranges, which, I observe, are getting redder and softer day by day.We have here, by the way, such a habit of taking up an orange, weighing it in the hand, and guessing if it is ripe, that the test is extending to other things.I saw a gentleman this morning, at breakfast, weighing an egg in the same manner; and some one asked him if it was ripe.
It seems to me that the Mediterranean was never bluer than it is to-day.It has a shade or two the advantage of the sky: though Ilike the sky best, after all; for it is less opaque, and offers an illimitable opportunity of exploration.Perhaps this is because I am nearer to it.There are some little ruffles of air on the sea, which I do not feel here, making broad spots of shadow, and here and there flecks and sparkles.But the schooners sail idly, and the fishing-boats that have put out from the marina float in the most dreamy manner.I fear that the fishermen who have made a show of industry, and got away from their wives, who are busily weaving nets on shore, are yielding to the seductions of the occasion) and making a day of it.And, as I look at them, I find myself debating which Iwould rather be, a fisherman there in the boat, rocked by the swell, and warmed by the sun, or a friar, on the terrace of the garden on the summit of Deserto, lying perfectly tranquil, and also soaked in the sun.There is one other person, now that I think of it, who may be having a good time to-day, though I do not know that I envy him.
His business is a new one to me, and is an occupation that one would not care to recommend to a friend until he had tried it: it is being carried about in a basket.As I went up the new Massa road the other day, I met a ragged, stout, and rather dirty woman, with a large shallow basket on her head.In it lay her husband, a large man, though I think a little abbreviated as to his legs.The woman asked alms.Talk of Diogenes in his tub! How must the world look to a man in a basket, riding about on his wife's head? When I returned, she had put him down beside the road in the sun, and almost in danger of the passing vehicles.I suppose that the affectionate creature thought that, if he got a new injury in this way, his value in the beggar market would be increased.I do not mean to do this exemplary wife any injustice; and I only suggest the idea in this land, where every beggar who is born with a deformity has something to thank the Virgin for.This custom of carrying your husband on your head in a basket has something to recommend it, and is an exhibition of faith on the one hand, and of devotion on the other, that is seldom met with.Its consideration is commended to my countrywomen at home.It is, at least, a new commentary on the apostolic remark, that the man is the head of the woman.It is, in some respects, a happy division of labor in the walk of life: she furnishes the locomotive power, and he the directing brains, as he lies in the sun and looks abroad;which reminds me that the sun is getting hot on my back.The little bunch of bells in the convent tower is jangling out a suggestion of worship, or of the departure of the hours.It is time to eat an orange.
