_SECOND WINTER IN THE RIVIERA._
WE left Pau for Toulouse on 23d October 1877. The journey occupied
upwards of eight hours, or two hours longer than the same journey from
Toulouse. At every little station there is a stoppage for an apparently
endless length of time, although I suppose the delay is partly
attributable to the necessities of the careful system of registration
of luggage. One tunnel was shored up, and we went slowly through it
and over the ground before and after. When we approached Toulouse,
and had to cross the rivers, the train proceeded with the utmost
caution. The bridges had evidently been washed away, and what we passed
over seemed either unfinished or temporary. It was here, it may be
recollected, that in the year 1875 such disastrous floods took place.
But whether the condition of the bridges in 1877 was attributable to
this or to a more recent flooding, we could not tell. The journey,
though long, was agreeable, the rivers resembling our own Scotch
rivers, and the Pyrenees clear and crisp, with a slight sprinkling or
dusting of snow upon them, though not enough to give them the aspect
of snowy mountains. The trees were clothed in their autumn tints of
yellow, brown, and red, and the sun was shining. We were accommodated
with the rooms we had formerly occupied in the Hotel Sacaron—clean,
tidy, but carpetless; the mosquitoes, however, were gone. A good many
persons appeared in the _salle à manger_, but there was no common
_table–d’hôte_ dinner. Each party dined separately at 5 francs per
head. I had, before leaving Pau, calculated on getting a good hour
before dinner for a drive through the town; but a change had been
recently made,—I suppose about the 16th October, the usual commencement
of winter hours,—by which our train, probably to dispense with another,
became a slow one, stopping at all stations, and taking two hours
longer than before; so that, arriving at six o’clock, there was no
time for a drive in daylight. In the evening I had a stroll through a
small part of the town, which contains some good wide shop streets. The
Church of St. Servan is the finest, and, according to representations,
peculiarly constructed, but in the dark I had no opportunity of seeing
it. Nor did we see the bridges and other neighbouring public parts.
Had we not been anxious to push on towards Marseilles, we might have
stopped a day to see a city which has a name, but is a good deal out of
the ordinary path of travellers. We also missed seeing the view from it
of the Pyrenees, which is said to be there extensive, being about the
centre of the chain. It rained through the night, and was damp in the
morning; and as our train left at ten o’clock, we could not obtain an
hour before leaving for Montpellier.
The scenery between Toulouse and Cette, great part of which we had
missed on our former journey in the dark or twilight, was not equal to
that of the previous day. We passed field after field of vineyards,
where they were lading large carts with the grapes. About Biarritz and
other places in the south–west of France, the carts are generally drawn
by oxen. In Italy, the equally patient buffalo, with its meek eyes, is
used. Here the carts seen from the railway were drawn by two horses.
Grapes were charged at the railway station of Narbonne, in the centre
of this vine district, 5d. per lb. We had paid elsewhere from 1½d. (15
centimes) to 3d. (30 centimes) per lb., but at railway stations prices
are usually increased. For oranges at railway stations, 20 centimes
apiece were sometimes demanded. The sun went down as we got into Cette,
but not before gaining, as we approached that port, a glimpse now
and then of our old friend the Mediterranean. A cup of coffee at the
station was refreshing, but the waiter, who calculated in sous, was
very confused in his reckoning. We arrived at Montpellier in the dark
at 6.44, and found the omnibus of the Hotel Nevet waiting; but it would
not start till all luggage was got out, so that we might as well have
taken our luggage with us instead of leaving it, as we usually did on
such journeys, for the night at the station. This hotel, recommended as
the best, is rather old–fashioned both in accommodation and furnishing,
giving an idea of the comforts enjoyed there in former times when
Montpellier was in vogue, and its name was a synonym for any place
where the air was peculiarly pure and salubrious. Now I suspect it has
lost favour, and more modern localities, such as Cannes and Mentone,
have supplanted it, as railways have brought their previously–hidden
virtues to light, and rendered them more easy of access, probably
to yield in turn to others better spoken of. Dr. Taylor (p. 7) thus
adverts to its climate:—
‘The climate of the south–east of France, of which Montpellier may
be considered as the centre, is, on the contrary’ (to Pau), ‘highly
electric and dry, subject, particularly during the spring, to severe
cutting and irritating winds, loaded with impalpable dust, exciting
in its qualities, and productive of inflammatory diseases of an
acute character. To prove these latter assertions, we shall produce
the following unbiased evidence. We find in a work on the medical
topography of Montpellier, the following statistical results of
diseases treated during a year in the public hospital of that town. The
number of patients admitted in one year was 2756; the proportion of
deaths was 154; and of that number, 53—that is, more than a third—were
caused by diseases of the chest. Again, we find the following opinion
from a work full of valuable observations on the effect of the winds
of the south–east of France: “One ought to have a chest sound and well
constituted to resist such impressions.” Matthews also, in his _Diary
of an Invalid_, says “that every mouthful of the air irritates weak
lungs and sets them coughing.”’
After a late dinner, I walked out, but could see little. The town
seemed full of cafés. In the morning, before the train started, we
had an hour to look about. It would be unfair to judge of any place
with such slender opportunities, but it did not appear to offer great
attractions. In the centre of the town, surrounded by lofty buildings,
there is a large open place, adorned by a handsome fountain. Out of
this place a Boulevard runs, leading to the Place d’Armes, where people
walk and drive, and it is said there are fine views of the Pyrenees and
Alps to be had; but the morning was hazy, and any prospect was hid. It
was also cold, and wraps became advisable.
We had to change carriages twice between Montpellier and
Marseilles—viz., at Tarascon, and again, in little more than an hour,
at Arles. The second change was aggravating, because we could not see
why the carriages might not have gone on to Marseilles; while those
into which, after some detention and trouble, we were shifted, were
antiquated, narrow, and confined. Fortunately no rain fell during the
change, for Arles station is not under cover.
* * * * *
I have already, in mentioning our first visit to the Riviera, taken
note of Marseilles. We were glad to meet some old Scotch friends
unexpectedly at the Hotel Noailles. The weather was cold, which of
itself would have rendered it advisable to push on; so, after a drive
through the town next day, we left for Hyères, about fifty miles
distant, by the 1.20 train, but found by another of those changes
made just a few days previously, we could only book to Toulon, the
train in connection from Toulon to Hyères by a branch line having been
discontinued, although the Hyères season was just commencing—a rather
odd way of accommodating the coming visitors. On arrival at Toulon, we
had accordingly upwards of three hours before a train would start for
Hyères, and we availed ourselves of the time to explore a little about
this noted naval station.
The town of Toulon itself is uninteresting; its streets are dirty
and narrow, the houses high. Near the railway station the ground is
more open and the houses more modern. Passing them, we soon came upon
the fortifications which surround the town, but retracing our steps,
walked down to the docks and along the public quay. There are two
large docks communicating with each other—the Port Marchand and the
Port Militaire. The latter is one of the great arsenals of France;
but we could not see it, an order of admission being required, only
procurable in the morning. It extends to 35 acres and is said to be
capable of receiving 200 ships of the line. The other dock is probably
of about the same extent. Both docks are highly fortified. On looking
from the quay, we saw many of the old men–of–war laid up like invalids,
dismasted and dismantled and put under cover, apparently as hospital
ships. At one time convicts were kept in some of them. A little beyond,
some serviceable men–of–war lay, and the quays were crowded with boats
which, with men and officers, were passing to and fro, making it a
lively, gay scene. Some civilians were evidently going out in the
boats to see the ships or their friends on board. A bronze statue has
been erected upon the public quay, to the memory of the many eminent
men who have been connected by birth or otherwise with Toulon and its
history, and whose names are engraved on the sides. After our stroll,
we were glad to return and have, in the railway station refreshment
room, dinner (supplied at 3½ francs a head, the usual station tariff),
and at 6.50 left in the dark for Hyères, arriving at eight o’clock.
Nine omnibuses in a semicircle were waiting the arrival of the train,
but we were the only passengers requiring conveyance. We took that of
the Hotel d’Orient, recommended in Bradshaw and also by Murray for its
beautiful situation. It is a comfortable hotel, the hotelkeeper is
attentive, and the situation is more sheltered from the mistral than
others; but it seems a mistake to speak of it as ‘beautiful,’ as any
view it may have commanded at one time is shut out by the trees of the
garden on the opposite side of the road. The Hotel des Îles d’Or is the
principal hotel in Hyères. It commands a fine view, but has a west or
south–west exposure. The Hesperides Hotel is near to it. This and the
Hotel des Ambassadeurs, in the centre of the small town, are considered
comfortable and more moderate.
* * * * *
Hyères is considered less costly than any of the other important
places in the Riviera, regarding it as within the Riviera, which
perhaps, strictly speaking, it is not. I believe it may be considered
to be about 2 francs per day less than Mentone for corresponding
accommodation and pension, and in all probability the reason for this
is that it is not usually thought so attractive. The town itself is
most uninviting. The original and older part of it, lying upon the hill
slope, is so very dirty that I could not bring myself to visit it a
second time. The drains there run down the middle of the streets, and
no regard seems to be paid to cleanliness. It speaks well, doubtless,
for its healthiness, that the inhabitants can survive its pestilential
odours. The newer part of the town consists mainly of a long street,
in which most of the hotels are, and a few poor shops, some of which
were not, at this early period of the winter, opened. The Rue des
Palmiers, in which the English church is situated, is the best street.
It is flanked by gardens attached to the houses, and by a row of palm
trees on each side, which grow better in Hyères than they do in some
other parts where they are more exposed to dust and sea air. This Rue
has quite the look of a retired row in the suburbs of a large city.
Outside the town, which is altogether very small, there are a number
of pretty villas. Behind the town a hill rises steeply to a height of
650 feet, whereon the château, an old castle, stands. The view from
this hill is very fine, looking down upon the plains below, and the
surrounding mountains, and the Mediterranean three miles off—the long,
low, but picturesque islands of Hyères, called the Îles d’Or, the
nearest being to appearance about two to three miles from the shore, or
six miles off, but as distance on water is deceptive, probably rather
more. These islands, formerly productive, now barren, but said to be
salubrious, are four in number, the largest being four miles long by
two miles broad, and (speaking from distant recollection of a visit to
Ireland) slightly resembling from Hyères, though larger, Spike Island
at Queenstown, Cork.
* * * * *
There are a number of very nice walks at Hyères. About a mile out
of town, a piece of ground has been recently laid out as a Jardin
d’Acclimation; but as yet it is mainly occupied by an immense number
of ducks of all kinds. The great drawback to Hyères is, that it is not
sufficiently sheltered from the mistral, which blows during spring
from the west and unprotected side. It is also far from the sea–shore,
and is therefore deprived of the life and interest always found at
the sea–side. Its climate, though warm, is, I believe, changeable.
On the 1st November it was as hot there as it is any day in July in
London; but it may suit some invalids who require to be at a distance
from the sea. We did not like it, but were perhaps spoiled for fully
appreciating it by having been previously at other and, as we thought,
more attractive places. This, however, has to be said, that our visit
to Hyères took place before the season had fairly commenced, and to be
in a season place out of season is always dreary. We were very nearly
the only persons in our hotel. There was one family there, whom we met
in very painful circumstances. They had brought with them a daughter
who had been given up in London by her physicians, who said her only
chance of life was going to the south of France. With great difficulty
she was brought so far. She survived about five or six weeks from the
time of leaving home, but died a few days after reaching Hyères. We
attended her funeral, conducted by the English clergyman, and it was
gratifying to see that it created an apparent sympathy among the native
population, who assembled in considerable numbers in the burying–ground.
* * * * *
Hyères is no doubt interesting to other persons; indeed, we have met
with those who have spoken very highly of it. La Plage, the nearest
point on the coast, is about three miles distant, and the railway has
been extended to it and to the salines beyond. We took the train to it
one day, and found a few villas had been built in the hope of making it
a seaside town; but at the time of our visit, at least, the speculation
did not seem to look hopeful. There is nothing attractive either about
the beach or about the neighbourhood, except a forest of umbrella
pines, affording the only shelter it possesses against the winds, which
must often blow violently at this part, and were blowing so keenly at
the time that we were glad to walk home and not wait three hours for a
train.
* * * * *
We were a good deal annoyed by mosquitoes while at Hyères,
necessitating recourse to burning pastilles at night, and waging a war
of extermination in the morning.
* * * * *
After being eight days at Hyères, we were by no means sorry to leave it
for Cannes by the little branch line to Toulon, where we were doomed
to wait two hours—one in consequence of the trains not fitting in,
and another because the train we were to join (a first–class express
from Paris) was an hour behind time. French trains are generally
very punctual, but on these long journeys are, especially at the
commencement of a season, often late. The engine was, in consequence,
urged on at an unusual speed after leaving Toulon, and we had made up
a good part of the lost time when we were stopped at Fréjus by a goods
train having by some accident got in the way. After all, we were not
more than half an hour late at Cannes. We again had much difficulty
in getting seat–room, guards affording no manner of assistance; the
carriages also were filled with people who had travelled all night
from Paris, and perhaps were selfishly unwilling to be disturbed by
intruders. On this our second journey to Cannes, the blinds on _both_
sides of the carriage were ruthlessly closed by the ‘foreigners’
sitting next them, so that we had no chance of seeing the lovely views
to be had from the windows.
We went to our old quarters at Cannes, where, in spite of mosquitoes
and flies, we were, as before, very comfortable. The weather was partly
sunny and partly wet during the ten days we sojourned there. On one of
the bright days our quondam invalid walked to the top of the Croix de
Garde, which she could not attempt on our visit the previous year. It
showed how well she then was, and how much cause for thankfulness we
then had.
* * * * *
We reached Mentone on 12th November 1877, unfortunately in heavy rain,
and, having some time previously secured them, obtained possession of
the same bright rooms we had occupied the year before, and there we
remained till the end of March.
The weather at Mentone during December and January was unusually
cold—such a coldness as had not been experienced for many years. It
was penetrating, and hard to withstand, at least during the hours of
darkness. When the sun was out, the air was warm; but mornings and
evenings were cold, and it was difficult to avoid encountering cold
blasts and drafts, especially in passing from hot rooms through cold
corridors chilled by open doors, and we did find this year servants
very tiresome in leaving doors open which communicated with the outer
air. I believe, though not conscious of it at the time, that this cold
weather and the cold drafts had reproduced, though it might have then
been in a very elementary way, the seeds of disease which we fondly
thought had been altogether eradicated.
* * * * *
We found the municipal authorities busy making a continuation of the
promenade along the shore for a full additional half–mile or more
westward towards Cape Martin,—an addition which has ere this proved a
great accession to the place, and will be complete when carried as far
as Cape Martin itself, which, with its forest of trees, is one of the
most charming haunts about Mentone; but the access to it has hitherto
been either by the dusty high road or by the rough stony beach.
Builders had also been busy with new houses, but the speculation, I
doubt, had not proved profitable, as, owing to the dulness of trade
and to the war in the East, many of the villas remained empty, while
even the hotels did not fill so rapidly as they had done the previous
year. However, when we left in the spring, the builders had not
seemed deterred by the want of demand, for building operations were
still progressing, and I fear much that in a few years Mentone, if
not overbuilt for the number of visitors, will lose a great deal of
its charm as a rural town. In other respects it was the same as ever,
bright and pleasant; and helping to make it so, we had friends in many
of the other hotels, besides meeting old friends in our own.
* * * * *
During the first part of our stay, people were kept in great anxiety
about the course of events in France, and we never could tell but
that any day a revolution might break out: one result apparently was
that newspapers were occasionally stopped, or at least some did not
reach us. _Punch_ had in one number a certain distinguished gentleman
floundering in the mud. This number did not reach us through the usual
channels, but the cartoon nevertheless came to the hotel enclosed in
a letter to one of the visitors from a friend in Germany. Perhaps the
French are a people too easily excited to make it safe to allow such
things to be circulated, but it seems strange to our ideas of free
discussion.
When these difficulties were overcome, the British portion of the
population at least were disquieted by the attitude taken by England
in regard to affairs in the East. Before we left home in 1876, Turkish
misrule and oppression of the provinces had awakened the attention of
the European powers, and a movement for reform was made. The Turkish
atrocities in Bulgaria had also come to light, and Mr. Gladstone, with
all the fervour of his noble heart, had come to the front, and forced
the facts into lively attention, and not without effect. But the firm
word from us to the Turk, which would have prevented war, was not
spoken, and Russia found herself compelled, single–handed, to have
recourse to arms to terminate oppression. Russia did not declare war
till April 1877. When she became successful, there was considerable
excitement in the south of England, and it seemed as if many good
people were not careful of what they fed upon, and for a long time
nightly dreamt that the Czar, with one foot on Russia, was putting
another on Constantinople, and, like a gigantic Gulliver, was just
about to haul India off to St. Petersburg. Into the political causes
and consequences of this excitement it would be out of place to enter
here. Suffice it to say that they made us uneasy during several months;
and had it not been for the extreme moderation and coolness throughout
regulating the counsels of Russia (which was no doubt thinking as
much of taking Jupiter or Georgium Sidus as of taking India, or even
Constantinople, and was perhaps amused, though displeased, at our
fright), joined to the restraining good sense of the country at home
generally, we should have been involved in war, all Europe would have
been ablaze, and—selfish thought—what would those have had to do who
found a foreign residence necessary?
Among other delicious canards to which we were treated from time to
time during the war in the little French newspapers, was the astounding
information that our beloved Queen had resolved to resign.
* * * * *
Two important events, however, did happen during our stay at
Mentone—first, the somewhat sudden or unlooked–for death of Victor
Emmanuel in January 1878; and, within a month afterwards, the
long–expected death of Pope Pius IX. On both these occasions a special
service was held in the Cathedral of Mentone, and I suppose 2000
persons must have been crammed into its body and recesses. Although the
church is a pretty large one, the odour with which it was filled was by
no means that of sanctity, and it was a relief, when the service was
over, in little more than an hour, to get out to the fresh air. Besides
black drapery hung throughout the church, a grand catafalque was in
each case erected in the centre of the cathedral, in front of which a
space was reserved and seated for the grandees of Mentone. The altar
at the back was denuded, perhaps to afford space, and the singers and
players on instruments were placed between it and the catafalque, out
of sight of the audience. The harsh sounds of the brass instruments
as they blew their trumpet–blasts thus in our ears seemed vastly
inappropriate. The singing had quite a provincial mediocrity; but on
the whole, for a small country town, I believe it may be said the
arrangements, according to Romanist notions of how such things should
be conducted, were fairly good.
* * * * *
The death of the Pope, while it prevented the celebration of the
Carnival in Rome, had no influence in preventing its observance in
Mentone and Nice, and scenes similar to those of last year were
enacted, with a difference—not to the better—in the pageant. At Nice
the Carnival was, I believe, grander than ever, and many of the
Mentone visitors made a day of it there. The Carnival time brought
with it rather appropriately, though probably accidentally, some
fancy balls in Mentone, for which gay and elaborate costumes were,
I believe, procured at Nice. We were kindly invited to one of these
entertainments, but for reasons declined.
The tendency towards such gaieties seemed this winter rather on the
increase. They suit some, but to those desirous of quiet evenings it is
disturbing to have frequent routs, and concerts, and other diversions
in the drawing–rooms of the hotels.
We were treated, however, to a different description of pleasure, in
the shape of an exhibition at New Year’s time of a large collection of
water–colour paintings of views in Mentone, Cannes, Corsica, etc., by
Mr. Van der Weldt, a skilful artist. The pictures were for sale, but
the admission money went to the funds of Helvetia.
* * * * *
The orange and lemon trees this winter bore scantily, and we could not
help feeling regret to see how few and far between were the bunches
of golden fruit. To what cause this failure of the crop was to be
attributed I do not know, but I believe that the trees do not bear
largely for two successive years.
* * * * *
We again, on leaving Mentone, took a carriage to San Remo, and
fortunately had a quiet and warm sunny day for the drive. The dust lay
thick on the road, but there was no wind to raise it. The loveliness
of the ride was the one atoning circumstance to put against all the
pain of parting with friends, and leaving a place with which so many
happy recollections were associated. We little thought we were bearing
away from it one—then in apparent good health, and, fond of travel,
thoroughly appreciating all that she saw—who would never see it again;
for the regret of leaving was tempered with the hope that it might be
our privilege, though it might not be absolutely needful, to return in
a future year to this bright land of the olive and fig tree, the lemon
and orange—this land of cloudless sky and cheering sun.
* * * * *
After leaving Ventimiglia, we looked out for the Roman amphitheatre
which had been discovered and was being excavated, but could not find
the place, and our driver was unable to render us any information
or assistance. We were now in the heart of the scenery forming the
_locale_ of that deeply–interesting story, _Dr. Antonio_; and on
the previous occasion our driver, I believe, pointed out to us the
veritable house in which Sir John Davenne and his heavenly daughter had
their abode. After paying a passing visit to friends in Bordighera, we
soon afterwards were again in San Remo.
We remained three weeks at San Remo, and during our stay had a good
deal of wind blowing from the west, and cold air with heavy rain, and
consoled ourselves by thinking that the wind being in that direction,
was probably more felt at Mentone. On leaving, we proceeded by train
to Alassio, about twenty–eight miles along the coast eastward. We had
heard Alassio a good deal spoken of, and wished to see it. It is as
yet only visited by casual travellers, and it has not become a place
of common winter resort for invalids. Had we not written for rooms,
we might not have found any carriage waiting to take us to the Hotel
de Rome, which was at the time the only hotel, I believe, to which
English people could go. It was a drive of about a mile from the
station (principally through the long narrow streets of the town) to
the hotel, which fronts the beach, just out of and to the west of the
town. It is a comparatively new house, and the accommodation is fairly
good and clean. Another hotel, ‘The Grand,’ on a much larger scale, has
been built, also fronting the sea, but about the middle of the town.
It was not, however, then opened, and the situation did not seem so
desirable, though nearer the station.
We found Alassio to be one of those little Italian coast towns in the
Riviera which are by no means attractive in themselves. The population
is said to be 5500, so that it is of some extent. It is dirty and
disagreeable, and unfortunately, like some others, is not shelved away
upon an avoidable eminence, but is stuck down upon the very best part
of the shore. The towers of the cathedral and other churches, and the
structure of the houses, combine to give it, at a little distance,
a picturesque appearance. A sandy beach forms the shore, on which,
opposite the town, many fishing boats lay. The sands, of a pale yellow
or white, though they may afford good bathing, are not interesting,
shells and sea–weed being scarce. The town lies at the head or in the
centre of a bay formed by two projecting capes or protecting arms,
the Capo della Melle on the west and the Capo S. Croce on the east.
Between these two points the distance may, I suppose, be about three
miles. A semicircular cordon of hills runs back from their termini, and
with an inner circle surrounds and hems in Alassio lying in the basin
below. The slopes of most of the hills, at least of the inner circle,
are covered with olive, carroube, and other trees, giving them a
richly–wooded aspect; but the hills themselves do not rise to any great
altitude. They are sufficiently high and close upon the town to give
much—perhaps, in summer, too much—shelter to Alassio, and to afford
room for supposing that it might become, on a smaller scale, another
Mentone for winter residence. Possibly if no old Italian town had
existed there, and everything could be laid out anew, Alassio might be
made a good place and suitable for strangers; but the great drawbacks
to it for residence, and not regarding it from a medical point of view,
are the existence of this old dirty town, which usurps nearly the
whole of the shore space, and is far from attractive, and the confined
or limited situation. I believe that many fine walks may be found
about it, but the mountains lack the height and picturesque grandeur
of those of Mentone, and there seem to be no valleys and rivers to
offer variety. Some English families, however, have been so pleased
with it as to have built houses there, for permanent occupation, on
the slopes of the hills. One of these we visited—that of Mr. Gibb, a
Scotch gentleman. Its position is commanding, and derives shelter from
the hills behind; and from the terraces overlooking the town, the views
were fine. The ground was laid out in the style of hanging gardens,
full of orange trees. At leaving, Mr. Gibb kindly caused a basketful
of oranges to be plucked and given to us, and they were of the most
delicious flavour; indeed, I believe the Alassio oranges are noted for
their excellent quality. Although a little society is to be found at
Alassio, it struck me as a dull place of residence except to those who
are fond of retirement. A great improvement to the town would be the
formation of a promenade along the shore, as at Mentone, Cannes, and
Nice. Were this done, it would help to draw strangers, and if strangers
came, other improvements would follow.
* * * * *
On the first afternoon, we had, after arrival, time to take a
walk westward along the beach for about a mile to a small village
Laigueglia, which, as usual, possesses a church with a campanile; other
large buildings like granaries fronted the sea. We took, the following
day, a much more interesting walk up the height of Santa Croce to
the eastward, encountering unexpectedly by the way a smart shower,
from which some protection was afforded by the trees. Upon leaving
the town, a paved donkey–path leads up the hillside, skirted by woods
(the carroube trees here growing luxuriantly), to the ruins of an old
chapel, whence an extensive panorama spreads out on one side, back
over the hills behind the town, and down on the town and ocean below;
while eastward the rockbound coast stretches away, visible as far, I
believe, on a clear day, as Genoa and beyond it. But the day was not
sufficiently clear to see so far.
* * * * *
Dr. Giuseppe Schneer has published a pamphlet of about eighty pages on
Alassio, titled, _Alassio ed il suo clima confrontato con quello di S.
Remo, Mentone, Nizza, e Cannes_. It is in Italian, unfortunately, and
consists of three parts. The first and largest part contains medical
advice, leading up, of course, to approval of Alassio. The second part
gives some information about the town, its population, schools, hotels,
etc.; and in reference to its healthiness, adduces a table of mortality
from which it would appear that during nine years the average was about
100 deaths per annum in a population assumed to be now and throughout
5500, or 1 in 55, which would certainly be extraordinarily low. Another
table is given to show the duration of life, evidencing considerable
longevity. The third part deals with the meteorology of Alassio, and
contains some tables, from which it would appear, if the observations
be correctly taken, Alassio stands well, and, on the whole, obtains
a higher temperature than places on the Riviera with which it is
compared—a result which may be accounted for by its being more shut in.
I take the liberty of quoting an excerpt from one of these tables (p.
74):—
_Media della Temperatura delle Singole Stazioni della Riviera._
+---------+-------+-------+------+------+--------+--------+-----------+
| | | | | | | | Media |
|Stazioni.|Gennaio|Febraio|Marzo |Aprile|Novembre|Decembre| de 5 Mesi,|
| | | | | | | |piu freddi.|
|---------+-------+-------+------+------+--------+--------+-----------*
| | | | | | | | |
|Alassio, | 9·18 | 10· |13·45 |14·05 | 11·86 | 10·80 | 11·05 |
| | | | | | | | |
|San Remo,| 8·97 | 11·44 |11·22 |13·83 | 12·41 | 10·43 | 10·25 |
| | | | | | | | |
|Mentone, | 9·3 | 9·5 |11·6 |14·6 | 12·2 | 9·5 | 10·04 |
| | | | | | | | |
|Nizza, | 8·1 | 9·5 |11·2 |14·5 | 12·6 | 9·2 | 9·83 |
| | | | | | | | |
|Cannes, | 8·6 | 9·8 |13·4 |17·3 | 13·5 | 9·9 | 10·45 |
| | | | | | | | |
+---------+-------+-------+------+------+--------+--------+-----------+
Dr. Schneer also states that in the five months from November to March
there are 79 days all bright, 37·5 half so, 36 cloudy, and 20 bad.
It may be, therefore, that the climate of Alassio is one suitable for
invalids, and living is moderate, as pension can be had at the Hotel de
Rome for 7 and 8 francs per day _tout compris_.
* * * * *
After being two nights there, we left for Genoa. The day was fine, and
having a compartment to ourselves, we had full opportunity of looking
about and enjoying the scenery. The distance is about fifty–seven
miles, and as the train took nearly four hours to arrive quietly at
Genoa, we moved leisurely. I paced one of our bedrooms at the Hotel de
Gènes, and it seemed to be 27 feet long by 21 feet wide, and probably
it was 20 feet high. In the afternoon we drove out again to see the
Campo Santo, and found little change since last year. On the following
day we visited most of the places we had seen the previous year, and
some others, including some additional palaces already noticed. With
a little difficulty we made discovery of the Via Orifici (a narrow
street in the heart of the town, not far from the hotel), where the
filigree shops are, and made a few purchases. The shops are on both
sides of the street, and contain sometimes beautiful specimens of this
delicate work in silver and gold; perhaps the shop of Salvi exhibited
the largest collection of choice handiwork. In buying, it is well to
remember one is transacting in Italy. Genoa has a Galleria, but not
nearly so handsome as that at Milan, although equally suitable for
its purpose. Last year we had seen it in course of construction, but
it was now completed, and some of the best shops in Genoa were opened
in it. But at the time of our visit it was not fully occupied. At
night it was, as at Milan, crowded by the townspeople and visitors. A
long, wide, lofty arcade like this, covered over by a glass roof, and
brilliantly lighted up, is naturally an attraction, and something of
the kind in our large towns might induce a withdrawal of many from the
gin–palaces and drinking–shops, the glare and comfort of which seem to
be so great an inducement and temptation to certain classes. But, like
the Italian galleries, they require to be thoroughfares in good central
situations—not _cul–de–sacs_.
* * * * *
In the afternoon of the third day we left by train for Turin. A
few drops fell as we left, augmenting as we proceeded under inky
clouds to heavy rain. We obtained our last glimpse of our old friend
the Mediterranean just after leaving Genoa. The railway stations,
not improved by the rain, looked all so dirty—filthy, indeed. At
Alessandria, where we had an hour to wait, affording time to dine,
the whole platform was most disagreeable, from the abominable habit
(elsewhere alluded to) the Italians have of defiling every place, even
the floors of churches, so that it is not uncommon to see a notice up
in the churches requesting that it be not practised. However, good
service is done by the women, who trail their gowns over the floors,
and thus, with a thoughtful consideration for others and an unselfish
disregard for themselves, keep them cleaner than they would otherwise
be.
We arrived at Turin about eight o’clock in the evening, and found
quarters in the Ligurie, a large, new, first–class hotel, not far
from the station. The double windows, thick shutters, and the cloth
curtains outside the bedroom doors, were suggestive of what descent
in temperature there may sometimes be in Turin; but except a little
cold and damp in the evening, resulting from the rain which had fallen
before our arrival, we had it warm and sunny during the three days we
remained there. The following forenoon we devoted to a long drive in
and about Turin. The streets are exceedingly regular and wide, and the
houses being lofty and the town of considerable extent and full of
handsome public buildings and monuments, Turin has all the appearance
of a capital; but though a city upwards of 2000 years old, there is
about it quite a modern air. The view along several of the streets
is terminated by a grand vista of snowy mountains, and one of the
sights of Turin—indeed, its great sight—is the view obtained from it
of the Alps. To witness this in perfection, it should be seen from a
commanding height early in the morning of a clear day. We accordingly,
soon after breakfast, driving past the public park and gardens, and
round an imposing quadrangular building called the Castel di Valentino,
and crossing the river Po by a stone bridge of five arches, were
deposited at the foot of the steep hill on which the Capuchin Monastery
is built. Here, by a road winding round the hill, we walked to the top,
and from the plateau beheld the most magnificent mountain prospect I
had ever seen, or which I suppose is visible in Europe. Right in front
of us, against a sky all but clear, rose the great range of the snowy
Alps, stretching far as the eye could reach to right and left, the
nearest being only about fifteen miles distant, but seeming much nearer
as seen through a transparent atmosphere over a range of low hills
lying in front of them. Monte Viso, conical in shape, about forty–five
miles to the south–west, in which the river Po finds its source, rises
prominently like a huge tusk, the rest like an enormous jaw, in wavy
line of peaks or serrated folds. Between the river Po, flowing below,
and the mountains, the ground appears one vast level plain, on which
the city rests in regular lines of lofty houses, the monotony being
broken by the numerous towers and domes of the public buildings; and
conspicuous among them is the great ugly peculiar square dome of the
Jewish Synagogue, a far from pleasing object. In a different direction,
away to the north–east, we saw the Superga or Royal Mausoleum, built
on the crest of a hill much higher than the monastery, and commanding
a fully better view. To visit it and the royal tombs is a day’s
excursion, and we gave it up. The royal palace was among the places
in town which we visited. Its magnificent rooms are reached by a
truly regal staircase of marble adorned by sculpture. The armoury, an
interesting exhibition, is not far from the palace. A long room in it
is filled with figures of men–at–arms on horseback clad with the armour
of different periods.
The streets of Turin are to a large extent lined by arcades, and no
doubt in bad weather, and especially in snowstorms, such a method of
construction must be useful, the shops, however, being generally placed
under them.
Turin possesses many fine monuments. One of the finest is that to
Cavour, inscribed, ‘A Camillo Cavour nato a Torino il x. Agosto
MDCCCX., morto il vi. Giugno MDCCCLXI.’ A kneeling female figure,
representing doubtless Italia, is presenting him with a garland; while
below, the base is adorned by emblematical figures at least life–size,
and, like the statue, of white marble—all very tasteful. Another and
very singular monument is that to the Duke of Genoa. His horse falls to
the ground on its knees wounded, and the rider, the Duke, sitting on
the horse, is resting one foot on the ground and waving his sword.
We had a Sunday in Turin, and in the morning went into the cathedral.
It is a large building, not very imposing; but inside it is dark, and
the dirtiest church we had seen in Italy, which is saying a good deal.
To Protestants, the Waldensian Church is a place of great interest.
Unfortunately we had been informed at the hotel that the Italian
service was in the morning, and the French service in the afternoon;
and we therefore attended service in the morning, in the English Church
in the yard immediately behind it. Returning in the afternoon, we found
our informant was mistaken; the French service had been in the morning,
the afternoon service was in Italian. The church, which is a large one,
was scantily attended by a shifting congregation of the poorer classes
of Italians. Many, apparently Roman Catholics, just entered to see what
was doing, and after a few minutes went out again, to be replaced by
others. As we understood little of what was said, we did not stay the
service out. We learned at dinner from a lady who had been there in the
forenoon, that the morning service had been in French, that the church
was crowded by a most respectable congregation, and that the whole
service was most interesting.
Turin is a place in which a few days can be well spent, and an
excursion is not unfrequently made from it to the Waldensian valleys,
part of the way to which is by railway.
* * * * *
We had a beautiful day on which to leave for Aix–les–Bains by the
Mont Cenis Tunnel. The view of the snowy mountains was brilliantly
clear as we approached them. In about six miles we reached the first
or low hills. Thenceforth the scenery along the line of railway was
at some parts wild and grand, and at others the hills were surmounted
by structures which gave a picturesque character to them. At last we
reached and passed through the Mont Cenis Tunnel. The time taken in
passing through was about twenty–eight minutes. It was long to be boxed
up in the dark, but it did not feel so long as I anticipated. Once or
twice I put down a window; the air felt slightly damp, not cold. On
issuing from it on the French side, the railway makes a long detour
to reach the lower level of Modane, where luggage is examined by the
French _douaniers_, and we changed into French carriages, which were
superior in comfort to those of the Italian line. The scenery all along
to Chambery and Aix–les–Bains was among the mountains, some of them
capped with snow.
We stayed, as we had planned, a week at Aix–les–Bains, and we should
have enjoyed it but that great part of the time we had rain, and the
air, though warm, was moist. A range of low hills separates Aix from
Lake Bourget, enclosed on the other side by steep rugged mountains,
their summits visible over the hills. A short walk takes one to the
top of these hills, whence an excellent view is had of the lake, upon
which a steamer plies during the summer. The lake is reached by the
road at a part fringed by tall poplars about one and a half to two
miles distant, offering a pleasant stroll on a fine afternoon such as
we had to walk to it.
* * * * *
We left by a morning train for Dijon, and shortly after the sky got
black, and we were obliged to change carriages at Culoz in drenching
rain, the station being destitute of cover so necessary at a junction
like this, or indeed at every railway station. As we passed along, the
whole country seemed to be inundated. Both at Dijon and Fontainebleau
we were caught in showers unexpectedly. At Paris, where we rested for a
few days, we had rain, but principally through the night. At Boulogne
we had a shower. Crossing thence, we landed, after a beautiful passage,
at Folkestone in May 1878, and proceeded by Bristol to Stoke Bishop.
Here, instead of the sunshine with which the neighbourhood of Clifton
is usually favoured at this season, and to which we had looked forward,
we were still pursued by almost daily rain. After remaining six weeks
looking constantly for better weather, we got back to Scotland.
* * * * *
And here with a sad heart I must close. I had written most of these
pages at a time when we had every belief that the changes experienced
had effected cure—at least to the extent of allowing us to go home for
the summer. And we had been so much longer away than we had proposed
when we left, that not unnaturally we were the more anxious to be back.
The last change was destined to be fatal. Looking to second causes,
it is probable that the unforeseen and unusual moisture to which we
had been exposed everywhere after leaving Italy, succeeding so long
a residence in a dry climate, had developed latent seeds of disease,
and weakness had latterly been increased by exposure to a cold draft
inducing cough. Whatever was the cause, she for whose benefit we
had taken this prolonged tour in sunny lands, and who we had fondly
hoped had been restored to health, sank within a few months from the
time of touching her native shore. It was when hopes were beginning
to revive, and she herself had thought the crisis was past, a sudden
change for the worse took place. After a restless night, the morning
light, for which she had anxiously longed, only arrived to bear her
soul peacefully away from weakness and solicitude to a land brighter
than any she had looked on here. Though gentle and unpresuming, her
cheerful and unselfish disposition, joined to other graces, and to good
sense born of a well–balanced and well–informed mind, soon made her
acquaintance valued wherever she went; and, scattered as so many are,
perhaps it is only through this little record some may chance to learn
that they have lost an esteemed friend.