Fair Italy, the Riviera and Monte Carlo
by W. Cope Devereux · English · Gutenberg #23959 · 621,202 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Fair Italy, the Riviera and Monte Carlo
Author: W. Cope Devereux
Release date: December 21, 2007 [eBook #23959]
Language: English
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FAIR ITALY. THE RIVIERA
AND MONTE CARLO
FAIR ITALY. THE RIVIERA
AND MONTE CARLO
_COMPRISING A TOUR THROUGH
NORTH AND SOUTH ITALY AND SICILY
WITH A SHORT ACCOUNT OF MALTA_
BY
W. COPE DEVEREUX, R.N., F.R.G.S.
AUTHOR OF
"A CRUISE IN THE 'GORGON' IN THE SUPPRESSION OF THE SLAVE TRADE"
LONDON
KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., 1, PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1884
(_The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved._)
TO
MY DEAR WIFE
THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED,
IN REMEMBRANCE OF OUR HAPPY TOUR
IN
FAIR ITALY.
PREFACE.
Fair Italy, the land of song and cradle of the Arts, has been so often
written about, and so well described both in prose and in verse, that I
feel there is a presumption in my attempting to say anything fresh of
that classic land, its art treasures, and its glorious past. But within
the last few years a new Italy has sprung into existence--the dream of
Cavour has been realized; and, contrary to all predictions, she has
evinced a union and cohesiveness so complete as to surprise all, and
possibly disappoint some who were jealous of her.
What was once a conglomeration of petty rival states is now one
constitutionally governed kingdom. Italy has ceased to be only a
geographical name; she is now a nation whose voice is listened to at the
council tables of the Great Powers.
The old terms of Piedmontese, Tuscan, Lombard, and Neapolitan, have no
longer aught but a local significance; from the Alps to Tarentum every
one glories in the name of free united Italy, and feels proud of being
an Italian.
Young Italy is so rapidly developing the resources of her gifted people
and of her fruitful lands, that she daily becomes more interesting to
all who sympathize with a free and vigorous country; more especially to
the English, who have many interests in common with her, and few, if
any, reasons to fear either antagonism or competition.
And the beautiful Riviera--
Where God's pure air, sweet flowers, blue sea and skies,
Combine to make an earthly Paradise.
Yes! the Riviera is certainly one of the loveliest spots on this fair
earth, and is visited by streams of human beings, lovers of nature and
students of art; but is more especially dear to the thousands of sickly
invalids, who--
Journeying there from lands of wintry clime,
Find life and health 'midst scenery sublime.
But, to be truly candid, I must confess that, while humbly trusting I
have succeeded in making this little book both interesting and
instructive, one of the chief reasons for my putting pen to paper has
been to make an effort, however feeble, to expose the deadly evils of
the plague-spot of this paradise, Monte Carlo.
From this centre there circulates a gambling fever not only throughout
the Riviera--from Cannes to Genoa--but everywhere its victims may carry
it. After being stamped out from all the German watering-places, the
demon "Play" has fixed his abode in this fair spot, in the very pathway
of invalids and others, and, under the ægis of a corrupt prince and his
subjects who share the proceeds of the gaming-tables, this valued health
resort, which was surely designed by a beneficent Creator for the
happiness of His creatures, is turned into a pandemonium.
"Base men to use it to so base effect."
Few can be wholly unaware of the sad effects resulting from this
gambling mania, whereby the happiness of many homes is wrecked, and
thousands of our fellow-creatures are brought to ruin and a shameful
end.
During the past season the public papers have teemed with instances of
Monte Carlo suicides,[A] the lifeless bodies of its victims frequently
being found at early dawn in the charming gardens surrounding the
Casino. The gen d'arme patrol is so accustomed to the occurrence, it is
said, as to view the object with perfect _sang froid_, but, let us
rather hope, with pitying eye.
It may possibly be said, Why all this virtuous indignation about Monte
Carlo, when gambling, to a frightful extent, is carried on at our clubs
and stock exchanges in England? I can only answer, two wrongs can never
make one right; besides, Monte Carlo cannot be allowed to exist as an
independent principality when conducted so dishonestly and detrimentally
to the highest interests of humanity.
I am thankful to feel that the matter has now been brought before the
Parliaments of England and Italy, and even France, and has been the
subject of diplomatic remonstrance. This is hopeful, but I have the
greater hope in the power of public opinion and sympathy against this
monstrous evil; and also in the belief that one of the highest
developments of this nineteenth century is the recognition of the truth
that "I am my brother's keeper."
LONDON,
_March, 1884._
[A] See Appendix.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
Introduction--Charing Cross--Dover--Submarine Channel Tunnel
--Calais--Advantages of travelling second class--Superfluous
examination of luggage--Paris--Dining _à la carte_ versus
_table d'hôte_--Noël--An Officer's Funeral--Lyons--Scenery of
the Rhone--Constant changes in the landscape--Want of proper
accommodation at the railway stations--Defective lighting of
railway carriages 1
CHAPTER II.
Arrival at Marseilles--Change in climate--The mistral--Some
account of Marseilles in the past--Marseillaise hymn--Docks
and harbour--Hill-side scenery--Chateau d'If--La Dame de la
Garde--Military practice--St. Nazaire--An ancient church--The
Exchange--Courtiers of merchandise--Sunday at home and abroad 13
CHAPTER III.
Leaving Marseilles--Toulon--Hyères--Fréjus--Coast scenery--The
Hotel Windsor--An unexpected meeting, and a pleasant walk--Isles
de Lerins--The Mediterranean--Defective drainage--Mosquitos and
Nocturnal Pianos--Christmas Day--Cannes--The Pepper tree--The
English Cemetery--Antibes--Miscalled Health Resorts--Grasse--
Orange blossoms--Leaving Cannes 23
CHAPTER IV.
Nice--Its persistently Italian character--Its gaming propensities
--Hints about luggage--Old and New Towns--Flower-shops--A river
laundry--The harbours of Nice and Villafranca--Scenery and
climate of Nice--A cowardly outrage--In the Cathedral--Hotel
charges--Leaving Nice 37
CHAPTER V.
The beauty-spot and plague-spot of the Riviera--Arrival at
Mentone--Hotel des Isles Britanniques--English church--Her
Majesty's Villa--Gardens of Dr. Bennett--Custom-house--Remarks
on Mentone--A charming walk--A word about Brigands--An adventure
--In the cemetery--A labour of love--A frog concert--Excursion
to Monte Carlo--Sublime coast scenery--Castle of Monaco--The
sombre Olive--The exodus of the Caterpillars 49
CHAPTER VI.
Monte Carlo--In the Concert-room--The Gambling saloons--The
Tables--The moth and the candle--The true story of Monte
Carlo--An International grievance and disgrace 62
CHAPTER VII.
Scenery _en route_--Bordighera--Pegli--Genoa--Its magnificent
situation--The grandeur of its past--The Harbour--Streets--Palaces
--Cathedral of San Lorenzo--Sacred Catina--Chapel of St. John the
Baptist--Italian Beggars--Sudden change in the atmosphere--The
Campo Santo--Shops of Genoa--Marble promenade--City of precipices
--Climate of Genoa 72
CHAPTER VIII.
Pisa--Hotel Victoria--Pisan weather--The poet Shelley--Historic
Pisa--Lung 'Arno--San Stefano di Canalia--Cathedral--Baptistery
--Leaning Tower--Campo Santo--The divine angels--The great chain
of Pisa--Leghorn--Smollett's grave--Poste-restante--A sweet thing
in Beggars--Ugolino's Tower--Departure for Rome 83
CHAPTER IX.
Arrival in Rome--Hotel de la Ville--The Corso--The Strangers'
Quarter--Roman Guides--View from the Capitol--"How are the mighty
fallen!"--The sculpture-gallery of the Capitol--The Dying Gladiator
--The Venus--Hawthorne's Marble Faun--Bambino Santissimo--The
Mamertine Prison--The Forum--Palaces--The Coliseum--Longfellow's
"Michael Angelo" 92
CHAPTER X.
Trajan's Gate--The Appian Way--The English Cemetery--Catacombs
of St. Calixtus--Reflections on the Italian seat of government
--Churches--S. Paolo Fuori le Mura--Santa Maria Maggiore--S.
Pietro in Vincoli--"Was St. Peter ever in Rome?"--Fountains of
Rome--Dell' Aqua Felice--Paulina--Trevi--Rome's famous Aqueducts
--Beggars--Priests 106
CHAPTER XI.
Papal Rome--Narrow streets--St. Angelo--Benvenuto Cellini--St.
Peter's--Pietà Chapel--The Dead Christ--Tomb of the Stuarts--
Anniversary of St. Peter's--Grand ceremonial--Cardinal Howard
--The Vatican--Pictures--Pauline and Sistine Chapels--"The Last
Judgment"--Pinacoteca--Raphael's "Transfiguration"--"The
Madonna"--Christian Martyrs--Sculptures--Tapestries--Leo
XIII.--Italian Priesthood--St. John Lateran--Marvellous legends
and relics--Native irreverence to sacred edifices 119
CHAPTER XII.
Excursion to Tivoli--Sulphur baths--Memories--Temple of the Sybil
--River Anio--Lovely scenery--Back to Rome--Post-office--Careless
officials--The everlasting "Weed"--Climate of Rome--Discomforts and
disappointments--Young Italy--Leo XIII.--Italian Politics--Cessation
of Brigandage--The new City--American church--_Italian Times_--
Departure for Naples--Regrets--The Three Taverns--A picturesque
route--Naples by night 137
CHAPTER XIII.
Naples--Bristol Hotel--Via Roma--King Bomba's time--Deterioration
of the Neapolitans--Museum--Churches--The Opera-house--English
and Italian beauty--Aquarium--Vesuvius--Excursion to Pompeii--
Portici--A novel mode of grooming--The entombed city--Its
disinterment--Museum, streets, and buildings--Remarks--A cold
drive 151
CHAPTER XIV.
Unprecedented cold of 1883--Departure from Naples--Virgil's
tomb--Journey to Messina--Italy's future--Scylla and Charybdis
--Beautiful Messina--The "_Electrico_"--Malta--Knight Crusaders
--Maltese Society--An uncommon fish--An earthquake at sea--Journey
to Palermo--Picturesque scenery--Etna--Among the mountains--The
lights of Palermo 168
CHAPTER XV.
Palermo--Oriental aspects--Historical facts--Royal Palace--Count
Roger--The Piazzi Planet--The Palatine Chapel--Walk to Monreale
--Beauty of the Peasantry--Prickly pears--"The Golden Shell"--
Monreale Cathedral--Abbey and Cloisters--English church--Palermo
Cathedral--Churches--Catacombs of the Capuchins--Gardens--Palermo
aristocracy--The Bersaglieri--Sicilian life and characteristics
--Climate and general features 191
CHAPTER XVI.
Annexation of Nice and Savoy--Garibaldi's protest--A desperate
venture--Calatafimi--Catania--Melazzo--Entry into Naples--Gaeta
--The British Contingent--Departure from England--Desertion--
Arrival in Naples--_Colonel_ "Long Shot"--Major H----'s imaginary
regiment--Dispersion of the British Contingent 204
CHAPTER XVII.
Floods in France--London--Back to the South--Marseilles--Italian
Emigrant passengers--A death on board--French _impolitesse_
--Italian coast scenery at dawn--Unlimited palaver--Arrival in
Leghorn--The "_Lepanto_"--Departure--"Fair Florence"--The Arno
--Streets--Palaces--San Miniato--The grand Duomo--The Baptistery
--Ghiberti's Bronze Gates 217
CHAPTER XVIII.
Santa Croce--San Lorenzo--Day and Night--Picture-galleries--The
Tribune--Venus di Medicis--Excursion to Fiesole--Ancient
Amphitheatre--Aurora _Café_--Climate of Florence--Heavy hotel
charges--Departure--Bologna sausages--Venice 228
CHAPTER XIX.
Arrival in Venice--The Water City--Gondola traffic--Past glories
--Danieli's Royal Hotel--St. Mark's Piazza--The Sacred Pigeons
--St. Mark's--Mosaics--The Holy Columns--Treasures--The Chian
Steeds--The modern Goth 241
CHAPTER XX.
A water-excursion--The Bridge of Sighs--Doge's Palace--Archæological
Museum--The Rialto--The streets of Venice--Aids to disease--Venetian
Immorality--The Arsenal--Nautical Museum--Trip to Lido--Glass works
--Venetian evenings--The great Piazza--Scene on the Piazzetta--
Farewell to Venice 253
CHAPTER XXI.
Leaving Venice--Hervey's Lament--Scenery _en route_--Padua--
Associations of the past--A brief history of Padua, and the House
of Carrara--General appearance of the town--Giotto's Chapel--His
beautiful frescoes--Character of Giotto's work--The Cathedral--
Palazzo della Ragione--The Wooden Horse--St. Antonio--The
Hermitage--The Fallen Angels--The University and its students
--Ladies of Padua--Situation of the city--An old bridge--Climate 264
CHAPTER XXII.
Journey from Padua--The great Quadrilateral--Historic Verona--Hotel
due Torri--Recent inundations--Poetic Verona--House of the Capulets
--Juliet's tomb--Streets and monuments--Cathedral--Roman Amphitheatre
--Shops--Veronese ladies--Departure--Romantic journey--Lake Garda
--Desenzano--Brescia 274
CHAPTER XXIII.
Arrival in Milan--Railway station--Tram carriages--History and
present condition--The Cathedral--Irreverence of Italian Priests
--The Ambrosian Liturgy--Sunday school--S. Carlo Borromeo--Relics
--A frozen flower-garden--View from the tower 287
CHAPTER XXIV.
Milan--Social and charitable--How to relieve our Poor--Leonardo's
"Last Supper"--Condition of churches in Italy--Santa Maria delle
Grazie--La Scala--Picture-galleries--St. Ambrogio--Ambrosian
library--Public gardens--Excursion to the Lakes--Monza--Como
--Lake scenery--Bellagio--American rowdyism 300
CHAPTER XXV.
Climate of Milan--Magenta--Arrival in Turin--Palazzo Madama--
Chapel of the Holy Napkin--The lottery fever--View from the
Alpine Club--Superga--_Academia della Science_--Departure--Mont
Cenis railway--The great Tunnel--Modane--Farewell to Italy 315
CHAPTER XXVI.
From Modane to Paris--Lovely scenery--St. Michel--St. Jean de
Maurienne--Epierre--Paris--Notre Dame--French immorality--La
Manche--"Dear old foggy London"--Reflections and conclusion 330
FAIR ITALY. THE RIVIERA
AND MONTE CARLO.
CHAPTER I.
Introduction--Charing Cross--Dover--Submarine Channel Tunnel--Calais
--Advantages of travelling second class--Superfluous examination of
luggage--Paris--Dining _à la carte_ versus _table d'hôte_--Noël--An
Officer's Funeral--Lyons--Scenery of the Rhone--Constant changes in
the landscape--Want of proper accommodation at the railway stations--
Defective lighting of railway carriages
If any person is desirous of putting forward a good excuse for spending
a few weeks on the continent, the climate of the British Isles at any
time of the year, but more particularly between November and May, will
always justify his so doing. To exchange the damp and fog that too
frequently form the staple of the weather about the festive time of
Christmas and the opening of the new year, for the bright clear skies
and sunny days of the south of France and Italy, is so pleasant, and
travelling is now so easy and so cheap, the only wonder is that more
people do not take advantage of it to leave "the winter of their
discontent" for a short time at this season.
In our case--that is, of myself and my wife--having not only this
disposition for a trip of a month or so, but also the leisure time at
our disposal, the only question was, in what particular direction was
our Hegira to be?
Our object being purely that of pleasantly spending our time and seeing
as many interesting places and objects as we possibly could, it really
mattered little whither we steered our course, provided it was to climes
where fogs are known to the natives only by hearsay, where Nature
assumes a brighter aspect, and Art collects her treasures to reward the
traveller for his pains.
We took down that most instructive though mysterious of all books,
"Bradshaw," and spreading out the map showing various continental lines
of railway, proceeded to study the network puzzle with a view of
determining which should be the land of our pilgrimage.
Should we cross the Pyrenees and traverse Spain, visiting Madrid and the
Escurial _en route_ to Seville, and thence through Andalusia and
Granada, and home by Valencia, Malaga, and Barcelona? Visions of Don
Quixote, Gil Blas, the Great Cid, and the Holy (?) Inquisition passed
before our mental eye in wondrous confusion.
"No, I don't think Spain will do," remarked my wife, slowly. "I fear
Spanish hotels--_posadas_, don't they call them?--are not very
comfortable."
"You are right," was my reply. "I have never heard Spain praised for
her hotel accommodation; and as we are going for pleasure, and wish to
be as comfortable as possible, we will leave Spain till _posadas_ are
things of the past. But what do you say to Italy? Beautiful climate,
charming scenery, the choicest Art treasures in the world, every mile
teeming with historic and poetic interest, good hotels, and generally
comfortable travelling!"
"Yes, Italy will do," decided my wife; and we folded up the map and
proceeded at once to examine the time-tables, lists of fares, calculate
the costs of first and second class, and plan our route. The book of
mystification was then almost ungratefully closed, and the serious
business of packing commenced.
On the 20th of December, 1882, my wife and I,
"Fired with ideas of fair Italy,"
started on our travels in good spirits. Having secured our tickets, we
put up at the Charing Cross Hotel for the night, so as to be ready to
start the first thing in the morning.
Whatever vague feelings of regret we might secretly have nourished in
leaving dear old England and our time-honoured, old-fashioned Christmas,
were quickly dispelled the next morning, for as we sped away by the 7.40
train for Dover the weather assumed its most dismal aspect--cold, raw,
damp, and foggy. So we started with easy consciences, resolved to obtain
all possible benefit and enjoyment from the change.
Before reaching Dover, a little sunshine struggled forth to gladden us;
but it was blowing rather hard when we arrived at our destination, and
there was something of a sea to frighten the timorous. Being pretty fair
sailors, however, and by the exercise of a little thoughtful physical
preparation, we did not suffer from the voyage, and were able to render
some assistance to others less fortunate.
After being at sea even for a few hours, there is much in the sound of
"land ahead" to raise one's spirits, perhaps more especially when
crossing the Channel. There is no one who does not hail with delight the
first sight of the shore. It gladdens the hearts of the sickly ones, and
soon their childlike helplessness disappears; hope and life return,
sending the warm blood once more to the pallid cheek, and lighting the
languid eye with fresh joy and anticipation. It is pleasant to see how
quickly the sufferers shake off the evil spirit of the sea--the terrible
_mal de mer_, pull themselves together, and step on shore, beaming with
heroic smiles.
It is just at this time that the submarine Channel Tunnel scheme
possesses peculiar interest for the thoughtful. All lovers of Old
England feel proudly and justly that this little "silver streak," with
its stormy waves and rock-bound shores, is, under the blessing of
Providence, her natural and national strength and glory. It has made her
sons daring and hardy, industrious, prosperous, and happy. It has
enabled her to people more than half the world with the Anglo-Saxon
race, and has extended her empire and influence beyond the setting sun.
It has made her the arbiter of the world, her sword--nay, her very word,
turning the scale against any power of wrong and might. It has protected
the world against the lust and avarice of Spain, and the conquering
tyranny of a Napoleon. It has made her the Bank and commercial depôt of
the whole globe, and the first of civilized and civilizing powers.
It is true that the more closely nations are connected by mutual
interests, the more prosperous they become and the more friendly they
are. And doubtless such a means of communication between Great Britain
and the continent would materially increase that mutual interest--might
even make sulky France more friendly towards us, and probably prove of
benefit both commercially and socially; but only so long as the insular
power of England is maintained. Although our army and navy are hardly as
strong as they should be, we want no conscription here. What we do want
is to preserve the peace and honour of our homes, our children in the
colonies, and to increase rather than decrease the power of England for
the good of the whole world.
Therefore, if a tunnel or tunnels be made, we must be sure beforehand
that they can be perfectly protected against the means of surprise and
invasion, that in no manner of way can they be made a weak point in our
harness. As for destroying the tunnel, there would in all probability be
a train or two in it when a surprise was intended, and what commander
would blow up or destroy it under such circumstances? I fear the tunnel
would prove a grand place for ruffians; and what hideous depredations
and murderous attacks might not be committed in transit! Five minutes is
in all conscience long enough to be under the depressing influence of a
Hadean tunnel, but it would be an evil spirit who could tolerate it for
the best part of an hour.
Arrived at Calais, the train was already waiting to carry us onward, but
there was ample time for breakfast.
Calais station always seems to be undergoing a certain kind of
metamorphosis; and with its sand-hills and generally unfinished
condition, reminds the traveller of some remote part of the world, such
as Panama, for instance. Some day it may possibly be able to digest the
passenger traffic from England to the continent, but at present much
time is lost there from its being so gorged. It is absolutely refreshing
to catch a glimpse of the Calais fish women, with their gay costume,
wonderfully frilled, spotless white caps, and healthy faces.
Soon we are spinning along towards Paris, the weather pretty fine so
far, but the country sadly flooded; and, the lowlands being under water,
the gaunt and leafless poplar trees are the most conspicuous objects of
the landscape. Then for miles we travel along through a gloomy drizzling
rain, the land looking most forlornly desolate. The arrival at Amiens,
however, cheers us a little, and here we get a stretch and some
refreshment. After leaving this place, always interesting for its
beautiful Cathedral, the weather brightens up, and we reach Paris in
good time for dinner.
Thus far we have found travelling second class very agreeable, for when
the trains are fast there are advantages in so doing--more room and less
expense than by first class.
At Paris the examination of luggage is a perfect nuisance. An
Englishman, and still more an English _woman_, very reluctantly hands
over her keys to a French gen d'arme, who, be your presence never so
imposing, ruthlessly capsizes your careful and thoughtful stowage,
whilst you angrily or impatiently watch your travelling sanctum pried
into by dirty-handed, over-zealous officials. The one examination at
Calais, when there was plenty of time, should surely have sufficed; but
at the end of a journey, when one is tired and anxious to get to one's
hotel and dinner, it is aggravating beyond measure.
On this occasion the ladies' baggage was particularly selected for
inspection, much to the annoyance of my wife, who most unwillingly gave
up her keys, and declared her opinion that "it was because gentlemen put
their cigars into the ladies' trunks." Of course this fully explained
it!
There is some difficulty in claiming one's possessions after their
examination, as there are legions of voracious hotel touters ready to
pounce upon not only "somebody's," but everybody's luggage, and the
owners too, if possible, and carry all off to the omnibuses attached to
their several hotels.
However, we at last arrive at the St. James Hotel, in the Rue St.
Honorè, where, as usual, there is quite an army of waiters to welcome
the "coming guest." To an inexperienced traveller, and indeed to my
pleased wife, this is gratefully accepted as a _warm welcome_, but those
who have had some little experience know better, or rather worse.
Fortunately, we secure a room on the third floor, and therefore so far
carry out our resolutions of economy! and now, in preference to the
sumptuous _table d'hôte_, we decide to dine _à la carte_, which means a
little table to yourself, where you may select what you wish to eat,
have it at any hour you please, and pay for just what you order. This is
not only less expensive, but far more quiet and comfortable after the
fatigue of a journey, than the crowded and imposing _table d'hôte_, with
its never-ceasing clatter and chatter, where you will be lucky if you
find a dish that will prove agreeable to your palate. Sometimes,
however, the change is enjoyable, as you cannot fail to be amused at the
eccentricities of your neighbours; perhaps finding your own weaknesses
reflected in them. Often you will find a dozen nationalities
represented, and a perfect Babel-like talk, each little exclusive party,
like crows, intent only upon covering its own nest.
Paris is beautifully brilliant at the festive seasons, the shops filled
with lovely and costly presents, arranged with that exquisite taste so
natural to the French artiste. I think they have some very pretty
sentiments about their "Noël." For instance, at early morn on Christmas
Day, whilst still in the land of dreams, a light tap comes at your
chamber door, and on rising you find it is a messenger bearing a bouquet
of choice and lovely flowers, with some dear friend's greeting.
Unfortunately the weather continued wet and cold; still, under cover of
the colonnades and on the fine boulevards there is always so
light-hearted and gay a throng, and so much to interest one, that it is
impossible to feel dull. Things here, however, quickly change from gay
to grave. A general officer's funeral passed through the boulevards
where we were standing, followed by a procession in which nearly every
branch of the army was represented. The open hearse, with coffin, was
covered with beautiful wreaths of flowers, among which lay the deceased
officer's sword, honours, etc. The touching expression of regret in the
faces of his comrades, and the respectful reverence evinced by the
people, making it altogether a very impressive sight.
The weather being still so wet, we decided not to remain after the
second day, and on the following morning left Paris by the 9.40 train
for Marseilles. The long journey, occupying some fourteen or fifteen
hours, is exceedingly tedious, and should be broken at Lyons, especially
in the summer-time.
Lyons is one of the largest and most important cities in France, very
interesting in its manufactures, and well worth a day or two's visit.
Unfortunately, like its sister Marseilles, with its huge working
population, it is extremely democratic, and only quite lately has been
the scene of a kind of communistic outbreak. The neighbouring scenery is
very striking and beautiful, in some places grand. We were reminded
somewhat of the Thames at Charing Cross when passing over the noble
bridge, with the great city stretching far and wide, and the numerous
bridges spanning the river. At night the illumination is a pretty and
brilliant sight.
In the summer the journey from Lyons to Marseilles in one of the many
flat-bottomed steamers would be very enjoyable, and a pleasant break to
the pent-up, wearisome railroad.
The scenery much resembles the Rhine, with its high cliffs, richly
wooded promontories, historic and baronial castles, and picturesque
chateaux. The turbulent river in some places dashing wildly by, and
separating two beautiful shores.
"Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between
Heights which appear, as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted.
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years all winters,--war within themselves to wage."
How grand and sublime that part of the Rhone must appear, with its great
forest-clad cliffs, and the rushing foaming waters during a
thunderstorm!
The land is full of ancient interests, especially near Marseilles, at
Avignon and Arles. Here we meet with many old Roman settlements and
ruins.
Passing thus swiftly through France, we obtain a wonderfully
comprehensive idea of the country, and note the different products of
the soil springing into view in ever-varying profusion, making a
continuous change in the appearance of the landscape--a change which
would perhaps be less noticeable were the journey performed in a more
leisurely manner. Thus we pass from the wheat-growing country to the
land of the vine, and thence to that of the olive. And one cannot help
being struck by the wonderful industry of the people, women taking
almost more than their fair share of out-door work, in the fields, etc.
Up to the very summit of the hills and rocky knolls, terrace upon
terrace, every inch of ground, seems to be well cultivated.
I could not but think that in some places women are employed out of
their proper sphere, more particularly at the railway stations, where
one is shocked to find a woman where none but a man should be. And while
on this subject, it may be well to remark how exceedingly disgusting
some of the retiring places are at these stations--at all events, to
English men and women, who do not like being treated as cattle. At some
places it is really shocking, and the Lyons and Mediterranean railway
officials should certainly rectify this evil without loss of time; for
if the unpleasantness is so great in winter, what must it be during the
hot months?
The officials are most exemplary in providing fresh foot-warmers, but
not so particular in a more important matter--that of lighting the
carriages, even the first-class compartments being dull and gloomy in
the extreme. The kind of oil burnt has probably something to do with
it.
CHAPTER II.
Arrival at Marseilles--Change in climate--The mistral--Some account of
Marseilles in the past--Marseillaise hymn--Docks and harbour--Hill-side
scenery--Chateau d'If--La Dame de la Garde--Military practice--St.
Nazaire--An ancient church--The Exchange--Courtiers of merchandize
--Sunday at home and abroad.
Having left Paris at 9.40 a.m., we reached Marseilles at nearly
midnight, feeling very tired, and were glad to get to the Terminus
Hotel, which is comfortably close to the station. What a charming
station it is, with its courtyard and garden, orange trees and flowering
myrtles!
Here is indeed a change of climate; one begins to realize at last the
fact of being in the "sunny south." Although it is mid-winter, and but a
few hours before we were shivering in Paris, here the heat of the sun is
as great as an English June. Overhead a sky of such a blue as we seldom
see in our island home, and which is only matched by the azure waters of
the glorious Mediterranean. The vegetation is almost semi-tropical; palm
trees waving their graceful feathery heads; cacti, aloes, and other
strange-looking plants meeting the eye at every turn. Orange and olive
trees abundant everywhere, the former loading the air with the luscious
fragrance of its blossoms.
But unfortunately, on the Sunday morning following our arrival, there
was a disagreeable dry parching wind blowing from the north-west called
_mistral_; the Italians call it _maestro_, meaning "the masterful." It
is very prevalent along the south coast of Europe at certain times of
the year, drying up the soil, and doing much damage to the fruit trees.
The dust, like sand in the desert, is almost blinding; on one side you
have a cold cutting wind, on the other perhaps scorching
heat--altogether very far from pleasant. This wind sometimes raises a
tumult in the Mediterranean Sea, which is much dreaded by the French and
Italian sailors.
Marseilles, the third city of _la belle France_, enclosed by a
succession of rocky hills, and magnificently situated on the sea, is
almost the greatest port of the Mediterranean. It is a very ancient
town, having been founded in 600 B.C. by the Phoceans, under
the name of Massilia. When ultimately conquered by the Romans, it was
for its refinement and culture treated with considerable respect, and
allowed to retain its original aristocratic constitution. After the fall
of Rome, it fell into the hands of the Franks and other wild northern
tribes; and was subsequently destroyed by the Saracens, but was restored
in the tenth century. In 1481 it was united to France, to which it has
ever since been subject. In 1720 it was ravaged by the plague, which
was memorable not only on account of its wide-wasting devastation, but
also for the heroism of Xavier de Belzunce, Bishop of Marseilles, whose
zeal and charity for the poor sufferers commands our respect and
admiration. Pope, in his "Essay on Man," says--
"Why drew Marseilles' good bishop purer breath,
When Nature sicken'd, and each gale was death?"
In 1792, hordes of galley-slaves were sent hence to Paris. It was about
this time that the celebrated revolutionary song, "_Allons enfans de la
Patrie_," with its thrilling and fiery chorus, "_Aux armes! Aux armes!_"
was introduced, and it has ever since been known as the Marseillaise
Hymn; but it was in reality written by an officer of engineers, Rouget
de Lisle, to celebrate the departure of a band of volunteers from
Strasburg. Both verse and music were composed in one night.
Marseilles is often called the Liverpool of France, but its importance
has been somewhat lessened since the opening of the Mont Cenis tunnel.
The great docks, wonderfully constructed and sheltered, were much
improved and enlarged by Napoleon III.: some of the finest basins are
cut out of the solid rock. The harbour is very extensive, and capable of
containing over 1700 vessels; but the entrance is very narrow.
Here we stand and view the crowds of shipping, from the magnificent
Orient liner, to the saucy, piratical-looking, Sicilian fruit felucca;
the latter closely packed, with their sterns to the wharves, their
enormous sails and masts telling of many a speedy voyage made, and their
swarthy red-capped crews having much the appearance of what we suppose
pirates might be, if piracy were now a paying instead of a dangerous
game. As it is, their mission is to carry cargoes of oranges and other
fruit to the Marseilles market.
We next ascend the Cordière Gardens, commanding beautiful views of the
city as we wind round and upwards. The sea, running eastward into the
heart of the town, forms the harbour; the older part of the town, with
somewhat narrow streets and massive but irregular houses, occupies a
triangular point to the north; while the new town--much the largest,
consists of wide, handsome streets and many fine public buildings and
institutions. It is, I think, an excellent plan, when visiting a place,
to ascend some commanding height as soon as possible. You will
comprehend much at a glance, and, with the typographical knowledge thus
attained can afterwards find your way about much more easily and
quickly. The fine harbour and docks, with the shimmering blue sea below,
and the grand amphitheatre of sun-bleached hills rearing their rocky
summits to the skies as a noble background, form a truly magnificent and
impressive bird's-eye view.
On gaining the summit of these windy heights, we stand charmed with the
pure beauty of the blue sky and sea. Away some few miles to the
southeast are several small islands of a deeper blue than the waters
that surround them. On one of these islands is the celebrated Chateau
d'If, immortalized by Alexandre Dumas the elder, in his extraordinary
romance of "Monte Christo."
After gazing for some time at the lovely view, we turn our attention to
the very interesting church of Notre Dame de la Garde. On the highest
pinnacle is a colossal gilt figure of the Virgin Mary, looking over the
seas, and, as it were, guarding her poor sailor devotees engaged
thereon.
This ancient beacon-like church has, I believe, been a votive shrine for
sailors for some centuries; and was rebuilt from designs by Espèrandieu.
It is prettily decorated inside by delicately stained windows, and has a
small but fine organ. It is full of pathetic relics of poor lost
mariners, and when the wind is howling on stormy nights, one can realize
and understand the sentiments which prompted the building of this votive
temple, and the numerous mementoes, literally covering its walls, placed
there by loving hands in remembrance of dear ones lost--wrecked
perchance in sight of home. Yes, the walls are covered with these
tablets and touching mementoes, and with pictures illustrating the many
terrible shipwrecks which have occurred.
Below is a crypt where the last offerings and prayers are made by
sailors departing on a voyage; and, alas! it is filled with the saddest
relics of those who have never returned. Those, however, who reach
their homes in safety, make it a religious duty to offer up their
grateful thanks.
The purposes of this sea-rock church struck me as a fine and beautiful
expression of affection. I fear we lack much of this kind of sentiment
in England--daily blessings are taken too much as a matter of course,
while reverses are loudly mourned over as afflictions.
Whilst lingering in sympathetic thought, I saw an aged, white-haired
woman, who, poor soul! having toiled all the way up these great heights,
was now on her knees in sorrowful prayer. I saw also several younger
women and maidens in deep mourning, some of them sobbing bitterly over
their prayers. Alas! who could rightly enter into the depths of their
individual sorrow?--perchance a tender husband, a loving son, or devoted
sweetheart, lost in the angry waves below!
On descending, my attention was attracted by a sham military attack made
by a regiment or two of French soldiers. It was interesting to see how
they attempted to carry these well-defended, Gibraltar-like heights.
After passing through the public gardens, and crossing the dock basin in
a small ferry-boat, we walked to the church of St. Nazaire, which stands
on high ground almost immediately opposite to Notre Dame de la Garde.
It is a finely restored Byzantine church, a copy on a large scale of
the little mosque-like temple at its side, which latter was once the
Cathedral church of the town. It is built of alternate blocks of black
and white marble, and the interior is something after the style of Notre
Dame at Paris. Fortunately, we caught the workmen just leaving the
building, and so obtained permission to view it.
But the little Moorish temple under its lee, as a sailor would say,
interested me far more than its imposing and grand-looking child
alongside. It has a low dome, square façade with small cupolas, and
circular chancel. We ascended some steps to its low doorway, almost
stooping as we entered. It was dimly lit by a few oil-lamps; its quaint
arched dome, little galleries, altar, crypts, and organ all within the
compact compass of a circle, or rather, as it seemed to me, of a Maltese
cross--tiny aisles forming the sides of the cross, where there were
shrines and tombs, though scarcely distinguishable in the gloom. The
dome and aisles are supported by wonderfully strong Byzantine arches and
arcades. It struck me that the Maltese cross may have been the shape of
the most ancient Christian temples, the more orthodox Latin cross shape
being afterwards developed by the lengthening of the nave. The date of
this unique little church is said to be very ancient, and probably
stands on the site of the temples of Diana.
Perhaps the place was made even more interesting to me, by the fact of
my thoughts being brought back from the dark ages by observing a
christening going on in one of the dimly lighted aisles; after which a
number of little Sunday school children went through an examination of
the catechism.
* * * * *
In the early part of the evening we sallied forth to visit the Exchange
and Bourse at the end of the principal street near the harbour,
receiving yet another impression as to the commercial greatness of
Marseilles by a careful survey of this building, which is well worthy of
a great city. I can now better understand why these large towns are so
republican, and show so strong a dislike to imperialism. They complain
that while they _make_ the money, the imperialists _squander_ it.
We were much amused to see nearly all the merchants on 'Change, wearing
white neckties and generally black coats--a very respectable and ancient
custom, which has come down from the time when Marseilles was in the
zenith of her prosperity. I believe even now these merchants are called
"courtiers of merchandize."
The main streets and boulevards are very handsome, with elegant
fountains which relieve the somewhat monotonous regularity. Some of the
squares are of immense size. There is a very large lazaretto, which is
said to be one of the best managed in the world. The _cafés_ are like
small palaces, and the shops rival the finest in Paris.
Here, as in most French cities, no expense is spared in making the
streets gay and brilliant at night. In some of them the electric light
is used.
The French people dearly love their _cafés_, spending many of their
evening hours there instead of _chez eux_. I am not quite sure whether
the Frenchman may honestly be termed a domestic animal; I should rather
say he was intensely gregarious. At all events, I do not think he
understands the full value of _home_ as we do.
It was Sunday when we were there, and the town teemed with holiday life.
Up to noon it was comparatively quiet, with some appearance of sabbath
rest, but after that what a change! The whole place was like a great
fair, every one bent on fun and pleasure: hucksters' stalls,
marionettes, bazaars, rifle-galleries, concerts, theatres, and crowded
_cafés_, the latter resounding with the click of dominoes and billiard
balls; the more quiet folk reading their beloved _Figaro_.
We felt this was indeed very different to our English way of enjoying
Sunday. Even our museums, picture galleries, and such-like comparatively
quiet and innocent places of recreative amusement are not yet declared
open. And thankful we should be that on at least one day in the week
there is peace and rest for both man and beast; and that simply in
obedience to a natural and Divine law, made by the great Creator who so
well knew our human wants and requirements. The more one sees of this
sabbath _unrest_ abroad, the more content one feels for the sweet and
peaceful Sunday rest at home. I do not really believe in the happiness,
health, and prosperity of any people who disregard the sabbath as a holy
day, dedicated to God for bodily rest and spiritual refreshment.
"Then I turned away in sadness, from these gay and thoughtless lays,
Longing for my own dear country, and the voice of prayer and praise."
CHAPTER III.
Leaving Marseilles--Toulon--Hyères--Fréjus--Coast scenery--The Hotel
Windsor--An unexpected meeting, and a pleasant walk--Isles de Lerins
--The Mediterranean--Defective drainage--Mosquitos and Nocturnal Pianos
--Christmas Day--Cannes--The Pepper tree--The English cemetery--Antibes
--Miscalled Health Resorts--Grasse--Orange blossoms--Leaving Cannes.
The _mistral_ blew us away from Marseilles, which we left on the
afternoon of the 25th by the two o'clock train for Cannes. The route lay
through rocky defiles, with numerous tunnels, for we were cutting
through the promontories on the sea coast, of which we occasionally
caught magnificent glimpses.
Of Toulon, the great naval arsenal of France, we saw but little as we
passed quickly through its suburbs. Here it was that Napoleon, then a
young lieutenant-colonel of artillery, first made his mark in the
capture of the place by storm from the English in 1793. Englishmen,
however, do not forget that it was accomplished only after a long and
stubborn defence of its garrison, consisting of only a tenth of the
storming party.
The little islands off Hyères look like gems in the clear dark sea. They
were known in ancient times as the Stoechades, signifying "the
arranged" islands, a name indicative of their position in a line from
east to west. The town of Hyères seems tempting enough as a place of
quiet residence, but the air is very unhealthy from the marshes in the
vicinity.
So far our journey has been pretty close to the sea, but now we quitted
the coast for a time, winding through the Montagnes des Maures, with an
endless succession of tunnels, yet still obtaining frequent peeps at the
coast scenery.
At Fréjus we were greatly pleased at the beautiful ruins of the ancient
Roman amphitheatre, quite close to the station: the railway being on a
viaduct here enabled us to get a good view, looking downwards. This
amphitheatre, though not nearly so large as the coliseum at Rome, is far
more perfect. This was the port where, in 1799, Napoleon landed on his
return from Egypt; and from whence, fifteen years later, he embarked
when banished to Elba. Fréjus was the ancient _Forum Julii_ established
by Augustus Cæsar as a naval station.
At Les Arcs we again approached the coast. The country as we drew nearer
Cannes is very interesting and romantic--great rocky glens and chasms,
with here and there glimpses of the beautiful Mediterranean. It was
about here that we first caught sight of the snow-crested Alps, forming
a grand and sublime background to the lovely scenery.
Many of the little towns _en route_ are finely and picturesquely
situated on the hill-side, overlooking great ravines. Their churches
perched on the highest pinnacle, the wonder being how their
congregations get to them! But probably many of them are only convents.
What very different lives people lead on this fair earth! What a
contrast between the inhabitants of a great city, with its wearing cares
and its exciting pleasures, and the dweller in these isolated, peaceful,
silent mountain homes! To some the latter life would be intolerable
while strength and human passion last; but these poor yet happy people,
being nearer to Nature, are often nearer also to Nature's God.
We now pass through groves of olive trees, whose sombre and silver
tinted foliage, and wonderfully gnarled and twisted trunks, give quite a
foreign tone to the landscape. Also the orange trees, with their green
and golden fruit and enchantingly fragrant white blossoms; and the
lordly palm, with its graceful outline clearly defined against the blue
sky.
It has frequently been a question with me which tree is the most useful
to man, especially in the east--the olive, bamboo, palm, or cocoa-nut.
The first carries my mind back to pleasant memories of the Holy Land and
Mount Olivet, where a single tree is said to bear fruit for more than a
thousand years. We know the fine and wholesome oil it yields. Its fruit
is used as food, and its beautifully grained wood is highly valued for
cabinet purposes. Then the bamboo, which, growing by the water-side, is
so refreshing to hear whispering in the breeze, is used for very many
purposes, being at once so light and strong; for carrying great burdens,
for aqueducts, house-building, musical instruments, and for numerous
other purposes and articles useful and ornamental; while the graceful
palm, or cocoa-nut, provides food, drink, clothing, and building
material. Each doubtless in its region and sphere is equally prized. But
the more we examine and understand the bountiful gifts of God for our
use and happiness, harmonizing so well with our needs, the greater
wonder we feel that there is such an ungrateful animal as an _Atheist_.
At some of the little railway stations we passed, the Gloire de Dijon
and other lovely roses were clustering the walls, and growing almost
wild in the hedges, loading the air with their sweet perfume. The days
were gradually lengthening, and we felt as if fast approaching a warmer
latitude, where--
"The green hills
Are clothed with early blossoms, through the grass
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills
Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass;
Flowers, fresh in hue, and many in their class,
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass;
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes,
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by its skies."
We reached Cannes in the last glow of the setting sun, the crimson,
purple, green and orange contrasting, harmonizing, blending, and slowly
settling into the neutral tints of evening. By six o'clock we were at
the Hotel Windsor, and fortunately secured a bedroom on the fourth
floor, from the windows of which we had a splendid view of the sea.
The "Windsor" is beautifully situated on the hillside, some ten minutes'
walk from the shore. It is surrounded by very pretty and tasteful
gardens, well stocked with flowers of all kinds, roses being most
conspicuous, while the perfume of the orange trees ascends from the
valley below. I should think this hotel was much more healthy than those
situate lower down and close to the sea, catching the upper drainage.
The interior is well appointed in every way, with a comfortable, homely
air about it. The landlord, a man of some refinement, is not above
personally looking after the welfare of his visitors. But he is
evidently a little too indulgent, for he allows pianofortes in the
bedrooms, and the young ladies in the room next to ours strummed away
till a very late hour at night, when we wished to sleep, tired with the
day's travel, and anxious to rise early the next morning. We thought two
good pianos in the drawing-room below quite sufficient for the musical
exercise of young ladies, and for the comfort of all at an hotel. We
supposed, however, that its being Christmas-time was probably the cause
of the nocturnal music, of which we were the somewhat reluctant and
suffering listeners.
After engaging our room, we sauntered out on a voyage of discovery and
as an appetizer for dinner, and were so fortunate as to meet an old
friend, who was staying at the same hotel. Under his kind pilotage we
had a very pleasant walk on the sea-shore, listening to the waves
dashing and tumbling against the sea-wall.
At Cannes there is neither harbour nor roadstead, but only a small bay
or cove, appropriately called Gulfe de la Napoul; and it is indeed
worthy of its name, being a miniature Bay of Naples,--but without its
Vesuvius. It is, however, so shallow that the coasting vessels that use
it are obliged to anchor at some distance from the shore, exposed to the
full action of the swell. Yet in spite of this disadvantage, Cannes is
for its size a busy and populous little town.
Immediately opposite are the Isles de Lerins, St. Honorat and St.
Marguerite. On the latter is Fort Montuy, where the "man with the iron
mask" was confined from 1686 to 1698, and which has more recently been
the prison of Marshal Bazaine. St. Honorat has its name from a monastery
founded in the fifth century by St. Honoratius, Bishop of Arles. These
islands abound in rabbits and partridges.
Until modern scientists discovered it to be otherwise, the Mediterranean
was supposed to have no tide, and was called by poets "the tideless
sea." It has but a very slight ebb and flow, and this in most places is
scarcely perceptible. The greatest rise and fall of tide in any part of
this great inland sea does not exceed about six feet. Here it appears
always high water; the long stretches of sand, shingle, and rock that
provide such delightful strolls to those visiting the shores of our own
dear island home at low tide, are nowhere to be found in this part of
the world, and thus on coming to the Mediterranean we lose one of the
usual charms of a visit to the sea coast.
We found it necessary to walk briskly, as the fall in temperature is
very great in one short hour after sunset. Indeed, those who come here
essentially for health generally contrive to get housed about four p.m.
Our olfactory nerves had already told us that in this lovely little
seaside paradise there are such prosaic things as defective drains. This
is more detectable in the evening on the beach, than elsewhere, in the
daytime; but is being rectified as the town grows.
It was Christmas Day, and on returning to the Hotel Windsor we found the
large dining-room tastefully decorated with evergreens and flowers, and,
by the kind and thoughtful attention of the landlord, we felt the
absence from dear home at this joyous time less than we might otherwise
have done. We had our _tête-à-tête_ dinner, and toasted our friends in
Old England, who probably included us in their "absent friends and dear
ones abroad."
My wife admired the handsome net mosquito curtains around our bed, but I
rather shuddered at the memories they awakened, having had some
experience of tropical climates--the river Zambezi, for instance, where
a single tiny insect of the Zebra species nearly drove me out of my
senses when suffering from fever. Probably, however, the mosquito only
visits Cannes in the summer, though my wife declared she heard a buzz,
and experienced a bite. It was certainly consolatory to think that I was
no longer considered tempting enough, by these insatiable torments.
The next morning we realized something of the beauty of Cannes. It was
so pleasant to dress by the open French windows, and enjoy the freshness
of the morning air, the warmth of the sun, and the delicious perfume of
the roses and orange blossoms rising from the gardens beneath. The birds
flitting about, with joyous song; the lovely blue sea in the distance;
and above, the cloudless sky. We felt in no hurry for breakfast, and in
imagination pictured to ourselves dear foggy London, cold and wet as we
had left it. This was indeed a grateful contrast!
When we did descend, however, our tea and toast were thoroughly enjoyed,
thanks to the appetizing air; and it was a pleasure to see our
fellow-guests sunning themselves in the gardens, and making plans for
the day's excursion and pleasure.
Cannes is essentially the beautiful and peaceful abode of the invalid,
whose desire is health. A few years since, it was a very small place
indeed, but can now boast of its sixty large hotels; and new roads and
boulevards are being opened in all directions. The Count de Chambord,[B]
and other lucky owners of property here, must feel highly gratified at
the rise in the value of land.
Cannes stretches along the sea-shore from north to south, and is
protected from the _mistral_ and other cold winds by the fine Esterel
mountain range. There is one long main street running parallel to the
beach, which contains many good shops and _cafés_. Some of the houses
are built in a line facing the sea, and divided from it by gardens and
promenades; others are clustered on the slope of the hill, which is
surmounted by a picturesque old castle. At the north end, high up at the
back of Cannes, is the charming little village of Le Cainet: a new
boulevard is now opened connecting the two. This is the warmest part,
and the most suitable for patients. There are many exceedingly pretty
and luxuriously appointed villas nestled amidst the trees and gardens,
looking refreshingly cool with their green jalousie verandahs. Handsome
carriages roll along, and one is reminded of some of the most
fashionable of our own watering-places. The stabling for the horses is
beautifully clean and neat; roses, jessamine, and flowers of every kind
climbing over and around the walls and trellis-work, affording a
pleasant shade from the scorching heat of the _December_ sun.
Among other fine trees, such as the blue gum and eucalyptus, the pepper
tree, with its graceful acacia-like leaf and pendant clusters of red
berries, is to be seen overhanging the roads. After sunset its pepper
may distinctly be smelt, almost sufficiently so to make one sneeze.
This prolific and beautiful tree seems to be indigenous to Cannes, Nice,
and Mentone.
We determined, first of all, to visit the English cemetery. Our kind
friend whom we had met the evening before accompanied us as cicerone. We
set off in a northerly direction. It was a warm walk up the hill, but we
were soon at the gates of the cemetery, and, passing through, were both
astonished and gratified at the natural beauty of the position, and the
cultivated loveliness, of this truly peaceful resting-place of those of
our dear country who had come to this little paradise on earth, alas! to
die. But, then, what a beautiful spot to die in! and how very much
loving hearts have done to render their last resting-place even more
lovely than Nature has made it! The very flowers, roses, honeysuckle,
and jessamine, planted by loving hands, seemed to cling fondly and
sympathetically to the spotless marble monuments.
Then we crossed over rivulet and ravine, up to the forest-clad hill
overlooking the cemetery, and who can describe the truly magnificent and
extensive views before us? There lay the lovely valley beneath, the
grand semicircle of Esterel hills and the snow-capped Alps outlining the
azure sky; and behind us the broad, blue sea, rippling its white-crested
wavelets upon the warm, sandy shores, while further away to the left,
the little town of Cannes lay peacefully reposing on the mountain slopes
towards the sea.
This delightful excursion occupied us until nearly one o'clock, and we
had only just time to catch the train leaving for Antibes. Not,
however, without first making a successful forage at the station, to
provide luncheon, our tall friend cramming _half a yard of bread_ into
each of his tunic pockets, which caused him to cut rather a comical
figure, especially as he wore knickerbockers; and he was consequently a
source of great amusement to people we met, who laughed good naturedly
enough, setting us down in their own minds, I doubt not, as mad English
people, in whom any amount of eccentricity was allowable.
The journey to Antibes, accomplished in a short half-hour, was very
interesting, different views and aspects of the snow-clad Maritime Alps
giving us from time to time ever-varying features of sublime beauty, and
moving our heartfelt admiration.
Antibes, the ancient Antipolis, a colony of the Massilians, was once a
Roman arsenal; there still remain two towers to mark this period. The
present fortifications were erected about the time of the first Francis,
and of Henry of Navarre, and afterwards greatly improved by Vauban under
Louis le Grand. Their erection had the salutary effect of draining the
marshy ground, and rendering the air healthy; but the sanitary
arrangements both here and elsewhere are still very defective. Before
Nice was annexed by France, this was her frontier line, which accounts
for its being still so strongly fortified. The remains of a theatre and
other ancient buildings attest to its former importance.
On reaching our destination, we strolled along the road leading to the
ramparts, and from these heights enjoyed a most glorious sea view. The
snowy Alps rising majestically on the opposite shore, and a fine old
Genoese fort, with wedge-shaped bastions, boldly standing at the end of
a peninsula, stretching out into the sea and agreeably breaking the
distance.
Antibes is almost surrounded by the sea, and, from the beauty of its
position and the natural purity of its air, is fast becoming a favoured
health resort, in spite of the dirtiness of the town and the inadequacy
of hotel accommodation. Nowadays doctors call all kinds of places
"health resorts," but they should first of all make sure that the
sanitary condition of the place justifies their recommendation. The
sublime and lovely views in this neighbourhood cannot fail to make a
lasting impression on any lover of fine scenery.
Catching our train back, we arrived at our hotel in time to make up for
our meagre lunch and rectify the danger of neglecting the _inner man_,
as travellers are sometimes prone to do when so deeply interested in the
objects around them. Later, in the cool of the evening, we had a
deliciously pleasant walk through the town towards the beautiful gardens
of Hesperides, and along the beach.
On the road from Cannes towards Fréjus is the villa of the late Lord
Brougham, whose eccentricities were as remarkable as his almost universal
talents. At the time of the formation of the second French Republic in
1848, when the cry of "Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity!" was in every
one's mouth, Lord Brougham somewhat astonished the world by enrolling
himself as a citizen of the Republic, resting his qualification upon the
fact of his being a land-owner--_propriétaire_--at Cannes.
Our excursion on the morrow was to have been to Grasse, but
unfortunately we had to go on to Nice early in the day. At Grasse
flowers are largely cultivated, especially roses, jessamine, heliotrope,
and orange and lemon blossoms, from which are manufactured most of our
delicious scents and essences--this being one of the principal places
where the culture of the lemon is most successful. Eugene Rimmel, and
also Dr. Piesse, of Piesse and Lubin, have large flower farms near
Cannes and Nice, from which their perfumes are produced. This to some
extent accounts for the neglect of the fruit itself, which frequently
lies scattered unheeded on the ground. Whilst returning from the
expedition to the cemetery, we had passed whole terraces of orange and
lemon trees covered with white blossom, their exquisite fragrance
filling the evening air. It was a pure pleasure to me to stretch out my
hand and pluck a beautiful spray from an orange tree, and, placing it on
my wife's shoulder, remind her of the "day of days"--especially as she
had scarcely seen the blossoms _au naturel_, but only their skilful
imitation daintily modelled in wax for the adornment of some fair bride.
That day's excursion will ever be remembered, both for our visit to the
charming little English cemetery and the trip to Antibes. We were
indeed sorry to leave beautiful Cannes, containing so much of the
loveliness and grandeur of Nature.
We found the Hotel Windsor very quiet, comfortable, and moderate in
charge, and hope some day to renew our agreeable impressions of it.
I think, to comprehend in full the beauty of Cannes and other parts of
the coast, they should be seen from the sea from the deck of a yacht or
packet some three or four miles off.
On the 27th we left by train for Nice, arriving there towards evening.
[B] Since writing the above, one more hope of unfortunate France, the
head of the Legitimist party, faithful to the last of his "divine
right," has passed away.
CHAPTER IV.
Nice--Its persistently Italian character--Its gaming propensities--Hints
about luggage--Old and New Towns--Flower-shops--A river laundry--The
harbours of Nice and Villafranca--Scenery and climate of Nice--A cowardly
outrage--In the Cathedral--Hotel charges--Leaving Nice.
From Cannes to Nice, or Nizza, is but a short run by rail, but on
reaching the latter we see at once that we have entered another
country--as one of the natives epigrammatically remarked, "The Emperor
Napoleon made Nice France, but God made it Italy." In spite of the
French flags, French soldiers, and French gens d'armes, it is soon
perceptible that we have entered Italy, more especially on going into
the old part of the town, out of the way of the large hotels built for
the English, who flock here in such numbers.
Nice, the birthplace of Garibaldi, the great liberator of Italy, will
some day be Italian again. In 1870-71, the debt of gratitude to France
for her assistance in wresting Lombardy and Venice from the Austrians,
was of too recent a date to admit of the Italians taking advantage of
her weakness to resume possession of the provinces of Nice and Savoy,
and they were, besides, intent at the time on seizing upon the city of
Rome; but there is no doubt that, sooner or later--in fact, on the very
first opportunity that offers, the old boundary between the two
countries will be resumed, and both Savoy and Nice will be re-occupied
by their natural owners, the Italians. There was a bitter and fateful
irony in the fact that no place could be found to barter to a foreign
power but the very birthplace of the champion of Italy's liberty; and
the best friend of this fair country cannot but acknowledge this act on
the part of Victor Emmanuel to have been unjust to her devoted people,
and a blot on her ancient honour and glory; but at the same time, France
will share in the condemnation of the world, for exacting so great and
unnatural a sacrifice. It is equally iniquitous for a sovereign to
barter away the birthright of his subjects as for any foreign power to
require it, but how much more so when that power is an ally!
If France continues on the same course she has pursued for the last year
or two, the opportunity Italy waits for will not be far distant, as
evidently her present rulers are bent on estranging her from the rest of
Europe, and are doing all they can to provoke another war. If that day
should unhappily come, Italy will naturally look for the sympathy of
England, which, with her own magnificent seaboard and England's maritime
and naval power in the Mediterranean, would prove the most powerful
alliance. But meanwhile Italy has only to be patient, develop her
industries, mature her strength, and pursue the upright tenor of her
way.
Immediately on arriving at the station, you see what a gay and busy
place this is. The society is far more _doubtful_ and mixed than at
Cannes, where you feel pretty sure of every one. But Nice being so close
to Monaco and Monte Carlo, there is a constant stream of--well, I might
almost say adventurers, passing through the town, hoping to return with
their expenses liberally recouped from the "tables"--of course, in most
cases a delusion and a snare. It is said that Nice itself is a little
Monte Carlo, and unquestionably there is a great deal of card-playing
going on openly in the _cafés_, while the stationers' shop-windows
literally teem with books professing to teach the secrets of roulette,
how to win at Monte Carlo, and all the other gambling paraphernalia.
This being the case, it is small wonder that private gambling is also
carried on to a great extent, besides the races, etc., which are
fostered and supported by the owners of the gambling saloons at Monte
Carlo, and the crowd one meets at the Nice station much resembles such
as we unfortunately meet at a London suburban station during a race
week. These are the _lovers of sport_, who demoralize and spoil the
peace and beauty of a place both at home and abroad.
We put up at the St. Jullien, a quiet, pleasant hotel; but our comfort
was somewhat disturbed by the fact of our luggage having most
vexatiously miscarried, and not making its appearance for forty-eight
hours after our arrival. In France, after having seen your luggage
registered and labelled, you are generally content to trouble no more
about it till it reaches its destination; but it is really very
necessary to _see it put into the train_, for, despite the otherwise
good system, the porters are carelessly content to get their fee without
properly completing the service for which they are paid. And I may here
remark that there is far too much "black mail" levied altogether, one
man simply transferring his duty to another, who expects similar fee. To
avoid loss of time and other unpleasantness, travellers will always find
it best to make the first man fully understand that he alone is
responsible for the luggage placed in his care, and that he is expected
to see to its safety, no payment being forthcoming till this is done.
In the present case, our luggage had been sent on to Mentone by mistake,
although properly labelled for Nice, and when we regained possession,
one of the trunks was so knocked about that it cost fifteen francs to
have it repaired, and in reply to my application to the railway
authorities to recoup me, I was simply told, with the usual French shrug
of the shoulders as if to get rid of a disagreeable burthen, that it
could not be entertained.
One of the great secrets of comfortable travel consists in carrying as
little luggage with you as possible, and as there is no difficulty in
procuring the services of a laundress at a few hours' notice, this rule
may be readily complied with. It is always well, however, to be
provided with a good-sized hand-bag, containing all the necessaries you
require for one or two days, _and this you should never lose sight of_.
Nice is a charming town, with its beautiful promenades facing the sea,
its palatial hotels, fine streets, and gardens. The Promenade des
Anglais, and the graceful, waving palm trees planted along the streets,
give it quite a different character to the French towns we had visited.
We were much struck, and again reminded of the Italian nature of the
place, by the elaborate way in which the houses and villas are decorated
on the outside with paintings, giving the flat surface all the effect of
being embellished with beautiful frescoes and works of statuary. Some of
the villas, which are on the hill overlooking the town and sea, and
surrounded by their gardens full of orange and lemon trees, are most
delightful residences. Among other places of interest, we were pointed
out the villa where the young Czarowitch, the elder brother of the
present Emperor of Russia, died, attended in his last moments by his
mother, and his betrothed wife Princess Dagmar, who afterwards married
the brother of her first _fiancé_. The house is in no wise remarkable,
save for the lovely views it commands, and the large and beautiful
gardens which surround it, where almost every variety of orange and
lemon trees grow to perfection. Before the Czarowitch's death visitors
were allowed the privilege of viewing the grounds, but this is now
refused.
Nice is divided into two distinct parts, known as the Old and New Town.
The latter is well laid out--there are two very fine squares, one being
surrounded by very handsome porticoes; while the other is supplemented
by a raised terrace, which serves both as a sea-wall and public
promenade. Part of this promenade is on the flat roofs of a row of low
houses, which at harvest-time are utilized as drying-floors for wheat
and other grain, which are spread in the hot sun. This is, of course,
before the season for visitors sets in, and while there are but few
strangers in the town.
The shops are remarkably good, the confectioners' windows being very
tempting with their array of airy-looking pastry, which is as nice as it
is novel to us, accustomed to the more substantial and perhaps slightly
heavy preparations of the kind in our own country. Especially to be
noticed, too, are the displays of corals in all its most exquisite
varieties, which may be purchased at a very reasonable rate, as also
various kinds of lace. Indeed, this modern part of Nice is quite a
little seaside Paris: the tramcars pass smoothly up and down, and the
fashionable equipages, sometimes with bells attached to the horses'
heads, dash gaily along.
The Old Town consists of narrow, dirty-smelling labyrinths, unworthy the
name of streets, with blocks of shops of every kind. It is, however,
interesting, as one here sees the working population "at home." In a
large market-square we saw one of the lumbering old-fashioned
diligences arrive, which recalled all that we had read of the days of
continental travel before railways. There can be no doubt that the smart
stage-coaches of England were very superior conveyances to the
cumbersome, cobwebby diligence, which seems better adapted for night
than for day travelling.
The flower-shops are one of the most interesting features of Nice,
especially to ladies. Bouquets composed of the most exquisite flowers,
of every size and description, from tiny button-hole sprays to masses of
blossoms two feet in diameter, surround you on every side. Yet, after
all, I believe no people arrange flowers so tastefully as the English.
Our bouquets are not so large or so closely packed, and the flowers may
be less rare, though scarcely less beautiful, yet they are grouped with
more discernment and harmonious taste than elsewhere. The great business
in these little "floral arsenals" is to pack the fragrant blossoms
carefully in cotton-wool, for transmission to all parts of the world,
especially to Covent Garden. Some are stowed in large round boxes like
cheese-tubs, with a hole for the stalks to come through. I could have
bought a bouquet here for seven francs which in London would have cost
almost as many guineas. There are also small boxes, which you can get
addressed and sent, post-free, for three or four francs inclusive. In
fact, almost the first thing visitors do on their arrival here, is to
send off one or more of these tiny boxes of dainty flowers to dear
friends in England. You simply pay for them and give the address, and
they are at once despatched. So large a trade is done that there is a
special Flower Post, and at the station a warehouse is set apart which
is generally filled with these flower-boxes, ready to send off by the
night train.
The culture of flowers in this part of the world is a very profitable
and important industry, and, remembering all the distilleries--such as
at Grasse--for making perfume, we can well understand the numerous
beautiful flower-gardens in Italy, particularly along the shores of the
Mediterranean. Italy may truly be called the "Garden of Europe," but it
is rather difficult to imagine that she sends her vegetables away as far
as St. Petersburg!
The river Var passes though the town, and falls into the Mediterranean.
Its valley, or bed, being spanned by a number of bridges, adds not a
little to its picturesqueness. At this season the river is almost dry; a
few slender streams wind in and out of the rough stones which form the
river-bed, and at these streams are to be seen hosts of women and
children, most busily engaged in washing, and the whole valley by the
river is white with the clothes of the numerous visitors, hanging out to
bleach and dry in the hot sun. At times, when the snow on the Maritime
Alps melts, this dry bed suddenly becomes a foaming, roaring torrent,
and signals are given from the upper stream to warn people of the
approaching rush of water. Instances of women engaged at their washing
being carried away by the torrent have frequently occurred.
The harbour of Nice is but a small affair, and only capable of
accommodating fishing-craft and small vessels; but at little
Villafranca, a mile or so away to the eastward, is an excellent port,
affording shelter to large ships; occasionally men-of-war are to be seen
there. The harbour of Villafranca is very prettily situated, surrounded,
as it is on the land side, by high hills rising from the water's edge,
and beautifully timbered. The walk from Nice to Villafranca, either by
way of the sea, along the face of the rocks, where the road is lined
with aloes and cacti (which impart quite a semi-tropical aspect to the
country); or by the higher road, over a steep hill and deeply shaded
roads,--is very beautiful, and well rewards the wayfarer for his
fatigue; for fatiguing it is in the broiling sun, along a dusty road. On
approaching the port from the upper road, the first view obtained from
the high ground, looking down into the land-locked basin of the harbour,
is very charming.
Nice is so surrounded by beautiful walks and drives, that one fails in
the attempt to describe the half of them. View after view breaks on the
admiring gaze, till you cease to exclaim at the varying loveliness, and
content yourself by drinking in the grandeur and beauty of nature in
silent admiration.
It is colder and more bracing here than at Cannes, but on the whole the
climate is more equable, there being no such sudden fall in the
temperature after sunset; it is, however, I fear, less suited for
invalids of a consumptive nature than other parts of the Riviera. It is
dangerous to be out late, almost less on account of the heavy dews and
chill atmosphere than for the very questionable people one meets, in
every grade, from princes to pick-pockets. Nice is literally infested
with doubtful characters, for, being so near the frontier, numbers of
Italian vagabonds, who have been in prison and find it best to leave
their country, assemble here, and tragedies are constantly occurring.
There are also many wretched desperadoes from the gaming-tables.
On one occasion, two men attacked an old lady who was reading a placard
on a wall. They were fortunately observed by a woman from a small shop
near, who called her husband, and also summoned two gens d'armes. The
men drew their knives, but the gens d'armes threatened to use their
revolvers if the weapons were not instantly given up, and, being
probably as deficient in pluck as most bullies, they finally succumbed,
and were taken in charge--but, I have no doubt, got off with a day or
two's imprisonment; while the poor old lady was confined to her bed for
some time, and did not easily recover the shock she had received. The
only uncommon feature in this occurrence was the fact of _two_ gens
d'armes being found within call at the same time.
With the exception of the splendid hotels, Nice can boast of few
buildings of any importance, save the Cathedral of Notre Dame, which is
a fine-looking edifice, and has several objects of interest in the
interior. A ludicrous and amusing incident was witnessed here one day by
a friend.
Several country people had entered, and were engaged in offering up
their orisons at the various altars. One woman, who had been in the
market, making her purchases, entered the Cathedral, basket in hand,
and, kneeling down on the steps in front of the high altar with her
basket beside her, proceeded to tell her beads, and was soon deeply
immersed in her prayers. A homeless cat was quietly prowling about, and,
approaching the woman, began to smell at the contents of her basket.
Evidently church mice are much the same all the world over and do not
afford too bountiful provender for the hungry cats, for puss had all the
appearance of being desirous of dining, and, after poking her nose into
the basket several times, seized upon a sausage, and proceeded to pull
it out. The poor woman cast a discomfited glance at the robber, but
before the devout Catholic could finish her beads, sacrilegious pussy
had carried off and finished her sausage.
The hotel charges here are much the same as at Cannes, and not
unreasonable. Five francs for bedroom, three for luncheon, and five for
_table d'hôte_.
Most visitors fall into foreign habits, and have their coffee and rolls
in their bedrooms, _dejeuner_ or heavy luncheon at noon, and _table
d'hôte_ at six; but we came down to our breakfast between eight and nine
o'clock, _à l'Anglais_, and dined _à la carte_ at any hour that suited
our convenience. The day's expenses were generally from ten to twelve
francs for each person. Carriage hire is also very reasonable, for you
can go from one end of the town to the other for less than a franc.
CHAPTER V.
The beauty-spot and plague-spot of the Riviera--Arrival at Mentone--Hotel
des Isles Britanniques--English church--Her Majesty's Villa--Gardens of
Dr. Bennett--Custom-house--Remarks on Mentone--A charming walk--A word
about Brigands--An adventure--In the cemetery--A labour of love--A frog
concert--Excursion to Monte Carlo--Lovely coast scenery--Castle of Monaco
--The sombre Olive--The exodus of the Caterpillars.
In travelling from Nice to Mentone you have to pass through some of the
most lovely and enchanting scenery in the world.
The tiny principality of Monaco is indeed a little Paradise; but, alas!
Paradise _after the fall_, for does it not include that awful gaming
pandemonium, Monte Carlo? It is sad to think that the choicest spot on
this fair earth should be selected by sinful men for their evil
purposes. Here, amid all that is beautiful and captivating in nature, is
a pit dug for the unwary, the innocent, and the weak; and, alas! too
many succumb to the fatal allurements prepared for their ruin and
destruction.
As we passed Monte Carlo, we saw some of the _shady fraternity_ I
mentioned as having observed at the Nice station, on one of the heights
above the town, overlooking a grassy enclosure. They were
characteristically engaged in slaughtering tame pigeons, by way of a
manly recreation and noble sport!
We arrived at Mentone in the evening, about seven o'clock. It is a
quiet, pretty little town something like Cannes. As usual, there were a
legion of hotel omnibuses, with their liveried porters, the name of the
hotel they belonged to on their cap, and each accurately measuring the
length of your purse. Fortunate the traveller who has already determined
on the hotel he intends to patronize! We had selected the Hotel des
Isles Britanniques. Here we had a small but handsomely furnished
apartment on the third floor, commanding a charming view of the sea from
its French windows, and we were soon sitting down to our quiet little
dinner.
Everything at this hotel was comfortable and satisfactory. Cleanliness
and courtesy were predominant, and I should think altogether it was one
of the best conducted hotels on the Riviera. Only one little drawback
lay in the fact that the reading-room opened into the ladies'
drawing-room, and the almost incessant pianoforte-playing made it
impossible to read with any real enjoyment. Indeed, who _could_ sit down
selfishly to reading, even one's favourite newspaper, with the momentary
expectation of a loving wife or daughter strolling in from her music,
for a little chat?
A more serious defect, however, in these Riviera hotels, perfect as
they are otherwise in all their appointments, lies in the fact that
there is very inadequate provision for extinguishing fire--a terrible
consideration at all times, but disarmed of much of its terror when
properly provided against. One evening, when descending the main
staircase of our hotel, there was an evident smell of fire, and soon a
painful sensation in my eyes told me of smoke also. On reaching the
hall, I found the smoke issuing from the warming shaft in the floor. I
returned, quietly warned my wife and others of the danger, and soon the
master of the hotel and all the servants were on the spot. In their
excitement to subdue it, before the numerous visitors should be alarmed,
they opened the aperture still more, so as to give free vent to the
smoke. I at once told them their mistake, and, seizing the nearest
door-mat, put it over the aperture; my example was followed, and other
exits closed, the servants meanwhile carrying buckets of water below,
where the fire had originated. Fortunately, the fire was soon
extinguished, little harm being done; but the event showed me that there
was no systematic preparation or appliances in case of fire, which I
thought a very serious omission in the comfort and safety of the
visitors.[C]
The day after our arrival was Sunday, and we attended the English
church, and were greatly pleased with the reverent, home-reminding way
in which the service was conducted. We then took a pleasant walk by the
sea, listening to a good band of music in the gardens; then into the one
long main street of the town, calling at the post-office for letters,
and leaving our address, that all others might be sent on to our hotel.
We had a peep, too, into the numerous little shops, especially those for
the sale of flowers, as at Cannes, and the cheerful little market-place.
Finally, turning the promontory at the end of the street, and emerging
on the road by the sea, we found a delightful promenade; and further on,
in the eastern portion of Mentone, another English church, "Christ
Church," and several finely situated hotels and pretty villas standing
in groves of orange trees, facing the sea, and under the shelter of the
almost precipitous mountain ranges in the background.
The natives here are evidently of very dirty habits, and the residents
must be sadly wanting in nasal sensibility, for, on attempting to
advance through one of the narrow side streets dividing the pretty
villas, we were obliged to beat a hasty retreat; and this was not the
only pretty lane so vilely misused, much to the reproach of the
municipal authorities.
On the hill-side, almost buried amid the trees, is the little villa
where her Majesty the Queen so quietly resided last autumn; while at the
large hotel just below, Mr. Spurgeon rested from his Tabernacle labours,
and, it is to be hoped, got rid of his painful rheumatism.
Straight up this road, on the slope of the hill, is an ancient aqueduct,
and a milestone denoting where the French and Italian territories meet.
My wife was much interested in this precise point of division, and I
laughingly assisted her to place a foot on each territory, thereby
establishing her as the queenly Colossus of two great countries; but she
was greatly relieved by a very short reign. A little higher up on the
left are the beautiful mountain gardens of Dr. Bennett. By his kind
courtesy, all visitors are welcome to roam about therein, though, of
course, within certain hours. It is indeed a wonderful example of
botanical skill combined with excellent taste. Every inch of ground,
right up to the rocky mountain-side, is turned to advantage, for the
production both of the most lovely flowers and ferns and also for
miniature aqueducts and water-courses to refresh them. I have never
before seen a collection of flowers, ferns, and trees brought to so
great a perfection under such difficulties. All are most systematically
named and classified.
A little further on is the Italian custom-house, picturesquely situated
on a promontory, and commanding a very fine view of the sea and
surrounding country. Every person and vehicle has here to undergo the
usual delightful examination by the custom-house officials. This is the
high-road to Ventimiglia and Genoa, and a _high_ road indeed it is,
running right along the edge of the cliff, forming a most magnificent
drive, and commanding grand views.
Not far from here is the residence, with its superb gardens, of Mr.
Hanbury. Some friends who have visited these gardens assure me they even
surpass those of Dr. Bennett. It is said that next time the Queen visits
Mentone, she will take up her abode at this house. Mr. Hanbury is
equally courteous in welcoming visitors to his beautifully cultivated
grounds and gardens.
Mentone is more sheltered than either Cannes or Nice, the mountains
encircling the town more closely; there is consequently more
hill-climbing, and fewer extended walks and excursions for invalids. It
was occasionally bleak and cold after sunset during this early part of
the year, and invalids were all obliged to gain the shelter of their
dwellings by about four p.m. These cold, biting winds generally blew
from north or east, the main streets being like drafty narrow gorges.
We had one exceedingly pretty walk up the valley to the right of our
hotel. The river, now almost dry, flowing silently along on one side; on
the other, hills and orange groves, and a little church or monastery
perched among the trees in the far distance--it resembled a Swiss
mountain valley. It was a very romantic road, and I incidentally
remarked to my wife that it was just the kind of place where, a few
years ago, we might have heard a shrill whistle from the hills, then an
answering echo, and by-and-by a band of brigands suddenly swooping down
upon us to carry us off to their lair upon the mountains. This was quite
enough to make her nervous, and, despite my pacifying assurances that
in these days of enlightened progress no such thrilling adventure would
be likely to befall us, she begged that we might return at once; and, as
our walk had already been a somewhat extended one into the still
recesses of the mountain valley, I thought it just as well to follow her
prudent advice and retrace our steps. For although I laughed at my
wife's fears, they were really not so utterly without foundation as
might at first appear, for we had recently heard of a most daring case
of brigandage in the neighbourhood. As I have before remarked, there are
a great many very questionable characters loitering between Nice and
Genoa.
Two ladies at an hotel here met with a small adventure that might have
ended in something more serious but for one fortunate circumstance. They
were a mother and daughter, staying at Nice about the same time as
ourselves, and related that having started one fine afternoon to walk to
Villafranca, on getting out of sight of all signs of habitation, they
were much alarmed to find they were being followed by two ill-looking
Italians. The men passed them, and disappeared round the promontory
which shuts Nice out of sight, and forms one side of the natural harbour
of Villafranca. The ladies, wishing to give them a wide berth, walked
very slowly, hoping to be left far in their wake; but soon after, on
reaching a particularly dull part of the road, they came on the men
again, who were evidently waiting for them. Still hoping they might be
mistaken, the two ladies stopped likewise, as if to admire the scenery
and consult their guide-books, but the men held their ground, and
presently walked towards them. Just as they were approaching, a carriage
containing a gentleman came in sight, and they thereupon walked on for a
short distance, as if they were only returning the way they had come;
but as soon as the carriage had fairly passed, they once more turned.
The ladies were now thoroughly alarmed, and the younger one flew down
the dusty road after the carriage, in hopes of overtaking it and
soliciting protection. She was fortunately observed by the occupant, who
at once stopped the horses, and very kindly invited them to continue
their journey in his carriage, remarking that many of the roads along
the Riviera were decidedly unsafe for foot-passengers, and that he had
been surprised at two ladies undertaking such a risk alone. They
gratefully accepted his offer, and proceeded to the Villafranca station
without meeting a single human being--a fact which they noted with a
shudder and a deep sense of thankfulness at their narrow escape.
We made a second trip up the hill-side to the Roman Catholic cemetery,
which gave us a charming view of the town, environed by gardens. The
place itself was peacefully beautiful and full of mournful interest. We
noticed at one of the tombs a young lady, evidently a German, who,
assisted by her maid, was diligently employed in cleaning a marble
statue placed over the grave. It was difficult to refrain from offering
to help her in this labour of love, which appealed so pathetically to
the heart. I do not think we care to display so much outward proofs of
loving reverence for our dead as we often see abroad, in the shape of
flowers and _immortelles_ placed upon the graves by affectionate
relatives and friends. Still, I believe it is only an external
indifference. We have as much true and deep love in our hearts for our
dear ones as those who are more demonstrative, though perhaps it _is_ a
pity that we do not allow ourselves to indulge in the pretty reverential
sentiments of our French and Italian neighbours.
We were much amused during our stay here at the constant chorus the
frogs kept up. They croak almost unceasingly, especially in the evening.
It would seem that they wish to take the place of the song-birds, which
we seldom hear in this part, as they are all shot to supply the table,
nearly every kind being eaten--a needless cruelty, one would think, not
only to the poor little birds, but also to those who miss their grateful
song of joy and praise.
We had a pleasant carriage excursion to Monte Carlo, by the Corniche
road, starting one brilliant morning soon after breakfast. Leaving
Mentone behind us, we commenced the circuit of the cliff road, which
gradually got higher and higher, occasionally passing through olive
plantations, and then suddenly emerging from their sombre shade to the
dazzling bright sea once more; then we doubled a finely wooded
promontory, almost a sheer precipice, catching a glimpse of the
beautiful little circling bays sparkling in the abyss below; sometimes
passing sharp curves in the road, which required very skilful driving,
there being but a low wall--and that partly broken in many places--to
divide us from a fall of about sixty feet! Still ascending, we gained
the summit of the first fine headland (I believe, the highest point),
and from thence had a most entrancing outlook. On the extreme left, a
lovely retrospective and bird's-eye view of charming Mentone; the towns
and little villages on the distant shore as far as Bordighera; dimpling
in the glowing sunshine, and before us, the long stretch of inimitable
blue sea, with just a feathery ripple on the golden sandy shores below,
winding in and out in a series of tiny bays and creeks; while beyond us,
like a realized dream of Paradise, lay the beautiful plague-spot of the
Riviera--the town of Monte Carlo, nested amid luxuriant gardens of
semi-tropical foliage, the mosque-like minarets and cupolas of the
casino standing boldly out on the heights and glittering in the sun.
Beyond this, another fine bay and promontory, on the summit of which
stands the Castle of Monaco; and below, surrounded by groves and
gardens, the town and principality of Monaco, with roads stretching out,
leading towards Villafranca and Nice.
I had seen Constantinople, Madeira, and many other parts of this fair
earth of ours, but I do not remember anything that compares with this
bit of Italian coast scenery, which I think is surely the loveliest in
the world.
Dismissing our carriage, we walked through Monte Carlo to Monaco, and
ascended to the palace of the prince. It stands on the summit of a bold
headland, surrounded by fortifications, from which we had another
splendid view. One can readily see how fair and beautiful a place, full
of the sweetest harmonies of nature, and filling the human heart with a
grateful sense of God's love, has, by the sordid wickedness of man, been
perverted into a paradise of the Prince of Darkness, who, knowing too
well the weakness and folly of poor erring humanity, lures by every
artificial attraction and fascination even the poor pilgrim invalid, who
hopefully journeys here to breathe the pure fresh air and to recover
health; and also does his best to complete the moral degradation of the
less innocent but infatuated gambler, who stakes his life upon the cast
of a die and rushes madly and miserably to unutterable ruin.
I have already mentioned the plantations of olive trees we passed in our
drive on the cliffs. Nothing strikes one more singularly, in coming to
this part of the world, than the contrast in appearance between the
olive tree and the rich, luxuriant foliage of the orange, lemon, myrtle,
and other beautiful vegetation so prolific here. Toward evening
especially, the gnarled and twisted olive has a strangely sad and sombre
effect, with its long, pointed leaves of dull green lined with a chilly
pale tint--as it were, a thing of a past period in the earth's
existence, ancient and venerable, almost sacred, and little in harmony
with the gay, luxuriant vegetable life around. I think nothing
describes better its cold sombre aspect than the remark Marianne Hunt
made to her husband during their first unfortunate visit to Italy. "They
look," she said, "as if they were always standing in the moonlight."
And, indeed, this is just the effect they have, as though having been
once lighted on by Cynthia's cold, chaste glance, they had ever remained
petrified and blanched. Still, there is much grace and beauty in the
outlines of olive trees against a sunlit, blue-grey sky, the silver
tints of their leaves quivering in the light.
It was interesting to watch a procession of caterpillars on the road to
Monte Carlo, a distance of about a mile. They were moving from one part
to another, probably because there was disease amongst them, or else in
the trees in that neighbourhood, for there were many dead ones lying
about. They advanced in one long line, following their leader, the head
of the second joining the tail of the first, and so on. There were more
than a hundred in a chain, a company of ten coming to join them, and
large masses waiting in different parts of the road, and taking their
places one by one as the procession approached. They looked like a long,
thin snake. The marvellous instinct of these small insects,
notwithstanding Mark Twain's ingenious stricture on the proverbial
"ant," will ever remain a source of the deepest interest and wonder to
thinking, reasoning, intellectual man.
This wonderful army of caterpillars suggested, as things in nature will
often do if one takes heed of them, that it might be possible to
introduce the culture of the silkworm here, and so substitute a
profitable and honest industry for the present curse of this beautiful
and otherwise highly favoured place. Silk is almost a staple of Italian
industry, and doubtless the mulberry tree would flourish here as in
other parts, and with as much success as at Beyrout, on the coast of
Syria, a place not at all unlike Monte Carlo in its climate, the beauty
of coast scenery, and luxuriance of vegetation.
[C] The recent destruction of the Grand Hotel at Giessbach is a
convincing proof of the truth of these remarks. Had it occurred but a
month earlier, there would inevitably have been a terrible loss of
life.
CHAPTER VI.
Monte Carlo--In the Concert-room--The Gambling-saloons--The Tables--The
moth and the candle--The true story of Monte Carlo--An International
grievance and disgrace.
We reached Monte Carlo in time for the grand concert at two o'clock.
Passing through the delightful gardens surrounded by _cafés_, we entered
the dazzling and gorgeous concert-room. There was nothing to pay.
Plush-liveried servants handed us to our seats, and we enjoyed their
soft luxuriance, admired the handsome and profuse decorations, and
scanned the mixed society around us, listening meanwhile to some of the
finest classical music.
After spending a pleasant hour, we retired to make room for others.
There was a silent expression on the countenances of the attendant
croupiers, and also on many of the faces of the habitués of the place,
which showed that, although this refined and intellectual enjoyment was
the ostensible reason of their presence, the real and more appreciated
object was the gaming-table.
Impelled by earnest desire to judge for ourselves as to the evils of
Monte Carlo, we followed the stream of people through the gilded and
handsome suite of ante-rooms, to the gambling-saloons. The obsequious
lacqueys opened the doors to all who wished to pass, and no questions
were asked, though I believe you are supposed to have your private
visiting card in readiness.
"'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the spider to the fly."
There was no doubt on that day, at least, of the flies swarming in.
Frith's celebrated picture occurred instantly to my mind, and I saw at a
glance how faithful it was to the sad reality.
You cannot fail to be struck by the extreme quiet amongst so many
people. Every one speaks in whispers. There is a certain solemnity about
it, the same as that felt in a church; and truly this might be termed
the house of the devil. The large and spacious rooms, with beautifully
painted walls, Moorish ceilings, and polished floors, are without
furniture save the long tables and chairs for those intending to play
steadily. Here sit the yellow-faced, sleepless, hard-eyed croupiers,
spinning the fatal ball, and mechanically sweeping in with their rakes
the piles of money staked and lost by the infatuated players. These are
not limited to those seated at the table and who form but the front row.
What a mixture they are! Cadaverous, selfish old women; others,
handsome, gay, and reckless, evidently in the interest of the table, and
hired to act as decoys; others, again, young and inexperienced; and even
_ladies_, pale, unhappy-looking,--were all represented. The men for the
most part hardened and merciless, and many careless young gentlemen,
some of them innocent-looking lads enough, but others, alas! showing
painfully their habits of dissipation, in spite of their youth,--all
waiting eagerly to clutch their winnings or silently lose their money.
Further up the room are other tables, at which higher stakes are played.
_Trente et quarante_ is perhaps a little more favourable to players than
roulette, though it depends very much on the shuffling of the cards.
Piles of gold and notes were laid upon the table, either for or against
the numbers backed turning up. But here was the same sickening
sight--mad, selfish infatuation; and we turned away, having had quite
enough of the "shady side" of the lovely but too fascinating Monte
Carlo, being glad to get out into the bright sunshine once more. In the
rooms we had left, the blinds and curtains were closely drawn, excluding
the pure light of heaven, as if those so earnestly engaged within
preferred darkness to light because their deeds were evil.
A great number of people from the "tables" followed to catch the train,
and we had the sad reflection that a fresh batch would soon arrive in
time for the _evening_ concert. _Residents_ of Monaco and Monte Carlo
are not supposed to be admitted, as it is not desirable that the
half-frenzied losers should remain in these peaceful elysiums; a fresh
and continuous stream of victims is much preferred.
But these Shylock millionaires, the owners of the tables--these Princes
of Hades who alone profit by the wreck of their fellow-creatures, are
perfectly content to fatten, like over-gorged leeches, on the weaknesses
and follies of their prey. What matters it to them, the misery and
unhappiness of others, so long as they thrive? What matter the means, so
long as their end is obtained?
I am sorry to say that ladies are the greatest victims. They are more
easily tempted by their love of excitement and adventure, and once they
touch the fatal dice it is almost impossible to hold them in. Many
ladies who come to Nice and Mentone as invalids, go to Monte Carlo, not
only for the enchanting scenery, but for the fine concerts, which are
free to all comers. Indeed, most invalids long for such a means of
recreation, and it is a great pity they cannot obtain it elsewhere when
visiting the Riviera. Then their curiosity is aroused about the
gaming-tables, purposely encouraged by lying reports of people having
made their fortunes by a single throw of the dice. After the concert,
how natural to stroll into the gay saloons, the liveried servants so
politely opening the doors to them! And all this is the most cruel part
of the gambling fraternity--Messieurs Blanc and Co., who so heartlessly
lay out these alluring baits. Perchance these ladies are accompanied by
pure-minded daughters, all unthinking of the frightful contamination of
the numbers of so-called "ladies of fashion"--habitués and hirelings,
decoys simply in the pay of the gambling propriétaire. It is impossible
to know the moral injury it will do these innocent young girls. Then,
there is the husband who takes his wife, and permits her or himself to
chance a napoleon. It is impossible to touch pitch without defilement,
or to know where that one thoughtless yielding to temptation may lead.
Yes! it is too often just one napoleon and no more. Unfortunately they
win, and then of course they come again and again, with the sad result
of eventually losing all that is worth living for.
Some of these invalid ladies actually starve themselves, when they ought
to be nourishing and strengthening their poor bodies; acting meanly at
their hotels in order to save sufficient money to go to Monte Carlo, and
in the end it is all lost! Then they return to their homes with mind,
health, and nerves completely shattered, to the grief and astonishment
of kind friends and family doctors. There is no doubt that when people
are once tempted, it creates in them quite a disease; this is called
"play-fever."
An English gentleman staying at the same hotel with us told me that he
came to the Riviera almost every year, and that he limited himself to
£100 for the gaming pleasures at Monte Carlo, which he could not resist,
and this sum he invariably lost at the end of the season.
But, of course, all those who frequent this place are not "innocents
abroad." That is another evil resulting from this pandemonium. Blacklegs
and adventurers of both sexes swarm here from all parts of Europe,
demoralizing and degrading the lovely shores of the Mediterranean, by
their vulgar and hateful presence. Thousands of invalids and others of
all nations yearly visit the beautiful little towns along the Riviera,
and this fatal trap at Monte Carlo, whereby so many are helplessly
ruined, and so many suicides result, should at least have the moral
voice of the world against it--in fact, an international protest, for it
is a gross scandal and disgrace to the whole of Europe. All who know
anything of this gambling Hades--what is done to keep it alive, its
irresistible fascination over even strong minds, and the number of its
victims, will, I think, acknowledge that it is even worse than slavery.
For the poor negro has to bear physical degradation only, whilst here it
is both moral and physical; body and soul-suffering to the victim and
his friends. Why, then, should this place have been allowed to exist so
long?
First of all, France secretly encourages and indirectly profits by it.
Were she earnest in her endeavours to suppress this infernal machinery
at Monte Carlo, it would soon be stopped, and she would have the thanks
of the civilized world for her good efforts. Italy is not entirely
without blame: the late Pope Pius IX. more than winked at it. Russia is
also accessory to it; the propensity to gamble seems natural to her
people; and the corrupt journalists on the continent gloss over and help
to support it.
The story of Monte Carlo is perhaps not sufficiently well known. In
consequence of his subjects revolting from his tyrannical rule, the
Prince of Monaco lost part of his territory. France having annexed Nice
and Savoy after the Italian campaign of 1859, the prince's fortunes were
at a very low ebb indeed. But under the protection of Napoleon III., who
put him up to a good thing in ground speculation at Paris, when Baron
Hausmann was going ahead with his great building furore, the prince's
coffers were not long empty. Then, the gambling-houses in Germany having
been suppressed, the notorious Blanc--whose family, I believe, are still
the proprietors of the tables at Monte Carlo--appeared upon the scene,
doubtless accompanied by a few choice friends. The importance of Monaco,
from a gambler's point of view, and the natural beauty of the place,
were not lost sight of by him. The constant stream of visitors to
Cannes, Nice, Mentone, and San Remo, must pass through Monte Carlo and
pay there a terrible toll. An immense sum was lavished in making the
place the delightful paradise it has become, less, of course, its
Satanic evils. Beautiful gardens, _cafés_, concert and gaming-saloons,
constructed with all the fascinating skill and taste that money and art
could accomplish, were added to its natural attractions. The best of
music and artistes procured, journalists bribed to advertize its
advantages as a "health resort," men and women of fashion drawn hither,
and then all was ready for the dupes.
Nice became an adjunct. The proprietors of the Monte Carlo Tables
support the gaieties there, giving prizes at the races, and other
inducements, to render it more attractive to visitors, the majority of
whom would invariably find their way to Monte Carlo. Besides, it were
better that their unfortunate and maddened victims should blow out their
brains at Nice and other places, rather than give Monte Carlo a _bad
name_! Though, frequently, they evade the gens d'armes, and at dawn of
day are found in the beautiful gardens lifeless. The glorious sun rises
over the dreadful scene, lighting up the lovely coast, and makes it a
paradise, in spite of man's wickedness and merciless cruelty. At Monaco
itself, there are thousands of pounds given away annually as the
_casino_ prizes, for the _tame_ pigeon-slaughtering matches, which
generally bring a great gathering. But the wonder is, that gentlemen
will soil their hands with the stakes, tempting, as undoubtedly they
are; and the marvel is that some of our leading newspapers, who
righteously declaim against the iniquities of Monte Carlo, still
condescend to advertize these _decoy_ matches.
And thus the "owner of the tables" became exceedingly wealthy, and
married his daughters to foreign princes--one to Prince Roland
Bonaparte, and the other to Prince Radziwill. The Prince of Monaco
shares the profits, amounting in the gross to some fourteen millions of
francs annually. The people of his wretched principality are relieved of
all taxes, even for gas and water--which secures their gratitude and
silence: the profits from the gaming-tables pay for all. I believe it
pays the entire expenses of the municipality, so that the prince has
simply to draw the remainder of his share in this inhuman plunder.
Religion has been drawn in as a veil, as is so often the case with
unscrupulous persons. Churches have been built to quiet and satisfy the
Roman Catholic conscience,[D] after so many shocking deaths had
occurred, or rather to "whitewash" the scandal. The Pope was satisfied
with the liberality of the great gambling Croesus, and gave his
blessing. Indeed, so religious has the place become that on Good Friday
the Passion play is acted in the Cathedral, and without the least sense
of incongruity.
The powerful alliances made with unscrupulous and needy princes of
France and Russia by the family of the Croesus Croupier and Co., have
enormously increased their power. Hence the difficulty in dislodging
them.
But it is an international matter. Monte Carlo is a curse to the people
of every nation who pass through it, and the voice of the civilized
world should be raised to insist on its absolute suppression. The Prince
of Monaco should be given to understand that he must do this, or cease
to exist as a petty independent power. _We_ English, who are so earnest
to prevent even small nuisances in our own land, where it is an
indictable offence for a poor itinerant Italian organ-grinder to refuse
to "move on" when ordered; where the owner of an overloaded dust-bin,
vitiating the atmosphere, is called to account;--_we_, proudly the
foremost in suppressing wrong and upholding the right, should surely not
be backward in striving to uproot this hell upon earth--existing solely
for the inhuman greed of a few selfish individuals; this plague-spot
threatening deadly contagion to soul and body, and causing misery,
madness, and suicide of thousands of our fellow-creatures.[E]
While these pages are passing through the press, the author is greatly
gratified to see the noble exertions Italy is making, both in her
Parliament and through the press, for the suppression of this gambling
principality--recounting the many terrible suicides so frequently
occurring there. But, a still more hopeful sign is the action recently
taken in our own House of Commons as evidenced by the following extract
from the _Morning Post_ of Feb. 12th, 1884:--
"A question is to be put to Lord E. Fitzmaurice to-morrow by Mr.
Anderson (Glasgow) on the subject of the recent tragedies reported from
Monte Carlo. The hon. member will ask whether her Majesty's Government
will make friendly representations to the Governments of France and
Italy, with the view of inducing them to unite for the suppression of
the public gambling tables in that principality; and whether her
Majesty's Government will also make friendly representations to the
Government of France regarding the continuance of public gaming tables
at Aix les Bains?"
Italy, however, would do well to set the example by the abolition of her
State "Lotto Banks;" and we in England would do well to suppress the
little "Monte Carlos" at our West End, and so called Proprietary Clubs
and Stock Exchanges.
[D] The grand Cathedral is still in progress, under the auspices of the
gambling fraternity.
[E] In my former work, "The Cruise of the _Gorgon_," my object was to
expose the iniquity of the East African slave-trade, and our mode of
suppressing it; and it is now my object to draw attention to the
immorality of the Monte Carlo gambling principality, with a view to the
exposure and suppression of its evils, for the benefit of those who, for
health and pleasure, resort to these lovely shores of the Mediterranean.
CHAPTER VII.
Scenery _en route_--Bordighera--Pegli--Genoa--Its magnificent situation
--The grandeur of its past--The harbour--Streets--Palaces--Churches--
Cathedral of San Lorenzo--Sacred Catina--Chapel of St. John the Baptist
--Italian Beggars--Sudden change in the atmosphere--The Campo Santo--
Shops of Genoa--Marble promenade--City of precipices--Climate of Genoa.
After our visit to Monte Carlo, we returned to our hotel at Mentone,
which we left early on the following day for Genoa, our next
halting-place.
The country around Ventimiglia, Bordighera, and San Remo, is in many
parts grand and beautiful, affording varied and interesting excursions.
These three places are filled with visitors. The climate is somewhat
more relaxing than at Nice or even Mentone. The date-palm seems to
flourish at Bordighera, which is said to have the monopoly of supplying
these graceful branches to Rome, for the Church ceremonies at
Easter-time.
Savona was the largest town passed on our route. It has a very fine
Cathedral, and was at one time a considerable port. A little further
eastward on the coast is Pegli, a pretty little seaside place, fast
growing into favour. The Imperial Princess of Germany stayed here with
her children some time since.
* * * * *
After a very pleasant journey by rail we reached Genoa at 10 p.m.
Genoa, Gênes, Genova, as it is called in English, French, and Italian,
derives its name from the Latin word _genu_, the knee, supposed to be
the shape of the large inlet of the sea around which the land lies in a
vast semicircle. It is also called "La Superba," from its magnificent
situation; indeed, few cities equal its imposing grandeur as seen from
the sea. Handsome buildings line the shore for about the length of two
miles; splendid palaces, churches, and convents rise tier upon tier on
the steep sides of the hills, whose barren summits are crowned by
formidable-looking forts and ramparts. Immediately behind are the
Apennines, and upon these mountain heights are again several strong
forts commanding the town, which is also enclosed by a double line of
fortifications on the land side. The stern aspect of these works is
relieved by gardens, whose foliage gives the one touch needed to soften
the beauty of the whole. The harbour has a pier at each end, and upon
one of these is a very fine lighthouse.
From time immemorial Genoa has been famous as a seaport, and as the
contemporary and rival of fair Venice, and, like her, has had a proud
and eventful history. How sadly are these splendid cities of the past,
these great and wealthy republics of ancient times, sunk at the present
day to a shadow of their former magnificence and grandeur! Their ruined
splendour alone remains to show us what they were. But it is like gazing
on the beauty of death; the soul, the spirit, is wanting, and we are
continually haunted by the hollow mockery of the empty house which was
once its dwelling. Doubtless the Genoese are proud of their city, yet it
reminds one of the last descendant of a long and ancient pedigree, whose
ancestors were once lords of many a fair manor, but who now has nothing
but his name left, to recall the recollections of bygone days, and
points on this side and on that, with the words "These lands once
belonged to my illustrious family, of which I am the sole
representative."
Baedeker says, "The beauty of its situation, and the interesting
reminiscence of its ancient magnificence, render a visit to Genoa very
attractive, especially to the traveller who is visiting Italy for the
first time.... The Renaissance palaces are objects of extreme interest,
surpassing in number and magnificence those of any other city in Italy.
Many of the smaller churches are of very ancient origin, though usually
altered in the Gothic period."
The many splendid palaces of the old nobility, with all their art
treasures and galleries of fine paintings by the great masters, have
been left to the city as a free gift, with the stipulation of their
being open to visitors. Rubens and Vandyke both resided here, and there
are a number of their greatest works to be seen. As an example of the
wealth of the nobles even at the present day, and their patriotic pride
in their city, the Duke of Galliera, who died in 1876, presented twenty
million francs for the improvement of the harbour, on condition that the
Government would advance the remainder of the sum required, and the work
is now in progress.
This semicircular harbour is crowded with shipping, while all around are
large warehouses, and stretching along the edge is a superb promenade of
white marble on raised arches. The Gulf of Genoa is very stormy, and
there are but few fish to be found in it.
The streets are paved with stone which tires one to walk on. Many of
them are dark and crooked, particularly in the interior of the town and
near the sea, and so steep and narrow that in some of them a carriage
cannot pass through. Most people will remember Dickens' amusing remarks
on this subject in his "Pictures of Italy."
Some of the streets, however, are very fine. The Via Roma stretches up
the hill, and descends in an almost unbroken line to the valleys beneath
the mountains, and is remarkably clean and pleasant. On either side are
houses of stone, with overhanging roofs. In the Via Carlo Felice is the
Via Carlo Felice Theatre, the third largest in Italy. The Via Garibaldi
has no less than eighteen splendid marble palaces in succession, while
the fine streets, Nuovissima, Balbi, and Carlo Alberto, are also lined
with these grand old palaces of the Genoese nobility. Many of them
contain rare and magnificent works of art, and their furniture and
decorations are rich and beautiful in the extreme. They are usually on
view from ten till three, on payment of a small fee to the keeper. In
each saloon you find catalogues of the pictures, amongst which the works
of Rubens, Titian, Correggio, and Vandyke are conspicuous.
Palace after palace, gallery after gallery; it is really _embarras de
richesse_, and one gets quite bewildered with the wealth of artistic
genius.
The churches are also very fine, but many of them are left in a very
unfinished condition. The Capuchin church of St. Annunziata, in the
Piazza del Annunziata, erected in 1587, has a portal upborne by marble
columns, while the brick façade is left quite unfinished, with great
holes between the brick and mortar, where seemingly the scaffold-poles
had been inserted, and in which the birds have built their nests. The
interior presents a striking contrast in its splendid and almost
over-gorgeous decorations. It is in the form of a cross, with a dome,
the vaulting supported by twelve fluted and inlaid columns, richly
gilded and painted. But a far more interesting church is the old
Cathedral of San Lorenzo, in the Piazza of the same name, and close to
the Via Carlo Felice. It is in the Gothic style, or rather represents
three different periods, the Romanique, the French Gothic, and the
Renaissance. It was mostly built about the year 1100, and restored in
1300. It has a triple portal, with deep-recessed, pointed arches. Above
these are several rows of arcades, a small rose window, and a tower
with a little dome at the top, two hundred feet high. At the south
corner above the central door is a bas-relief of the martyrdom of St.
Lawrence, its patron saint, and many quaint carvings of monsters. The
beautiful and curiously twisted columns, triple portals, arches, and
arcades, as well as the whole façade and front exterior, are of black
and white marbles; and there is some very fine bronze-work, painting,
and statuary. In the sacristy they show the Sacred _Catina_ (basin), a
six-sided piece of glass brought from Cæsarea in 1101, and reported to
be that which held the Paschal lamb at the Last Supper of our Lord. It
was given out to be a pure emerald, till the mistake was detected by a
scientific judge. It may be seen for five francs--a large fee, evidently
charged in the hope of some day making up for its deceptive intrinsic
worth. Like Westminster Abbey, the interior of this church has the
impress of antiquity, especially in its worn columns. I was invited by
the old verger to view the Sacred Chapel of St. John the Baptist, but my
wife was mysteriously prohibited, as women had been concerned in the
saint's martyrdom. I believe this stern order is waived once a year,
probably by payment of a pretty large fee for conciliation. There are
other chapels, paintings, and relics that are well worthy the trouble
and time of study, making this ancient cathedral the most interesting
duomo in Genoa.
St. Ambrogio, in the Via del Sellag, is rich in pictures: Ruben's
"Circumcision," and his "St. Ignatius," healing a man possessed of an
evil spirit, and also Guido's "Assumption." It is splendid in colouring
and wonderful in the elaboration of detail. These to some may appear too
extravagant. The Santa Maria di Carignano, or Church of the Assumption,
in the same street, is one of the finest in Genoa. The walk from here,
along the walls and ramparts of St. Chiara, gives a splendid view.
Many other churches, some sixty in number, are well worth a visit; but,
like the palaces, they require considerable time to properly appreciate
them.
One scarcely likes to see all these gorgeous buildings, with so lavish a
display of the money laid out on their profuse decoration, when the
mendicant poor, the halt, maimed, and blind are crowding the porches,
piteously begging alms; it spoils your pleasure and study of these
beautiful edifices. We ought, however, to recollect that at home we have
our crossing-sweepers, match and flower sellers, and many wretched
objects of suffering and poverty, who perhaps make a similar impression
on foreigners visiting our great and prosperous London, but who will
perhaps marvel also at our lukewarmness and niggardliness in beautifying
our St Paul's and other churches.
At the commencement of our stay here the weather was warm and bright,
but on the day following our arrival a most sudden change occurred, and
it was very wet, and on Sunday bitterly cold. We went to the English
church, and afterwards walked to the top of the fine street leading from
the Carlo Felice, right up the valley at the foot of the mountains, and
there we had a most glorious view. The Campo Santo in the distance; the
harbour on the right; and the great hills, with their strong forts
perched on every projecting point and pinnacle, all covered with snow;
quite a white world since the day before. We saw ice in the streets, and
were glad to return to the Hotel Isotta. The poor fasting Priests seemed
quite nipped up; and the Genoese ladies, who under more favourable
circumstances would have been graceful and good-looking, appeared
unaccustomed to this severity of weather, and hurried along with red
noses and pinched faces.
Of all our visits to interesting places in this ancient city our
excursion to the Campo Santo gave us the most pleasure. It is some three
or four miles from the city: the weather continuing cold, we preferred
walking. We went up the main street, through the valley at the foot of
the snow-clad hills we had seen before, and in little more than an hour
we arrived at the gates of the Cemetery. This Campo Santo is indeed most
eloquently illustrative of loving reverence and remembrance of the dead,
and is quite a museum of beautiful monumental statuary.
This burial-ground is a system of sheltered colonnades, where the dead
are deposited in sarcophagi, resting on shelves on the inner walls, tier
upon tier. Only the very poor people seem to be buried in the _common
earth_, in the open spaces which lie before the colonnades, and these
are crowded. It rather shocked us to see the gravedigger remove some
bones from the ground and throw them into a kind of bin, which was there
for the purpose, in order to make room for a new corpse. I thought, with
Hamlet--
"Did these bones cost no more the breeding, but to play at loggats
with them? Mine ache to think on't."
The colonnades are paved with marble, and are scrupulously clean. Some
have exquisite monuments and statuary, the figures most eloquently
expressive of tender feelings of both joy and sorrow. The draperies and
lacework are wonderfully real. One we thought especially beautiful. The
bereaved mourners are reluctant to part with their beloved relative and
endeavour to detain him, but an angel gently leads him away; and he,
though expressing love and sympathy for his friends, gladly follows his
winged guide to a happier world above. Another portrays a little girl,
tripping joyfully out from the tomb, over roses and other blossoming
flowers. There are hundreds of others, full of deep pathos, works of
Italy's greatest sculptors.
One tomb is said to have cost some £5000. The patriot Mazzini is buried
here. At the highest point of the cemetery is a rotunda chapel, with
very fine statuary of Moses and the prophets, Adam and Eve, and many
other subjects.
There is an echo in this chapel that is wonderfully and unusually clear
and distinct.
The shops at Genoa are small but handsomely furnished. The Genoese
jewellery is very beautiful, particularly the gold and silver filagree
work. We were surprised to learn that the gold so-called is only silver
twice gilt.
The postal arrangements here are very convenient. By leaving your
address at the poste restante, you have all your letters sent to you at
the hotel without delay. There is a nice sheltered colonnade, a kind of
Burlington Arcade, running half-way up at the back of the Via Roma,
where the Hotel Isotta is situated, and close to the post-office; but on
a rainy day, the noise made by those talking and promenading there is
somewhat of a nuisance to visitors in the hotel. A very favourite
promenade--indeed, the best in Genoa--is that before mentioned, in front
of the harbour, but only when shaded from the heat of the sun, as the
glare of its rays on the white marble is scarcely to be borne. Here in
the evenings, when fine, the ladies of Genoa are seen to advantage, with
their charming dress at once so elegant, modest, and becoming. English
women might well take a few hints from its simplicity. These ladies are
mostly handsome, and their movements are exceedingly graceful.
Here and there among the houses you sometimes see between two windows a
painting simulating a third window half open, with perhaps a lady
looking out into the street below, and this is so natural, that for the
moment you fancy it is real. The houses are mostly six stories high, and
the shops and lower apartments are consequently extremely gloomy. The
upper rooms are the most suitable to dwell in, but visitors frequently
find it exceedingly fatiguing to toil up and down the stairs; and some
of the stone-paved passages, miscalled streets, are almost
perpendicular. Altogether, one needs extraordinary strength in this city
of precipices. It is thus very unsuitable to invalids, apart from its
variable climate. It is subject to very rapid changes of temperature,
warm winds from the south alternating constantly with dry cold winds
from the north, which render it very trying to delicate people.
The weather was so very cold during our visit, that, despite the great
interest with which Genoa inspired us, we were glad to leave it for
Pisa, which we understood would be milder. We had intended going hence
to Milan, Florence, and Venice, but the cold warned us not to go further
north; and we therefore altered our plans, and left Genoa on the 9th of
January for Pisa, _en route_ for Rome.
CHAPTER VIII.
Pisa--Hotel Victoria--Pisan weather--The poet Shelley--Historic Pisa
--Lung 'Arno--San Stefano di Canalia--Cathedral--Baptistery--Leaning
Tower--Campo Santo--The divine angels--The great chain of Pisa--Leghorn
--Smollett's grave--Poste-restante--A sweet thing in Beggars--Ugolino's
Tower--Departure for Rome.
We arrived at Pisa towards evening, and got into comfortable quarters at
the Hotel Victoria, a quiet house, reminding us of the Swiss hotels in
its style of entertainment. We soon had a nice little dinner set before
us, and were hungry enough to do justice to it.
The next morning we found to our great disgust that it rained heavily.
Our hotel was close to the river Arno, the river of Dante and Petrarch.
It looked sandy and muddy as it flowed rapidly by. There were several
gondola-like barges being towed by ropes on the other side, and
Shelley's lines occurred to my memory, more in association of the poet
with the place, than from the poetical look of the river itself--
"Within the surface of the fleeting river
The wrinkled image of the city lay
Immovably unquiet, and for ever
It trembles, but never fades away."
It is impossible to visit Pisa without recalling touching memories of
the unfortunate and gifted poet who passed the last few years of his
stormy life here, and only left it in the summer of 1823 for the Casa
Magni, on the wild sea coast between Lerici and San Terenzio. It was
from here that the _Don Juan_ set out on its fatal trip to Leghorn one
July morning--never to return.
Pisa is another very ancient city. It was founded about six centuries
B.C., and was one of the twelve Etruscan cities. Like Genoa, it
underwent many changes and vicissitudes, one of the greatest of which
was the unexpected receding of the sea for some three or four miles,
changing it from a busy, prosperous port to a comparatively unimportant
inland town. It is still, however, much respected on account of its
ancient greatness and learning, and is generally looked upon as the
cradle of Italian art. In these latter days it is again becoming wealthy
and enterprising. It is considered a remarkably good place for
consumptive invalids. A fellow-traveller informed me that a friend of
his had lived here for many years with _both lungs gone_! The climate is
exceedingly mild, almost humid from the quantity of rain that falls:
there is said to be, on an average, seventy-three days of rain, and one
of snow, between October and April. We remained there only two days, and
it rained almost incessantly during the whole time; the place looking
very miserable under the circumstances. However, the inhabitants
appeared quite used to it, and walked about unconcernedly enough, with
their _green_ umbrellas, evidencing at least some sunny days in the
past.
The busiest part of the town is the Lung 'Arno (Street along the Arno),
a broad, handsome quay extending down both banks of the river. The
houses here are very imposing; one, in particular, is fronted with
marble so exquisitely smooth and pure it might serve as a looking-glass.
Fortunately for visitors, most of the objects of interest are
concentrated in one spot--a large square some ten minutes' walk from our
hotel. The streets we passed through on our way thither were very
quaint, the overhanging shops and cloistered pavements reminding us much
of Chester. On the way we visited San Stefano di Cavalier, the church of
the Knights of the Order of St. Stephen, and were much interested in the
number of flags--Turkish trophies captured from the Moslem by the
valiant Knights Crusaders. There were also some beautiful ceiling
paintings of the battle of Lepanto, and other subjects.
On reaching the Piazza del Duomo, we found the four chief objects of
interest we had come to seek. Forsyth pithily observes, "Pisa, while the
capital of a republic, was celebrated for its profusion of marble, its
patrician tower, and its grave magnificence. It can still boast some
marble churches, a marble palace, and a marble bridge. Its towers,
though no longer a mark of nobility, may be traced in the walls of
modernized houses. Its gravity pervades every street, but its
magnificence is now confined to one sacred corner. There stands the
Cathedral, the Baptistery, the Leaning Tower, and the Campo Santo, all
built of the same white marble, all varieties of the same architecture,
all venerable with years, and fortunate both in their society and their
solitude."
The Cathedral is indeed very fine; the columns, arches, and carvings are
curiously beautiful. It was built by the Pisans after their great naval
victory in 1063, and is, I think, the finest specimen now existing of
the style called by the Italians the Gotico-Moresco. Baedeker says,
"This remarkably perfect edifice is constructed entirely of white
marble, with black and coloured ornamentation. The most magnificent part
is the façade, which in the lower storey is adorned with columns and
arches attached to the wall; in the upper parts with four open
galleries, gradually diminishing in length: the choir is also imposing.
The ancient bronze gates were replaced in 1602 by the present doors,
with representations of scriptural subjects, executed by Mocchi, Tacca,
Mora, and others from designs by Giovanni da Bologna." The interior is
upborne by sixty-eight ancient Greek and Roman columns, captured by the
Pisans in war. The nave, transept, and dome are most beautifully
decorated with paintings, frescoes, and sculpture by Italy's greatest
master, of whom Ariosto truly says--
"_Michael, piu che mortal, angel divino._"
(Michael, less man than angel, and divine.)
Altogether it is one of the most beautiful Cathedrals I have ever seen,
more particularly in its external architecture.
Opposite, and but a few yards distant, is the Baptistery, but,
unfortunately, we were too late to obtain admittance. It is a beautiful,
circular structure some 160 feet in diameter, surrounded by columns
below, and a gallery of smaller detached columns above, covered with a
conical dome 190 feet high. The building was commenced in 1153, but was
not finally completed until 1278. It is famous for its wonderful echo.
The Campanile, or, as it is usually styled, the "Leaning Tower," is on
the other side of the Cathedral. It is 188 feet high, 53 feet round the
base, and about 14 feet out of the perpendicular. It is now, I believe,
generally understood that this obliquity was occasioned by the imperfect
state of the foundations and the sinking of the soil, which is light and
sandy, and which caused it to settle down on one side while the building
was still uncompleted; and this defect was afterwards provided for by
its architect. This is evident from the staircase, of some 294 steps,
being also at an angle. There are some very heavy bells on the topmost
towers, to counterbalance the deviation. It is supposed to have been
constructed about 1174, by William of Innsprück, and afterwards finished
by Italians, but it was not finally completed until 1350. It rises in
storeys, which, like the Baptistery, are surrounded by half columns and
six colonnades.
It is said that Galileo, who was born at Pisa, took advantage of the
peculiarity of the leaning tower to make his experiments regarding the
laws of gravitation; and there is in the Cathedral a great silver
chandelier suspended after his design--by a simple rod--from the great
height of the roof. This was so mathematically correct that the
celebrated astronomer took his idea of the pendulum from it. There is a
very fine view from the top of the tower, well repaying the trouble of
ascending. We were very pleased with the old "leaning tower of Pisa," so
familiar in our childhood as "one of the eight wonders of the world,"
and were not in the least degree disappointed, but rather wondered at
its height and circumference. It seems perilous to have erected other
buildings in its proximity, yet there are several handsome houses in its
immediate vicinity, affording, perhaps, additional grounds for the
theory of its accidental settlement.
The Campo Santo, or burial-ground, was the next place we visited,
accompanied by the custodian. It is not so beautiful in statuary as that
of Genoa, but from its great antiquity is even more interesting. It is a
long parallelogram 430 feet in length, with a covered cloister running
all round; the central part supported by beautiful pilasters adorned
with painting and frescoes, chiefly by Giotto, Orgagna, and Memmi, some
of them almost obliterated. There is a very ancient and interesting
collection of Roman, Etruscan, and Mediæval sculpture and sarcophagi,
important links in the history of early Italian sculpture. The pavement
is formed by the tombstones of those who have been interred here.
Through the round and beautifully traced arched windows you look out on
the original burial-ground in the centre, which is open to the sky, and,
tradition says, is filled in with some fifty-three ship-loads of earth
brought from Mount Calvary in the twelfth century (after the loss of the
Holy Land), by the Archbishop of that time, so that the dead might
repose in holy ground. I have heard that this Campo Santo is very
impressive when viewed by moonlight, which can be done by arranging with
the custodian at suitable times.
One other memento of past naval glory that we saw, was the great chain
across the more ancient part of Pisa. This was carried away by the
Genoese as a trophy, after their conquest of the city, but was
afterwards generously returned.
One of the pleasures of travelling not to be overlooked is that of
retrospection: picture after picture and memory after memory rises to
the mind, and one could go on for ever rebuilding in fancy all that has
pleased and interested. With all my heart I can echo Dickens' words--"I
find it difficult to separate my own delight in recalling, from your
weariness in having them recalled."
* * * * *
We took train to Leghorn, to procure our letters from the post-restante
there. The weather was so unpleasantly wet that, under the
circumstances, we did not find the place very interesting. Leigh Hunt
sums up _his_ impressions in a few exceedingly apt, albeit somewhat
unkind, words: "Leghorn is a polite Wapping, with a square and a
theatre." The grave of Smollett, who lived here for some time, is one of
the objects of interest to visitors from the British Isles. There is
always a degree of melancholy pleasure in coming across the last
resting-place of a distinguished countryman in a foreign land.
While at the post-restante, we experienced a singular example of the
persistency and malevolence of the typical Italian beggar. This time it
was a woman and her child, both extremely dirty, the latter evidently
alive with vermin. The woman, on my wife's refusing to give her
anything, deliberately told her poor neglected child to rub up against
her--in order, no doubt, to communicate some of her infirmity. To
relieve only a portion of the beggars of all kinds who pursue you
wherever you go in Italy, although this pest has been greatly reduced of
late years, would leave you with very little time or money.
On returning, we had a fine view of Pisa. In the distance it appears
like a city of white marble, with its tower leaning at one end, and the
blue mountains far away in the background, looking, however, much nearer
than is actually the case. Distance is almost annihilated in this clear,
dry, Italian atmosphere, which also to a great extent prevents decay,
the most ancient buildings looking often singularly fresh. "Antiquity
refuses to look ancient in Italy; it insists on retaining its youthful
aspect."
The _Torre del Fame_, or "Tower of Famine," where Ugolino and his sons
were starved to death, stood "a littel out" of Pisa, as old Chaucer has
it, but the very site of this monument of cruel tyranny and vengeance is
now lost, or at any rate apocryphal.
We were really glad to reach the Hotel Victoria once more, our journey
having been performed in the presently falling rain. There is much of
interest in this old city, but our time was limited, and we were
compelled to press on towards the south, and therefore left on the
evening of the second day for Rome, the weather clearing up just about
the time of our departure.
The Pisans have a significant motto:
"Pisa pensa a chi posa."
(Pisa sits ill
On those who sit still.)
We did not, however, stay long enough in the town to experience the
truth of the aphorism.
CHAPTER IX.
Arrival in Rome--Hotel de la Ville--The Corso--The Strangers' Quarter--
Roman Guides--View from the Capitol--"How are the Mighty fallen!"--The
sculpture-gallery of the Capitol--The Dying Gladiator--The Venus--
Hawthorne's Marble Faun--Bambino Santissimo--The Mamertine Prison--The
Forum--Palaces--The Coliseum--Longfellow's "Michael Angelo."
Travelling by the slow second-class train, we did not arrive at Rome
until nearly 11 p.m.; yet the journey proved interesting, especially as
we approached our destination. The stillness of night increased the
impressive awe that inspired us as we neared the "Eternal City." It was
not only cold and dark, but foggy; and we could see very little;
conjecture, however, was busy as we caught, through an occasional gleam
of light, the shadows of outlying monuments and ruins. As we crossed the
silent-rolling Tiber, and the reverberations of the railway bridge smote
on our ears with a hollow, sepulchral sound, we felt, almost with a
shiver, that we were entering a city of the dead.
The fog was extremely cold and penetrating, striking one almost like the
malaria, and we were glad to get to the well-lighted station, and mingle
with the cheerful animated crowd on the platform, and did not even feel
the intrusive hotel omnibus-conductors a nuisance, but gladly consigned
ourselves to the guidance of one, and drove away. However, we soon found
that Rome was _Imperial_ in her charges. The first hotel wanted from ten
to twelve francs for a bedroom per night, the second likewise.
Ultimately we were safely housed about midnight in the Hotel de la
Ville, in the Piazza del Popolo, at the head of the Corso. Though
perhaps a little out of the way, and less conveniently situated than the
more central hotels in the Piazza di Spagna, it has many advantages in
comfort, is quiet and moderate in charge, and close to the English
church.
This Hotel de la Ville was once the palace and museum of the Marquis
Campana. It is surrounded by so-called "English gardens," beautifully
decorated with columns, statues, fountains, and orange trees full of
golden fruit.
The next morning, on rising, we felt the dream of many years was at last
realized!
"Thou art truly a world, O Rome!" says Goethe; and we indeed felt it so,
as, having breakfasted, we sallied forth, eager to begin our
explorations. Our first visit was naturally to the English bookseller's,
where we purchased a guide-book. A plan of Rome may always be obtained
at one's hotel, and it is well to study the streets, etc., and arrange
one's campaign of sight-seeing. A good way is to begin by visiting the
nearest objects of interest, which can be accomplished on foot; then to
make use of the omnibus; and finally, of the carriages, for more distant
places outside the walls. These latter are cheap enough, as you may
drive from one end of Rome to the other for a franc.
The Corso, the main street in the city, is very narrow, and about a mile
in length. Starting from the Piazza del Popolo, it extends to the foot
of the Capitol. Most of the shops are situated here, and when lined with
fashionable carriages, it is very crowded, particularly just outside the
_cafés_. The other principal thoroughfares are the Strada del Babbuina,
ending in the Piazza di Spagna; and the Strada di Ripetta, leading to
the Tiber. Most of the streets converge into the Piazza di Venezia,
where is situated the tramway station, from which omnibuses run to all
parts of the town. This corner of the city is usually known as the
"Stranger's Quarter." Groups of military men were lounging about, and
blocking the pavements, characteristically indulging in _dolce far
niente_ aided by the eternal cigarette; indeed, the whole population
appear to smoke all day long; both wine and tobacco being too cheap and
plentiful for the good of the people.
I believe there are very few _good_ guides in Rome--few at least who do
their duty conscientiously, and with interest, but all asking some
twelve francs a day, just to ride about with you and smoke innumerable
cigarettes. A really good guide is worth securing, and saves much time,
trouble, and expense, besides giving most valuable information
sometimes. On the first day, we were lucky enough to pick up one of the
right sort, with a toga, cloak, and Roman profile; but unfortunately his
pronunciation of English was such a jargon we were quite unable to make
head or tail of it, especially when most eager to obtain some
information of interest, which he was willing and even anxious to
convey.
He took us to the top of the Capitol--at least, I accompanied him to the
very flagstaff; but it was blowing so tempestuously that my wife was
obliged to be content to remain a flight of steps below, and, being the
hour of noon, the great bell (which Garibaldi struck when he called the
Romans "to arms") boomed out twelve mighty strokes with its immense
clapper, and nearly deafened her. The wind was so strong that I had to
take off my hat and cling to the parapet. But how interesting was the
panorama that met my gaze! Right over the Eternal City beneath me, and
far away beyond the plains around it, lay that great range of bare
mountains over which, in the day of her distress, poured Rome's Gothic
enemies, in wild and overwhelming hordes. Wasted and enfeebled by the
constant drain made on her resources to supply the many provinces of her
fair empire, her very vitals insidiously sapped and impoverished by the
selfish luxury and vice to which her pagan civilization had brought her,
what wonder that she fell an easy prey. Yet the heart still yearns over
her in her mighty fall, and as I looked, and caught the enthusiasm of my
Roman guide, the lament of Byron rose to my lips:
"O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye
Whose agonies are evils of a day!--
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.
"The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless, and crownless, in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her wither'd hands,
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago:
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.
"The Goth, the Christian, time, war, flood, and fire
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride;
She saw her glories star by star expire,
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,
Where the car climb'd the capitol; far and wide
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site:--
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,
O'er her dim fragments cast a lunar light,
And say, 'Here was, or is,' where all is doubly night?
"Alas! the lofty city! and alas!
The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away!
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay,
And Livy's pictured page! but these shall be
Her resurrection; all beside--decay.
Alas, for earth, for never shall we see
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!"
Around lay the seven hills on which Rome was originally built. The
Capitoline, on which I was standing, the Palatine, Quirinal, Coelius,
Aventine, Esquiline, Viminal. Some of them appeared merely green mounds,
the remains of the wonderfully strong and ancient walls, and here and
there the broken outline of some palace of the great Cæsars. Immediately
beneath us lay the mighty Coliseum, the Forum, and other monuments of
Rome's ancient grandeur and departed glory. Away to the north-west,
across the muddy, silent Tiber, lay decaying papal Rome, crested by the
dome of St. Peter's and the Vatican. Again, to the north-east, right
over ancient Rome, and towards the Quirinal and Esquiline hills, young
Italy, emancipated and free, her national flag floating in the breeze
from the palace of the king. It was a grand and impressive sight, and
one never to be forgotten.
On descending from the tower, we passed through storehouses filled with
broken remains of figures, capitals, plinths, and other fragments
disentombed from the Forum, etc. The three palaces which comprise the
principal buildings of the modern Capitol were designed by Michael
Angelo, and form three sides of a square. In the centre stands the noble
equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius. The open side faces the modern
part of Rome. The palace on the left side, or Capitoline Museum, as it
is called, contains one of the finest collections of sculpture in Italy.
It is quite a day's work to see it properly, but we had to be content
with an hour or two.
Here we saw that most noble and pathetic presentment of Death, grappled
with, and almost conquered, in the statue of the Dying Gladiator. The
right arm was restored by Michael Angelo, and the guide informed me that
by general agreement it should have been brought a little more forward,
and that the great sculptor, although aware of it, was unable for some
reason to restore it in this way. I think, however, that his conception
as resting, must be the right and natural posture, as the wounded man
seems to depend on the support of that arm entirely, while struggling in
the agonies of death. You may almost see the moisture on his manly brow,
while in the intensely expressive face you catch glimpses of that
lifetime which is passing across his memory in the space of a
moment--thoughts of the wife and little ones in that far-away home to
which he will never return. It is a fine subject, exquisitely conceived
and executed, and worthily described in Byron's two immortal stanzas.
Upstairs, in a small rotunda-shaped temple, enshrined in a niche in the
wall, we saw that most beautiful conception of womanhood, known as the
Venus of the Capitol. She appears as though suddenly disturbed while
taking her bath, and the expression of frightened innocence and maiden
shame upon the face, and the graceful shrinking attitude of the limbs,
form a picture of perfect purity and loveliness. The guide turned the
figure upon its pedestal so that we might catch the beauty of its curves
and soft outline, and though the action seemed half profane, rudely
disturbing one's semi-entranced admiration, I did not until then catch
the full beauty of "the statue that enchants the world." An almost
living memorial of the "Age of Beauty," there seems in this one radiant
figure to be enfolded the whole wealth of love and loveliness that
distinguished so richly those times when--
"Human hands first moulded, and then mocked
With moulded limbs, more lovely than its own,
The human form, till marble grew divine."
Yet one other masterpiece of ancient art we eagerly looked for was the
marble Faun of Praxiteles, around which the graceful genius of Nathaniel
Hawthorne has woven such a delicate web of romance, the figure itself
being inimitably described in the opening chapter. But this and other
immortal works are made familiar to us by so many gifted writers, that I
need but to mention their names to conjure them in all their beauty to
the eye of the intelligent reader, who instantly recalls to mind some
beautiful passage in poetry or prose, to which any words I could pen
would be superfluous. "All men are poets by nature," but "adequate
expression is rare;" and though a vivid sense of beauty and a passionate
appreciation of the grand and sublime is open to all, yet to genius
alone it is given to clothe the fleeting thought with words of haunting
music, which shall live as long as the idea that gave them birth.
Close by the museum is the Church of Santa Maria di Ara Coeli,
ascended by some 124 steps. Here we were reverently ushered by a monk
into a little chapel, to see the Santissimo Bambino. After opening the
shutter, he approached the altar, and from an iron door in the top drew
out a drawer, inside which was a box; from this he carefully lifted out,
reverently crossing himself as he touched it, a doll of wax or painted
wood, supposed to be an image of the Infant Jesus. The legend runs, that
an angel appeared in the porch of the church at midnight, and, ringing
the bell, flew back to heaven, leaving the image of the Sacred Babe to
the care of the church, just as a poor child is dropped at the door of a
foundling hospital. The doll is literally covered with jewellery, and
diamond-rings, and other gems and trinkets, sewn into its dress, the
offerings of its misguided devotees. It is said that the priests at the
church "farm" this Bambino, and make a good income by exhibiting it,
letting it out on special occasions for large profits. Leave the priests
alone for their ability to work on the ignorance and credulity of the
people! It is sometimes carried to the houses of the sick, being
supposed to possess miraculous healing properties. After duly displaying
this treasure, the monk carefully replaced it, locking it up with a
profound sigh.
This is only one of the many wonderful relics that are shown, and absurd
legends that are told, and one hardly knows whether to treat with pity
or contempt the ignorant credulity shown by the lower orders of Roman
Catholics and their priesthood.
Between the Capitol and the Forum is the Mamertine prison, where among
other illustrious captives were confined Jugurtha, Sejanus, and the
Catiline conspirators; St. Paul, too, noblest of men, was here held in
durance vile, and Popish tradition says St. Peter also. Passing through
a little church, we were lighted down into a dark dungeon, and below
this found another, communicating by narrow stone steps; but it is said
the poor prisoners were _dropped_ from the one to the other through a
hole or trap-door. They were confined below until sentenced to death,
when they were brought up the steps to the dungeon above, where they
were executed, and their bodies thrown out for the satisfaction of the
people thronging the Forum. There is a dint in the stone wall where it
is said St. Paul's head was battered by his inhuman gaoler; this, though
it sounds improbable enough, is gravely related as a fact. A
subterranean passage extends to a considerable distance, which I
penetrated as far as I was able, till a cold blast of air, evidently
from the river Tiber, almost extinguished my candle, and the guide
shouted to me to return.
It is remarkable how much lower that part of ancient Rome surrounding
the Forum lies compared to the rest of the city--certainly from ten to
fifteen feet. Modern or mediæval Rome seems in some instances to be
partially built over the older portion. Why this should have been, it is
difficult to say. New and interesting excavations are made continuously,
and I could have remained here the live-long day, watching the gradual
disentombment of the beautiful columns, statuary, and other long-buried
mementoes of Rome's past greatness--and, as her foundations were laid
bare, rebuilding and repeopling, according to my own ideal fancies, this
great temple of eloquence. "What men have crossed the shadows of these
very columns! What thoughts that have moved the world were born beneath
them!" Scene after scene rose to my mind which had been enacted in this
very spot, one fair vision standing out like a star from the
rest--Virginia, "the sweetest maid in Rome," in her white garments, as
though prepared for the sacrifice, satchel in hand, tripping with "her
small glancing feet along the Forum," and up the sacred street from the
schools, the remains of which may still be seen cavernlike.
After all, what is left of Rome's greatness? A few broken columns only?
Surely not. We are still as deeply moved as ever by the history of her
mighty rise and fall; the world still acknowledges the governing wisdom
of her imperishable laws, and is still benefited by the inspiring
example of her noble men and virtuous women. But the true "Eternal City"
must be looked for elsewhere than in the most powerful of pagan nations.
This indeed must have solaced the little fraternity of Christians at
ancient Rome, when so cruelly persecuted: and what a glorious triumph is
theirs now!
We did not omit to pay a visit to the palaces of the Cæsars, which lie
clustered above and about the Forum. It is rather difficult to
understand how the Romans obtained sufficient light for their dwellings,
the rooms being generally small, and without external windows. What
there was, however, usually came from above, as the courts were open;
and also by radiation, the large marble tanks in these courts being
filled with water, on which the descending light smote, and was
dispersed around. There is a subterranean passage leading from the
palaces to the Coliseum, which was made use of by the emperor and his
suite for their transit thither; and a terribly anxious little journey
that must often have been to the great Cæsars.
The grand old Coliseum still rears its crumpling walls proudly towards
the skies, though almost two-thirds lie in ruins. The centre has been
filled in with earth, so that we scarcely see the original bottom, but
there is sufficient left to show clearly to what use this great
amphitheatre was put. One intelligent guide points out the evidences of
formerly existing hydrants, which had led to the Tiber, and thus flooded
the lower part with water for the exhibition of mock naval engagements.
Then, when the water was let out again, great scaffolding poles were
inserted into stone sockets, and a platform suspended on a level with
the dens, from which the wild beasts were let into the arena. And here
the gladiators fought, and the Christians and criminals were torn to
pieces, to make sport for the countless multitude sitting, crowded tier
upon tier around, while the blue heavens looked down on the inhuman and
bloody sight, and the poor martyr Christians, fearlessly awaiting their
doom, sighed upwards, "How long? how long?" We could also see the
trap-doors from whence buffoons were hoisted on to the stage. To trace
all this was interesting, though it saddened one to reflect on all the
horrors that had been enacted here. Much of the brickwork had evidently
been veneered with slabs of marble, most of which has now disappeared;
but it rather puzzled me to see so many great chips made in certain
parts of the marble columns. Our guide, however, informed me that they
had bars of iron in the centre, and it was to obtain this iron for
making into spear-heads for the defence of Rome that the marble was so
broken and chipped at the joints--an inglorious ending truly for these
witnesses of past splendour!
It has been said that Byron's celebrated description of the Coliseum is
better than the reality; that "he beheld the scene in his mind's eye,
through the witchery of many intervening years, and faintly illumined it
with starlight instead of the broad glow of moonshine." Be this as it
may, the noble stanzas are all too well known to bear further quotation.
The reader may possibly be less acquainted with the fine lines on the
subject, which Longfellow has put in the mouth of Michael Angelo, in the
fragmentary tragedy of that name lately published in America:
"Tradition says that fifteen thousand men
Were toiling for ten years incessantly
Upon this amphitheatre.
Behold,
How wonderful it is! The queen of flowers,
The marble rose of Rome! Its petals torn
By wind and rain of twice five hundred years;
Its mossy sheath half rent away, and sold
To ornament our palaces and churches,
Or to be trodden under feet of man
Upon the Tiber's bank; yet what remains
Still opening its fair bosom to the sun,
And to the constellations that at night
Hang poised above it like a swarm of bees.
"The rose of Rome, but not of Paradise;
Not the white rose our Tuscan poet saw,
With saints for petals. When this rose was perfect
Its hundred thousand petals were not saints,
But senators in their Thessalian caps,
And all the roaring populace of Rome;
And even an Empress and the Vestal Virgins,
Who came to see the gladiators die,
Could not give sweetness to a rose like this.
The sand beneath our feet is saturate
With blood of martyrs; and these rifted stones
Are awful witnesses against a people
Whose pleasure was the pain of dying men.
"Look at these walls about us and above us!
They have been shaken by earthquakes, have been made
A fortress, and been battered by long sieges;
The iron clamps, that held the stones together,
Have been wrenched from them; but they stand erect
And firm, as if they had been hewn and hollowed
Out of the solid rock, and were a part
Of the foundations of the world itself.
... A thousand wild flowers bloom
From every chink, and the birds build their nests
Among the rained arches, and suggest
New thoughts of beauty to the architect."
CHAPTER X.
Trajan's Gate--The Appian Way--The English Cemetery--Catacombs of St.
Calixtus--Reflections on the Italian seat of government--Churches--S.
Paolo Fuori le Mura--Santa Maria Maggiore--S. Pietro in Vincoli--"Was
St. Peter ever in Rome?"--Fountains of Rome--Dell' Aqua Felice--Paulina
--Trevi--Rome's famous Aqueducts--Beggars--Priests.
Trajan's Gate, near the Coliseum, is a beautiful piece of architecture.
No Jew can ever be prevailed upon to pass beneath it--at which we can
hardly wonder, for it is like forcing them again to walk under the
"Caudine forks," reminding them all too forcibly of their conquerors,
the destruction of their beloved city, and the bitter humiliation they
have ever since suffered.
After passing the Arch of Trajan, we soon reach the great high-road,
paved with diamond-shaped blocks of lava stone, extending a vast
distance, even beyond Naples. This is the celebrated Via Appia. It takes
its name from Appius Claudius the Censor. How the mind travels back into
centuries long past! How the imagination recalls the glory of ancient
times! Like Milton, we seem to see--
"The conflux issuing forth, or entering in:
Proctors, proconsuls, to their provinces
Hasting, or on return, in robes of state;
Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power;
Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings;
Or embassies from regions far remote,
In various habits, on the Appian road."
The road, apart from itself, has many interests from the numerous relics
and monuments of distant ages all along its way. First, we pass the tomb
of the Scipios, just inside the Gate of St. Sebastian, and the Arch of
Drusus; then the tombs of Augustus and Livia, and many others, mentioned
by St. Paul as belonging to Cæsar's household; then, crossing the
Aqua-taccio, is the old church Domine quo Vadis, or "Whither goest
thou?" where, according to tradition, St. Peter, flying from
persecution, met the Saviour, who caused him to return by asking this
question. Then we come to the tomb of Cæcilia Metella:
"Standing with half its battlements alone,
And with two thousand years of ivy grown,
The garland of eternity."
The "stern round tower" looks little like a woman's grave. Many other
tombs, all possessing more or less interest, we passed, and I must not
forget the English cemetery, where--
"Like an infant's smile, over the dead
A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread."
Here lie the remains of our two young poets, taken from us in the flower
of their manhood, ere genius had fairly ripened, and ere, alas! we had
learned to appreciate them at their true value.
At length we arrived at the Catacombs of St. Calixtus, the most
extensive in Rome. We first passed through the church of St. Sebastian,
and then, following a monk with lighted tapers, were soon underground
among dismal tunnels, with here and there an open tomb, or rather great
shelves cut in the soft brownish rocks (_tufa_). In many places the
sides of these tunnel passages were almost honeycombed with open graves.
There were still in some of these little heaps of decaying bones:
occasionally a name was roughly cut below, executed probably by one of
the little flock of the faithful, and an inscription in Greek, for the
early church was more Greek than Latin. These long corridors extend in
every direction, and, in fact, surround the city on this side. It was a
frequent custom amongst the Christians in Rome to pay visits on Sunday
to the sepulchres of the martyrs, and especially to the Catacombs. When
the sacred roll of martyrs had scarcely been closed, Jerome went the
round with his schoolfellows, and speaks awesomely of the darkness and
dread gloom of these crypts, deep in the earth, dimly lighted by broken
gleams through shafts and holes. They were reached by a narrow entrance,
down a long flight of steps, and through innumerable winding passages,
all carefully concealed from the persecutors. How great a contrast to
the glowing sunshine, and the light breezes, which whispered through the
vine leaves on the hills outside! God's love and man's hatred! Our
thoughts wandered away irresistibly to those times when the Christians
lived here like moles underground, until they died, and were laid by the
loving and devoted hands of their comrades in these dark shelves of the
rock. It is said that there are some seven million bodies buried in
these Catacombs. True enough that all around the Eternal City is one
vast tomb, especially in the direction of the Via Appia, recalling the
prophecy, "He shall fill the places with dead bodies."
I have sometimes thought it a pity that Rome rather than Milan was
selected as the seat of the Italian Government. I say Milan, because I
think neither Florence nor Turin are suitable from a military point of
view, as, if once the heights around were seized by a hostile army, the
city would be lost. Now, Milan, as far as the eye can reach, stands in
the midst of fine open plains, and an enemy could find but little
shelter or commanding position. Rome seems almost polluted by these vast
tombs surrounding her, and will require an immense amount of labour to
render it healthy as a continual residence. Yet no doubt Nature, the
never-resting, ever-working, irresistible evolutionary power, will
assist in the coming changes. For "Nature," says Emerson, "is nascent,
infant. When we are dizzied with the arithmetic of the savant toiling to
compute the length of her line, the return of her curve, we are steadied
by the perception that a great deal is doing; that all seems just begun:
remote aims are in active accomplishment. We can point nowhere to
anything final; but tendency appears on all hands: planet, system,
constellation, total Nature, is growing like a field of maize in July;
is becoming somewhat else; is in rapid metamorphosis.... Says Nature 'I
have not arrived at any end; I grow, I grow.'"
* * * * *
It was a great relief to gain the open air after the long and saddening
exploration of the Catacombs. Some three or four miles on the road
towards Ostia we passed some very old monuments and tombs, and also the
ruins of ancient residences. All around is an uncultivated wilderness, a
few fine but rusty iron gates alone remaining to show their past pomp
and grandeur as suburban residences.
After passing these, we came suddenly on a splendid, newly built
Cathedral. It was indeed surprising to find so large and handsome a
structure far away from any town or village--completely isolated among
the dead! It was the Basilica S. Paolo Fuori le Mura, which was built in
1847 in this uninhabited spot, on the site of a venerable and
interesting church burnt in 1823, which had been founded by Constantine
to mark the grave of St. Paul. The present edifice was rebuilt under the
eye of Pius IX., who was to have been buried here. It is some four
hundred feet long, and is divided into fine aisles and noble pillars of
Baveno marble and granite in single blocks, two of which support an arch
over the altar, dedicated to the sister of Honorius, who completed the
former church, and whose design has been copied in the present one,
which also contains copies of the old mosaics by Giotto's pupils. The
front is likewise a copy, and when completed is to be adorned by a great
mosaic costing 30,000 scudi. The timber roof is richly carved and gilt;
and the frescoes in the nave are ornamented with mosaic heads of all the
popes, chiefly modern, from the government studios, but there are a few
ancient ones among them. It seems as though the whole civilized world
had united to do honour to this noble edifice and the great Apostle in
memory of whom it was erected. The alabaster pillars of the high altar
were presented by the infidel Pacha of Egypt; a detached altar in the
transept was a gift from the heretic Emperor of Russia; the granite
pillars in the nave came from the Emperor of Austria. Among them is the
one celebrated by Wordsworth when it stood on the Simplon, and which
Napoleon intended for the triumphal arch of Milan. Some noble-minded and
generous Jew has bequeathed a large sum for the support of the church;
and the King of Holland gave 50,000 francs for the same purpose--truly a
world's acknowledgment of St. Paul's large-hearted, self-sacrificing,
and noble life. Among other treasures it possesses a painting of the
Conversion of St. Paul by Camuccini, the choir by Carlo Maderno, and a
fine St. Benedict by Ramaldi.
An adjoining cloister, belonging to the Benedictine Convent, dates from
the thirteenth century. It rests on fluted and twisted columns, and
contains in its library a small collection of Christian gravestones
from A.D. 355. One bears the figure of an organ, with the
words, "_Rustreus te vit, and Feci_." The atrium of the old church,
which is the distinguishing mark of a Basilica, existed down to the
seventeenth century, and is now replaced by a modern court. The plan of
the former church was a duplicate of that of old St. Peter's. About
twenty-four of its columns were taken from the tomb of Hadrian; and yet
one other remarkable feature consists in its having been under the
patronage of the English kings till the time of Henry VIII., when that
fickle monarch broke allegiance with Rome altogether, for reasons of his
own. Though this church always seems to have struck travellers with
admiration, as combining in itself the last reminiscence of pagan Rome,
and the earliest mementoes of the Christian world, it had nevertheless
been so far altered by the processes of decay and whitewash, that many
of its most striking peculiarities and beauties had been effaced, even
before its total destruction by fire.
I admired the now existing church extremely, both for its noble
proportions and the beautiful simplicity of its design and
ornamentation. The stained glass windows are one of its distinguishing
marks of beauty. "It is a woful thing, a sad necessity, that any
Christian soul should pass from earth without once seeing an antique
painted window, with the bright Italian sunshine glowing through it.
There is no other such true symbol of the glories of the better world,
where a celestial radiance will be inherent in all things and persons,
and render each continually transparent to the sight of all." The
atrium, with its marble floor of almost spotless beauty, its lofty
columns and noble simplicity of architecture, represented my beau-ideal
of a Christian temple. There was not a single seat or chair--which I
believe is the case with all Basilicas, the congregation standing and
kneeling only--and this fact greatly adds to the apparent vastness of
this noble structure, which forms a beautiful and suitable monument to
the great and good St. Paul.
While on the subject of churches, I may mention two other fine edifices
we visited, both full of interest, though of a diverse nature.
The Church of Santa Maria Maggiore, on the Esquiline Hill, near the
railway station, is one of the four chief Basilicas of Rome, and well
repays a visit. It gives one more the idea of what a Basilica was really
meant to be than any similar edifice in Rome. The richly painted panels,
the interior colonnade with its long harmonious rows of pillars, the
clerestory decorated _en suite_ with small pilasters and panels, and the
beautiful panelled roof, all combine to give the building an air of
lofty and noble magnificence. The high altar is very beautiful, with its
decorations of marble, gilding, and precious stones: it is also
interesting as possessing the crypt in which Pius IX. was interred. The
tombs of Sixtus V. and Pius V. are also here; and in contrast to the S.
Paolo Basilica, which has no side chapels at all, this church possesses
two very fine ones, the Borghese, and the Presigio, which are as rich in
ornamental work as the rest of the building. The latter contains the
supposititious cradle of our Lord; and the former has _in veritas_ the
beautiful tomb of a Borghese princess and high-born Englishwoman (Lady
Geraldine Talbot). The altar of the Virgin is supported by four pillars
of oriental jaspar, agate, and gilded bronze; the image, which is said
to have been the work of St. Luke(!), is richly adorned with precious
stones. The church itself abounds in beautiful pictures, statuary, and
tombs. The chapel of Santa Lucia is also very interesting, possessing
many beautiful tombs, bas-reliefs, etc.
The other church we visited, S. Pietro in Vincoli (St. Peter in Chains),
is considered the most ancient in Rome. It is a noble hall, supported by
twenty columns of Parian marble, and has many fine and interesting
monuments. It is always a debatable point this--St. Peter's presence in
Rome. We have no actual proof that he was ever there, and yet the great
number of places associated with his name and made sacred to his memory
seem to point strongly to such a supposition. Yet it may be only the
religious deceit of the priesthood, who thus couple persons and things
with places, and insert monstrous legends and traditions for their own
mercenary ends, and, considering the immense number of extraordinary
relics, it is very evident that Mr. Shapira has had many predecessors
in the art of manufacturing antiquities.
One of the most pleasing features of Rome is its numerous beautiful
fountains, generally to be found in the piazzas, sometimes surrounded by
fine architectural and sculptural groupings. It seems as if the great
men of every age in this city "have found no better way of immortalizing
their memories than by the shifting, indestructible, ever-new,
ever-changing upgush and downfall of water. They have written their
names in that unstable element, and proved it a more durable record than
brass or marble."
The Fontana dell' Aqua Felice, near the baths of Diocletian, has a fine
statue of Moses striking the rock, by Prospero da Brescia, who is said
to have died of mortification at the ridicule excited by the figure of
the great lawgiver, in which a slight uncouthness is certainly
perceptible. The figures of Aaron and Gideon have been added to the
group by other artists. This fountain was celebrated by Tasso under the
name of the Fontana di Termini. The Fontana Paulina on the summit of the
Janiculum, near Porto S. Pancrazio, is like a triple triumphal arch. The
Fontana di Trevi, situated near the Palazzo Poli, is the most famous in
Rome. Its clear, sparkling water comes through the subterranean
aqueducts from far beyond the city walls. The design of the fountain is
by some sculptor of the Bernini school, and represents Neptune with his
attendant tritons, Health and Abundance. "It is as magnificent a piece
of work as ever human skill contrived. At the foot of the palatial
façade is strewn, with careful art and ordered irregularity, a broad and
broken heap of massive rock, looking as if it might have lain there
since the deluge. Over a central precipice falls the water in a
semicircular cascade, and from a hundred crevices on all sides silvery
jets gush up, and streams spout out of the mouths and nostrils of stone
monsters, and fall in glistening drops; while other rivulets, that have
run wild, come leaping from one rude step to another, over stones that
are mossy, slimy, and green with sedge, because in a century of their
wild play, Nature has adopted the Fountain of Trevi, with all its
elaborate devices, for her own. Finally the water, tumbling, sparkling,
and dashing, with joyous haste and never-ceasing murmur, pours itself
into a great marble-brimmed reservoir, and fills it with a quivering
tide, on which is seen continually a snowy semicircle of momentary foam
from the principal cascade, as well as a multitude of snow points from
smaller jets. The basin occupies the whole breadth of the piazza, whence
flights of steps ascend to its border. A boat might float and make
voyages from one shore to another, in this mimic lake."
The great aqueducts, by which these fountains are supplied, are marvels
of ingenuity and engineering skill, sometimes bringing the pure crystal
stream from lakes and hills thirty and forty miles away. Dyer, the old
eighteenth-century poet, has a graceful mention of them in his "Ruins of
Rome":
"From yon blue hills
Dim in the clouds, the radiant aqueducts
Turn their innumerable arches o'er
The spacious desert, brightening in the sun,
Proud and more proud in their august approach;
High o'er irriguous vales and woods and towns,
Glide the soft whispering waters in the wind,
And more united pour their silver streams
Among the figur'd rocks in murmuring falls,
Musical ever."
These noble aqueducts were the chief source of Rome's health and luxury,
and were in charge of Curators or Prefects, who formed a kind of "water
board." It is a system which might with great advantage be adopted by
our own large cities, which are lamentably wanting in a good and liberal
supply of fresh water--greedy monopolists charging what they choose, and
giving us the precious fluid clean or unclean, when or how they like.
The Government might do much to improve this state of things by
constructing aqueducts after the ancient Roman style.
Another marked feature in Roman life we are _not_ so anxious to see
imitated in our own country, is the abnormal quantity of beggars one
meets everywhere. They are of every sort and description, and swarm
round you wherever you go. Some of them a most pitiful and distressing
sight, only half clothed and seemingly starving. Their number is only
equalled by the legion of priests, who come upon you at every turn, in
all grades, from cardinals to novices. Of course, this is by no means to
be wondered at, Rome being the one great focus and clerical seminary of
the Roman Catholic world. But the contrast between the starving squalid
poor and the legions of well-fed priests is very painful.
CHAPTER XI.
Papal Rome--Narrow streets--St. Angelo--Benvenuto Cellini--St. Peter's
--Pietà Chapel--The Dead Christ--Tomb of the Stuarts--Anniversary of St.
Peter's--Grand ceremonial--Cardinal Howard--The Vatican--Pictures--
Pauline and Sistine Chapels--"The Last Judgment"--Pinacoteca--Raphael's
"Transfiguration"--The Madonna--Christian Martyrs--Sculptures--Tapestries
--Leo XIII.--Italian Priesthood--St. John Lateran--Marvellous legends and
relics--Native irreverence to sacred edifices.
"The Papal City," says Howels, "contrives at the beginning to hide the
Imperial City from your thoughts, as it hides it in such a great degree
from your eye." I had often asked our guide what had become of this or
that column or statue of ancient Rome, and he replied that the popes,
jealous of the greatness of _Pagan_ Rome, and the interest excited in
the minds of the present generations, Catholic and Protestant, removed
them as quietly as possible after their disinterment, lest the world
should say that the glory and grandeur of the Pagans of old exceeded
that of the Papacy.
We drove through a labyrinth of narrow, dirty, crowded streets, crossing
the Tiber by the fine bridge of St. Angelo. The picturesque castle of
this name was a very important fortress in the Middle Ages. It was
commenced by Hadrian, and afterwards finished as a family mausoleum by
Antoninus Pius, and must always possess a romantic interest from the
part it played in the life of that most whimsical and audacious of
autobiographers, Benvenuto Cellini. The account he gives of his escape
from its dungeons is quite Dumasesque in its thrilling details; and this
is not the only famous escape in the records of the fortress, Pope Paul
III., who was confined there in his youth, having succeeded in making a
secret exit.
Turning to the left through one of the narrow streets, we find ourselves
suddenly in a very fine piazza, before the largest Christian temple in
the world--colossal St Peter's. It stands proudly and grandly on the
Vatican Hill, on the site of the earliest Christian church, built by
Constantine the Great in the fourth century.
In the centre of the great piazza, which slopes upwards, is an ancient
Egyptian obelisk brought from the circus of Nero, and surrounded by
points of the compass let into the pavement. This is flanked by two
immense fountains, from which the water rises in a sparkling column to
the height of seventy feet. They are supplied by an aqueduct from Lake
Bramano, some seventeen miles distant.
St. Peter's is approached from the piazza, by a long-graduated series of
great steps. It is from the top of these that the Pope gives his
blessing at Easter to the multitude in the immense court below. The
piazza is environed by more than a thousand shops, which impede the
view, considerably foreshorten and hide the great dome of St. Peter's,
and detract from its imposing grandeur; causing the façade to appear of
an immense and disproportionate height. The whole stupendous
structure--the cross of which, lifting itself literally to the blue
skies, can be seen over the hills from the sea--occupied 116 years in
building, and was continued during the reigns of eighteen popes. Leo X.
was one of these, and his scheme of raising money for the work by the
sale of indulgences, went far to produce the Reformation. Truly God's
ways are wonderful, the almost trifling acts of a single person often
bringing about the most mighty results and changes in the world!
"St. Peter's is less like a church than a collection of large churches
enclosed under one gigantic roof.... One is lost in it. It is a city of
columns, sculptures, and mosaics." So says the clever, versatile Willis,
in his "Pencillings by the Way," and it would certainly take months to
examine minutely all that is worthy of attention in this vast pile. Our
time, unfortunately, was limited, and we were only able to notice some
of the more celebrated and striking features. Of the plan of the
building, and its architecture, external and internal, I will say
nothing, for what can now be said that has not been said before, and far
better than I could say it? Almost every one nowadays has formed his own
idea of what this great church is like--of its exceeding vastness and
extent, the immensity of its over-arching dome, and its gorgeous and
profuse decorations. Yet when they at length come to visit this
preconceived and idealized vision, perhaps their feeling is almost one
of vague disappointment. Like Hilda in the "Marble Faun," we at first
prefer our own dream-edifice to the solid reality. It is, in fact, so
immense that you utterly fail to take it in all at once; your gaze is
arrested by ponderous columns and you must be content to see it in
fragments. You yourself seem so lost in its immensity, that you find it
impossible to take in its immeasurable vastness from any single
standpoint, the mind utterly refusing to grasp it; but on a second and
third visit, you gradually obtain a more comprehensive idea of its
proportions.
"Thy mind,
Expanded by the genius of the spot,
Has grown colossal....
"Thou movest, but increasing with the advance,
Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise,
Deceived by its gigantic elegance;
Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonize,
All musical in its immensities:
Rich marbles, richer painting, shrines where flame
The lamps of gold, and haughty dome which vies
In air with earth's chief structures, though the frame
Sits on the firm-set ground--and this the clouds must claim.
"Thou seest not all; but piecemeal thou must break,
To separate contemplation, the great whole:
And as the ocean many bays will make,
That ask the eye--so here condense the soul
To more immediate objects, and control
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll
In mighty graduations, part by part,
The glory, which at once upon thee did not dart.
"Not by its fault, but thine: our outward sense
Is but of gradual grasp--and as it is
That what we have of feeling most intense
Outstrips our faint expression; even so this
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice
Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great,
Defies at first our nature's littleness,
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate."
Mendelssohn says, "You strive to distinguish the ceiling as little as
the canopy of heaven: you lose your way in St. Peter's; you take a walk
in it, and ramble till you are quite tired. When Divine Service is
performed and chanted there, you are not aware of it till you are quite
close.... When the music commences, the sounds do not reach you for a
long time, but echo and float in the vast space so that the most
singular and vague harmonies are borne toward you."
The interior space is the more increased by the fact of there being no
seats of any kind, and seems so immense that things of colossal size
appear of only ordinary proportions. Thus, two apparently small cherubs,
holding a vessel of holy water, are in reality six feet high; and other
figures, almost insignificant in the distance, are really wonderfully
large. The pen in the hand of St. Mark on the dome is five feet long.
There are about 134 popes buried here, and when looking at their grand
and beautiful monuments, extending up the left aisle, one cannot but
remember that these were the men whose power was at times almost
unlimited, who controlled the destinies of the world, and made emperors
tremble; and the mind travels back into the dark ages of the past. But
in these enlightened times, when the souls of men have shaken off the
fetters of mediæval bondage, it is difficult to understand how our
ancestors could have been so enslaved--worshipping the reigning pope,
though even a Borgia, as a very God upon earth. Near the last column of
the aisle is a colossal bronze statue of St. Peter, seated on a huge
chair or throne. We noticed that every one (Roman Catholic) bowed before
the image, and afterwards advanced and kissed one of the feet, the big
toe of which is quite worn away with the friction of countless myriads
of devout lips, and the general wiping of the sacred digit by each
individual before venturing to kiss it. It would seem, alas! that the
present generation is not so very far removed from the superstitions and
absurdities of the past, after all!
In the Pietà Chapel is one of the most beautiful pieces of sculpture I
have ever seen; it is Michael Angelo's _Dead Christ_. The Saviour's head
rests on the knee of the Virgin Mother, whose face is full of the
deepest pathos of holy love and intense sorrow. Truly a God-inspired
work.
"Art is the gift of God, and must be used
Unto His glory. That in art is highest
Which aims at this."
How appropriate these words are, placed in the mouth of the great
Buonaroti, we could hardly imagine till we had seen this sublime work
of art.
We felt greatly interested, in common with all our countrymen, in the
tomb which contains the ashes of the last of the Stuarts. Canova's
winged genii stand with reversed torches on either side of the door,
which is now closed for ever.
I must confess that I was neither pleased nor edified by the services
conducted in the gorgeous side chapels; they certainly seemed but a
mechanical form of prayer, little less than sacrilegious; the bishops,
priests, and choir hastening to get through the formula--those who were
not yawning taking snuff. Indeed, there was a dreadful absence of real
Christian humility and reverence. One day we arrived in time to witness
a High Church ceremonial--it was the anniversary of St. Peter. Cardinal
Howard officiated instead of the Pope, who had one of his frequent fits
of the sulks towards Italy. He was supported by all the great
dignitaries and potentates of the Romish Church, "a grotesque company of
old womanish old men in gaudy gowns." The cardinal is a robust
Englishman of the Friar Tuck style--the very antithesis to the
spiritual, thoughtful, Newman type. He is, however, zealous in his
duties, and much liked by the people. The principal part of the ceremony
seemed to consist in the constant changing of the cardinal's gorgeous
robes, accompanied by procession and prayer; and finally, when he left,
the people, more especially the women, rushed to kiss his hand. In spite
of its incongruity in our eyes, it was rather a touching sight, and the
cardinal seemed to realize almost painfully, as we did, the adoration of
the poorer of his flock.
The music was instrumental and vocal, the former composed entirely of
stringed instruments, and we were not at all inspired by it. It was not
to be compared to the fine choirs of St Paul's, the Temple, or,
Westminster Abbey; and for sacred music I think there is nothing like
the grand, melodious swell of the organ. We found none of the grand
Masses or other ceremonies of the Roman Church at St. Peter's, which
could compare for a moment in reverential feeling with the solemn
impressiveness of our own large churches during our beautiful and
eloquent service, which is so full of deep and earnest feeling, and yet
withal so simple that all can understand; and what more sublime than to
hear a vast congregation singing, as with a single voice, one of our
fine old hymns, such as the imperishable and soul-inspiring "Rock of
Ages"? Yet even here I think there is sometimes too much of a secular
character now introduced into church music.
The more one sees of St. Peter's the less easy it is to realize that so
magnificent and wonderful an edifice has been constructed by man.
Compare the stupendous structure with the puny attempts of the present
day. Architecture seems almost a lost art. I think this is owing to
want of patience; the lack of doing all things thoroughly and well; the
preference for mere show rather than durability and beauty; and the
selfish gratification of our own generation rather than a patriotic
pride and thought for future ages. If the nineteenth century has made
great advances in the industries, science, and thought, it has also
introduced a taste for meretricious imitation in every department of
manufacture and art. This is essentially the century for contracts.
Everything is done by contract, and not only is the matter of cost, but
also that of time, made a strong point in the bargain. When St. Peter's
was built, estimates of cost were not thought of, and no one ever
dreamed of fixing a date for completion of so vast a work.
To gain admission to the galleries of paintings and sculpture in the
Vatican, it is necessary to procure tickets. These may always be
obtained of your hotel proprietor, while a pass to the Pantheon and to
all exceptional ceremonies can generally be got by an early application
to your Banker.
Next to the Vatican, the Villa Borghese, near the Piazza del Popolo, and
the gardens of the Pincian Hill, has the most important
picture-galleries in Rome. The Palazzo Doria, in the Corso, is also one
of the finest in the city. There are three large fronts enclosing a
spacious court, and this is surrounded by a piazza. There is a very
handsome staircase, leading to the splendid series of galleries full of
priceless works by the great masters--Correggio, Raphael, Titian, and
others. Unfortunately, we were obliged to hurry through, without seeing
half of them properly.
It is necessary to provide yourself with a quantity of small copper
coins, for every Usher who shows you anything, expects some payment in
return, and they are quite satisfied with a few centissima.
The Vatican contains the richest, rarest, and most varied collection of
art treasures in the world. This is not to be wondered at when we
remember that it has been the work of more than a hundred popes, many of
them princely patrons of art and genius, some very unscrupulous, and
each in his day exercising almost uncontrolled power over nations,
emperors, and kings, and commanding the moral, physical, and material
resources of the civilized world. Here there is gathered, as in an
immense casket, the chiefest of the art treasures of all ages, the works
of antiquity, and the principal productions of the greatest men who have
lived. The dimensions of the Vatican exceed those of Tuileries and
Louvre put together. The very list of museums, galleries, and cabinets
is bewildering, and I should think a thorough study of the whole would
well-nigh occupy a lifetime; it is really daring presumption to rush
through in a day or two, and then be content to say you have "done"
these things, as so many tourists do.
Through these interesting rooms we wandered and wondered, longing for a
fuller comprehension of their contents, yet unable to linger, and almost
sated with the numerous beautiful objects demanding our attention on
every side. Sight-seeing of this kind is the most fatiguing pastime both
to body and brain that any one can indulge in; it is only possible to
note the more important objec
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