The English Community of Nice—A Pleasant Meeting—The Corniche
Road—The Smallest Sovereignty in the World—An Oppressive
Right of the Prince—Rumoured Negotiation—Rencontre with
Pilgrims—An Old Genoese Villa—A Piedmontese Dinner—The
Culture of Lemon Trees—Piedmontese Newspapers—The
Towers of the Peasantry—Cultivation of the Olive and the
Fig-tree—Popular Mode of Fishing.
Not very long ago I was at Nice—beautiful Nice, with its wondrous
skies and sapphire-like sea; its olive woods, and palms, and aloes;
its mountains, luxurious valleys, and rich pasture-lands; and yet I
was not content. When from the scenery around I turned to examine Nice
itself—when, after paying a due tribute of admiration to the country
thus lavishly endowed, I sought to learn something of its inhabitants,
their customs, their social life, my dissatisfaction commenced. There
seemed no individuality in this town; no leading features among its
population. I found no interior to peep into, no traits of national
character to record.
Nice takes its tone from the English and French, Bavarians and
Russians, who make it their winter residence; the English influence,
however, being predominant, as is evidenced by the number of British
comforts and indispensabilities our country-people have introduced;
English bathing-machines on the sunny beach; English goods and
warehouses at every turning; chemists' shops, complete in all their
time-honoured insignia; stay-makers to royal English duchesses; English
groceries, hosiery, baby-linen; all are here to be found, besides
English clubs, English doctors, English agency-offices—in fact, every
imaginable device wherewith John Bull delights to surround himself when
abroad.
Now all this may be very delightful, but it is certainly not
instructive; and to those who think some improvement may be gleaned
from foreign travel beyond seeing all the sights and taking all the
drives set down in _Murray's Handbook_, it is particularly annoying
to find themselves in a society where the prejudice and party-spirit,
gossip and twaddle, into which a number of idle people must inevitably
fall, are actively at work; within whose circles a native is rarely
seen, and where a total indifference as to the history or condition of
the country where they are sojourning is displayed. I was beginning to
fret under this exclusiveness, and was endeavouring to resign myself to
the conviction that my visit to Nice would be barren of reminiscence,
when my good genius came to my aid, and one day, on the Promenade
des Anglais, brought me face to face with the Comtesse de Laval, a
Piedmontese widow lady I had known two or three years previously in
Tuscany. She had lately come with her brother, a veteran general, who
had lost an arm in the campaigns of '48-49 against the Austrians, to
reside on some property they had purchased in the neighbourhood. It was
a most charming rencontre for me; and they really seemed so cordial,
that, making all requisite allowances for Italian exaggeration, I
could not but believe the pleasure was mutual. The comtesse's first
inquiry was if I were a _fiancée_, for in this respect all Italians are
alike—Piedmontese or Neapolitans, from the north or from the south,
they equally consider matrimony the sole object of a woman's life.
Disappointed at my reply, she glanced nervously round to see whether
I was unattended; but the sight of a servant reassured her, while I
vainly attempted to demonstrate that my advancing years would speedily
render any escort superfluous.
With a fixed determination to defer to the vassalage under which she
considered I ought to be restricted, she begged me to take her to
call upon the friends with whom I was staying, in order to proffer a
request that I might be permitted to accompany her for a few days to
her brother's villa at Latte, some thirty miles' distance from Nice—her
own house in the vicinity being under repair. We were all amused at the
stately old lady's punctilio; but the kind invitation, it is needless
to say, was willingly accepted, and an early day appointed to set out.
Everybody has heard of the Corniche Road—the Riviera di Ponente; that
is, the Shore of the West—which connects Nice with Genoa, and that
portion of it leading to Latte is perhaps the most beautiful of the
whole. October had already commenced, but no trace of autumn had as yet
stolen over the landscape, no chillness in the balmy air reminded one
of the lateness of the season. Our way at first wound along a gradual
ascent, bordered with olives, cherubias, cypresses, orange-trees, and
the maritime pine, and commanding the most extensive inland prospect,
where mountains upon mountains displayed exquisite varieties of
colouring and form; whence a sudden turn of the road brought us to
heights overhanging the Mediterranean, with its endless succession of
headlands and bays, towns nestling beneath the shelter of a protecting
rock, or cresting some rugged eminence; while the blue waters stretched
forth in their calm majesty, scarcely a ripple on their glass-like
surface, scarcely a murmur as they wafted their wreaths of spray
towards that highly-favoured shore.
Soon after passing Turbia—a village constructed of Roman ruins—the
road began to descend, always overhanging the sea; and then, far, far
beneath us, accessible only by a very circuitous route, we saw Monaco,
the capital of the smallest sovereignty in the world, with its towers
and fortifications rising along a rugged promontory, which flung its
arms protectingly around the tiny city, and formed a bay, so graceful
in its curve, in the outline of the hills which rose above it, that
the scene looked like a gem worthy of Italy's diadem of beauty. From
this I was directed to turn my gaze in the direction of Roccabruna,
another town in this same Liliputian principality, situated upon the
shelving side of a mountain, so exceedingly precipitous, that the
marvel is how it ever could have been built, or men found agile enough
to climb there; the popular legend being, that, some hundred years ago,
the whole slid some distance down the face of the rock to its present
locality, without destroying its castle or other structures.
Florestan, Prince of Monaco, and Duke of Valentinois, spends in Paris
the revenues he obtains from his subjects by exactions which have
rendered him deservedly unpopular. One oppressive right he possesses,
is that of compelling all the population to grind their corn at his
mills, and to buy their bread at his bakers'; the result of which is,
that the 5000 or 6000 subjects of the principality eat the worst bread
in Italy. So the general said; and as he was of an agricultural turn,
and had gone through the metaphorical act of beating his sword into a
ploughshare, he was a great authority on such matters.
There has since been a rumour going the round of many of the
newspapers, that the noble Florestan was treating with the Government
of the United States for the sale of his territories—a negotiation that
would, no doubt, be equally gratifying to the pride and suitable to
the interests of our transatlantic kinsmen, but one which the European
Powers would probably never permit to be carried into effect. Piedmont
would greatly desire to become the purchaser; and situated as is the
principality—lying like a wedge in her beautiful line of coast, which
commences at Nice and terminates at Spezzia—such a transfer seems most
natural; but the Prince of Monaco has a grudge against the Sardinian
Government, and is obstinately opposed to treating with it on the
subject.
Through avenues of rhododendrons and oleanders, through woods where the
rich green of the fig, bending beneath its luscious fruit, contrasted
with the dusky foliage of the olive, we next came upon Mentone, of late
years much resorted to by English as a sheltered and beautiful winter
residence. If the contemplated transfer of Nice to France is carried
out, the pass of the Turbia will form the boundary; and Mentone, as the
Italian rival of Nice, is expected to rise into great importance.
Soon after leaving this town we again dismounted, to have a better
view of a rocky defile which seems to have riven the mountains
asunder; and while sitting on the low parapet of the bridge thrown
over the chasm, we were attracted by two figures advancing slowly in
the direction whence we had come, in the costume of pilgrims, real
_bonâ fide_ pilgrims. Their appearance at once reminded me of those
descriptions with which many of Sir Walter Scott's opening chapters
abound. The elder of the two was a man of middle age, with handsome
regular features, somewhat of a Moorish cast, to which his coal-black
hair and bronzed complexion imparted an additional resemblance. His
companion, whom we at once concluded to be his son, was a boy of eleven
or twelve, with that golden hair so often observable in children in the
south, which darkens rapidly as they grow up; a gentle suffering face,
and an air of weariness in his gait, that, with the adjuncts of his
picturesque attire, rendered him a very interesting little palmer. Both
were dressed alike: in loose cloaks or robes of dark-green serge, with
large oil-skin capes, thickly overlaid with scallop-shells, the largest
between the shoulders, and smaller ones placed around, and in the
front two crosses coarsely embroidered. A low-crowned, broad-brimmed
hat—a long wooden staff, surmounted by a cross—a string of beads at the
girdle—and a crucifix hanging from the neck, completed this equipment,
which had neither wallet nor bag, nor any sort of receptacle for
carrying food or raiment.
As they passed us, we perceived how coarse and travel-worn their
apparel was, and how the little boy lagged behind, requiring often
an encouraging word from the elder pilgrim to urge him on; and being
curious to learn somewhat respecting them, as an introductory speech,
the general called out to inquire if they had come from a great
distance, and whither they were bound. The man replied in broken
Italian, they came from Murcia, in Spain, and that their destination
was Rome; then, with an inclination of the head, was proceeding, when
their interrogator approached the little boy, and dropped a few coins
into his hand. The child looked up at his companion inquiringly, and
receiving a gesture of acquiescence, accepted the money with downcast
eyes, and kissed it, but without proffering a syllable. The father then
took off his hat, and crossing himself, remained for a few seconds in
the attitude of prayer, his lips moving silently, the boy sedulously
following his example. When their orisons were concluded, the child
drew from his bosom a small brass medal, with an image of the Madonna,
which he presented to the general, always keeping the same silence,
which augured ill for the gratification of our curiosity. However,
as they stood still for a few minutes, looking over the precipice, I
mustered up courage to be spokeswoman; and in the few words of Spanish
I could put together, inquired if the little boy was not very much
fatigued with his long travel.
“Sometimes,” was the reply; “although I purposely make very short days'
journeys. We have already been four months on the way, and we have
still one hundred and fifty leagues to traverse before reaching Rome.”
“Always on foot?”
“Si, señora.”
“It is part of your vow?”
“Si, señora.”
“And that little boy is your son?”
“My only one.”
“You have undertaken this pilgrimage from a religious motive?”
“Pardon me, señora, but there are subjects which can only be divulged
between our conscience and our God.”
We had now arrived at the domain, and found a peasant in waiting, with
a mule to receive the packages, which the servants handed down from the
carriage.
“Ah, here you are! and here is Maddalena, too!” said the kind master
in the Nizzardo patois, as a comely young woman, wearing a round
straw hat, trimmed with black velvet, shaped like the mandarin hats on
tea-chests, and large gold ear-rings, came forward with a smiling face
to welcome us.
“Ah well, eh?—the children, and the dog, and the cows, and the
chickens. Ah, _briccona_, I see you!” poking at a little roll-about
girl, who had hidden herself in her mother's skirts, and now peered at
us out of her almond-shaped eyes—the eyes of Provence, soft and long.
“Now, mademoiselle,” turning to me, and addressing me in French, which
was the language of the family among themselves, although, whenever he
and his sister engaged in any animated discussion, they went off to
Piedmontese—a hopeless compound of gutturals and abbreviations to my
untutored ears—“now, mademoiselle, let me do the honours of a ruined
villa without a road;” and he led the way, for about a quarter of a
mile, through vineyards and olives, and orchards laden with fruit, till
we came to a lane, and a large old-fashioned gateway, originally very
much ornamented with trophies and armorial-bearings. A large watch-dog
now bounded forward, and greeted his master by putting his paws on his
shoulders, and brushing his nose against the general's grey moustaches;
after which salutations, passing under a long trellis-walk of roses and
vines, the latter trained along tall white columns, after the fashion
of the old Genoese villas, we came upon a lawn studded with palms and
oleanders, and bordered with thick groves of lemon-trees, in the centre
of which stood a beautiful palace, such as I had little expected to
see in this secluded spot. A magnificent outer staircase, springing in
double flights from the portico, and converging in a broad platform,
conducted into a vestibule with glass doors, from whence opened a
spacious sala, or sitting-room. At the further end of this were two
long windows, with closed Persian blinds, which the general threw open
on my approach, and then I found myself upon a balcony overhanging
the sea—so close, so very close beneath us, that I could have flung a
pebble into it from where we stood. Both he and the comtesse enjoyed my
surprise at the sudden transition, from the wooded scenery in the front
of the palazzo, to the wide range of sea-view thus suddenly presented
to me. The house, in fact, was built upon the shore of a beautiful
little bay, shut in on one side by a promontory covered with feathered
pines, and on the other by a ridge of rocks, which darted forward as if
to complete its crescent-like shape, and form a safe harbour for the
fishing-barks which now lay idly on the beach: beyond them appeared
three successive headlands, each with its little town rising from the
bosom of the waters—the whole so calm, so sunny, so brilliant, with its
background of perfumed groves, and palms, and flowers, that it realized
every anticipation, and concentrated in a glance all the varied
attractions of the Riviera.
I was not allowed a long time to gaze uninterrupted, for the general
reminded his sister that the dinner-hour had nearly arrived,
and suggested we had better take off our bonnets. Any regular
dinner-toilet, it may here be remarked, is very unusual amongst
Italians when in the country, even in much more modern establishments
than the one I am describing. The short sleeves and low dresses in
which English ladies are wont to appear in every-day routine, would be
considered by them the extreme of folly and bad taste. As the comtesse
conducted me to my room—one of six large bed-chambers opening from
the sala—in her gentle yet stately manner she renewed her apologies
for receiving me with so little ceremony, repeating her declaration
that we were literally _à la campagne_, in a dilapidated palace that
her brother had purchased through a whim, because it had belonged to
a decayed family in whom he felt an interest. There was no necessity
for these excuses, however; and I was enabled to judge from what the
Piedmontese called a rustic way of living, how much more luxury and
expenditure were prevalent in Northern Italy than in those southern
parts of the peninsula in which my former experiences had lain.
The dinner, to which we were speedily summoned, was served in a
large room on the ground-floor, corresponding in size with the sala
up-stairs, the doors at the end, which were thrown open, disclosing an
enchanting view of the sea and the skiffs gliding along its sparkling
waters. Here we found the general in conversation with a middle-aged,
intelligent-looking man, whom he introduced as Signor Bonaventura
Ricci, his friend and factotum, a resident of Ventimiglia, the adjacent
town; and then, without further delay, we sat down to table, the
comtesse alone making the sign of the cross, which is equivalent to
saying grace with us. The dinner was a specimen of simple Italian
fare, and as such I shall record it for the benefit of the curious
in these matters: it commenced with a tureen full of _tagliarini_; a
paste composed of flour and eggs, rolled out exceedingly thin, and
cut into shreds—on the lightness and evenness of which the talent
of the cook is displayed—boiled in broth, and seasoned with Parmesan
cheese. Slices of Bologna sausage, and fresh green figs, for which,
the general exultingly informed me, the neighbourhood of Ventimiglia
was justly celebrated, were next handed round; and then appeared the
_lesso_, a large piece of boiled beef, from which the broth had been
made, with the accompaniment of tomato sauce. After this there came
a large dish of fried fish, and the _arrosto_—roast veal, or roast
chickens, or something of the kind—which, with a _dolce_, or sweet,
completed the repast. Several sorts of wine, the produce of the last
year's vintage, were produced by Signor Bonaventura, who had the keys
of the cellar in his keeping, and their different merits were eagerly
pointed out. Notwithstanding their interest in the subject, however,
neither he nor the general seemed to think of drinking a few glasses
by way of test, but contented themselves with merely tasting the wine
pure, and then mixing it with water. The dessert consisted of oranges,
peaches, grapes, figs, and a melon, all gathered that morning in
the garden; which, considering how far the autumn was advanced, was
wonderful even for Italy, and bore witness that the exceeding mildness
of the temperature—whence, it is said, the name of Lacte or Latte is
derived—has not been exaggerated.
After dinner we walked in the grounds, it being too late for a longer
excursion; and the general and Signor Bonaventura, whose surname
was certainly a superfluity, since nobody ever addressed him by it,
explained to me sundry matters connected with the culture of the
lemon-trees, which constituted the principal revenue of the estate.
It is certainly a graceful harvest, gathered every two months all
the year round; the 500 trees in the garden having yielded upwards of
100,000 lemons in less than ten months, and 20,000 or 30,000 more being
looked for before Christmas. These are sold at from 40 to 50 francs
per 1000—a franc is equal to 10_d._—to traders, who either send them
in cargoes to England and the United States, or else retail them at
large profits to fruit-dealers for home consumption. The lemon-tree
requires great care, and is manured every three years with woollen
rags—a process likewise applied in many parts of the Riviera to the
olives, which certainly attain to a size and thickness of foliage
not seen elsewhere. They showed me some lemon-trees which were being
prepared for the reception of the rags. A circular trench, about a foot
deep and two feet wide, is dug round the trunk, and in this the rags,
mostly procured in bales from Naples, are laid; a curious assemblage
of shreds of cloth gaiters, sleeves of jackets, bits of blankets,
horse-rugs, and so forth—the whole conveying an uncomfortable idea of
a lazzarone's cast-off clothes. A quantity not exceeding twenty pounds
English weight is allotted to each tree, and then the earth, which had
been displaced for their reception, is thrown over them, and they are
left to ferment and gradually decompose. Some agriculturists throw a
layer of common manure over the rags before covering them with earth,
but Signor Bonaventura said many experienced persons contended it was
unnecessary. Great precaution is requisite to prevent any blight from
settling on the leaves, and in our walk, black specks were discovered
on the glossy foliage, which it was agreed should be summarily dealt
with; accordingly, next morning, four or five peasant-girls were hard
at work, mounted on ladders, carefully wiping each leaf, and removing
the specks, which, if allowed to spread, would have endangered the life
of the tree.
When it grew dusk, we went up-stairs to the sala, and looked over the
letters and newspapers brought in from the Ventimiglia post-office.
Politics are now in Piedmont an engrossing theme, domestic as well
as foreign being freely discussed; and no restrictions on the press
existing since the Constitution of 1848, newspapers of every shade of
opinion are in circulation. The peculiar views of each member of the
family found a response in the journals they habitually perused. The
comtesse used to groan over the _Armonia_, the only periodical she ever
looked at—the organ of the ultra-retrograde party, which invariably
represented the country as on the eve of an atheistical and socialistic
revolution, the fruits of the innovations on the ancient order of
things; the only glimmering of light amid the foreboding darkness being
the rapid return of heretical England to the bosom of the church—such
events as the abjuration of the Archbishop of Canterbury and a hundred
bishops being confidently announced one week, and the approaching
conversion of the whole royal family the next. All this was balm to
the good old lady's heart, and I often detected her gazing on me with a
beaming look, as if praying I might follow this good example, although
she abstained from any direct allusion to the subject. The general,
who sided with the ministry, pinned his faith on the _Piedmontese
Gazette_ and the _Parlamento_, though his old exclusive feelings
could not always be laid aside, and he sometimes grumbled at all the
privileges of caste being done away; declaring there was no longer
any advantage in being born noble, since he might find the son of his
doctor or lawyer sitting by his side on the benches of the Chamber of
Deputies, or wearing the uniform of the Guards, unattainable formerly
to a bourgeois. As for Signor Bonaventura, he confided to me that,
notwithstanding he should always uphold a constitutional monarchy, he
thought there was no treason in looking at all sides of the question,
so that he occasionally glanced at the _Italia e Popolo_—the organ
of Mazzini, a perfect firebrand of republicanism and discontent; but
“Zitto, zitto,” he added, laying his finger on his lips, “_they_ would
faint”—pointing to the comtesse and his patron—“at the mere notion of
such a thing.”
At nine we were summoned to supper; after which we sat for some time
on the beach, enjoying the beauty of the moonlight and the softness of
the air, though, as far as the majority of the party were concerned,
it was, more properly speaking, the physical comfort, the sensation
of repose, which caused their satisfaction; for, as respects the
enthusiasm which almost every English person feels, or at any rate
expresses, beneath the influence of beautiful scenery, Italians,
generally considered, are provokingly deficient.
The next morning we had visitors. Signor Bonaventura's two daughters,
damsels of eighteen, or thereabouts, came by appointment to spend
the day, and arrived soon after the breakfast of _café au lait_ and
chocolate had been served; this, with dinner at two, and supper in
the evening, is the old-fashioned Piedmontese and Nizzardo system of
refection. The sisters were fair specimens of Italian girls of the
_mezzo cetto_, convent-educated, with ideas that never ranged beyond
an excursion to Nice, or reading more extensive than the Missal or
the Almanac. Immeasurably beneath country-bred English girls of a
corresponding class in all intellectual points, they were undeniably
superior in ease of manner, and the good taste and simplicity of their
dress. As they stood upon the beach, watching the general bathing his
large dog, looking so fresh and girl-like in their pretty, well-fitting
light-blue muslins and large round hats, they made me wish my young
countrywomen would take a lesson in harmony and gracefulness of costume
from continental maidens. They evidently looked upon the comtesse
with profound awe, and upon me with great curiosity, as some rare
animal escaped from a menagerie. It being impossible to carry on any
conversation with them beyond monosyllables, I proposed we should walk
out; and, accordingly, we passed most of the day, both before and after
dinner, in exploring the neighbourhood, to their infinite delight,
as I discovered that they rarely left the house except on Sundays;
Italians of that class considering daily exercise for their womankind
a superfluity, tending to form idle habits. Signor Bonaventura
accompanied us, and towards me was very affable and communicative,
although with regard to his daughters he evidently entertained very
Oriental notions of their mental inferiority, and treated them as if
they were incapable of receiving information, or as if it was not worth
while to impart it to them.
In the course of our rambles, I was struck with the singular appearance
of some of the dwellings of the peasantry near the shore—high narrow
towers, only accessible by a steep flight of steps, detached from the
main building, with which they were connected by a wooden bridge.
He told me these were vestiges of the times when the coasts of the
Mediterranean were so often ravaged by the Algerine corsairs, that no
hamlet was safe from their dreaded inroads. To secure the inhabitants
as far as possible, these towers were constructed, to which, on the
first alarm, they might fly for refuge, and raising the drawbridge, be
at least secure from being carried off into slavery, though forced to
be passive witnesses of the seizure of their cattle and the pillaging
of their stores. In case of an attack, they defended themselves by
hurling stones through spaces in the battlements upon their assailants,
a few of a more modern description having loopholes in the walls for
musketry. Happily, in these more peaceful days, the peasants have
almost forgotten for what such fortresses were originally intended,
and, fixing their habitations in what have survived the inroads of
time, can look down complacently upon their olives and fig-trees,
without trembling at every sail that rises upon the clear horizon.
As we passed through woods of olives, Signor Bonaventura descanted
_con amore_ upon their value and utility; and classing them above
my favourite lemon-trees, which can be cultivated only in sheltered
situations, assured me that they were the great staple of the Riviera,
although a good crop is only realized every second year—the produce of
the intervening one being very inconsiderable. In the good years, the
yield of each tree is estimated, according to its size, at from five
to eleven francs clear profit. The trees are carefully numbered on
each estate, and from 1000 to 1200 constitute a very fair _proprietà_.
When the olives turn black and begin to fall, sheets are laid beneath
the branches, which are gently shaken to detach the fruit; whatever is
thus obtained, is carefully spread on the floor of some rooms set apart
for the purpose, and day by day, as the remaining olives successively
ripen, they are shaken down and added to the store, until sufficient
is collected to be sent to the mill, where it is pressed, and the oil
flows out clear and sparkling. After this first process of pressing the
fruit, there is a second one of crushing or grinding it, by which oil
of an inferior quality, requiring some time to settle, is obtained;
lastly, water is poured on the mass of stones and pulp, and the oil
that rises to the surface is carefully skimmed, being the perquisite
of the proprietor of the mill, who receives no other remuneration for
his share in the transaction. The produce of the fig-trees is another,
though less lucrative, source of revenue; great quantities are dried in
the sun, and afterwards sold, not only for the supply of the country
itself, but for the French market, where the figs of Ventimiglia,
Signor Bonaventura declared, were as much prized as those of Smyrna.
He showed me large supplies in course of preparation, laid on long
frameworks of reed lightly interwoven, which as soon as the sun rose
were carried out, and remained all day exposed on the low parapet which
divided the _jardin potager_ from the beach. No guard was ever kept
over them, and no fear seemed to be entertained of their being stolen.
Indeed, the honesty of the peasantry and fishermen is marvellous, for
in this same kitchen-garden—a strip of sandy soil stolen from the
sea-shore—green peas, tomatos, cucumbers, melons, and a variety of
vegetables, were grown in profusion; and nevertheless, unprotected as
it was, being without the precincts of the iron gate at the back of the
house, which was closed for form's sake every night, nothing was ever
missed—not a single fruit or vegetable misappropriated.
Our walk after dinner was so prolonged, that darkness overtook us on
our way back, as we were scrambling through the dry bed of a torrent;
but the kind comtesse had foreseen this, and a peasant, despatched
by her to meet us, soon made his appearance with a blazing branch of
pine-wood, which diffused a grateful fragrance. Some remarks on the
picturesque appearance of this torch, and the properties of the pine,
led to my hearing about the popular mode of fishing, _alla fucina_,
which I was promised I should see the first cloudy night, moonlight
being a bar to this pastime—a promise, by the by, that still remains
to be fulfilled, thanks to the unbroken serenity of the weather during
my stay at Latte. However, they showed me the implements, which are
simple enough. Projecting from the stern of the boat, and elevated
above the heads of those engaged in the sport, is the _fucina_, an
iron grating, piled with flaming pine-fagots, which cast a brilliant
light upon the waters, illuminating their recesses with extraordinary
clearness. The boat glides into all the little bays and rocky inlets,
and the fish, scared, yet attracted, by the unwonted glare, are seen
shooting rapidly along in all directions; while the fishermen, each
provided with an instrument somewhat resembling a harpoon, with a staff
twelve or fourteen feet long, spear them with great dexterity as they
dart through the illuminated space. Fish of considerable size are thus
taken frequently, and the enthusiasm attendant on the enterprise being
extreme, a stormy night and a tempestuous sea prove only additional
inducements to the adventurous fishermen.