Part 8

“One of my American acquaintance, a physician, says that Hell, as an Institution, will wholly fail, if these tyrants don’t get their deserts in the Pit hereafter. When an Englishman said at Milan he had seen, among other relics at a church, what the priests asserted was the veritable brazen serpent of Moses in the wilderness, the Doctor asked if they showed at the same time the darkness that came over Israel. When he said No, the Doctor said they might safely have offered to, as it overshadowed the whole land in the shape of the Austrian despotism.

“Venice and Milan are both under martial law, and soldiers swarm in them; and at Verona they were preparing for a review of the whole army before the Emperor.... To induce the inhabitants to attend, there was to be a lottery, and tickets _given_ to all who chose to come. But the Italians will not be coaxed. At a previous review, not a single Italian came upon the ground.”

* * * * *

Writing from Frankfort two days later, he says:--“Here I encountered those evil spirits again, the Austrian soldiers. They are chiefly Hungarians and Croats, and sent to keep the people of this ‘Free’ City of the Empire from rising again.” He had gone from Darmstadt to Freiburg by way of Radstadt on 7 August 1849, and noted in his diary then:--“Baden abounds with Prussian troops: they were just shooting some of the insurgent prisoners at Radstadt.” He wrote from Interlaken, 17 August 1849:--“I saw two Prussian officers at the Wengern Alp on leave of absence from Baden. They told me their troops had now 15,000 prisoners in Baden, and every Prussian among them they were shooting. I asked why, and they enquired if I could point out anything else they could do with them: as if it were a case of no alternative.”

Having to wait a little while at Brescia station on 23 August 1869, I went into a show that was going on just outside. There was such riotous applause that I felt sure it must be something good, and I found it was the visit of General von Haynau to the brewery of Messrs Barclay and Perkins. Their brewery was one of the sights of London that all foreigners went to see, and he went to see it. The men discovered who he was, and nearly murdered him. And the Brescians were wild with joy at seeing this in the show, remembering the old Hyæna’s brutality to them in 1849.

That afternoon, in going across the field of Solferino, I heard a curious story of the battle, 24 June 1859:--Nugent was a Field Marshal in the Austrian army. He was past eighty, and was merely a spectator, having no command; but he wore his uniform. He was watching the battle from an outlying point, and the French either saw him or heard that he was there. They argued that an officer of that rank would not be there, unless there was a force behind him; and for a time this held them back from attacking the Austrian left.

Ten years had removed all traces of the battle except the monuments and graves; but on going over the field of Gravelotte on 7 August 1875, just five years after the battle, 18 August 1870, I saw several patches of barren ground, and I was told that these marked the position of the ambulances, the surgeons having used things that afterwards sterilized the soil. And thereupon my father said that he saw patches of wheat of an unusual colour on the field of Waterloo five-and-twenty years after the battle, and he was told that these were places where horses had been killed in masses, when the cavalry charged the squares.

In a letter of 18 September 1851 my father says:--“I visited the scenes of Bonaparte’s early victories in Italy: Rivoli, Roveredo, etc.... All the towns on the Adige bear mementoes of him in the cannon balls yet sticking into the houses, the inhabitants never having taken the trouble to extract them.”

He notes in his diary, Liège, 30 July 1839:--“There was an old gentleman in the diligence with me, whom I discovered to have known Napoleon. He was returning from his house at Brussels to his country house, but lived in Paris for many years in Napoleon’s reign, and left on his abdication. He met him daily, and was Auditeur du Conseil d’État, at the meetings of which Napoleon generally presided. He said the likenesses of Napoleon were generally good, but it was impossible to give any idea by painting of the expression of his eyes--they were piercing, and he said ‘you could not look at him: his glance would read your very heart.’ He was pleasant when in good humour, but that was not always the case. He would always have an answer instantly on asking a question, and if a person did not know what he was asked, he must answer and say so without a moment’s delay.”

Napoleon was brought into Torbay on the Bellerophon in July 1815. There were strict orders from the Admiralty that nobody should come on board; but my grandfather managed it somehow, and there saw Napoleon walking up and down the deck. My grandfather was not impressed by Napoleon’s appearance, and used to tell me that “Boney was a poor-looking creature after all.” I imagine that “Boney” was not looking quite his best just then.

In a box here I found a portion of a human skull, and written on it “The skull of a Turk, one of those put to death at Joppa by that fellow Buonaparte.” That was when he shot the soldiers who had surrendered there, 10 March 1799. This relic was brought home by George Renner Hillier (born 1776, died 1865) who was then a lieutenant on the Alliance, and took part in the defence of Acre, 18 March to 21 May 1799. The box came to me as his executor’s executor; but I did not know what it contained. In another box I found a note of his that Buonaparte had sent a message to Jerusalem that he was coming there as soon as he had taken Acre, and the first French soldier that fell in the attack should be buried in the Holy Sepulchre.

After finding that skull, I had hopes of finding the keys of Flushing church, as my father told me that he had seen them at this Captain Hillier’s house; but I was disappointed. He acquired them in this way:--In the Walcheren expedition he was “appointed by Sir Richard Strachan to make the last signal on the island, with strict orders to secure the said signal at the top of the church in a manner it could not be hauled down by the enemy before the rear guard was embarked.” The written instructions were in this box:--“Blake, Flushing Roads, December 23rd 1809. As soon as the day breaks you are to show the two balls on the steeple of Flushing, being the signal for the rear guard to embark and the flotilla to withdraw, and you are to come off with the army.” He did not see how he could stop the enemy hauling the signal down as soon as they reached the church, but he thought he might delay them for some minutes, if he locked up all the doors, and brought the keys away with him.

During that war a good many French naval officers were sent to Dartmoor as prisoners; and the gravestones of some of them may be seen in Moreton churchyard, looking strangely out of place there with their French inscriptions. These officers were very popular down here; and I have been told that nobody, however poor, ever claimed the guinea reward that was offered for information of their going out of bounds.

In a letter to my father, 9 December 1839, my grandfather says:--“Your account of the French soldiers would not please a Frenchman.... I remember, when staying at Exeter, I saw a whole regiment of young fellows that had been taken prisoners: the eldest did not appear to exceed twenty-one: they were the most ugly and dirty set of fellows I ever saw, and very short: you could scarcely pick such a set from all our regiments.”

My father mentions in his diary, Nantes, 19 August 1847, that he had been talking to an old gentleman of over eighty, who had known Nantes since 1789. “In speaking of the horrible revolutionary scenes enacted at Nantes, he said that the most violent fanatics, who carried out the Butcheries and Noyades there,

were chiefly small tradesmen, and continued to live there unmolested after the Restoration as if nothing had happened, and some few were living yet.” Nantes impressed my father very much at that time:--“I have not seen a finer town. It is really finer than Brussels or Frankfort, and, as a whole, even finer than Paris.”

In his diary, Paris, 18 October 1839, my father writes:--“The streets here are worse, much worse, than in London, except just the Rivoli and one or two others, where there are arcades in front of the houses with flag stones. Not half or quarter of the other streets are flagged, and the common pavement is dreadfully uneven, besides not being level. Each side falling towards the centre makes the walking very disagreeable--and that centre generally running with mud or water affords the chance of every carriage that passes giving the foot travellers a splashing from head to foot. Besides, most of the streets are narrow, and many are filthy and muddy.

“It really is a disgrace to the Parisians, who boast so much of the Invalides, to have such a vile public road to it, and infamously lighted. Amongst the trees and all in the dark I had to grope my way towards the Seine, nearly up to my ancles in mud. At last I reached the bridge, and then for a contrast came into the Place de la Concorde, covered all over with flag pavement, and with brilliant gas lights at every two or three yards, and often two together. But it is either the height of splendour or the height of meanness and misery here.”

I saw Paris first in September 1867. It was then in all its glory, with the wide streets and stately buildings constructed in the previous fifteen years. The place was thronged with people of all nations, who had come to see the Exhibition; and there was huge prosperity all round. The soldiers looked magnificent, especially the Zouaves and the Imperial Guard--long-service men with medals; and few people imagined that the Prussians could stand up to them. Yet there were some signs of insecurity. The official tune was _Partant pour la Syrie_; and, if anyone even whistled the _Marseillaise_, the police were after him at once.

I saw Paris next in August and September 1871. And these are some of the things that I noted in my diary then:--In the Rue de Rivoli some blocks of houses had been blown up, others burnt, and all more or less damaged. Of the garden front of the Tuileries only the outer walls were left: the New Louvre had been a little damaged, and was being re-roofed: the fire had not reached the Louvre itself. At the Palais Royal, the palace itself had been burnt, but not the shops underneath. Neither the Bourse nor the Opera House was hurt. There was nothing left of the Hôtel de Ville except the outer walls and the chimneys with the statues on them; and these stood out well against the sky. Most of the neighbouring houses had been burnt. There were several shot holes through the Bastille Column. The remains of the Vendôme Column had already been removed, but the base was still there, a good deal broken on the side on which the pillar fell--and the man with the telescope was there as before. The arcade in the Rue de Castiglione was covered with bullet holes. In the Place de la Concorde the statue of Lille had been knocked to pieces by a shell, also one of the fountains--the further from the river--but the Luxor obelisk was safe. Out by the Auteuil Gate every house had been more or less damaged by shells, and a good many had been pulled down for fear of their collapsing. The stone fortifications were not much damaged, but the earthworks above them were covered with shell-holes. For 300 yards outside the fortifications the trees in the Bois de Boulogne had been cut down, but very few of the others had been damaged.

Paris has never recovered from that blow, and its slovenliness under the Republic contrasts badly with its smartness in the Second Empire. The damage was made good, but there has been little progress since; and meanwhile Vienna has become the finest town in Europe. Berlin has grown enormously; and the pleasant old town is lost amidst the dreariness of its extensions. It was after the events of 1870 that building started there, and started at Rome also in much the same style. But a style that does not matter in Berlin, is quite exasperating in such a place as Rome.

During the siege of Paris there was Aurora Borealis on the nights of 24 and 25 October 1870. I have never seen anything else so brilliant in the sky--the Krakatoa sunsets were nothing to it. A friend of mine was in Paris at the time, and his diary says:--“The colour was blood mixed with water.” People in London--myself among them--fancied that Paris was in flames, and that this was the reflexion in the sky. But, when the Communists did what the Germans did not do, there was no glare visible so far away.

Going from Calais to Paris on 15 August 1871, I noted in my diary that “the Prussians were still in possession of the station at Amiens”; and, returning on 11 September, “in passing St Denis, saw the Prussians packing their guns and ammunition on railway trucks, and preparing to evacuate the place.” The expresses were still made up with English carriages, as much of the French stock had been burnt.

Passing through Boulogne on 8 September 1873, I noted that “there were great rejoicings going on there on account of the payment of the Indemnity.” The final instalment had been paid on the 5th, and the army of occupation had begun its final move that morning, the 8th. It evacuated Verdun on the 13th, and crossed the frontier on the 16th. It had evacuated Nancy after the payment of the previous instalment on the 5th of August. And at Augsburg I noted in my diary, 12 August 1873:--“Drove to the Rath-haus, a fine old gabled building, internally in a state of great confusion, resulting from a banquet the night before to the Bavarians, who had just returned from the occupation of the French territory.”

From my diary, Nuremberg, 2 September 1874:--“The fourth anniversary of Sedan. The town in a state of utter excitement: every house with one or two banners (Bavarian or German), each several stories long, hung out from the upper windows, and wreaths of evergreens from all the rest; all the inhabitants either drinking beer or walking up and down the town without any particular object; bands of music marching about in a similar way. At ten I went to service at S. Sebald’s, which, large as it is, was crammed: quite three thousand people, I should think. Some chorales sounded very well when sung by so many: they were afterwards repeated by a band on the top of the tower, apparently for the crowd outside to sing to, but the crowd did not seem much taken with the idea, and merely listened to the band. Walked about looking at the decorations for a long time. The place could not have looked prettier, as the flags hid the houses, which are plain, and one could only see the roofs, the most picturesque part. Left Nuremberg at two, and got to Frankfort at eight: a very hot journey. All the stations were much decorated, and fireworks were going on at Frankfort. Drove through the Zeil to the Taunus station, and went by rail to Biebrich on the Rhine, arriving at half past eleven.”

I well remember that journey. I was going in the morning with my father, mother, brother and sister; but at the station we found that a bundle of umbrellas had been left at the hotel, and I was deputed to secure it and follow by a later train. And the guards and passengers were all very inquisitive as to how it came about that an English boy of sixteen should be travelling across Germany, all by himself, with no other luggage than a bundle of umbrellas.

From my diary, Freiburg, 2 September 1875:--“Great firing of cannon early in the morning to celebrate Sedan: the town pretty generally decorated with flags, but the inhabitants not so enthusiastic as the Nurembergers on the last anniversary.... Left Freiburg at half past twelve, and reached Strassburg at half past three.... The inhabitants either do not rejoice very greatly at Sedan, or do so very quietly.”

I was in Rome on 20 September 1876, which was the sixth anniversary of the taking of the city, and again on the same day in 1897. There was a parade of Garibaldians each time, and in 1876 it ended in some rioting. The citizens had done better with the Pope than they were doing with the King just then, and they had no kindly feelings for the people who had brought about the change.

Garibaldi had picked his men, and they looked firm and grim, giving one the notion that they would stick at nothing to attain their ends. As a rule, they did not look much like Italians; and in 1897 they made rather a display of their contempt for the little conscripts of the Italian infantry.

I saw Garibaldi several times in London; but the surroundings did not suit him, and he looked more slovenly than heroic with his dingy cloak and unkempt hair. He had a great ovation, when he made almost a triumphal entry into London on 11 April 1864. But he was in an open carriage, and the crowd was so very friendly and so anxious to shake hands with him, that at last they pulled the rumble off the carriage, together with the solemn footmen who were seated there. That happened in Pall Mall, and I did not actually see it.

I chanced to see another sort of entry into London on 24 March 1889. I was walking along the top of Trafalgar Square, and noticed an open carriage coming up from Charing Cross, followed by a shouting rabble. When it came abreast of me, I saw Rochefort and Boulanger sitting in it side by side, Rochefort with the air of a showman, and poor Boulanger holding a ridiculous bouquet and bowing to this mob. I think he wished himself back in his command, taking the salute.

Abdul-Aziz, the Sultan of Turkey, came to England in 1867, and was present at a review at Wimbledon on 20 July. He was riding along the ground with the Prince of Wales and the Staff, when suddenly a mass of well-dressed men broke through the barriers, and made a rush towards him. And then two squadrons of the Life Guards came down at a gallop, knocked over the leaders of the rush, and closed up round the Sultan. I was on the Grand Stand, and saw the whole thing admirably. The explanation was that the Sultan’s saddle-cloth was studded with diamonds, and the “swell-mob” thought that it could grab them. But it looked more like an attempt at assassination; and he must have taken it for that, judging by the way he managed his horse. However, he had nearly nine years more of absolute power before he was deposed and bled to death.

At one time or another I have seen a good many people of renown; but I have never seen anything more magnificent than the Emperor Frederick, when Crown Prince, seated on his horse and wearing the white dress of the Cuirassiers. He was grander even than the statue of Bartolomeo Colleoni.

I saw the Mahmal at Cairo on 11 February 1882. There was a vast crowd, and the Mahmal was received with a salute of sixteen guns, and the Khedive with a salute of twenty-one; but neither made so great a show as Arabi. On 2 February he had made himself Minister of War, and there was a notion that he would choose this occasion for making himself Khedive; but nothing happened then. I had passed through Tell el-Kebir on 4 February, and should have looked at it more closely, had I foreseen what would be happening there on 13 September. I sailed from Alexandria on 11 March, and never imagined then that there would be a massacre there on 11 June, and a bombardment on 11 July.

On the morning of the procession I saw the Mahmal saddled on its camel: after which the camel went out to meet the Mecca Caravan, and then marched into the city with the pilgrims, as though it had come all the way from Mecca. As a matter of fact, the Mahmal is nothing but a pair of panniers with a canopy above, such as women ride in when they make the pilgrimage, only more ornate. There is nothing whatever inside it. The story is that queen Sheger ad-Durr made the pilgrimage in very splendid panniers about the year 1250; and such panniers have been sent each year since then, though nobody has ever ridden in them. The procession was too straggling to be impressive as a whole, but some things in it were striking--particularly the Sheikh of the Camel. That holy man kept wagging his head from side to side, as if he wished to shake it off; and he was said to go on wagging it all the way from Cairo to Mecca and back.

I went to Siena to see the Palio in August 1898. It has not been vulgarized like the Carnivale, as it comes at a season when few people go to Italy.--In my opinion, people generally choose the wrong time of year for going there. To see Italy in all its glory, one must be there at the Vintage.

Strictly speaking, the Palio is the banner which forms the prize in a race of ten horses, representing ten of the seventeen wards into which the city is divided; seven of the wards being selected by rotation and three by lot. There are trial races on the 14th and 15th, and the race itself is on the 16th. It is run in honour of God and of the Blessed Virgin Mary, by statute of 17 June 1310; and the horses go to church before the race, and are blessed and sprinkled with holy water after certain prayers on their behalf.

The whole history of such festivals is given in _Palio and Ponte_ by William Heywood, 1904. On looking into this, I found references to the Palio of 1898, and on plate 22 I found the top of my straw hat in the foreground of the picture. The hat is unmistakeable--built specially for me at Christys’ with wider brim and lower crown than was usual at that period.

Siena is still a mediæval city; and the race is run inside the city in a semicircular space enclosed by fine old buildings. But the race itself is not as interesting as the procession that precedes it. The city and its seventeen wards are represented by about 180 men, all in costumes of the Fifteenth Century, and the chief in splendid armour: the horses go with the members of the wards for which they run: the Palio is carried on a wagon in the middle; and the procession ends with the standard of the city on the mast of the Carroccio, the great wagon round which the struggle centred at that Battle of the Standard fought at Montaperto on 4 September 1260. I have seen as brilliant a sight with the bull-fighters entering the Plaza de Toros in procession--Madrid, 9 September 1877--but this was more impressive with its stately movement round that venerable place, the deep notes of the ancient drums and trumpets, and the great bell--the Campanone--roaring in its tower.

From my diary, Antwerp, 20 August 1872:--“Saw the Procession of the Giant from a house in the Rue de Chaperon. This procession takes place every third year on the last day of the Kermis: it commemorates the killing of a giant who held a castle on the banks of the Scheldt. First came an immense figure of a dolphin.... Then a basket-work figure of the Giantess, about twenty-five feet high: seated and holding in one hand a spear and in the other a shield with the city arms. Then the Giant, another figure of the same sort: in armour and carrying a club and sword.”

The procession was performed out of due season on 19 September 1843 for the benefit of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert; and they went afterwards to the studio of Gustaf Wappers, and commissioned him to paint a picture of it. The picture is in the King’s collection, and is engraved in Hall’s _Royal Gallery of Art_. It depicts three ladies at an open window, looking down on the procession as it passes through the Place de Meir, the Giant in the middle distance, and the Cathedral spire in the background. I have the preliminary sketch in oils; and this gives a second window, showing the palace in the Place de Meir, and the royal party on the balcony.