The Mole at Leghorn.--Coast scattered over with
Watch-towers.--Branches of rare Coral unexpectedly acquired.
October 3rd, 1780.
I went, as you would have done, to walk on the mole as soon as the sun
began to shine upon it. Its construction you are no stranger to;
therefore I think I may spare myself the trouble of saying anything
about it, except that the port which it embraces is no longer crowded.
Instead of ten ranks of vessels there are only three, and those consist
chiefly of Corsican galleys, that look as poor and tattered as their
masters. Not much attention did I bestow upon such objects, but, taking
my seat at the extremity of the quay, surveyed the smooth plains of
ocean, the coast scattered over with watchtowers, and the rocky isle of
Gorgona, emerging from the morning mists, which still lingered upon the
horizon.
Whilst I was musing upon the scene, and calling up all that train of
ideas before my imagination, which pleased your own upon beholding it,
an ancient figure, with a beard that would have suited a sea-god,
stepped out of a boat, and tottering up the steps of the quay, presented
himself before me with a basket in his hand. He stayed dripping a few
moments before he pronounced a syllable, and when he began his
discourse, I was in doubt whether I should not have moved off in a
hurry, there was something so wan and singular in his countenance.
Except this being, no other was visible for a quarter of a mile at
least. I knew not what strange adventure I might be upon the point of
commencing, or what message I was to expect from the submarine
divinities. However, after all my conjectures, the figure turned out to
be no other than an old fisherman, who having picked up a few branches
of the rarest species of coral, offered them to sale. I eagerly made the
purchase, and thought myself a favourite of Neptune, since he allowed me
to acquire, with such facility, some of his most beautiful ornaments.
My bargain thus expeditiously concluded, I ran along the quay with my
basket of coral, and, taking boat, was rowed back to the gate of the
port. The carriage waited there; I shut myself up in the grateful shade
of green blinds, and was driven away at a rate that favoured my
impatience. We bowled smoothly over the lawns described in my last
letter, amongst myrtles in flower, that would have done honour to the
island of Juan Fernandez.
Arrived at Pisa, I scarcely allowed myself a moment to revisit the Campo
Santo, but hurried on to Lucca, and threw the whole idle town into a
stare by my speedy return.