I.

_CONTINENTAL TRAVELLING._

I HAVE sometimes thought that if it were possible for a person of

mature years now living to return to the world, with memory unimpaired,

after a period of five hundred or even of one hundred years hence,

how strangely new to him everything would appear! Events succeed each

other in these times with such startling rapidity, that he would be a

bold man who would venture to predict what even a generation will bring

forth. We may speculate on the effects likely to result from agencies

now in operation,—as to what, for example, may be the future of Great

Britain, looking to the gigantic scale on which hazardous enterprise

is carried on; to the contests of labour with capital in which natural

laws are set at defiance; to the growth of Ritualism in the English

Church; to the penchant which our rulers seem to have for annexing

or conquering remote provinces, stern and wild or insalubrious; to a

thousand other things which are with more or less force influencing or

disquieting our country commercially, socially, or politically,—but

none of us can possibly foresee the actual consequences and the

condition of things to which they will lead. In the future there is

so much dependent on occurrences which appear to us to be fortuitous

(though truly under the guidance of Supreme Wisdom), that we can only

feel that over all there hangs an impenetrable veil of mysterious

darkness. A single unexpected event may turn aside the policy of an

age, or even alter the divisions of the world. A single man by a

foolish blunder may plunge nations into protracted war. A single happy

discovery, a single clever invention, may affect the fortunes or alter

the habits of a whole people. A single convulsion of nature may change

the aspect of a state. But when we turn from the future to the past,

the case is different, and we can pretty well realize what the feelings

of one who has lived, say, sixty years ago would be if he could now

return to earth. It would, indeed, be some time ere he would begin to

grasp the extent of the wonderful changes which, since he formerly

lived, have been effected. But of all the changes flowing from the

inventions and discoveries which the long peace succeeding Waterloo

was instrumental in producing, he would probably be most struck by the

revolution accomplished in the matter of travelling.

We have only to go back half a century to the time when a tour upon

the Continent of Europe was attended by great expense, inconvenience,

and even danger. It consumed much time, and no Englishman upon whom

business did not lay a necessity to travel, could undertake any very

extensive pilgrimage in these foreign countries unless possessed of

ample means united to ample leisure. It was thus generally reserved

for young noblemen and gentlemen of wealth, as the completion of their

education, to take, with a tutor, a courier, and a sufficient retinue,

the grand tour of Europe, the limit of which was usually, though not

always, Constantinople. I suppose this circumstance has given rise to

the Continental idea, which at least formerly prevailed, that every

Englishman was a _milord Anglais_, and to its practical consequence,

from which present travellers continue to suffer—the custom, gradually

disappearing, of charging English persons upon a different scale from

that applied to natives. No doubt many of those men of former days

scattered money profusely, and to a certain extent their successors

continue to do so, and are even exceeded by some of the American

travellers who, accustomed to pay in dollars where shillings with us

often suffice, contrive by their extravagance to spoil for others the

places they frequent.

Times are now changed since the days of our grandfathers. The

treacherous sailing vessel (the smack, which would take at one time

three days, and at another, because of adverse winds, three weeks to

go from Leith to London) is supplanted by the steady, expeditious, and

almost faultlessly punctual steamboat; while the lumbering diligence

or almost equally lumbering post–chaise has been driven out of the

field by, wherever it exists, the rapid railway train. Nevertheless,

as regards Continental railway rapidity, M. Arago’s expectations that

Parisians might ‘on the same day examine the preparations of our

squadron at Toulon; may breakfast on juicy rougets at Marseilles; may

bathe at mid–day their relaxed limbs in the mineral waters of Bagnères,

and return in the evening by way of Bordeaux to attend a ball or the

Opera House,’[1] have hardly as yet, at least, been realized; for

the railway train abroad bears about the same proportion in point of

speed to the English train as the clumsy diligence did of old to our

high–flyers and our ten–mile–an–hour stage–coaches.[2] Sometimes,

indeed, people in former times, who were able to do so, travelled on

the Continent in pursuit of health; and a very interesting account

of a tour of this description, made to a large extent over the same

ground as that which forms the subject of description in the following

pages, is contained in _The Diary of an Invalid_, by Henry Matthew,

A.M., made during a journey, performed in the years 1817–18–19, through

Italy, Switzerland, and France, from which an idea of the difference

of travelling in those days—sixty years ago—from what it is now, may

to some extent be gathered. Since the introduction of railways, which

now form a complete network all over the Continent of Europe, reaching

some of its wildest parts, and not hesitating even to penetrate some of

its loftiest mountains, and often by means of costly tunnels connecting

long stretches of country, travelling has been made so easy, and the

facilities for availing themselves of the means of locomotion have been

rendered so great, that there are comparatively few persons of the

better classes who have not at some time or other, and in a greater or

lesser measure, visited Continental lands. Our very mechanics have,

especially by means of excursion trains, sometimes in connection with

such great occasions as foreign Exhibitions, been enabled to see a

little of other lands; and even the seeing a little of another land is

calculated to remove prejudices, to enlarge the ideas, and to extend

the amount of one’s information.[3]

People in the present day travel sometimes for pleasure and to obtain

acquaintance with what cannot be seen at home, and sometimes for the

sake of health; and it is astonishing to what an extent this latter

reason has operated on the people of Great Britain, who rush from

the rigours of their northern climate—its clouds, its fogs, and its

rains—to enjoy the sunshine of warmer places, avoiding and exchanging

wet, foggy, and chilly winter quarters at home for pleasant sunny

places abroad. So much is this the case, that whole colonies of

English people, many of them owning houses, built or bought for their

residence, are found scattered over the Continent, particularly on

the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. They go to winter there, and the

places they frequent become remarkably English in their habits and

in their language—the force of the English character, and still more

of the English money, bearing down and upon the native population.

Indeed, it may rather be said that towns have been built by or for the

occupation of the English—as, for example, Cannes, which, if it do not

altogether owe its existence, is acknowledged by the natives to owe its

new creation, its growth and extent, to Lord Brougham.

* * * * *

We had on various previous occasions taken a summer’s run abroad. The

protracted visit we paid to the Continent which forms the subject of

this volume was dictated by considerations of health; but we combined

with it, and advantageously, even for that end, some tours of pleasure.

The countries visited by us on this occasion were France, Italy, and

Switzerland; and it is with special reference to them that the remarks

offered in this and the succeeding introductory chapters apply. I

propose in this chapter to deal shortly with some of the bugbears

which frighten many from crossing the Channel, to state some of the

peculiarities of foreign travel, and to note a few other matters with

which those new to the subject may find it useful to be acquainted

previous to setting out.

* * * * *

The first great stumbling–block in the way of going abroad is to many,

especially elderly persons, the want of knowledge of the language of

the country to which they wish to direct their steps, or the want of

power to converse in it freely.

There can be no doubt that it is of great consequence to have an

acquaintance with the language of the country in which one desires to

travel or reside for a time. People are saved much inconvenience and

often money when they can talk it with fluency, and can comprehend

what the natives say—usually the more difficult operation. At the

same time, in all frequented parts of France, Italy, and Switzerland,

either English or French will carry any one through. French is spoken

by nearly every educated person who travels on the Continent, with

perhaps the exception of the Germans, who, though they may know a

little French, seem to give a preference to the acquisition of the

English language, in which frequently they converse with great purity

and ease. At the hotels, the landlord, or one of the waiters, sometimes

all of them, can speak English more or less perfectly. Nay, what is

very surprising is, that the man sometimes called _portier_, who sits

in a little chamber at the door, has often a better acquaintance with

English than even landlord or waiter. This porter or, as he is more

correctly designated, _concierge_, is attached to all large hotels, and

his ostensible duty is not that of carrying luggage (for which business

there are men of a different stamp under him), but consists in keeping

the keys of the rooms, attending to letters, and answering inquiries.

In reality he is a man of superior intelligence, and acts often as the

interpreter of the house; for he is generally acquainted with many

languages, and usually with at least French, English, and German,

and has to reply to questions in these different languages almost

in the same breath. In frontier places, his acquaintance is extended

to the language of the neighbouring country—it may be, for instance,

Italian or Spanish. However, among employees and others with whom the

traveller has to do, the knowledge of many languages is not confined

to the _gens portier_. At Mentone I was informed that a hairdresser

there could speak five languages; and how else could he hope, from a

hairdresser’s point of view, to please his patients? At Rome, having

gone to the wrong shop, I had to experience the difficulties of

undergoing an operation by a gentleman of the fraternity who could

speak nothing but Italian; and we should never have succeeded in coming

to a mutual understanding, but for the kindly intervention of a priest

who was being shaved and could speak French, and after all it did not

wholly save me from that ‘croppiness’ in which the foreign _coiffeur_

delights. This linguistic faculty does not stop at hairdressers,

who may be considered to be men of an advanced race. At Mentone we

used to employ a donkey girl, who also could speak a little in five

languages. Philippina was a bright, intelligent girl, much liked by her

employers, and no doubt she found her advantage in knowing something

of their different tongues. In Switzerland, for the most part, the

German language prevails, and it is occasionally uncommonly hard, if

one is not acquainted with German or has but a smattering of it, to

get on, say, with a coachman who knows nothing else. At Ragatz, where

they speak German, I put a question to a stallkeeper selling goods on

the street, and was promptly answered by a young girl of the adjoining

stall in English. I asked her how she came to know English. She learnt

it at school. Were they all taught English, I asked. ‘Oh, no; those

who desired to be taught had to pay for it.’ The shopkeepers abroad,

however, have in many cases acquaintance with English sufficient to

enable them to effect sale of their wares. They quickly discover us to

be English, and when they speak our language they like to air it, and

answer questions put in their, the shopkeepers’ language (made, we

imagine, with all correctness of expression and of accent), in our own.

In Rome we found that all the cab–drivers could speak French, which, of

course, facilitates going about to those who cannot speak much Italian.

In Italy generally, unless it might be in speaking to women–servants,

and not even always in their case, we did not find much necessity for

using Italian. Either French or English was in most places understood.

Sometimes we have even had English landladies, as at the Grand Hotel

in Sienna, and at the Tramontano at Sorrento; but this is a species of

good fortune, telling on the English traveller’s comfort in many ways,

which is seldom to be enjoyed. It only suggests that other English

women might find Italy a good field for similar enterprise.

* * * * *

In former days the passport system was a difficulty which afflicted

the minds of timorous travellers. Apart from the surveillance implied,

there was the trouble and expense of procuring it, and having

the proper _visas_ affixed by the representatives of Continental

Governments; the anxiety lest in passing some corner of a foreign

territory—some debateable land—it might not be _en règle_; the

detentions it occasioned, and the perturbation of spirit which arose,

should it by any accident have been mislaid or lost, there being no

absolute certainty that if imprisoned in a cold, damp, dreary dungeon

for want of the necessary safe–conduct, our Government after a suitable

period of fruitless negotiation would go to war with the foreign power

for the defaulter’s release. On one occasion (in 1855), on entering

Geneva by diligence, I missed my passport (which on arrival I found

lying at my feet), and did not know what would happen, but the man

in collecting passports from the passengers fortunately overlooked

me. This was a species of the rarest good luck, upon which of course

it was utterly impossible to reckon; and the passport system was one

which was felt by people living in a land in which every one is free,

without inquiry of any kind, to travel where and when he pleases,

to be an intolerable annoyance. It is still maintained; but with a

view, I presume, not to discourage English travelling (a source of

immense profit to the natives), a British subject has only on passing a

frontier to declare his nationality, and he is at once passed through,

except at some places where he is asked for his carte–de–visite; and if

he have not one at hand, even this is not insisted on if it be apparent

that he is what he represents himself to be, _un Anglais_, or, what

is the same thing to them, an American. Yet a passport is sometimes

useful; it now costs little, and should always be taken. It is easily

got under the directions contained in Bradshaw’s _Continental Guide_,

and the _visas_ of the foreign consuls seem now to be unnecessary, at

least for the countries in which we were to travel. It is particularly

important in some towns, to facilitate the obtaining of registered

letters. Even ordinary letters occasionally, as I have found (1872) at

Brussels on a former trip (having unfortunately lost my passport at

Strasburg), will scarcely be delivered at the Poste Restante without

production of the passport or other presumable evidence of identity;

and it is said in guide–books, although we have never experienced the

benefit of the information, that it operates as an admission to certain

places of public resort.

Although to the _mens conscia recti_ it may matter little, it does not

follow that, with all this relaxation of former rigour, people are

altogether free from surveillance. The spy may not crop up here and

there as, according to Doyle, he did, to afflict Messrs. Brown, Jones,

and Robinson, yet travellers do meet with evidences of the existence

of a secret and prying police. At Aix–les–Bains, which, however, may

be regarded as a frontier town, we found the register of visitors kept

in a book furnished by the police, and containing instructions for the

entry of all names and particulars; and almost everywhere, immediately

upon arrival at a hotel, a waiter comes to take down the name,

address, profession, etc., which, apart from police regulations, is

only proper.

* * * * *

Besides a passport, there are other things to be attended to in order

that the way may be made smooth.

* * * * *

People do not always, when they resolve to travel, sit upon their

boxes—I mean, of course, metaphorically; yet in travelling abroad, at

least for a period of any duration, some thought must be bestowed upon

the _impedimenta_, and it is very proper to take such boxes as will

stand the immense fatigue to which all luggage is exposed, and to which

the foreign system of registration greatly adds. Very little regard

is paid by porters to the conservation of the luggage. It is tossed

and dragged along over iron–bound tables; and huge heavy iron–bound

and iron–cornered American chests, with their piercing little iron

castors, are often thrown or deposited remorselessly on the top of

smaller and weaker packages. Very small articles, indeed, should

never be put in the vans. It is better, and in the long run cheaper,

to have fewer packages and of a larger size. At the same time, they

are very inconvenient if unwieldily large, as too often one sees them

to be, requiring two men for their carriage, and needing to be left

outside the bedroom—an inconvenience both to the traveller herself and

her fellow–travellers; for it is the ladies who are in this respect

the great transgressors. Some ladies seem to travel with their whole

wardrobe, or at all events with a useless number of changes of raiment.

On one occasion we met a gentleman and lady, who had with them nine

huge boxes, nearly filling up the top of a large omnibus, besides

smaller articles, including their maid’s modest provision. This is

a grievous mistake. Ladies ought to travel with the least possible

quantity of changes. More than is fairly needful is inconvenient in

many ways. Apart from causing detentions to others, it is a source of

anxiety, and is most expensive in countries where the luggage is all

weighed, and every pound or extra pound must be paid for.

Among the little things to be taken, no good traveller will, of course,

omit a pocket corkscrew and a flask of cognac; nor will he neglect

soap. If he have not made it a rule in all travelling to use his own

soap, he is charged at foreign hotels 1 franc for _savon_. I have heard

a man growling over the ‘imposition,’ but it served him right, while

the article was just sold to him like anything else, with the usual 200

or 300 per cent. hotel profit added.

We considered it advisable, especially in view of travelling in Italy,

where the water is said to be often impure, and consequently unsafe to

drink, to take with us a small filter; but although we used our filter

occasionally, I cannot say we were frequently conscious of drinking

bad water. It is, however, a proper precaution, as water may be bad

without betraying its quality by the taste. An Ashantee filter with

a quart tin bottle, to be had from Atkins and Co., 62 Fleet Street,

London, occupies little space, and costs 8s. Were Messrs. Atkins to

devise a portable little filter for use at the table by insertion in a

tumbler, so as to purify the drinking water without the fuss of a large

filter, which it is inconvenient to carry, and which one cannot bring

to the public room, it would be of much use. It must be borne in mind,

however, that filters do not destroy organic matter suspended in the

water, and for this purpose permanganite of potash may be employed. A

drop or two of a solution of this substance, which may be purchased in

dry grains at any chemist’s (easily dissolved when wanted), effects

destruction of organic matter, but gives so unpleasant a bitterness to

the flavour of the water that we scarcely ever used it.

* * * * *

There are, however, things more important to provide, and among them

are good guide–books. The rapid growth and extraordinary ramifications

of the railway system have created a new branch of literature in

the railway time–tables. It is curious to take up an early copy of

Bradshaw, consisting only of a few pages, small pocket size, neatly got

up, and to contrast it with English Bradshaw of the present time. If

such a book be needful in Great Britain, people are even more helpless

without it abroad. Bradshaw’s _Continental Guide_, special edition,

will always be found to be most useful, both as a preparatory and as

an accompanying handbook. It contains a great deal of information,

which, however, ought to be taken in a general way, or as the lawyers

say, _cum nota_. Perfect reliance cannot always be placed upon the

accuracy of its railway and other time–tables and its tariffs. On

arriving in a country, it is especially necessary to secure, in

addition, one of its latest official railway guides. In France there

is published once a week, on the Sundays, _L’Indicateur des Chemins de

fer et de la Navigation service officielle_. This costs 60 centimes

(6d.), and is a long folio of inconvenient size. As nearly all French

travellers purchase a copy when they start on a journey, it doubtless

obtains a large sale. The _Livret Chaix Spécial pour France_ (there is

another edition for Europe generally) is an official guide of a more

convenient size. It is published once a month, book shape duodecimo,

costs 1 franc, and has no advertisements, which are scattered through

the _Indicateur_ in a tormenting way, though sometimes useful when

desired information is thereby discovered, which it might much more

readily be if, as in Bradshaw, all the advertisements were thrown

systematically to the end of the book. It is, however, troublesome

to follow these French guides when divergence from the main lines is

desired to be made. The lines are cut up into fragments without the

references contained in Bradshaw to other pages where the connecting

railways occur, and the neat little well–engraved maps in the _Livret

Chaix_ do not bear, as in Bradshaw’s map, the page references where the

tables of the railways are to be found. Bradshaw is puzzling enough,

but sometimes it is felt that the _Livret Chaix_ is one of those

mysteriously–arranged productions ‘which no fella can understand.’

In Italy there is published once a month, costing 1 franc or lira,

_L’Indicatore Ufficiale_. This is peculiarly arranged, and requires

study; but the Italian lines are so few, compared with those of France,

that there is no insuperable difficulty in discovering the time–bills

of particular railways. The Italian _Indicatore_ contains various

preliminary directions which it is well to read. They are curious, and

embrace, _inter alia_, regulations relative to the transport of cats

and monkeys.

The Italians have also a long _Indicatore_ similar to the French weekly

one; and in both countries smaller and cheaper district guides, with

more limited information, are to be had.

In Switzerland, a _Guide des Voyageurs en Suisse_ is published,

apparently twice a year—at least those procured in the Swiss travelling

season are marked ‘Saison d’été,’ 1877 or 1878, as the case may be.

It is never safe to trust to a guide of a past month, although changes

are generally only made in the beginning of the winter season, or about

15th or 16th October, and in the beginning of the summer or spring

season. By not observing a change of this kind which had just been

made, we were detained at Toulon for three or four hours waiting for

the next train to Hyères.

Although it is not desirable to burden oneself with many books in

travelling, Bædeker’s Guide–Books, which on the whole are very accurate

and useful, ought not to be dispensed with. Italy is embraced in

three little volumes—Northern, Central, and Southern; and Bædeker has

separate Guides to Switzerland, France, and other countries; so that if

one has to travel much, quite a little library requires to be taken.

Bædeker’s Northern Italy, however, embraces the Riviera di Ponente, in

which Cannes and Mentone are, and the journey thither from Paris, and

towns on the way, such as Lyons, Avignon, Nismes, and Marseilles, while

southward it extends as far as Florence. Murray’s Guide–Books are very

useful, and are much more full and detailed, but consequently are more

bulky, and are therefore more suitable for protracted visits to a town

such as Venice. Neither Bædeker nor Murray, however, are to be wholly

relied upon, especially for the latest information. For example, we

found in Italy that while it is said in Bædeker there are no fees to

pay, in the different Academie delle Belle Arti there is now charged

1 franc per person for admission. I would add, also, that Bædeker’s

estimates of hotel charges can by no means be relied on as exact,

although they may at one time have been so, or they may in some cases

be those with which Germans are charged, Bædeker being a publication

originating in Germany.

These books all require from time to time careful revision; and

considering the importance to the traveller of having the latest

information, and the large sale they command, they ought to be revised

at short intervals.

There are certain very useful guide–books published in France, of two

sorts—the _Guides Diamant_, which are little pocket volumes in small

type; and the _Guides Grand Format_, which are of a larger size.

Each class (published only in French) contains a series of volumes

applicable to the different parts of France, as well as volumes devoted

to other countries. The divisional volumes for France are exceedingly

useful, as containing detailed information respecting the districts to

which they apply.

I may also mention that Mr. Cook, the tourist, publishes a series of

handbooks for the countries to which his tours apply; and that recently

Black has also added to his list of guide–books, guides to the south of

France.

To those visiting Rome, _Hare’s Walks in Rome_ (2 vols.) will be found

extremely serviceable. Unfortunately we did not take it with us, as

adding to the quantity of books with which we had to travel. It is

a little heavy to carry about in the hand, but it directs attention

to what is best worth seeing, and may be consulted at one’s lodgings

before and after visiting the attractions of Rome.

In the old coaching days, when the mail or the diligence drove through

a town, and generally stopped at one of the principal inns, there

was not much deliberation needed or even much choice granted as to

where the passenger should sleep. But it is one of the inconveniences

attendant upon the railway system,—to a certain extent obviated by the

erection of station hotels,—that he has not an opportunity from ocular

inspection beforehand, on arriving at a strange town, of forming an

idea as to where he should go. And it is an observation on Bradshaw

(more or less applicable to other guide–books), that it does not do

to rely implicitly on its recommendations of hotels,—a circumstance

which probably arises from the notice of given hotels having been

written years previously, and means not having been used to obtain a

complete revision from year to year. More reliance in this respect is

to be placed on Bædeker’s Guide–Books. Hotels marked by Bædeker with

an * will almost always be found of a good character. In the absence

of other means of intelligence, we have sometimes been driven, like

many others, to ask information from chance fellow–travellers, at other

times to get it at the hotel from which we started in the morning—not

infrequently the less trustworthy method of the two. But as it is most

desirable to have reliable information on this subject, it is, where

practicable, by far the best plan, before setting out upon a tour, to

settle as nearly as possible the route to be taken, and to obtain a

note from friends who have travelled along it of the hotels they would

recommend. In possession of this knowledge beforehand, all anxiety

is removed, and one is enabled to write previously, requesting the

landlord to retain rooms. Letters and telegrams with such requests are

always carefully attended to, the hotelkeeper no doubt considering

that application to him is made from choice and not from chance.

* * * * *

The great increase of travelling produced by the railways, has led

bankers to contrive convenient methods in which people may take the

requisite supply of money with them; and of all the methods which have

been devised, the best and safest is that afforded by the system of

circular notes. These notes are granted by certain banks in London and

Edinburgh, and are drafts upon London for £20 each, or for the usually

more convenient amount of £10 each, according to the tourist’s desire.

They can be cashed at any town on the Continent, hotelkeepers also

accepting them in payment of their bills, but without benefit of any

exchange which would be allowed by the banks. Along with the notes, the

banker delivers what is called a ‘Letter of Indication,’ which contains

a list of all the banks with which he corresponds, embracing almost

every place which may be visited in Europe. This letter, for security’s

sake, it is advisable to keep in a different pocket or box from the

circular notes, which require his signature and endorsement. The

banker’s correspondents ought not to cash the notes without production

of this letter of indication; but sometimes they are negligent or lax

in this respect, particularly if the presenter appear to be respectable

or a _bona fide_ traveller. At some places, however, such as at Paris,

the bankers are more cautious, and not only invariably ask for the

letter, but they put sundry questions and take the hotel address—the

object being, quite properly, in a quiet way to make sure that the

notes are presented by the right person. A friend had his notes stolen

from him at a railway station in Paris on arrival from England, having

unfortunately put them with other things in a small hand–bag, instead

of carrying them in a secure pocket about his person. His letter of

indication, however, was not with the notes, and so far, though not

altogether, was he safe. The thief took them at once to a bank in

Paris, and, I suppose, not having the letter of indication, and perhaps

not being able to give a satisfactory account of himself, they were

forwarded to London, and within fifteen hours after being stolen were

presented to the banker on whom they were drawn, and they were refused

because the signature attached by the thief did not correspond with the

usual signature of my friend.

These circular notes are exchanged for the money of the country in

which they are presented for payment; but French gold is always useful,

and fetches full value abroad. In exchanging, one generally gets the

benefit of the exchange, subject to a fractional deduction. The usual

exchange in France for a sovereign is 25 francs 10 centimes;[4] but

this is seldom got, and in some places, such as Biarritz and Mentone,

the bankers only give the 25 francs nett, and in other places slightly

more or slightly less according to the state of the exchange. At a

bank in Cannes a friend exchanged Bank of England notes simultaneously

with my exchanging a circular note for £10. While I obtained 7½d. (75

centimes) of premium, he got nothing, because the banker said there was

always much more trouble about Bank of England notes, which required

registration. Eighteen months later, however, I found in Paris, oddly

enough, that Bank of England notes were at a premium, while circular

notes were at a discount. At Cannes, in 1877, I had occasion to cash a

bank draft on London received from one of the colonies, and found that

nominally the allowance was greater than upon circular notes; but as

the banker charged a commission, it practically reduced the exchange

to about the same amount. Another notable circumstance was, that while

at Mentone the bankers would give nothing beyond the 25 francs, at the

neighbouring town of Nice the bankers always gave exchange varying

from 75 centimes to 1 franc per £10. At Pau I found that while the

correspondent of the bank only gave ½ franc per £10, another banker

gave 1 franc, and upon an exchange of £50 even a shade more. Again, at

Montreux, in Switzerland, I obtained 1 franc 25 centimes per £10, and

within little more than a week afterwards at Biarritz, in accordance

with invariable practice, nothing beyond the 25 francs per £. The

same difference occurred in two other places. Within a similar short

space, I changed in Paris and got 25 francs per £. Within a day or two

afterwards, I had to change other notes at Interlachen, and received 25

francs 10 centimes. The only explanation I ever got for these anomalies

was that given at Biarritz, the banker there saying, that at Montreux

they were near the Italian border (in fact, a long way off from it),

and could make more money out of the notes. But this was obviously an

unsatisfactory reason, and certainly could not explain the position of

matters at Mentone, which is within two miles of the Italian frontier.

In Italy the exchange of gold or notes on London into Italian

paper is a matter of considerable importance to the holder, for

the exchange allowed, though it fluctuates, is always high.[5] The

lowest we received anywhere was 27·03 at Rome, 23d March 1877, and at

San Remo 1878. The highest was at Venice, in May 1877, 28·25. This

last was during the Eastern War, which had been declared in April,

and considerably raised the value of gold in Italy. I presume the

uncertainty as to whether Italy would be involved in the war helped

to depress the value of the paper. It is difficult for one who has

not been engaged in commerce or in banking to understand why these

fluctuations occur, or to be acquainted with the causes which influence

them. The current value is said to be dependent upon the position of

the commercial relations between Great Britain and the Continent; but

there are obviously other circumstances, such as national credit,

political disturbances, war, and the abundance or scarcity of money,

which affect or bias the barometer. But whatever may be the cause, the

traveller obtains the benefit of the effect when the exchange is high,

as his money goes so much further. The Italian paper money is, unless

otherwise specially bargained for, taken everywhere in Italy—in hotels,

in shops, and even at railways. It is only necessary to be particular

in seeing that paper of the right sort is given. It is always safe to

receive paper of the National Bank of Italy. This circulates everywhere

throughout Italy, but notes of district or provincial banks are not

accepted out of the province; and there are certain notes which have

been called in (with which one soon becomes familiar), which, though

taken in shops, are refused at railway stations and other public

places, sometimes provokingly.

One curious circumstance about the Continental banks is, that they seem

to possess marvellously limited stores of money, whether of notes or of

gold and silver. People have just to take what the bankers can give.

I have more than once been obliged in France to take a note for 1000

francs, or £40, which is practically useless, unless where residence in

a place is to be of sufficient duration to enable the holder to tender

the note in payment of his hotel bill. I have often had the greatest

difficulty in getting small change even for half a napoleon. For a

napoleon (20 francs) one is fortunate to get, as a favour from a bank,

four large 5 franc pieces, the banker saying that he has no smaller

change, which perhaps only means he cannot spare his lesser money.

This state of matters, I believe, arises from the scarcity of silver

money in France, produced by the people hoarding up their savings,

which are thus withdrawn from circulation. In Italy (where apparently

the same hoarding must take place, though probably not so extensively)

I have for the most part had to take, except to a very limited extent,

the notes proffered by the banks; and one very useful kind of note,

that for half a franc, is very difficult to procure. Even 1 franc notes

are scarce; the bankers will give you a pocketful of copper instead.

These ½ franc and 1 franc notes are essentially necessary for fees in

going about such places as Rome; but copper is freely taken as payment

of fees, carriage drives, etc. Fancy tendering a London cabman his fare

in copper!

At first one feels a little repugnance to the use of these small

Italian notes, which are of all values; but after getting habituated to

them, a preference arises for their use over metal money, which is so

much heavier. A special purse with divisions for the different values

should be procured.

* * * * *

And now, having accomplished the preparations for the journey, the

next question is as to the route. It will always be found that there

are greater facilities in travelling to and from a capital city, such

as London, Paris, or Edinburgh; and in going abroad towards France,

the voyager has generally to select one of the routes from London to

Paris. The four great leading steamboat passages across the Straits

are—Southampton to Havre, advertised to take in crossing six and a

half hours; but on the only occasion on which I have gone by that

route, which was in 1854, the voyage occupied in a calm night eleven

hours, though possibly more powerful boats are now laid on. Newhaven

to Dieppe, five and a half to six hours in good weather: I have

been nine hours in a storm. Folkestone to Boulogne, ordinarily two

hours, although one fast boat (by which our last crossing was made)

accomplishes the passage in an hour and a half. Dover to Calais,

one hour forty minutes; but in a storm I have known it to have taken

four hours. As an inducement to travel by the longer crossings, the

fares are proportionately lower. Fares by night service trains are

considerably less than those by day trains. The routes by Newhaven

and Folkestone are tidal, and the hours of sailing vary according

to the state of the tide, which is troublesome, and infers to most

people, when the boats sail at an early hour, sleeping at the port

of departure, which we repeatedly have had to do.[6] The passage by

Folkestone and Boulogne is by many preferred to that from Dover to

Calais, because there is less groundswell. Getting into the pier

at Boulogne is sometimes, owing to the state of the tide, tedious;

but from a statement in the newspapers, it would appear that the

authorities are contemplating the improvement of the harbour by an

outlay of £680,000. In proceeding to Paris from Calais or Boulogne, one

may stop at Amiens and see the town and fine old cathedral; but the

routes from Havre, and from Dieppe to Paris through Normandy, are far

more interesting by the way, and pass picturesque Rouen, which is well

worthy of a visit, the stoppage of at least a night to explore it amply

repaying the visitor.

* * * * *

All the world and the railway companies are largely indebted to the

enterprise of Mr. Cook, who, from small beginnings, commencing in

1851, has gradually enlarged his schemes for the public benefit, till

the ramifications of his system extend over all Europe and even into

the other continents. Mr. Gaze followed, apparently a good many years

later, and his arrangements seem to be on an equally extensive scale.

Both houses have agencies in the leading towns of Great Britain, as

well as in several of the principal European cities. Their success

is evidence of their utility, and there can be no doubt that the

facilities afforded by them have greatly increased the number of

Continental travellers. Their Lists furnish the routes and the cost of

travel; their tickets are extremely useful, and possess the advantage

of being printed in English as well as in the language of the country

to which they apply; while to those who are afraid of travelling in

countries where they cannot speak the language, their conducted tours

are no doubt valuable.

Tickets can be got from Cook’s offices to Paris _via_ Dover and

Newhaven; Gaze supplies tickets _via_ Folkestone and Southampton;

and there is a little advantage in taking these tickets, in respect

of saving time and trouble at the bustling London railway stations.

The tickets are made up in little books, and a leaf applicable to

the portion traversed is withdrawn by the ticket collector upon

accomplishment of that stage of the journey. But if the traveller be

going beyond Paris, to some place to which these offices book, he

receives a separate packet of tickets, which is exceedingly useful to

him, as, besides saving the trouble of purchasing at the Paris railway

station, he is enabled on starting from Paris to register his heavy

luggage to any part of his destination for which there is a coupon, and

that even at every such place. For example, going from Paris to Nice,

the luggage may be registered to Nice; and taking sufficient in the

carriage for the journey, in a _sac–de–nuit_, one may stop or break his

journey at Dijon, Lyons, Avignon, Marseilles, Cannes, and some other

towns. He can be a month on the road, and find upon arrival at Nice his

luggage safe in the luggage room, with a trifle per night to pay for

the accommodation. The trouble of procuring tickets at each station

is also saved, although at some places they require the tickets to be

stamped afresh at the ticket window; but in Italy generally a separate

window for this purpose is provided, so that the trouble of obtaining

the _visa_ is there reduced to a minimum.

The tickets issued by the two London houses for France seem to be

charged at or about the same rates as at the French railway stations.

But in Italy, or for Italy, their tickets must be paid for in English

money; so that it does not seem in a pecuniary point of view to be

one’s interest to procure them, because the benefit of the exchange,

amounting to about one–twelfth of the cost, is thus lost. No doubt it

is an advantage to those who cannot speak a few words of the Italian

language so as to be understood, or who cannot pick up what is said

at the railway booking window, to take the English tickets, and they

can afford to pay for their ignorance. But if the fee–expecting

_commissionaire_ of the hotel do not attend to the matter, which he

often of his own accord does, or will do if asked, extremely little

is necessary to be said, even French, or a mere acquaintance with the

numerals, being generally sufficient. Personally I never experienced

any difficulty whatever in taking out the tickets at the foreign

railway stations, and indeed the only difficulty I remember to have

had was, because I had Cook’s tickets. Conceiving there might, on a

first visit, be trouble, I had at Nice taken tickets from Genoa to

Rome, bearing a right to make three intermediate stoppages. Having,

in perfect accordance with the conditions, stopped at Spezzia, Pisa,

and Sienna, I could hardly, on leaving Sienna, get the tickets marked

for Rome. They were refused at the ticket window, and doubted by the

_chef–de–gare_; and it was only upon my emphatic remonstrance, and his

appealing to somebody else on the platform, that I succeeded in getting

them stamped. On arriving in Rome, I told Mr. Cook’s agent there what

had happened, and he said that if I had been required to have purchased

tickets from Sienna to Rome, he would have compelled the railway

company to have refunded the money, and made a complaint about it. It

was no doubt just one of those stupid things that will happen under the

best arrangements, well to be mentioned, that it may not be repeated;

and apart from the question of time (for the English tickets are

limited in time allowed for a journey extending over several towns),

there is no reason why they should not be preferred, provided always

that they could be procured with Italian paper money. Probably from the

fluctuating state of the exchange, it is difficult for Messrs. Cook and

Gaze to arrange; but if they could, it would obviate all objection.

* * * * *

To those intending to travel in Italy, great advantages are held

out by the railway companies in the shape of circular tour tickets

(_viaggi circulari_). The _Indicatore della Strada Ferrata_ contains a

list,[7] with plans of a large number of such tours, the tickets for

which are issued, enduring, according to the length of tour, from ten

to sixty days (which cannot be extended), at the large reduction of

45 per cent. upon the price which would otherwise be exigible. One of

these tours is, for example, a complete round of Italy—from Turin by

the west coast, embracing Florence and Rome to Naples, and thence by

the east coast by Ancona, Bologna, Venice, Milan, and back to Turin,

at a cost for first class of £7, 17s., and second and third classes

correspondingly low. This tour, for which sixty days are allowed,

enables the traveller to stop at any important town on the lines; and

all that is necessary is, at starting from each place, to get the

next station at which he means to stop scored through at the railway

window. To those whose time is limited, these circular tickets are

valuable, and they are procurable with Italian paper, so that the

benefit of exchange is got. Cook and Gaze issue tickets for the same

circular tours, and probably at the same price, although I suppose

they are generally in connection with tickets from London; but they

have, I understand, to be paid for in English money. They possess

the advantage, I believe, by no means to be undervalued, of having

all directions printed in English as well as Italian. The railway

companies issue their tickets at every important town on the line of

route to be travelled.

In France, likewise, there are for some parts circular tours, such as

from Paris to Bordeaux, Biarritz, the Pyrenees and back. Information on

the subject may be got in the _Indicateur_, or in the _Guides Diamant_

among the advertisements.

I would just add in connection with this subject, that it is said by

Bradshaw that return tickets are ‘almost universal abroad, and issued

upon terms far more liberal than any granted by our English lines.’

Although I have on various occasions taken day return tickets for short

trips, I have never yet found them to be any cheaper than the double

fare.

* * * * *

In the course of a journey, what are called supplementary billets can

be procured through the guard, so as to enable a neighbouring place to

be visited by a side line. Thus, in going from Lyons to Marseilles, we

obtained supplementary tickets from Tarascon to Nismes by asking for

them when stopping at Valence, about the second station before reaching

Tarascon. This, especially looking to the peculiarities of foreign

lines, is a great convenience.

The Italian _Indicatore_ states that travellers may exchange at any

place to a higher class by paying difference of fare between the place

at which the transfer is effected and the terminus.

* * * * *

After crossing the Channel, the first thing which is new to one who has

not previously ventured out of the British Islands, is the examination

of luggage by the _douaniers_ or custom–house officers. It is now

arranged that by registration of luggage to Paris, the examination may

take place there. This saves detention at the port of debarkation. In

general, an Englishman, if apparently a _bona fide_ pleasure traveller,

is very easily dealt with by these officers. If he have but a single

portmanteau, it is sometimes not so much as opened, or if opened,

there is but a nominal examination. He is asked if he have anything

to declare—’Any cigars?’ It is curious that in almost every country,

the sole special question usually asked is, ‘Have you any cigars?’

and the word of an Englishman that he has none is ordinarily taken.

If there be several boxes, the officer points to one of them, and

desires it to be opened, sometimes merely to be closed again. At other

times the man will provokingly put his hand down to the very depths,

and perhaps bring up something hard or a parcel, and fancy he has

made a discovery. But he is easily satisfied, and things are restored

in the best way possible for a tight fit. No examination of luggage

seems to be made on entering Switzerland from any frontier country,

indicating that the Swiss have no custom–house duties; but on leaving

Switzerland and entering France, there is a more minute examination

than occurs when coming from England; and although English people get

off comparatively easily, a question being sometimes asked as to where

they are going, those of other countries are most unmercifully dealt

with, every separate package, down even to handbags, being overhauled.

Once, many years ago, travelling by diligence from Geneva to Lyons,

I saw every article in a French lady’s boxes turned out and minutely

examined at three different places on the way. I presume they are

suspicious of such travellers secreting Geneva watches or jewellery. On

that occasion my own luggage was only examined once, but they made a

sort of examination of the person by passing their hands over my dress.

The lady, no doubt, was subjected to a more strict examination of her

person.

* * * * *

On landing in France, it is found that there is a difference of time

between Paris and London of ten minutes. All the French railways go

by Paris time; all Swiss railways, by Berne time, which is twenty

minutes in advance of Paris time; and all Italian railways, by Roman

time, which is forty–seven minutes in advance of Paris time. This is

all very right and proper, and makes it easy to know the times for

travelling by railway. But although the railways adopt the time of

their respective capitals, every different town has, according to its

longitude, its own, or what is held to be the correct time at the place

according to the sun. This proves most embarrassing, more especially

as the hotels regulate their hours by the clock of their own town

when that exists. If not, there is the utmost perplexity in finding

out what the correct time is. At Mentone no two clocks were alike. By

common consent they all differed. On going south to Avignon, the time

is nearly a quarter of an hour in advance of Paris time; at Mentone

it is twenty minutes. If, on the other hand, the journey be westward

of Paris, at Biarritz, the time will be found as much the other way;

so that one of the first inquiries to be made on reaching a hotel is,

‘What is the time of the town?’ and to note the difference between that

and railway time.

The complex and extraordinary mode of measuring time formerly in use in

Italy, by counting twenty–four hours for the varying time of vespers,

seems to be now wholly abandoned.

* * * * *

All who have travelled on the Continent are familiar with the railway

arrangements; but as they differ in some particulars from those to

which we are accustomed, and as this introductory chapter is mainly

intended for the benefit of those who have not previously crossed the

Channel, it may be useful to mention some of them.

* * * * *

Although in all leading respects foreigners have copied our railway

system, yet their diverging peculiarities are not always calculated

to reconcile an Englishman to Continental travel. He arrives at the

station, which he finds he must do in France a full half–hour before

the hour of starting; in Italy, in large towns, a full hour. And in

France he must always, in the first instance, procure his ticket at a

little wire–latticed window, falling into a _queue_ of people to take

his turn. Stooping to a small hole not six inches high on the table

level, he has to shout through in French to the distributor of billets

within, telling him what he wants, and from whom he receives in return

mention of the amount to be paid. It is always well to know beforehand

how much this is, which can be at least approximately calculated

from the time–tables; but the exact price of tickets may usually be

obtained from a board or table of fares near the ticket window, often

most inconveniently placed and arranged, and so dirty and soiled as

occasionally to be illegible. Without a previous knowledge of the

probable cost, it is exceedingly difficult for a stranger to make out

what the man says, owing to the narrowness of the aperture and the

indistinctness of French pronunciation. In many places, particularly in

Italy, an official is stationed (a most commendable practice) outside

the window, to prevent inconvenient crowding, to tell the fares, to see

that the correct billets are supplied, and to be a check on the ticket

distributor giving the right change. I have been told of cases where,

in Italy,—but it was some years ago,—there had been supposed attempts

to cheat on the part of the distributor; but, except on one occasion, I

never got wrong change. It happened at Bologna, where I received at the

ticket office 1 lira too little, and at the luggage office some pence

less than the correct change. In both cases it was at once rectified

on my pointing out the mistakes, and I set them down to slips. At

other times, on accidentally neglecting to take up small change at the

window, such as a sou, I have been called back to get it. But there is

an admirable check upon any attempt to cheat, or on mistakes, in the

circumstance that commonly Continental tickets have marked upon them

their cost—a system which might with great advantage be introduced into

Great Britain.

* * * * *

And now the Englishman obtains a new experience of how they manage

things abroad. His luggage was, on arrival at the station, deposited

on a long table under the care of the conductor of the omnibus which

brought him. This luggage, with the exception of such little things

as he means to take with him into the carriage, has, when his turn

arrives, to be carefully weighed. In France each traveller is allowed

30 kilogrammes, or about 65 lbs. weight. For every pound beyond this he

is required to pay according to distance. The men engaged in weighing

ask for the railway billets to show the destination, and then he goes

to the luggage–ticket window, where he duly receives back his billets

stamped as having been used, and gets a little scrap or morsel of thin

paper, which is the receipt for his luggage, and for which he has in

any case to pay 10 centimes (1d.) in addition to any charge for extra

weight. This receipt bears the number of _colis_ or packages and of

persons, the united weight of the party’s luggage, the sum payable, the

place of despatch and the place of destination, and a printed number;

which number is also affixed to each article so registered, and is the

means by which, on arriving at the journey’s end, it is identified.

What is the exact method by which the officials in charge manage to

secure that all the multiform boxes and bags arrive at their respective

proper destinations, I do not know. I presume that, in addition to an

invoice or list of some kind accompanying the train, the things for

each station are separately stowed away in the waggons; but whatever

may be the means adopted, they ensure the utmost regularity, although

I have heard of persons losing small articles, which, as a rule, ought

not to be so registered. On one occasion a rather curious circumstance

happened to my luggage. I went from Interlachen to Paris, and the

registration number on my portmanteau was 82. From Paris to London it

was registered anew, and the number happened to be 282; but the passage

across the Channel was very stormy, and I presume the Paris number had

been washed off on the voyage. On presenting my receipt at London, and

pointing out my portmanteau, it was found that it had not the number

282, but simply 82, and I had some difficulty in getting it; but as my

key opened the lock, and nobody else appeared to claim the article, I

got delivery.

In Italy, no allowance is made for luggage. Every pound which is

registered must be paid for, and consequently it is not in general

necessary previously to take out the railway billets. The expense is

not, however, great, unless one’s luggage be heavy. Our luggage, which

perhaps was less than many travel with, cost me, travelling nearly all

over Italy, for railway charges, less than 30s. per person; but railway

fares in Italy are cheaper than with us, so that the difference is thus

made up.

Although the system of registration is attended by much security,

and is one with which it might not be safe to dispense in travelling

abroad, I do not think that, in its integrity, it could be introduced

into busy England. We should never stand the minute weighing of our

luggage, and, above all, the enormous loss of time which it entails.

It has, besides, its disadvantages, because it results in travellers

carrying and placing beside them articles which ought properly to be

in the van. The luggage registered, too, suffers injury. Moreover,

at the journey’s end a great detention is always occasioned. All

have to wait till the vans are emptied, and the contents dragged

about and arranged upon long tables in a closed room. When the entire

collection is adjusted as far as possible according to the numbers

affixed, the doors of this room are opened, after having had to wait

wearily perhaps half an hour. It is, however, by no means necessary to

attend personally, except where the luggage must be passed through the

_douane_, and sometimes the hotel omnibus will take home the passengers

and come back for the luggage; but personal attendance enables a more

prompt recognition of it to be made, and ensures accuracy. In Italy it

is reckoned safer not to leave luggage at a station. The Italians have

not been credited with the greatest honesty, though probably this is

a thing of the past. However, they themselves manifest the sense of

insecurity by refusing to receive luggage for registration which is

not properly locked or fastened, and boxes arriving in such condition

are closed at the owner’s expense in his presence.

In travelling by steamboat, also, a charge is made for luggage

according to weight. Thus, upon a little sail of about 10 miles on Lake

Como, I had to pay 2½ francs for luggage. In diligences in Switzerland,

20 lbs. weight only is allowed. All weight beyond this is charged for—a

fairly reasonable regulation.

* * * * *

Perhaps the most peculiar and striking of all the Continental

travelling arrangements is the system of waiting–rooms. It introduces

to English people a difference of method of a somewhat irritating

description. The _salle–d’attente_ is a species of sheep pen into which

the traveller is driven after he has obtained his railway billets and

had his luggage registered, and where he must remain helplessly shut up

till the train by which he is to travel is about to leave. Generally

a separate large room is provided for each of the three classes of

travellers, and the rule is that nobody is allowed to enter without

exhibition of the railway ticket appropriate to that particular class;

and as this cannot be done till the luggage be registered and paid

for, which seldom takes less than a quarter of an hour, if ladies be

of the party, they must wait with all the patience possible, guarding

the little articles to be taken into the railway carriage, in the large

hall of the office, where ofttimes there is not a seat or a comfortable

or clean one to be had. Once or twice, in breach of the regulations, I

have got them passed into the waiting–room. In the _salle–d’attente_

itself, penetrated under burden of all these little _impedimenta_

(for it is rare good luck to get a porter to help), a crowd of people

all similarly laden is found, and there the passengers have to wait

sometimes for long periods till within four or five minutes of the

starting of the train, when a man opens the door of the prison–house

or menagerie and shouts out, ‘_Messieurs les voyageurs, pour_ (naming

the places) _en voiture!_’ It may happen that there are several such

shouts for other trains before your own is announced, and your sudden

preparations for departure are stopped by the discovery that your

turn has not yet come, and you are not allowed to leave the place of

confinement. When your turn does come, you gather up your things,

which no porter helps you to carry, and rush pell–mell out with the

crowd. There is no servant to tell you where to go, and your only

security not to do wrong is to follow the multitude. When you reach

the carriages, it is seldom they have any board or placard indicating

their destination. If there should by any chance be an official about,

he is not there for the purpose of directing people; and if you ask

him, he gives about as slender information in answer as possible. It is

folly, however, to stop to ask him in the first instance. The plan is,

trudging on with wraps and bags and all the little things, to bundle

into the first open carriage where there appears to be sufficient room,

and secure seats as best you can, and then get out and make inquiries

for certainty’s sake. If you do not do so, and a lady, to recover

breath, halts an instant with foot on step before ascending, others

will coolly mount before her and take possession, and there may be the

utmost possible difficulty in procuring seat–room elsewhere, foreigners

being just as selfishly guilty as English people of telling lies about

a carriage being full. At all events, those who have got in first have

probably secured all the available spaces for their goods and chattels,

as well as the best seats for themselves. To avoid the expense of

registration, or to escape detention on arrival, foreigners (by whom I

mean natives of the Continent) almost invariably, as already mentioned,

bring portmanteaus and other big articles into the carriages; and as

the spaces below the seats are perhaps purposely narrow and confined,

these things become very inconvenient, often occupying the places

presumably intended for light articles, or they are placed on the seats

or among the feet. If smoking disagrees, or you are averse to it,

and desire a non–smoking carriage, the hunt for this in the scramble

is an additional embarrassment; and frequently, after getting into

a carriage and having everything arranged, the non–smokers discover

that the compartment is a smoking one, and they have to tumble out

at the last moment and endeavour to discover empty places elsewhere.

The inconveniences attendant upon this method of arranging for the

departure of travellers are such as would make it intolerable in Great

Britain, where one walks leisurely to the train as he arrives and

selects his seat, with the aid, it may be, of a porter or a guard. Free

Britons will submit quietly till a next election to the imposition of

heavy burdens in support of an unnecessary war, but a petty grievance

like this would raise a storm which no board of directors could resist.

* * * * *

The Continental railways, however, have both porters and guards, who,

like policemen, never seem to be present when most wanted. On arrival

at a station from an hotel, there are always railway porters to carry

the luggage to the registration table, for which they expect to be

paid, and sometimes in expectation of a further fee they will carry the

_petits bagages_ to the door of the _salle–d’attente_—occasionally,

though rarely, into the _salle–d’attente_ itself; but where assistance

is more needed, viz. in leaving the _salle–d’attente_ in the rush

for the train, porters are nowhere, and on arrival of the trains at

their destination, it is by the merest chance (at least in France) one

can be got to carry the unregistered articles—the number of which is

aggravated by the circumstance that it seems to be part of the system

of registration, that if luggage be forwarded to a station in advance

of that at which stoppage is to be made for the night or longer, it

is not possible to register separately to the stopping station what

is required for immediate use. A similar difficulty happens if the

heavy luggage is to be left at the railway station, to be got upon

setting out upon the further journey next day—a circumstance constantly

happening, we ourselves having travelled thus for days together. All

must be taken or none. But at some of the larger town stations, there

would now seem to be a left luggage room similar to our own, where

luggage may be deposited on payment of usually two sous per package per

night.

The railway porters always expect a fee (20 centimes per box, at

most, will suffice in France) for moving the heavy luggage—even the

registration weighers sometimes look for a copper. In Italy, however,

the porters often state there is a tariff of charge, under which

generally 25 centimes each package is paid, though the amount depends

somewhat on the size of each. It is, however, a comfort to know in

Italy, if you can, what exactly there is to pay; but although appeal

has often been made to the tariff if it happened to be high, I never

was gladdened with a sight of this mysterious document. I should make

one exception, for the extortion was so great that I demanded to see

it, though, as I might have foreseen, it was worse than useless to do

so. It occurred at Geneva, where a porter exacted 3½ francs (3s.) from

me for transporting on a barrow our luggage from the steamboat to our

hotel close by, we being charged in the bill in addition 2½ francs for

conveying two of us to the hotel, or 5s. for moving baggage little more

than a hundred yards.

I recollect some years ago a system very equitable both for porters and

passengers was in use at Cologne; a charge, I think, of 2d. for each

package was made at the railway station for porterage, and the amount

dropped into a box, the contents of which fell to be divided afterwards

among all the porters.

One misses at the foreign railways the fee–expecting, bustling English

guard. There is such a person, but he is not the important functionary

he makes himself at home, where he is seen going about as if all the

carriages belonged to him. Abroad, the guard arrives not or retreats

until the train is about to start, and the first and perhaps the only

time he makes his appearance is probably after proceeding a long way on

the journey; and when the train is in full motion, nervous passengers

are suddenly alarmed by seeing a man creeping along the outside of the

carriage and popping his head in at the window, or opening the door to

see the billets, which are seldom examined before starting. He silently

gives the tickets a clip, and disappears, perhaps to reappear after

another 50 miles for another examination and another clip, the want of

inspection before starting removing a safeguard which exists in England

against proceeding in the wrong train. But if the guard render himself

invisible, he does not expect, as in England, to be fee’d for making

needless announcements, or proffering superfluous information, and so

the imposition is saved.

* * * * *

As a general rule, the Continental railway carriages are superior in

comfort to our own, although latterly improvement has been made in

this direction on some of the English lines. On most of the foreign

lines, the second–class carriages are, or were, equal to our first,

and practically almost the only difference between first and second

consists in the number of passengers which they take, the first

class taking eight in each compartment, and the second ten. In the

line between Cette and Bayonne, and possibly on other lines, the

second–class carriages are not so good, and are more like our own, and

do not possess that with which those on other lines are fitted up—a

netting overhead similar to what is placed in our first–class carriages

for the reception of small things; hooks are substituted. Sometimes one

gets into the older class of carriage, as we did once between Arles and

Marseilles, where the compartments are uncomfortably narrow.

In France, it seems quite the rule to crowd the carriages to the

utmost. I never learnt the reason, but have imagined that a Government

duty or tax is levied on every carriage used. If so, it is highly

desirable that this tax should be removed.

In all the French trains, and I think also in other countries, there

is in each class a division _pour dames seules_; and as occasionally

there is only one second–class carriage in the train, and the post

may, if a mail train, occupy one compartment of it, there is in such

a case only one compartment left for the general travellers by second

class—a circumstance which is productive of inconvenience to them. The

officials peremptorily keep the _dames seules_ portion for ladies only.

On one occasion I had unwittingly got into one with three ladies of my

party, and with our whole effects; but although all the ladies in the

carriage politely expressed their willingness that I should remain, the

guard compelled me to descend and find another compartment for myself.

On most lines in France, Switzerland, and Italy, there are compartments

which are marked as non–smoking; but although so marked, little regard

is paid to the distinction, particularly on the Italian lines. The

men seem to have very little notion that it is a most selfish act to

pollute the air breathed by their fellow–passengers for the sake of

indulging in one of their own—to many others, disagreeable—habits which

might be postponed until they get out; and so little is thought about

it, that it would require Sydney Smith’s ‘Surgical Operation’ to imbue

them with the idea that it is a discomfort to others, or that when

asked to stop smoking, it is their duty at once as gentlemen to comply.

On one occasion in Italy, after speaking to successive passengers, some

of whom complied, and some would not, I spoke to the guard; but he paid

no attention to the complaint (the carriage being non–smoking), and in

charity let me suppose he did not comprehend what I said. But, indeed,

the cigar seems hardly ever out of the mouth of the Italian, and one

wonders how the humbler classes can spare the money from their small

earnings to spend upon this expensive practice.

* * * * *

Foreigners are very fond in the hot weather of putting down all the

six windows of the compartment, thus creating draughts, from which I

have several times caught a cold. They have not the slightest notion

of closing a window in passing through a tunnel, and on some lines the

tunnels are frequent and long. But while they put down the glass, they

also draw down the blue blinds placed over each window, under pretence

of the shining of the sun, but quite as often for no conceivable reason

except that the glass is down, or that they don’t want to be bothered

looking out. It is of no manner of consequence although the scenery

through which one is passing be the finest or the grandest possible,

down goes the blue blind without even the politeness of asking the

other passengers whether they so desire or not. As often as I could, I

secured a place at the window, and showed that, although a native of a

colder clime, I could stand the sunshine for the sake of the view. On

one occasion, on a former tour, travelling by diligence from Geneva to

Chamounix, there were some Germans smoking continually, as usual, on

the seats before us. These men, though approaching the grandest scenery

in Europe, insisted angrily on a leather curtain being kept down, so

as to exclude all view, simply because the raising of it admitted a

little sunshine. But this habit is not confined to Germans; and the

conclusion to which I have come is that, to say nothing of the quality

of inherent politeness in true consideration for others, the generality

of foreigners have no high appreciation for scenery, or are desperately

afraid of their complexion, which, to say the truth, cannot rival that

of the Anglo–Saxon.

I should just add, that in Switzerland, on some of the lines, the

railway carriages are constructed somewhat on the American plan, by

which entrance is made from end to end of the carriage, and the guard

can thus pass through from one carriage to another. At Interlachen,

between the two lakes, there is an upper storey to enable people the

better to see the views. Carriages similarly constructed are for the

same reason run upon the little line between Bayonne and Biarritz.

* * * * *

The speed on Continental railways is, as compared with that on English

railways, very slow. There are what are called express trains, but

these express trains do not attain the celerity of our ordinary trains.

For example, the express which leaves Paris at 11 A.M. reaches Mentone

the following day at 3.50 P.M.—that is, 690 miles in twenty–nine hours,

or at the rate of 24 miles per hour; and for long journeys like this

in France, first–class tickets must be taken. Express trains are not,

however, always to be had, and one is doomed frequently to long and

tiresome journeys. To go from Nismes to Toulouse, our train took ten

hours, stopping at thirty different stations by the way between Cette

and Toulouse, with twenty minutes to dine at Narbonne, the previous

part of the journey between Nismes and Cette, a short distance, having

been express. The distance is only 298 kilometres, or about 186 miles

for the whole journey, the rate of speed between Cette and Toulouse

being thus only between 14 and 15 miles per hour. In like manner eight

hours were consumed in the journey between Pau and Toulouse, which is

about 130 miles, or rather more than 16 miles per hour. Not only is the

speed slow, but at any station at which the trains stop, there is a

detention for an apparently useless length of time. Occasionally long

stoppages occur also where the lines are single only. In one short

journey of 37 miles between St. Sebastian in Spain and Biarritz, two

hours were lost from this cause by waiting at two stations for trains

from the other end to pass. More powerful locomotives were promised

upon the line between Paris and Marseilles, by which it was expected

the journey of 536 miles might be accomplished in twelve hours; but

they do not yet appear to have been placed upon it.

If, however, the speed be less, the security is greater. We seldom hear

of accidents on the Continental lines.

There are peculiarities about the French trains which render it

necessary to study the _Indicateur_ very carefully, as some trains

take only first–class passengers, and others have no first class; and

although the first train going may be taken, it does not follow that

it will be the first to arrive at the destination. A still further

and annoying peculiarity is, that the railway company by first–class

express trains will not always book to every station on the line at

which they stop. Thus a friend left Mentone for Heidelberg. On arrival

at Marseilles, he found himself compelled to book to Paris to get on.

Thence he went to Strasbourg. Nor would it be possible to leave the

line at Lyons, because the luggage would be registered to Paris.

* * * * *

The arrangements of the railways in regard to stations correspond in

some degree with our own; but they have their specialties, into which

I need not enter. The system of _salles–d’attente_ and of registration

of luggage necessitate stations being built on a much larger scale than

our own. Sometimes tickets are collected before arriving at the _gare_,

but more frequently are inconveniently taken at the narrow _sortie_

or _uscita_ from the passengers encumbered with luggage. Outside

the station a host of porters and _commissionaires_ of hotels is

immediately encountered, and beyond this crowd, often largely swelled

by mere idle onlookers, and perhaps by an occasional pickpocket, a long

line of omnibuses and cabs. It is the practice in many, perhaps most

places, for every hotel to keep an omnibus which goes to the station

for every train. Probably there is some jealousy lest cab–drivers or

general omnibus conductors might beguile or be bribed to beguile the

visitors to certain hotels; but whether it be from this cause or from

ostentation, the consequence is that there is waiting for employment

a number of conveyances altogether out of proportion to the number of

passengers requiring conveyance. I have counted at Mentone, waiting

arrival of a train, twenty omnibuses, inclusive of a general one, with

their respective drivers and conductors, and nearly as many cabs;

while the number of passengers leaving the train would not exceed

twenty in all, of whom probably not three would require conveyance. The

maintenance of these omnibuses must be attended with heavy expense to

the hotelkeepers; and although it can by no means pay for the expense,

the charge against the visitor is heavy. The general omnibus, with a

few specially–adapted cabs, would suffice in most places for all the

traffic. It is melancholy to see the almost hourly procession of empty

‘buses, relieved only occasionally by one of them exhibiting in triumph

a solitary occupant, and perhaps bearing five or six large boxes on its

top. In Paris and Toulouse, and some other places, there are little

district or family omnibuses holding four or six persons, unconnected

with any hotel—a far better arrangement.

The charge for a seat in the omnibus is usually, in a town or general

omnibus, without luggage, either 30 or 50 centimes; with luggage, 1

franc. The hotel omnibuses never charge less than 1 franc per person;

and with luggage it is usually 1½ francs. If a party consist of four,

it has thus to pay 6 francs or 5s. for the drive to the hotel, which is

expensive; and it is much cheaper, if there be not heavy luggage, for

which the cabs are seldom adapted, to take a cab. This cannot easily

be done at leaving the hotel, as the guests are expected to employ the

hotel omnibus, which is charged as matter of course in the bill.

We experienced at Rome a curious species of imposition. Not finding a

carriage which would have taken our luggage, we entered the general

omnibus, for which the fare for three persons was, the conductor told

us, 3 francs, and drove to the house where we expected to obtain

quarters. It turned out to be full, and I left the omnibus, crossed the

street on foot and inquired at two hotels, at the second of which I

found accommodation, and the omnibus brought across the luggage. The

conductor demanded 10 francs for what he called the several courses,

and I was glad, with the assistance of the landlord of the hotel,

to arrange for 6 francs; but we were afterwards informed that this

conductor was notorious for such practices.

* * * * *

It is sometimes desired to send luggage or boxes by goods trains

_petite vitesse_. I had occasion to do so from Lyons to Mentone. A

declaration was, by aid of the landlord of our hotel, filled up,

containing, among other particulars, the general contents of the boxes

which he sent to the goods office, and they were duly forwarded to

their destination. The time taken in the transit varies and depends

on circumstances—it may be weeks. It is therefore never safe to send

off by goods train luggage which may be immediately wanted. The cost

of carriage is so much per 50 kilogrammes; all below the 50 is charged

the same as 50. For this weight between Lyons and Mentone, I paid 5½

francs. Between Paris and Mentone it would have been 7 to 8 francs;

between Marseilles and Mentone, 3 francs. These figures will give an

approximate idea of the cost. On leaving Mentone, the second season,

I sent a box (under 50 kilogrammes weight) to Glasgow, to care of

Messrs. J. and P. Cameron, railway agents, to go by _petite vitesse_

to Marseilles, and thence by sea to Glasgow, where Messrs. Cameron

passed it through the customs and despatched it to Edinburgh. The

total cost was 6s. 10d. A box I sent from Naples to the care of a

mercantile friend in Liverpool, by whom it was passed and forwarded to

Edinburgh, cost for carriage, Naples to Edinburgh, £1, 2s. 6d. This

amount embraced shipping agents’ charges, and was sent as freight. Had

I sent the box simply as a parcel, it would have cost 5s. 6d. less, but

the shipper would not for the lesser charge undertake responsibility

beyond 40s.; and looking to the thievish character of the Neapolitans,

I thought it safer to pay the additional charge. The difficulty one

feels about sending off things to pass a frontier, is the examination

by the _douaniers_; but I believe that some of the _expediteurs_, to

be found in all towns, undertake for a small fee to get this managed.

I presume they procure the passing through upon the footing of known

or credited respectability of the party sending. I sent to Glasgow and

Liverpool an exact list of the contents of the boxes, for exhibition,

if need were, to the authorities. Some of the bankers—as, for example,

Messrs. Macquay, Hooker, and Co., Florence—undertake to despatch goods

and works of art to any place in Europe.