A beautiful feature of the scene to-day, as the preceding day, were the
vines growing on fig-trees (?) [This interrogation-mark must mean that
Mr. Hawthorne was not sure they were fig-trees.--ED.], and often wreathed
in rich festoons from one tree to another, by and by to be hung with
clusters of purple grapes. I suspect the vine is a pleasanter object of
sight under this mode of culture than it can be in countries where it
produces a more precious wine, and therefore is trained more
artificially. Nothing can be more picturesque than the spectacle of an
old grapevine, with almost a trunk of its own, clinging round its tree,
imprisoning within its strong embrace the friend that supported its
tender infancy, converting the tree wholly to its own selfish ends, as
seemingly flexible natures are apt to do, stretching out its innumerable
arms on every bough, and allowing hardly a leaf to sprout except its own.
I must not yet quit this hasty sketch, without throwing in, both in the
early morning, and later in the forenoon, the mist that dreamed among the
hills, and which, now that I have called it mist, I feel almost more
inclined to call light, being so quietly cheerful with the sunshine
through it.
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