Part 40

When these difficulties were overcome, the British portion of the population at least were disquieted by the attitude taken by England in regard to affairs in the East. Before we left home in 1876, Turkish misrule and oppression of the provinces had awakened the attention of the European powers, and a movement for reform was made. The Turkish atrocities in Bulgaria had also come to light, and Mr. Gladstone, with all the fervour of his noble heart, had come to the front, and forced the facts into lively attention, and not without effect. But the firm word from us to the Turk, which would have prevented war, was not spoken, and Russia found herself compelled, single–handed, to have recourse to arms to terminate oppression. Russia did not declare war till April 1877. When she became successful, there was considerable excitement in the south of England, and it seemed as if many good people were not careful of what they fed upon, and for a long time nightly dreamt that the Czar, with one foot on Russia, was putting another on Constantinople, and, like a gigantic Gulliver, was just about to haul India off to St. Petersburg. Into the political causes and consequences of this excitement it would be out of place to enter here. Suffice it to say that they made us uneasy during several months; and had it not been for the extreme moderation and coolness throughout regulating the counsels of Russia (which was no doubt thinking as much of taking Jupiter or Georgium Sidus as of taking India, or even Constantinople, and was perhaps amused, though displeased, at our fright), joined to the restraining good sense of the country at home generally, we should have been involved in war, all Europe would have been ablaze, and—selfish thought—what would those have had to do who found a foreign residence necessary?

Among other delicious canards to which we were treated from time to time during the war in the little French newspapers, was the astounding information that our beloved Queen had resolved to resign.

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Two important events, however, did happen during our stay at Mentone—first, the somewhat sudden or unlooked–for death of Victor Emmanuel in January 1878; and, within a month afterwards, the long–expected death of Pope Pius IX. On both these occasions a special service was held in the Cathedral of Mentone, and I suppose 2000 persons must have been crammed into its body and recesses. Although the church is a pretty large one, the odour with which it was filled was by no means that of sanctity, and it was a relief, when the service was over, in little more than an hour, to get out to the fresh air. Besides black drapery hung throughout the church, a grand catafalque was in each case erected in the centre of the cathedral, in front of which a space was reserved and seated for the grandees of Mentone. The altar at the back was denuded, perhaps to afford space, and the singers and players on instruments were placed between it and the catafalque, out of sight of the audience. The harsh sounds of the brass instruments as they blew their trumpet–blasts thus in our ears seemed vastly inappropriate. The singing had quite a provincial mediocrity; but on the whole, for a small country town, I believe it may be said the arrangements, according to Romanist notions of how such things should be conducted, were fairly good.

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The death of the Pope, while it prevented the celebration of the Carnival in Rome, had no influence in preventing its observance in Mentone and Nice, and scenes similar to those of last year were enacted, with a difference—not to the better—in the pageant. At Nice the Carnival was, I believe, grander than ever, and many of the Mentone visitors made a day of it there. The Carnival time brought with it rather appropriately, though probably accidentally, some fancy balls in Mentone, for which gay and elaborate costumes were, I believe, procured at Nice. We were kindly invited to one of these entertainments, but for reasons declined.

The tendency towards such gaieties seemed this winter rather on the increase. They suit some, but to those desirous of quiet evenings it is disturbing to have frequent routs, and concerts, and other diversions in the drawing–rooms of the hotels.

We were treated, however, to a different description of pleasure, in the shape of an exhibition at New Year’s time of a large collection of water–colour paintings of views in Mentone, Cannes, Corsica, etc., by Mr. Van der Weldt, a skilful artist. The pictures were for sale, but the admission money went to the funds of Helvetia.

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The orange and lemon trees this winter bore scantily, and we could not help feeling regret to see how few and far between were the bunches of golden fruit. To what cause this failure of the crop was to be attributed I do not know, but I believe that the trees do not bear largely for two successive years.

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We again, on leaving Mentone, took a carriage to San Remo, and fortunately had a quiet and warm sunny day for the drive. The dust lay thick on the road, but there was no wind to raise it. The loveliness of the ride was the one atoning circumstance to put against all the pain of parting with friends, and leaving a place with which so many happy recollections were associated. We little thought we were bearing away from it one—then in apparent good health, and, fond of travel, thoroughly appreciating all that she saw—who would never see it again; for the regret of leaving was tempered with the hope that it might be our privilege, though it might not be absolutely needful, to return in a future year to this bright land of the olive and fig tree, the lemon and orange—this land of cloudless sky and cheering sun.

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After leaving Ventimiglia, we looked out for the Roman amphitheatre which had been discovered and was being excavated, but could not find the place, and our driver was unable to render us any information or assistance. We were now in the heart of the scenery forming the _locale_ of that deeply–interesting story, _Dr. Antonio_; and on the previous occasion our driver, I believe, pointed out to us the veritable house in which Sir John Davenne and his heavenly daughter had their abode. After paying a passing visit to friends in Bordighera, we soon afterwards were again in San Remo.

We remained three weeks at San Remo, and during our stay had a good deal of wind blowing from the west, and cold air with heavy rain, and consoled ourselves by thinking that the wind being in that direction, was probably more felt at Mentone. On leaving, we proceeded by train to Alassio, about twenty–eight miles along the coast eastward. We had heard Alassio a good deal spoken of, and wished to see it. It is as yet only visited by casual travellers, and it has not become a place of common winter resort for invalids. Had we not written for rooms, we might not have found any carriage waiting to take us to the Hotel de Rome, which was at the time the only hotel, I believe, to which English people could go. It was a drive of about a mile from the station (principally through the long narrow streets of the town) to the hotel, which fronts the beach, just out of and to the west of the town. It is a comparatively new house, and the accommodation is fairly good and clean. Another hotel, ‘The Grand,’ on a much larger scale, has been built, also fronting the sea, but about the middle of the town. It was not, however, then opened, and the situation did not seem so desirable, though nearer the station.

We found Alassio to be one of those little Italian coast towns in the Riviera which are by no means attractive in themselves. The population is said to be 5500, so that it is of some extent. It is dirty and disagreeable, and unfortunately, like some others, is not shelved away upon an avoidable eminence, but is stuck down upon the very best part of the shore. The towers of the cathedral and other churches, and the structure of the houses, combine to give it, at a little distance, a picturesque appearance. A sandy beach forms the shore, on which, opposite the town, many fishing boats lay. The sands, of a pale yellow or white, though they may afford good bathing, are not interesting, shells and sea–weed being scarce. The town lies at the head or in the centre of a bay formed by two projecting capes or protecting arms, the Capo della Melle on the west and the Capo S. Croce on the east. Between these two points the distance may, I suppose, be about three miles. A semicircular cordon of hills runs back from their termini, and with an inner circle surrounds and hems in Alassio lying in the basin below. The slopes of most of the hills, at least of the inner circle, are covered with olive, carroube, and other trees, giving them a richly–wooded aspect; but the hills themselves do not rise to any great altitude. They are sufficiently high and close upon the town to give much—perhaps, in summer, too much—shelter to Alassio, and to afford room for supposing that it might become, on a smaller scale, another Mentone for winter residence. Possibly if no old Italian town had existed there, and everything could be laid out anew, Alassio might be made a good place and suitable for strangers; but the great drawbacks to it for residence, and not regarding it from a medical point of view, are the existence of this old dirty town, which usurps nearly the whole of the shore space, and is far from attractive, and the confined or limited situation. I believe that many fine walks may be found about it, but the mountains lack the height and picturesque grandeur of those of Mentone, and there seem to be no valleys and rivers to offer variety. Some English families, however, have been so pleased with it as to have built houses there, for permanent occupation, on the slopes of the hills. One of these we visited—that of Mr. Gibb, a Scotch gentleman. Its position is commanding, and derives shelter from the hills behind; and from the terraces overlooking the town, the views were fine. The ground was laid out in the style of hanging gardens, full of orange trees. At leaving, Mr. Gibb kindly caused a basketful of oranges to be plucked and given to us, and they were of the most delicious flavour; indeed, I believe the Alassio oranges are noted for their excellent quality. Although a little society is to be found at Alassio, it struck me as a dull place of residence except to those who are fond of retirement. A great improvement to the town would be the formation of a promenade along the shore, as at Mentone, Cannes, and Nice. Were this done, it would help to draw strangers, and if strangers came, other improvements would follow.

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On the first afternoon, we had, after arrival, time to take a walk westward along the beach for about a mile to a small village Laigueglia, which, as usual, possesses a church with a campanile; other large buildings like granaries fronted the sea. We took, the following day, a much more interesting walk up the height of Santa Croce to the eastward, encountering unexpectedly by the way a smart shower, from which some protection was afforded by the trees. Upon leaving the town, a paved donkey–path leads up the hillside, skirted by woods (the carroube trees here growing luxuriantly), to the ruins of an old chapel, whence an extensive panorama spreads out on one side, back over the hills behind the town, and down on the town and ocean below; while eastward the rockbound coast stretches away, visible as far, I believe, on a clear day, as Genoa and beyond it. But the day was not sufficiently clear to see so far.

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Dr. Giuseppe Schneer has published a pamphlet of about eighty pages on Alassio, titled, _Alassio ed il suo clima confrontato con quello di S. Remo, Mentone, Nizza, e Cannes_. It is in Italian, unfortunately, and consists of three parts. The first and largest part contains medical advice, leading up, of course, to approval of Alassio. The second part gives some information about the town, its population, schools, hotels, etc.; and in reference to its healthiness, adduces a table of mortality from which it would appear that during nine years the average was about 100 deaths per annum in a population assumed to be now and throughout 5500, or 1 in 55, which would certainly be extraordinarily low. Another table is given to show the duration of life, evidencing considerable longevity. The third part deals with the meteorology of Alassio, and contains some tables, from which it would appear, if the observations be correctly taken, Alassio stands well, and, on the whole, obtains a higher temperature than places on the Riviera with which it is compared—a result which may be accounted for by its being more shut in. I take the liberty of quoting an excerpt from one of these tables (p. 74):—

_Media della Temperatura delle Singole Stazioni della Riviera._

+---------+-------+-------+------+------+--------+--------+-----------+ | | | | | | | | Media | |Stazioni.|Gennaio|Febraio|Marzo |Aprile|Novembre|Decembre| de 5 Mesi,| | | | | | | | |piu freddi.| |---------+-------+-------+------+------+--------+--------+-----------* | | | | | | | | | |Alassio, | 9·18 | 10· |13·45 |14·05 | 11·86 | 10·80 | 11·05 | | | | | | | | | | |San Remo,| 8·97 | 11·44 |11·22 |13·83 | 12·41 | 10·43 | 10·25 | | | | | | | | | | |Mentone, | 9·3 | 9·5 |11·6 |14·6 | 12·2 | 9·5 | 10·04 | | | | | | | | | | |Nizza, | 8·1 | 9·5 |11·2 |14·5 | 12·6 | 9·2 | 9·83 | | | | | | | | | | |Cannes, | 8·6 | 9·8 |13·4 |17·3 | 13·5 | 9·9 | 10·45 | | | | | | | | | | +---------+-------+-------+------+------+--------+--------+-----------+

Dr. Schneer also states that in the five months from November to March there are 79 days all bright, 37·5 half so, 36 cloudy, and 20 bad.

It may be, therefore, that the climate of Alassio is one suitable for invalids, and living is moderate, as pension can be had at the Hotel de Rome for 7 and 8 francs per day _tout compris_.

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After being two nights there, we left for Genoa. The day was fine, and having a compartment to ourselves, we had full opportunity of looking about and enjoying the scenery. The distance is about fifty–seven miles, and as the train took nearly four hours to arrive quietly at Genoa, we moved leisurely. I paced one of our bedrooms at the Hotel de Gènes, and it seemed to be 27 feet long by 21 feet wide, and probably it was 20 feet high. In the afternoon we drove out again to see the Campo Santo, and found little change since last year. On the following day we visited most of the places we had seen the previous year, and some others, including some additional palaces already noticed. With a little difficulty we made discovery of the Via Orifici (a narrow street in the heart of the town, not far from the hotel), where the filigree shops are, and made a few purchases. The shops are on both sides of the street, and contain sometimes beautiful specimens of this delicate work in silver and gold; perhaps the shop of Salvi exhibited the largest collection of choice handiwork. In buying, it is well to remember one is transacting in Italy. Genoa has a Galleria, but not nearly so handsome as that at Milan, although equally suitable for its purpose. Last year we had seen it in course of construction, but it was now completed, and some of the best shops in Genoa were opened in it. But at the time of our visit it was not fully occupied. At night it was, as at Milan, crowded by the townspeople and visitors. A long, wide, lofty arcade like this, covered over by a glass roof, and brilliantly lighted up, is naturally an attraction, and something of the kind in our large towns might induce a withdrawal of many from the gin–palaces and drinking–shops, the glare and comfort of which seem to be so great an inducement and temptation to certain classes. But, like the Italian galleries, they require to be thoroughfares in good central situations—not _cul–de–sacs_.

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In the afternoon of the third day we left by train for Turin. A few drops fell as we left, augmenting as we proceeded under inky clouds to heavy rain. We obtained our last glimpse of our old friend the Mediterranean just after leaving Genoa. The railway stations, not improved by the rain, looked all so dirty—filthy, indeed. At Alessandria, where we had an hour to wait, affording time to dine, the whole platform was most disagreeable, from the abominable habit (elsewhere alluded to) the Italians have of defiling every place, even the floors of churches, so that it is not uncommon to see a notice up in the churches requesting that it be not practised. However, good service is done by the women, who trail their gowns over the floors, and thus, with a thoughtful consideration for others and an unselfish disregard for themselves, keep them cleaner than they would otherwise be.

We arrived at Turin about eight o’clock in the evening, and found quarters in the Ligurie, a large, new, first–class hotel, not far from the station. The double windows, thick shutters, and the cloth curtains outside the bedroom doors, were suggestive of what descent in temperature there may sometimes be in Turin; but except a little cold and damp in the evening, resulting from the rain which had fallen before our arrival, we had it warm and sunny during the three days we remained there. The following forenoon we devoted to a long drive in and about Turin. The streets are exceedingly regular and wide, and the houses being lofty and the town of considerable extent and full of handsome public buildings and monuments, Turin has all the appearance of a capital; but though a city upwards of 2000 years old, there is about it quite a modern air. The view along several of the streets is terminated by a grand vista of snowy mountains, and one of the sights of Turin—indeed, its great sight—is the view obtained from it of the Alps. To witness this in perfection, it should be seen from a commanding height early in the morning of a clear day. We accordingly, soon after breakfast, driving past the public park and gardens, and round an imposing quadrangular building called the Castel di Valentino, and crossing the river Po by a stone bridge of five arches, were deposited at the foot of the steep hill on which the Capuchin Monastery is built. Here, by a road winding round the hill, we walked to the top, and from the plateau beheld the most magnificent mountain prospect I had ever seen, or which I suppose is visible in Europe. Right in front of us, against a sky all but clear, rose the great range of the snowy Alps, stretching far as the eye could reach to right and left, the nearest being only about fifteen miles distant, but seeming much nearer as seen through a transparent atmosphere over a range of low hills lying in front of them. Monte Viso, conical in shape, about forty–five miles to the south–west, in which the river Po finds its source, rises prominently like a huge tusk, the rest like an enormous jaw, in wavy line of peaks or serrated folds. Between the river Po, flowing below, and the mountains, the ground appears one vast level plain, on which the city rests in regular lines of lofty houses, the monotony being broken by the numerous towers and domes of the public buildings; and conspicuous among them is the great ugly peculiar square dome of the Jewish Synagogue, a far from pleasing object. In a different direction, away to the north–east, we saw the Superga or Royal Mausoleum, built on the crest of a hill much higher than the monastery, and commanding a fully better view. To visit it and the royal tombs is a day’s excursion, and we gave it up. The royal palace was among the places in town which we visited. Its magnificent rooms are reached by a truly regal staircase of marble adorned by sculpture. The armoury, an interesting exhibition, is not far from the palace. A long room in it is filled with figures of men–at–arms on horseback clad with the armour of different periods.

The streets of Turin are to a large extent lined by arcades, and no doubt in bad weather, and especially in snowstorms, such a method of construction must be useful, the shops, however, being generally placed under them.

Turin possesses many fine monuments. One of the finest is that to Cavour, inscribed, ‘A Camillo Cavour nato a Torino il x. Agosto MDCCCX., morto il vi. Giugno MDCCCLXI.’ A kneeling female figure, representing doubtless Italia, is presenting him with a garland; while below, the base is adorned by emblematical figures at least life–size, and, like the statue, of white marble—all very tasteful. Another and very singular monument is that to the Duke of Genoa. His horse falls to the ground on its knees wounded, and the rider, the Duke, sitting on the horse, is resting one foot on the ground and waving his sword.

We had a Sunday in Turin, and in the morning went into the cathedral. It is a large building, not very imposing; but inside it is dark, and the dirtiest church we had seen in Italy, which is saying a good deal. To Protestants, the Waldensian Church is a place of great interest. Unfortunately we had been informed at the hotel that the Italian service was in the morning, and the French service in the afternoon; and we therefore attended service in the morning, in the English Church in the yard immediately behind it. Returning in the afternoon, we found our informant was mistaken; the French service had been in the morning, the afternoon service was in Italian. The church, which is a large one, was scantily attended by a shifting congregation of the poorer classes of Italians. Many, apparently Roman Catholics, just entered to see what was doing, and after a few minutes went out again, to be replaced by others. As we understood little of what was said, we did not stay the service out. We learned at dinner from a lady who had been there in the forenoon, that the morning service had been in French, that the church was crowded by a most respectable congregation, and that the whole service was most interesting.

Turin is a place in which a few days can be well spent, and an excursion is not unfrequently made from it to the Waldensian valleys, part of the way to which is by railway.

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