Italy from the Alps to Mount Etna . the men still wear the scarlet vest; butfrom this point all grows dark. The stuffs in which the men and women clothe them-selves from head to foot are dark blue or dark brown. The light sandals of the land ofthe Ciociari * will not do here ; these rough rocks require stout shoes of the hardestleather. And the step of the inhabitants is heavy and ungraceful : elasticity of gait, aswell as flexibility of mind, must be sought for in Rome or Naples. Behind Roccarasa begins a fine oak wood, through which the road slopes gently downto Castel di Sangro. In Italy yo
Italy from the Alps to Mount Etna . the men still wear the scarlet vest; butfrom this point all grows dark. The stuffs in which the men and women clothe them-selves from head to foot are dark blue or dark brown. The light sandals of the land ofthe Ciociari * will not do here ; these rough rocks require stout shoes of the hardestleather. And the step of the inhabitants is heavy and ungraceful : elasticity of gait, aswell as flexibility of mind, must be sought for in Rome or Naples. Behind Roccarasa begins a fine oak wood, through which the road slopes gently downto Castel di Sangro. In Italy you may enjoy the beauties of atmosphere and sunshine,sea and sky, almost everywhere, but a wood, nay, a grove, is a rarity. But when we dofind one it produces a delightful effect ; for the light and colour of a southern climate play * The peasants of the hills around Rome are so called from the peculiar sort of sandals which they wear : a coarselinen bandage strapped round the leg and foot with leathern thongs.— Translators THE 0F umois FROM THE GRAN SASSO & ITALIA TO VESUVIUS. 351 amonost the branches, and the warmth distils a more aromatic odour from the leaves thanis the case with us at home. Then when we hear the song of home birds, or the well-known cry of the jay, and see the dear familiar blue and white butterflies fluttering abovethe beautiful flowers of this foreign land, the heart is filled with joy. And then ourbeloved fairy stories arise out of the mossy background, and the sun-woven veils of thewoodland elves wave from the dark, lichen-stained rocks. But to the people here, all isdead : nothing moves in stream or fountain, no friendly legend is twined with the ivy onthe banks, they have no story to relate about the ruins crumbling among the tree old heroes, the old calamities, the antique gods,—all, all are plunged in the slumberof oblivion. The wood ceases at Castel di Sangro. A swelling river, the Sangro, flows here,and on its banks Misery has
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