The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia Book

3.5 stars

"This book is a series of faint reflections - mere shadows in water - of places to which the imagination of most people are attracted in a greater or less degree, on which mine had dwelt for years, and which have some interest for all. The greater part of the descriptions were written on the spot, and sent home, from time to time, in private letters."

I'm a huge fan of Charles Dickens, yet I had never realized until just recently that he had written a travelogue of sorts. This work was actually assembled from a collection of letters he had sent home to a confidant in England while he travelled with his family throughout Italy, by way of France, in 1844. Having never been to Italy, with no prospects of doing so on the near horizon, I thought this would be a pleasant diversion, which it was. What most appealed to me was that his biggest goal of sorts was to immerse himself in the culture and the people, not necessarily in seeing all of the sites. This is the way I would prefer to travel myself, if given the opportunity (with a friend as translator, of course!)

Naturally, Dickens's travels brought him to many of the most famed sites regardless of his intentions. He seemed less enthralled with the abundance of churches, cathedrals and holy men than he was with the landscape. He spoke with a bit of disdain when describing what he viewed as the monotony of the religious life and rituals. I certainly didn't take offense, having fallen asleep in such places more than once in my younger days, but some will perhaps find his tone objectionable on occasion. I appreciated the bit of wry humor, to be honest.

Dickens shines when he is wholly captivated by a setting. When he feels inspired, he inspires the reader as well. One of my favorite sections included his journey through Venice, which he wrote in a dream sequence of sorts. At first, I nearly thought he was truly describing a dream, rather than using dream as metaphor!

"In the luxurious wonder of so rare a dream, I took but little heed of time, and had but little understanding of its flight. But there were days and nights in it; and when the sun was high, and when the rays of lamps were crooked in the running water, I was still afloat, I thought: plashing the slippery walls and houses with the cleavings of the tide, as my black boat, borne upon it, skimmed along the streets."

I also learned that Charles Dickens had a daredevil side to him as well. I can't imagine such a thing being possible in this day and age, but he took a trip up Mount Vesuvius that resembled something out of a blockbuster adventure film rather than a Victorian era non-fiction book. Rife with danger and a bit of hysterics, a troop of tourists made the perilous trek up the volcano's surface. Dickens himself traipsed back down from this menacing cone of fire with the marks of a true adventurer. I'll surely leave this part of his trip off my own itinerary, should I ever make it that far.

"… we contrive to climb up to the brim, and look down, for a moment, into the Hell of boiling fire below. Then, we all three come rolling down; blackened, and singed, and scorched, and hot, and giddy: and each with his dress alight in half a dozen places."

I'm pleased to have spent some time in the company of this illustrious author once again. I'll admit this is not one of my favorite pieces, but it's one that a completist will want to add to his or her list. Armchair travelers that enjoy Victorian literature will likely admire this as well.

"But it is such a delight to me to leave new scenes behind, and still go on, encountering newer scenes…"