.dt Trip to the Sunny South, by L. S. D.–A Project Gutenberg eBook
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(A Wrangle at an Italian Custom House.)
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(A Wrangle at an Italian Custom House.)]
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“Trip to the Sunny South”
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IN MARCH, 1885,
PARIS, MACON, GENEVA, MENTONE, SAN REMO, MONTE
CARLO, MONACO, ITALY, GENOA, TURIN, LEGHORN,
PISA, NAPLES, ROME, REGGIO, SICILY, MESSINA,
CATANIA, SYRACUSE, MALTA, GIBRALTAR.
BY
L. S. D.,
Author of &c., &c.
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Dedicated to my Friend, J. P. G.
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BIRKENHEAD:
PRINTED BY E. GRIFFITH AND SON, HAMILTON STREET.
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PREFACE.
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The idea of writing a short narrative of a
trip to the Mediterranean suggested itself by the
numerous enquiries as to “where did you go?”
“what did you see that afforded most interest?”
It is difficult to compress into half-an-hour,
with any degree of clearness, what can be seen
in six weeks, and covering 5,000 miles.
I beg my friends to accept this broken and
disjointed attempt at description. I have tried
to say a little about most that I visited, whether
they treated me well or badly.
.in 10
L. S. D.
.in 0
Bebington, April, 1885.
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“TRIP TO THE SUNNY SOUTH.”
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“TRY a sea trip, if you can manage it,”
was the last prescription I had from
Dr. Banks, “it will do you more
good than any medicine.” This was about the
beginning of February. I found a companion
in the same humour as myself, and it was
agreed that we should make for the Mediterranean,
going overland.
Armed with passport, pistols, powder (Keating’s
insect), candles, soap, Bradshaw’s Continental
and Baedeker’s Guides, and other
requisites too numerous to mention, on the
18th of February we started from Birkenhead
for London.
After a day in London, we booked and
registered our luggage for Paris, and swept
through beautiful Kent, with its hills and
valleys and hop fields, like a garden in early
spring.
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The chops in the channel were very disagreeable,
and made us feel quiet, and look
very green and uncomfortable.
The steamer ran us alongside the railway
pier at Calais. After luncheon we took train;
were then backed through some of the principal
streets, to attach some more carriages. As we
sped along we soon came across the old familiar
blue blouse and baggy trousers of the French
peasant, busy with his spring cultivation.
Leaving Boulogne and Amiens, reached Paris
early in the evening.
At the searching room I met with my first
trouble. Knowing, from experience, the quality
of French tobacco and cigars would not satisfy
an Englishman–I had also been charged for
the credit of my own country not to forsake the
pipe–was provided with a box of each, both
of which were broken into. This would not
satisfy the Frenchmen; they gathered round
my portmanteau in a troop, turned out all my
sundries, and finally agreed to let me off with a
fine of eighteen francs. My friend managed to
pass, by good luck; they seized his parcel of
candles, which he described as “flambeaux” in
his hurry to pick up his French, but afterwards
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corrected to “bougie,” which were carefully examined,
and he was allowed to go scot free.
We spent Saturday and Sunday here, visited the
Madelene, Champs Elysées, Arch de Triomph,
and the Louvre Galleries. Here we met one of
those bland, sleek gentlemen, a guide courier
and interpreter, with his small cane, gloves, and
well-polished hat, so seductive, so suggestive
and polite. We engaged him for two hours,
at two francs per hour, to take us over the
Picture Galleries. He badly wanted to shew
us the sights of Paris by night, but this we
declined. We sauntered through the well-known
gay thoroughfares, the Avenue de L’Opera,
Boulevard des Capucines, Boulevard de Italians,
the Palais Royal, with tasteful and tempting
shops of gloves, fancy nic-nacs, flowers, lace,
and millinery, and tempting confectionery establishments.
The prices they ask, and get, are
fabulous, still they seem to find buyers; every
one appears to be doing well; you scarcely ever
see a shop to let.
On Saturday evening we did not think the
performance of “La Favorita” did much credit
to the company at the Grand Opera House.
As regards the decorations of the house, I consider
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them too massive, too gorgeous, too heavy,
and too much gold; but the grand staircase and
promenade crush room are the finest I have seen.
Sunday in Paris is not a day of rest, or even
recreation. The butchers and bakers, grocers
and drapers open their shops and push their
trade. They are all particular in the way they
do their business; the barber and the butcher
are provided with a neat office, desk, stove, and
a large account book.
We took the banks of the river as far as the
Hotel de Ville, now re-built in a grand style
after being burnt down by the Communists.
The interior of Notre Dame is lost for want of
light; we went in and were disappointed. This
is also the fault with many of the fine Cathedrals
in Italy. They say a church should have that
weird and gloomy solemn appearance to sober
the minds of the worshippers; if this be so, why
store up their costly paintings and sculpture in
places where they cannot be seen? Pilgrims
visit these grand old churches, and fall into
ecstasy over a Raphael or a Guido that they
can scarcely discern.
I admired the column of the Bastille when
in Paris five years ago; I admired it again,
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not only for the historical reminiscences, but
as the finest column in Paris, which graces the
spot where stood for ages the infamous prison
of the Bastille.
Wherever you go it is “Liberty, equality,
and fraternity”–the Republican motto. The
Parisians have repaired or rebuilt the ravages
of the Communists (excepting the Tuileries
Palace), but now there appears to be nothing
new going on, no extension of the improvements
commenced by Napoleon III. They live
a life of pleasure, and at the present seem to
have no further ambition.
An early breakfast on Monday morning,
and we left Paris by Lyons and Marseilles
railway, traversing the valley of the Seine
through the forest of Fontainebleau. Although
it was very picturesque we failed to see the
giant oak or elm, as in old England. Proceeding
south we were soon in the great wine
growing district of France. Miles, even
hundreds of miles, of broad valleys of vines,
with the wine growers’ pretty chateaus and
dome shape wine presses and stores. Every
station bears the name of some well-known
brand. We broke our journey at Macon, a
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scant town on the Rhone, the birthplace of
Lamartine, the dramatist and author.
Always in travelling through France (more
particularly in Italy) take care to be in time to
register your luggage, a quarter of an hour being
required previous to departure of train. Though
we arrived five minutes before departure of train
at Macon we had to wait four hours, as our
luggage had not been registered.
The next day we were on our way to the
borders of Switzerland, and had the first view
of the snowy mountains of Jura through
picturesque valleys of Derbyshire style–but
bolder and much more extensive–pretty villages,
and thriving-looking factories and water
mills. We had some difficulties at the railway
junctions, as we found our pure English
language was not much appreciated; however,
we reached Geneva in the evening, a city
built at the foot of the lake of Geneva (Lac
Leman), its gardens, villas, and grand hotels
nestling on the shores of the placid waters;
its dainty shops of jewellery and watches
of exquisite design and taste; its wide
streets of varied styles of architectural beauty,
with lines of shady trees and fountains;
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its institutions of learning; its conservatoires of
music and art, with a very fine modern theatre;
and the Hotel de Ville, famous for its conventions
and treaties. The principal city in
Switzerland–a city that any Englishman would
be happy and contented to live in. They
have a good government–the best appointed
republic in the world,–light taxation. The
people are clean, sober, industrious, and well-educated.
The shops look thriving, and the
inhabitants prosperous.
We took a trip up the lake by steamer to
Nyon, one of those very interesting little towns of
Swiss type. A fierce little stream rushes down
through the town, on its way turning wheels for
flour mills, mechanic’s shops, little factories for
making that ingenious Swiss wood work we so
often see at home in our shops. We had in Nyon
examples of old Swiss architecture, little bridges,
nooks and corners, turrets and gables, curious
windows and balconies, and those little fanciful
additions which would appear to have been the
sudden impulsive thought of the builder stuck on
at an hour’s notice. All the world knows that
Geneva is famed for its watches. They make
them so small, and yet so perfect, that they are
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worn in a finger ring. By touching a spring the
outer portion of the ring flies open, and displays
this perfect pigmy watch. They have also cluster
diamond brooches which have internal works
which continually keep the diamonds in agitation
to give them additional brilliancy.
The grand hotel, Beau Kivage, I can recommend.
They look well after your comfort. It
stands near the Pont de Mont Blanc, and has the
best view of that grand mountain peak, Mount
Blanc. It was in this hotel that the Duke of
Brunswick lived and died. A very fine monument
has been erected in his memory in the
gardens opposite. An amusing incident occurred
at this hotel. My friend and I were sitting in
the reading-room, adjoining the dining-room,
waiting for breakfast, as were also a lady and
gentleman whom we took to be Germans–they
never spoke except in German or French.
The gentlemen had opened the door of the
dining-room, and continually grumbled in German
at the delay, whereupon my friend said to
me, “The old buck is in a hurry for his breakfast.”
Not the slightest notice was taken of the
remark by either lady or gentleman, but when
shortly after they were seated opposite us at
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breakfast they spoke in the purest English. They
charge at Geneva one shilling and ninepence
for a pint of Bass, but you can get fifty good
cigars for four francs,–three farthings each.
They are rather particular about money at
Geneva. At one of the cafés, when given a
half sovereign in payment it was refused as bad
money, so we gave them Swiss instead.
As the object of our journey was to find a
warmer and more sunny clime, we left Geneva in
the early morning. In railway travelling on the
Continent they think nothing of turning out at
four or five in the morning. You have to do this,
or lose half a day. Through winding valleys we
began to ascend slowly for Mont Cenis. By
mid-day we were amongst the snow. All through
this part of France you see the long lines or
avenues of poplar trees, stretching for miles along
the great roads constructed by the first Napoleon.
There is still the one he made over the Alps to
take his troops over to Moscow. The railway
follows the same valley up to Modane. Modane,
a small town near the mouth of the Mont Cenis
tunnel, was nearly buried in snow. It was here
that we were suddenly robbed of forty-five
minutes of our existence. The one side of the
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clock is 12 noon and the other 12.45, Paris and
Roman time. The tunnel is about nine miles
long, and you are forty-five minutes in passing
through. It strikes the Alps at an altitude of
4000 feet. The Italian side is very wild and bold
as you emerge from the mountain–a very deep
gorge; villages perched up on the precipitous
mountain side–one had been swept away last
winter by an avalanche, and the inhabitants
with it.
We arrived at Turin in the evening. I have
not much to say about this city. It was the
capital of Italy, and Victor Emmanuel had his
government here after he was made King of
Italy and removed to Rome. They have erected
a fine monumental structure to his memory.
The streets are all straight, and cross each
other at right angles. The principal streets of
shops have piazzas, which give the place a
heavy, gloomy appearance, a striking contrast
to Geneva. The place bristled with soldiers
and swaggering Italians, with their long black
hair, and togas thrown over their shoulders.
Our stay was short.
The next evening we were in Genoa, “Genoa
the Superb;” here it is called Genova; Turin,
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is Torino; Leghorn, Lavorna; Naples, Napoli;
and Rome, Roma. Genoa has a history like
Venice, and has held a prominent position in
the history of Europe. The long streets of
palaces of its nobles, rich in statuary, pictures,
and antiquities. It has wealthy nobles, who
still cling to this fine city. These palaces are
thrown open to the public and tourists to view
the pictures and statuary. The Duke of Galliera
has lately given twenty million francs to improve
the harbour.
We took a liking to Genoa, and stayed
nearly three days, and saw the place thoroughly.
Had a guide, viewed the city from an elevated
position, so that we might have the first sight
of the Mediterranean.
Genoa is rich in the abundance of the marble
used in its buildings, all the houses in the principal
streets being built entirely of marble. The
interior portions are of white marble, such as the
wide steps, balustrading, and columns of the
ducal palaces. The elevations are very lofty, and
uniformly six stories, that carries them much
higher than the principal buildings in London.
In the lower parts of the city you are well in the
shade; if the rays of the sun ever penetrated to
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the ground it would only be for a few minutes,
the streets are so narrow and the buildings so
lofty that, looking up, you can only perceive a
narrow streak of blue sky. It is a bustling
place, and there appears to be plenty of business
going on. There is a street with nothing but
filagree goods, another for Genoese velvet, a
Bourse, and a shipping office street.
We visited the Palazzo Durazzo, which is
one of the show places open to visitors. Among
the paintings at this Palace we saw the Magdeline,
by Titian; Flagellation of Christ, by
Carracci; Portrait of Vandyke, by himself;
Cleopatra and Sleeping Child, both by Guido;
a wonderful picture in Mosaic of a tiger bought
at Milan for 5,000 francs. We saw the Palazzo
Doria where Verdi is at present living, and then
visited the beautiful Gardens of Rozazza, from
where a delightful panoramic view of Genoa,
with the blue Mediterranean, is obtained. A
tablet to the memory of Dan O’Connell is inserted
in the wall of the Hotel Trombetta.
Garibaldi’s daughter has a fine house in the
Via Sarroti. In the front of this house still
hangs the memorial wreaths of Italy’s patriot.
The church of La Annunciata, built by Piola,
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in 1530, perhaps the finest, we say, with the
exception of churches in Rome, as to the internal
decoration, being entirely of polished and gilded
marble; in gilded carving and statuary, gorgeous,
yet beautiful. The cathedral, an imposing
structure of black and white marble, was built
200 years B.C., and was formerly the Temple of
Janus. In the cathedral they shew you the
charger on which the head of John the Baptist
was carried into the presence of Herod; also
the chains which are said to have been worn by
St. John are shewn. A number of beautiful
marble pillars at the west entrance were brought
by the Knights of St. John from the Holy Land.
The diabolical act of the dancing Jewish maiden
perpetually prevents all of her sex ever entering
into this sacred chapel, containing the bones of
the Evangelist.
Funerals here are very imposing, headed by
a band of music, priests carrying huge crosses,
dazzling gilded hearses, followed by a long
procession. One we witnessed, and we were
told it was only a common funeral.
The campo santa or cemetery, three miles
from Genoa, is very interesting and beautiful.
The monuments of the deceased are sculptural
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representations, with their friends in attitudes
of prayer and sorrow.
The market place, in front of the Carlo
Felice Theatre, was a busy throng, even on
Sunday morning. The country people in their
smart and gay-coloured costumes–a Babel of
tongues–all pressing us to buy as we strolled
through the motley crowd. There is a novelty,
even a charm, about the scene, and in the bright
dark eyes and dusky skin of the weather-beaten
old men. Although it is February, we seem to
have our Summer vegetables and fruit; oranges
and lemons are in season; artichokes, endive,
leek, garlic, peas, beans, and cauliflowers, are
offered in abundance. The Carlo Felice Theatre
is one of the finest in Italy, with a stage running
back 145 feet from the footlights.
The drive from Nice to San Remo is considered
the finest in Europe. Originally it was
a mule path, known as the Cornice road, but
Napoleon I. converted it into a fine road. The
railway has taken a straighter line, and you are
continually passing through short tunnels, with
glimpses of the sea. Along the whole distance
from Genoa to Mentone, known as the Riviera,
are villages surrounded by orange and lemon
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groves and olive trees–they seem to grow almost
without cultivation. The first week in March–the
time I am writing–oranges and lemons are ripe
and at their best, and the new blossom is just
beginning to appear. If you want an orange in
prime condition you must pluck it from a tree,
in March. In our journey from Genoa to Mentone
we passed through Bordighera where are
forests of palm trees, and it is from here that
the palms used on festive occasions are sent to
St. Peter’s, at Rome. You might say that
Mentone and San Remo were taken by the
English, you meet more of them than any other
race, and a very exclusive set they are when
here. The French and Germans are below
their notice.
Mentone is not a place to attract fashionable
and gay visitors, they have no public gardens,
no places of amusement, most visitors are supposed
to be invalids. They have a promenade
by the sea and a pavilion, but you never see
many people about. I think they must all go to
Monte Carlo or Nice when they want to see a
little life. Mentone is hemmed in and sheltered
from the north and east by the French Alps
(Alps Maratimes); they form a bold back ground
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with bristling spurs, and valleys, and ravines
down to the shores of the Mediterranean. It
seems a strange contrast to have the wild snow-clad
mountains in the back ground with peas
five feet in pod, and oranges and lemons in
galore. The old town of Mentone which, up to
a few years ago, belonged to Italy, consists of
tall houses and narrow streets. Some of these
streets are looped together with stonework to
give them firmness should an earthquake take
place, which gives them a peculiar appearance.
Since it came into the hands of the French, and
became a sanatorium for lung diseases, a new
town of large hotels and pretty villas around the
bay and up the hill side has sprung up.
The French seem to possess an exquisite
taste in building their villas that you never see
in England. It is not the architecture alone,
but the work, the little extra finish, ornamental
steps, balconies, balustrading, the vases, statuettes
bearing lamps, all adding to its happy
appearance. They are all cemented outside,
some perfectly white and others tinted with
distemper. The climate never seems to discolour
or destroy their freshness.
We made Mentone a centre, and stayed here.
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Nice, Monaco, Monte Carlo, and San Remo are
only a few miles distant. Nice has long been
famous for its annual fetes, and even more so of
late. Our Royal Prince was present at the
last Carnival. In going through Covent Garden
Market we wonder where the Spring flowers
come from–the violets, the roses, &c. It is
Nice and the neighbourhood that sends them.
There are large shops with heaps of flowers
where they pack them very carefully and send
them to London and Paris. You can buy a
small assortment for two or three francs, and
send them to England at a very small cost. I
was almost forgetting to mention that it is the
flowers that form one of the principal features in
making up the display at the Carnival. We
were a fortnight too late to witness this display,
but in Mentone we saw the Battle of Flowers,
a small affair compared with that of Nice, but
still characteristic. Along the streets was a
profuse display of bunting, lining the parapets
with flags on Venetian masts, a gaily decorated
grand stand or tribune on each side of the road,
filled with ladies and children, each provided with
a large basket or hamper of flowers. At two
o’clock the mayor opens the fair, or rather two
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or three gendarmes come galloping along followed
by the mayor, the band strikes up and the
battle commences; ladies, gentlemen, and children
dressed in fancy costumes; carriages dressed
even to the spokes of the wheels; coachmen
decorated even to their whips; some with masks
and trunk hose; boys on donkeys; gay carriages
with fashionable residents; and visitors following
each other in rapid succession; the spectators
defending and the occupants of the chariots
attacking, not forgetting to give their particular
friend a bob in the eye with a bunch as they
sweep past. The battle lasted about two hours,
and the roadway was covered with flowers by
the time they had exhausted their supply. We
were told some of the carriages cost £50 and
even £100 to decorate and supply with flowers
as ammunition.
Monte Carlo and Monaco are only three and
four miles from Mentone, a lovely walk along the
coast. Monaco is the old town, built on a peninsular
rock raised some hundreds of feet above
the sea, where Prince Grimaldi has his palace,
and a curious little kingdom it is; he can see it
all from his bed-room window. He lives in state,
and has an army of eight. The sergeant was
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busy drilling his last recruit when we were there.
There are only two streets in this little town,
and they are very narrow. There is not room
to build another house, but they have built on the
table land adjoining, and this is what is called
Monte Carlo, one of the most beautiful spots in
the world. I can never forget the two days we
were here, because they were faultless days, the
sky was blue and so was the Mediterranean, as
blue as ever I had seen it painted. A gentle
slope of high table land with the Maratime Alps
for a back ground. Portions of the approaches
or lower parts of the mountains are covered with
sombre-looking olive groves, while the lower
ground, sloping down to the sea, is laid out as
ornamental gardens–rare specimens of shrubbery
of distant lands, semi-tropical plants, such
as palm and aloes, evergreen shady bowers,
fountains and cascades. The walks and borders
are so clean and perfect that you could not find
a scrap of paper or a loose pebble. The name
of Monte Carlo, in my mind, was associated with
sharpers, cut throats, and other pests such as we
see in England associated with the turf, where
you would require to look after the safety of your
pocket, but in this respect we were quite mistaken,
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every thing is quiet and orderly there–there
is a gendarme at every point. The Grand
Casino is a magnificent building, situated in
the Gardens. Strangers or visitors are only
admitted, i.e., no inhabitants of the town or
neighbourhood. All the visitor has to do is to
enter his or her name in a book, and state the
hotel where he or she is staying. Everywhere
is free, no fees are expected. There is a fine
reading-room, plentifully supplied with newspapers
and periodicals from all nations. There
is a large crush room or promenade, where you
may enjoy the weed. Leading from this is a very
gorgeous concert room–a constant orchestra of
over 100 musicians are always kept; performances
of high-class music are given twice a day.
The other–a greater portion of the buildings–is
where the tables are, eight in number. The
gaming business commences at eleven in the
morning and finishes at eleven at night. The
tables are presided over by croupiers, who pay
and receive the money and spin the wheel of
fortune or deal the cards. The players are standing
or seated round the table; everybody is
quiet, all the noise you hear is the declaring of
the winning number and the clinking of the
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money as it is raked in or shovelled out. The
players consist of all classes, young and old
of all nations, from gay and licentious to the
blue stocking of the dorcas meeting–a large
proportion are women–staking from 5 francs to
1000 francs and more. The business is profitable
to the proprietors of the tables, keeps Prince
Grimaldi a prince, and pays all the taxes in the
town.
The principal object of our journey to the
“Sunny South” was health, to be best acquired
by rest and sea breezes. It was now time to
take ship.
I had not an opportunity of shooting any
brigands while in Italy, because at Vintemille,
they took charge of a very nice six-shooter lent
me by my friend, Jupiter. It happened just on
the Italian frontier. If you wish to carry a
pistol it must be a foot long, and you must carry
it in a belt around the waist. My companion was
wrath to see these friendly Italians rudely destroying
some choice plants and roots he had so
carefully collected at Mentone, saying, “not
possibul, coller ha,” being afraid of having
cholera thus imported into Italy.
From Genoa we took berths by the Florio
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Rubittino steamer “Asia.” Having twelve hours
to wait at Leghorn we landed and went to Pisa
to see the leaning tower, the cathedral, and
baptistry–a quiet, clean old town, its greatness
is recorded in ancient history. The only noticeable
feature about Leghorn is its fine harbour.
Two more days’ delightful sailing along the
coast, passing the small barren island of Elba,
where the first Napoleon was banished to for a
time. Nearing the bay of Naples, the first land
sighted is the island of Ischia, where 2000 people
lost their lives in 1883 by an earthquake. It was
evening when we sighted Vesuvius, about twenty-five
miles away, a red glare of fire issuing from
its summit. As we entered the bay, Naples
looked as if it was illuminated, the rows of gas
lights so regular in line above each other; the
night was fine and clear, and the scene enchanting.
We were too late that night to be cleared
by the Customs, so slept on board. Early in the
morning we were awakened by the cries of
human voices belonging to the Neapolitan boatmen
waiting for their prey. Before breakfast
we went on deck to have a morning view of the
bay of Naples. It was fine, the sun was up.
The bay looks like an inland sea of twenty miles
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in width. The islands of Capri and Ischia stand
at the opening of the bay, and so close up the
view to the open sea. The bold outline of the
mountains, the towns and villages can be seen
here and there on some elevated spot, the atmosphere
being so fine, and the sea glistening placid
and clear. To the south of the bay stands
Vesuvius, steaming and smoking, throwing up its
vapours to the sky, by night a bright red glare;
at the crown of the bay stands the far-famed
Naples, with its many-tinted houses piled one
above another up the hill that skirts the bay,
crowned by the colossal castle of Elmo. The
curve of the bay is broken in the centre by a
small mole, on which stands the ruined-looking
castle Dell Ova and the Palace Royal, and
further north, on the rising ground stands
modern Naples, laid out with fine hotels, villas,
and gardens.
We left the steamer here to take another
when we wished to proceed further South.
Here, as in all the Mediterranean ports, we were
anchored in the bay; hundreds of boats were
clustered around our steamer, and a ragged,
noisy lot they were. We landed, were searched
and counter searched before we were clear, and
.bn 030.png
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able to drive to our hotel. Naples is a place we
have heard much of, writers have painted it in
words and artists in oil–they say, “see Naples
and then die.” If you happened to be a nervous
man or troubled with heart disease, you would
soon die. I have been in Scotland Road Market
on Saturday night, I have been on London
Bridge, the greatest thoroughfare in the world,
but in the Toledo, the Strada del Mola, and the
Strada del Piliera, you will hear noises far
greater in volume and variety than in London.
I think it must be the language that helps them
on, every word appears to end with a ee, oo, ii;
they whistle, they shout, rush and jostle you
about, and as the streets are narrow you have to
look after yourself or be run over. The sense
of smell will have a feast, with a few new specimens
which permeate the air on every side;
outdoor cooking arrangements, vegetables, and
other mystic messes simmering and spluttering
in fat or oil. Their sanitary arrangements are
worse than in Paris, and their sense of decency
is less shameless.
Naples like Genoa, in the old portion of the
town, is so closely huddled together, and the
streets are so steep and narrow, that no vehicles
.bn 031.png
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can pass up. They are generally so littered up
with baskets and hampers that foot passengers
have a difficulty in threading their way. The
shoemaker brings his bench outside, and plys
his trade in the open street; the tailor with his
clumsy-looking sewing machine, and his dirty-looking
apprentice, are likewise busy on the
parapet. The houses are eight or nine stories
high with balconies, and washing on each
storey. On a bright day the streets look dark
because no sun can penetrate them, and the sky
is hidden by the various projecting obstructions.
If you look into a shop window, some miserable-looking
fellow will ask you to go in and purchase.
If you do so he will ask for commission from the
buyer, you may be sure he will try and do his
best with the seller. If you go into a shop and
price a certain article, they fix a price they never
expect to get; you say it is too dear, they immediately
ask, How much will you give? and if
needs be will take one-half or one-third what was
first asked. There is no very marked difference
between a Neapolitan and an Englishman. They
appear to be of the same family as our English
gipsy, dusky, with dark hair and eyes. Their
dress, hat, and coat are much the same as our
.bn 032.png
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fashion, but still there is a difference; perhaps the
pockets are fixed horizontally instead of perpendicular,
or the buttons are different; their boots
are more namby-pamby, in contrast with those
the writer wore–there must be something. We
were marked at once as Englishmen. The cabman
would get his eye upon us, chase us about,
back his horse across our path, and try and
cajole us into his car; once in, he would be sure
to try and take you to some place four times the
distance you wished to go.
The Italians are true lovers of art, and sometimes
carry it to a ridiculous degree. It bespeaks
a man’s taste if he has the goddess of dancing
or music painted on his house, but to see the
same figures on a stone cart, or bouquets of
flowers on a manure cart, we certainly think too,
too æsthetic.
One of the many things that struck me in the
streets of Naples were the vehicles, and more
especially the harness. The horses draw from
the breast, and therefore wear no collar; the
harness, which is very ornamental in shape, is
covered with brass, tassels, &c. They don’t
groom their horses and mules, but clean their
brass very carefully. They yoke a horse and
.bn 033.png
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donkey together, a donkey and an ox, a donkey
and mule, or three donkeys and a mule. One
day I observed a horse, an ox, and a donkey
drawing a cart of stones, all with bells clanging.
In some few things they are in advance of us,
for instance, we don’t have a cow driven to our
door, and see our quart of milk drawn, as we did
in the Via Roma, the Regent Street of Naples.
You may have goat’s milk if you like that better.
The outskirts of Naples are pretty undulating,
you can never for long lose sight of the bay or
Vesuvius. By a drive of three or four miles to
the west, along the bay, you get a fairly good
view of Naples, embracing Pompeii and Herculaneum
nestling insecurely at the foot of Vesuvius,
but not equal to the one as you enter the
bay.
We were told the churches were not so
gorgeous and rich as those of Genoa, Pisa, or
Rome, so we did not visit them. The only
public building of great interest is the Museum
of Ancient Sculpture and Paintings; it is large
and well appointed, and contains more than any
other public building in Italy. I never was an
enthusiast of sculpture until now, but it was
quite plain to see that the magnificent ideas
.bn 034.png
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arose from the old heathen worship. The gods
as heroes of strength; the Farnese Hercules
slaying the bull; the Gladiators achieving wonderful
feats of their scientific skill; Bacchus at
his feasts; Adonis wooing Venus; Venus in her
various graceful attitudes; Bacchus in his youthful
revelry; Silenus, the fat jolly old man; the
Dancing Graces, the Apollos, the Jupiters, the
colossal figures of horses and lions, hundreds of
Roman senators, statues in white marble draped
in black or coloured marble; statues buried for
a thousand years, some sadly mutilated and
placed in position; ancient inscriptions, Mosaic
work of wonderful effect, galleries of pictures
of immense canvas, huge libraries, rooms full
of papyri, coins, antique jewellery, bronzes,
crystals, and cameos. We spent some time in
inspecting these, but we should have had a
week, or even a month.
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POMPEII.
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THE base of Mount Vesuvius is about
four miles from Naples. In going to
Pompeii you skirt the coast, having
the burning mountain on the left. Pompeii lies
four miles further on the margin of the bay, so
that if another great eruption was to take place,
with an east wind, Naples might stand in the
same danger as Pompeii; still they build houses
and villages and grow grapes up the mountain
side. One village has been destroyed no less
than eight times. We did not go to see the
crater, the day we had to spare was not bright
and clear, and the fatigue more than two invalids
cared to undertake. But we went to Pompeii.
Within a few minutes from leaving the railway
station you reach a kind of hotel and lodge, buy
permission tickets, and take a guide. You enter
by an arched gateway, something like the ancient
gates of Chester. The streets are about as broad
and steep as Watergate. Pompeii is about equal
.bn 036.png
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in area to the ancient City of Chester. As you
enter the gates you can see the deep ruts of the
two chariot wheels worn fully six inches into the
solid blocks of stone pavement. Their streets,
which are straight and narrow, strike each
other at right angles, with a narrow parapet on
each side. The houses are of one storey, externally
very plain–no projections or balconies, but
a simple doorway. You have to cross the threshold
of the houses to peer into the mode of life
of these Pompeians, who were suddenly swept
out of existence on the 29th November, A.D. 79.
Bulwer Lytton has written a work on the supposed
customs and habits of these people. It
would take a book to describe your reflections on
this “City of the Dead.” It has not the appearance
of a city destroyed by fire; all that has
disappeared are the roofs, the doors, the people,
and the furniture. The walls and plaster for the
most part are perfect, the fountains and statues
are there, the Mosaic floors are bright and clean,
and the fresco painting as bright as when it was
done. It seems strange that none of the present
habitations of the Italians resemble those of the
ancients, so vastly different to the tall stuccoed
houses of Naples–one storey houses with an
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entrance hall, and an open courtyard with large
and small chambers entering from a piazza that
skirted the buildings. Some of the richer houses
have an inner courtyard with a garden in the
centre, and different offices leading from it;
while others have engraved on stone the name
of the owner. The Forum, or principal open
square, seems to have suffered most; broken
pillars and Corinthian columns are scattered
about the halls of justice and the judge’s vacant
seat; the dungeon where two prisoners, fettered,
were discovered a few years ago in a state of
petrifaction–they had been left to their fate
on that fearful night. There are many public
buildings around the Forum, and the Latin
tablets referring to the business carried on in
them; the steps that time and bustle and
business had worn; the Pagan temples with
their tables of sacrifice, are still to be seen.
Then there are the theatres–the day theatre
open to the sky, and the night theatre covered.
The tickets of admission were rather peculiar,
for instance, the musicians’ had a lyre, those
for the upper galleries a pigeon, and free
tickets a skull–all were carved ivory tokens. At
the outskirts of the town is the amphitheatre,
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which held 30,000 people, where senators used
to harangue their constituents and gladiators
fought their deadly fights, where prisoners were
brought from their cells to fight with and to
be torn to pieces by hungry wild beasts.
They have the street of Fortune and the street
of Merchants. You see the wine shop displaying
its sign, an earthenware jar, and inside
you see the same seats, the same wine jars,
empty and desolate. The habitués are not
there discussing the topics of the day or revelling
with the fulness of the wine cup; they
are gone eighteen centuries ago. There is
the apothecary’s shop with its sign–the
twisted serpent, and bakeries with deep brick
ovens. In some respects fashions have not
altered much, in a baker’s oven were found black
charred loaves with the baker’s name stamped on
them, the same squat shape as you see carried
about the streets of Naples to-day, and known in
England as cottage loaves; from the same oven
they shew you a young sucking pig, petrified to
stone, that was there cooking for some one’s
supper, in their hurry and confusion they left this
dainty morsel behind. When a workman was one
day using a pick he struck something hollow, it
.bn 039.png
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was found when examined to be in shape like a
human body. Several of these hollow shells
were afterwards exhumed, for safety and preservation
they were filled with liquid plaster of
paris. The fine ashes and the moisture of the
body together formed this human shell a man
in the act of running, with a key in one
hand and some money in another. There is
a beautifully formed girl of seventeen, her face
turned a little on one side, with sweet innocent
features clearly defined, with her hair dressed
with girlish coquetry; a boy of twelve has fallen
on his face, and there he lay. There was the
body of a dog found with a collar round its neck
in the vestibule of a house; the poor dog must
have died hard, it has rolled over in its agony,
and lies on its back with its mouth open, its
limbs violently contorted, and the whole frame
twisted and wrenched in a manner to denote
severe pain. There was a girl found, with a
golden clasp brooch bearing the name of Julia
Diamede, said to be the daughter of one of the
rich men of the city, whose house gives an idea
of his wealth from its costly fittings discovered.
These wonderful relics are shewn you in a small
museum erected in Pompeii. You see the baths
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with the niches and seats for undressing, with
nails to hang up their clothes; you are shewn
the so-called Turkish bath, but what was really
the ancient Roman bath, with its small stone
seats upon which to sit while waiting for the hot
air to induce perspiration.
There is abundance of proof that the people
of Pompeii were steeped in degradation and vice,
for the frescos and inscriptions were such that
they have been moved from the view of women
and children.
In the Museum Nationale, Naples, they have
a Pompeii section; it contains almost everything
you would find in a broker’s shop–pots, pans,
fish hooks, money chests, candelabras, buckets,
handsome cloak clasps (same as lately worn, and
now produced in Birmingham by the gross),
cooking stoves, braziers, charred walnuts, barley,
olives with the drop of oil caused by the heat to
stand out, a glass bottle of oil, eggs, onions, dates,
pears, tortoises, corks, portion of a woman’s dress
finely woven like merino, hinges, locks, taps, a
circulating hot-water boiler with brass tap, a
cooking apparatus similar to the French Bain
Marie pan of the present day, leaden pipes,
scales and weights, the metal pen supposed to
.bn 041.png
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have been a modern English invention, the safety
pin, which is now so largely made in Birmingham
for use in the nursery; a banker’s paper,
receipts for money, a mass of copy in papyrus,
legends, treaties, forceps, lances, probes, speculum
and different doctor’s instruments, medicine
phials, dice, and hundreds of articles supposed
to be newly invented, and sold nowadays as
novelties. The cameos and intaglios are of such
rich and exquisite work that our modern lapidaries
cannot equal them.
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ROME.
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AS you roll into the big railway station,
and hear the sonorous voice of the
railway porter pronounce Roma,
there is an inward feeling of reverence and pride
that you have reached Rome–“The Eternal
City.” It was late in the evening when we
arrived, and so we took up our quarters at the
Hotel Continental, a large and modern hotel,
situated on a high part of the town–one of the
seven hills–and where malaria is not likely to
find its way.
There is a Mr. Forbes resident in Rome, who
conducts and lectures to parties on the spot, at
points of interest; he takes a week to do the
city.
As we had only two or three days to stay
we had a guide of our own. When I bought
a pair of easy boots for walking, my companion
enquired what commission he would
get; this gave him great offence, he said he
.bn 043.png
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was a gentleman, a rich man–proud men are
these Romans. In driving through the streets
of Rome, there appears to be nothing of a very
remarkable character. You require to know its
brilliant history, and the deeds of its patriots and
rulers You may lazily climb up the hill leading
to the Forum, but if you are interrupted and told
that on this spot Cæsar was murdered, or on
that spot his friend Anthony delivered his oration,
you are impressed. You require to live a few
days in Rome to get through the preface of the
story of its eventful history. This history should
be divided into three eras–Ancient Rome, the
time of its supreme greatness; Old Rome, or
the middle ages and the supremacy of the Popes;
and New Rome, since the entry of Garibaldi.
I intend to say little about this wonderful place;
I am unable to do so, as it is too classical, I
will only give just a rough and crude idea of
what attracted my attention.
There is not a great deal of Ancient Rome
left––the old buildings appear to have been
knocked down, levelled up, and new and mean
streets built over the top. In the dark ages they
seem to have had no regard to the grandeur of
Ancient Rome, they buried up the massive
.bn 044.png
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columns and statuary, and built up the present
New Rome over them, so that many of the
places laid bare are ten or twelve feet below the
present street level, especially in the neighbourhood
of the Forum of Trajan and the Pantheon,
and whenever they are re-building in this part
of the city they come across some old relic or
other. We visited the Roman Forum, the
Triumphal Arch of Titus, the Arch of Constantine,
the remains of the great Colosseum that
once seated 90,000 Romans, and the Temple of
Castor and Pollux. We crossed the Tiber by
Adrian’s Bridge, built A.D. 136, to the Castle of
St. Angelo, now so called, but really the Tomb
of Trajan. The Tiber is a muddy, sleepy-looking
river, with about the same volume of water as
the Dee, at Chester, or scarcely as much.
The Pantheon, once a Pagan temple but now
a church, is the only ancient building left in a
state fit for use; its walls are of brick twenty
feet thick, with an opening in centre of dome,
as the only means of lighting the interior.
It contains the tomb of the late King Victor
Emmanuel, and other memorials, including one
to Canova, the sculptor, and is used also as a
chapel. All the other remains are in a dismantled,
.bn 045.png
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ruined state, every thing that was
costly has disappeared.
The Colosseum for centuries was used as a
stone quarry. When foundation and other stones
were wanted for a new church they were there
ready for the builder; and in like manner the
columns and slabs of marble that had been
brought from Greece and many parts of the
earth, for the public buildings, are now in St.
Peter’s, St. Paul’s, St. John’s, and the other
churches in Rome. I cannot attempt to describe
St. Peter’s, except that it is considered the
largest, grandest, and most costly building in the
world–taking twenty million francs to pay for it–and
will hold 45,000 people. It took 300 years
to complete, and although finished 300 years
ago, it looks as bright and clean as if it had
been perpetually under a glass shade and
sponged down every morning. Every proportion
about it is gigantic–there is nothing small or
paltry that would assist you in realising its
immensity. You see a figure inside the church,
it looks life size, but go up to it and you will
find it twenty or thirty feet high.
St. Peter’s contains no oil paintings, as in
most churches. The Ascension, by Raphael,
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and all the other pictures of like size are of
Mosaic, prepared and executed in the Vatican;
each picture is made up of thirteen millions of
small fragments of tinted Mosaics, and it takes
an artist thirty years to complete one. The ashes
of St. Peter are, or are said to be, here, under a
bronze canopy, beneath the centre of the great
dome–this canopy is 96 feet high, and is of solid
bronze, taken from the Pantheon 270 years ago–the
Cross of Christ, from Calvary; the handkerchief
with the print of His face still visible;
the spear the Roman soldier pierced His side
with. This soldier, we were told, happened to
have a blind eye, on which a drop of blood fell
from the point of the spear, and instantly
restored that orb. He was made a saint, and
his effigy now stands fifty feet high under the
great dome. We listened with wonder and
amazement and tried to believe. It was Saturday,
and the church was nearly empty, excepting
a few hundreds of priests, and a beggar-like
looking woman with her shoeless, ragged children;
she dragged these children through this
pile of grandeur with open mouths and eyes,
perhaps wondering if heaven could be grander
than this.
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Rome is built on seven hills–the Pincian
Quirinale, the Capitol, and Mount Palatine.
From the Pincian Hill–the Hill of Gardens–you
get the best view of the Old City, the Corsa,
and the River. From Mount Palatine you get
the best view of the Ruins of Ancient Rome, the
Forum, the Colosseum, the different Temples
and Arches, the Capitol, while, turning your
face, the view is very fine–the Campana stretching
twenty miles crossed by the Appian way,
and the great aqueducts, now partially broken
down, that carried the waters from the distant
mountains of Albany, twenty-five miles away;
across the plain are mounds of stone, very faint
traces of the days of Titus, when Rome is supposed
to have had a population of three-and-a-half
millions, while a few hundred years later it
had scarcely twenty thousand. The fountains
are, perhaps, one of the wonders of the city.
Hundreds of thousands gallons of water gush
out in the gardens of Mount Palatine, it comes
out again at the Capitol, again at the Quirinale,
and again in a lower part of the city. There is
perhaps no city in the world with such an abundant
water supply, so beautifully dispersed by
magnificent fountains. We saw King Humbert,
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on his birthday, driving out in the Park of the
Villa Borghese; we saw the Via Nationale of New
Rome, illuminated in Parisian style. We strolled
down the Corsa, with its well-stocked shops. In
the Café de Roma you will get a mid-day meal
equal to any in Europe if you like Italian cooking.
The Corsa is a sort of Piccadilly and
Regent Street mixed, and it contains the best
shops and mansions. The Piazza de Spragna
is the artists’ quarters–it is a sort of Bond
Street. Shop after shop with works of art,
pictures, Mosaics, sculpture, photographs; here
it is you see the Roman living models flitting
about–the good-looking woman with her troop
of roguish-looking children; the old man; the
old woman; the dark eyes of the young girl of
Roman type of beauty, dressed in the picturesque
and highly-coloured garb of the surrounding
country districts, are all to be seen in this
centre.
We had to leave Rome before we had seen a
tenth of the pictures, and statues, and bronzes.
We began to like the place, and could have done
with a week here, but the steamer “Candia,” for
Malta, sailed on Tuesday, so we bid good bye to
Rome, and passed another night in that villainous
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Naples. Surely this is one of the
wickedest places on earth. We speak of England,
its drunkenness, and the wretchedness
caused by drink, but go there and see the
degradation; they don’t drink, but the poor
wretches will gamble with their last franc.
The banco lotto you see in a prominent
part of every street, as you do in Rome,
where the offices are open for the sale of
tickets, even on Sundays. The Government
realise fourteen millions per annum from these
lotteries. The obscenities and vice that meet
you at every street corner are so shocking
that it would make an Englishman shudder
with disgust.
One curiosity you see in Naples I was almost
forgetting, that is the money changers. These
relics of antiquity are at the corners of the
streets, seated in a wooden box, with piles of
copper and other coins, plying their trade.
Under the portico of the Theatre Carlo another
antique relic still exists. With skull cap and
silver spectacles, the letter writer with his table,
pens, ink, and paper, is always there, and
appears to enjoy a good practice writing business
as well as love letters for his customers. We
.bn 050.png
.pn +1
were told that not more than one-third of the
Italians can read or write.
I have said unkind words about Naples, and
she deserves them, but being once more in the
bay she looked most enchanting. It was a
fine clear evening when we steamed out of the
bay, and took our last view of Vesuvius as we
rounded the point into the open sea. Early next
morning we found Stromboli busy throwing
up her dense smoke. We had two pleasant days
in the Straits of Messina, calling at Messina, in
the Island of Sicily, thence to Reggio, almost
the extreme southerly point of Italy, returning
to Messina, thence to Catania and Syracuse.
In driving through the town of Catania we were
struck with the peculiarity of its stuccoed buildings,
with Mount Etna standing boldly out as a
good background, sending forth its volumes of
smoke and steam, yet capped with snow and
wreathed in clouds. Here we saw the fine monument
erected to Bellini, the composer, Catania
being his birthplace; around the pedestal are four
life-sized figures in white marble, being principal
characters from some of his operas. The harness
of the horses is very gay, being one mass
of coloured and gold or brass brocade, with a
.bn 051.png
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very peculiar collar covered completely with
polished brass and bells. The carts are mostly
painted yellow, the panels decorated with brilliant
landscapes of the locality. You see scores
of these carts coming down to the harbour from
Mount Etna laden with the yellow sulphur of
commerce, the whole presenting a scene unique
and pleasing. We drove through the principal
streets to look at the people and the place, and
were stared and jabbered at, as we supposed, as
though we were barbarians. We visited the
gardens which were beautifully laid out and full
of flowers, returning thence to our steamer after
the usual wrangle with the cabby, who, like his
London brother, asks for more than he is
entitled to, but, thanks to the offices of a
Maltese gentleman who was with us, he did not
get more than he deserved, at least in hard cash
if he did in hard words. Another twenty-four
hours brought us up to the Mole in the Bay of
Valetta, in Malta. Although 2,000 miles away
from home, we felt as if we were in England,
especially when we first saw the familiar red
coats with white Indian helmets, and the fife and
drum struck up “The Girl I left Behind me.”
I had almost forgotten this was not the first
.bn 052.png
.pn +1
time we came across the British uniform, for
at Syracuse some enterprising outfitter had
purchased the scarlet shell jackets of the
British cavalry, which were now on the backs
of the howling Syracusian boatmen, minus the
buttons.
We stayed three days in Malta, made a tour
of inspection round the fortifications, had a chat
with the British soldier, sounded him as to his
politics and the present Government, and found
him right. We visited the Dried Monks, at the
Monastery of the Capuchins. We were taken
down into the basement, where, along the walls
of the corridors, we saw rows of monks, each in
his particular niche. One had been there nearly
800 years, and did not seem to object, indeed, he
had lost some of “his cheek.” These monks,
when a brother dies, bury him for twelve months
without a coffin, and then dis-inter him and bring
him to his particular stand-point before allotted,
and label as brother Anselmo or whatever name
he bore when alive. Our guide pointed out the
particular niche reserved for himself. The
draught blowing along the corridor, and not
being anxious to take into our open mouths
of wonder any dried monk, we retraced our
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footsteps and ascended to scenes brighter and
more salubrious.
The races by Arab horses mounted by British
officers were very good. Twenty-four horses
started, and all came in neck and neck to the
winning post; they also rode what is called an
omnibus race, two riders on one horse; also the
wardrobe race, each rider putting on his braces,
waistcoat, and jacket as he rode, before reaching
the winning post. The tent pegging and lemon
slicing was quite new to us.
The P. and O. boats from Australia, calling
at Malta, are the best service, so we took our
berths to Gibraltar, a passage of four days. The
“Indus” carried about one hundred cabin passengers,
principally colonists. We were never out
of sight of land the whole distance, first skirting
the African Coast off Tunis, then Algiers, Fez,
and Morocco, all picturesque and interesting.
A lady remarked they had been coasting
Africa for a fortnight, at 12½ knots, and yet
had three days more to do, which gives a very
faint idea of what a Continent we were passing.
We passed a whale spouting in these seas.
Before nearing Gibraltar the course directed
to the Spanish Coast, and during this portion
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of the voyage we had the boldest coast we had
ever seen.
Gibraltar is only a rock of about 1,200 feet,
but it is more picturesque than Malta. It is not
very unlike the Great Ormes Head from some
points of view, but looks bolder. The base of
the hill is studded with pretty villas, these are
occupied mostly by English Officers and their
families. The space for the town is very small;
the markets and houses are all within the fortifications.
There are about 4,000 Spanish allowed
to live here on sufferance, but are liable to be
ejected at a moment’s notice.
The principal feature of Gibraltar is its
natural fortifications. The Rock is pierced with
two tunnels, called the Upper and Lower
Gallery. From these tunnels cannon are fixed
at all points of defence. A sergeant told us that
it would take all the powers of Europe combined
to take Gibraltar.
We stayed here two days, and then shipped
on the Cunard S.S. “Morocco.” We had a
fair passage–about two nights and two-and-a-half
days in the Bay of Biscay, with a head
wind N.E., doing five knots per hour. I had
often wished to see the rollers of the Bay, and I
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saw them. They were so grand that they took
away the appetite I should have had for my
dinner. It was on the Thursday morning preceding
Good Friday that we rounded Holyhead.
We had not had any English news for a
fortnight, because it takes six days to go to
Gibraltar and six back. We cleared the Bar
and steamed into the Alexandra Dock, after
being away for six weeks and three days, and,
as my companion had carefully calculated,
covered over 5,000 miles.
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[Illustration: ENDE.]
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E. GRIFFITH AND SON, PRINTERS, CAXTON WORKS, BIRKENHEAD.
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.it Transcriber’s Notes:
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.it Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
.it Typographical errors were silently corrected.
.it Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a\
predominant form was found in this book.
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.it Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
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