Our house, Casa
Magni, was close to this village; the sea came up to the door, a steep
hill sheltered it behind. The proprietor of the estate on which it was
situated was insane; he had begun to erect a large house at the summit
of the hill behind, but his malady prevented its being finished, and it
was falling into ruin. He had (and this to the Italians had seemed a
glaring symptom of very decided madness) rooted up the olives on the
hillside, and planted forest trees. These were mostly young, but the
plantation was more in English taste than I ever elsewhere saw in Italy;
some fine walnut and ilex trees intermingled their dark massy foliage,
and formed groups which still haunt my memory, as then they satiated the
eye with a sense of loveliness. The scene was indeed of unimaginable
beauty. The blue extent of waters, the almost landlocked bay, the near
castle of Lerici shutting it in to the east, and distant Porto Venere to
the west; the varied forms of the precipitous rocks that bound in the
beach, over which there was only a winding rugged footpath towards
Lerici, and none on the other side; the tideless sea leaving no sands
nor shingle, formed a picture such as one sees in Salvator Rosa's
landscapes only. Sometimes the sunshine vanished when the sirocco
raged--the 'ponente' the wind was called on that shore.
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