Part 1

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FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION.

“Trip to the Sunny South”

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.

DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND, J. P. G.

BIRKENHEAD: PRINTED BY E. GRIFFITH AND SON, HAMILTON STREET.

PREFACE.

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.

L. S. D.

Bebington, April, 1885.

“TRIP TO THE SUNNY SOUTH.”

“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.

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 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 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, 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 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; 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 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 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 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, 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 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, 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 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 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 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. 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 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.