MILAN AND GENOA.--A RIDE OVER THE CORNICHE ROAD.
GENOA, September 20th.
The new life of Italy is apparent in its cities more than in the
country. A change of government does not change the face of nature.
The hills that bear the olive and the vine, were as fresh and green
under the rule of Austria as they are now under that of Victor
Emmanuel. But in the cities and large towns I see a marked change,
both in the places themselves, and in the manner and spirit of the
people. Then there was an universal lethargy. Everything was fixed in
a stagnation, like that of China. There was no improvement, and no
attempt at any. The incubus of a foreign yoke weighed like lead on the
hearts of the people. Their depression showed itself in their very
countenances, which had a hopeless and sullen look. Now this is gone.
The Austrians have retired behind the mountains of the Tyrol, and
Italy at last is free from the Alps to the Adriatic. The moral effect
of such a political change is seen in the rebound from a state of
despair to one of animation and hope. When a people are free, they
have courage to attempt works of improvement, knowing that what they
do is not for the benefit of foreign masters, but for themselves and
their children. Hence the new life which I see in the very streets of
Milan and Genoa. Everywhere improvements are going on. They are
tearing down old houses, and building new ones; opening new streets
and squares, and levelling old walls, that wide boulevards may take
their place. In Milan I found them clearing away blocks of houses in
front of the Duomo, to form an open square, sufficient to give an
ample foreground for the Cathedral. And they were just finishing a
grand Arcade, with an arched roof of iron and glass, like the Crystal
Palace, beneath which are long rows of shops, as well as wide open
spaces, where the people may gather in crowds, secure both from heat
and cold, protected alike from the rains of summer and the snows of
winter. The Emperor of Germany, who is about to pay a visit to Italy,
will find in Milan a city not so large indeed, but certainly not less
beautiful, than his own northern capital.
One beauty it has which Berlin can never have--its Cathedral. If I had
not exhausted my epithets of admiration on the Cathedrals of Strasburg
and Cologne, I might attempt a description of that of Milan; but
indeed all words seem feeble beside the reality. One contrast to the
German Cathedrals is its lighter exterior. It is built of marble,
which under an Italian sky has preserved its whiteness, and hence it
has not the cold gray of those Northern Minsters blackened by time.
Nor has it any such lofty towers soaring into the sky. The impression
at first, therefore, is one of beauty rather than of grandeur. In
place of one or two such towers, standing solitary and sublime, its
buttresses along the sides shoot up into as many separate pinnacles,
surmounted by statues, which, as they gleam in the last rays of
sunset, or under the full moon, seem like angelic sentinels ranged
along the heavenly battlements. These details of the exterior draw
away the eye from the vastness of the structure as a whole, which only
bursts upon us as we enter within. There we recognize its immensity in
the remoteness of objects. A man looks very small at the other end of
the church. Service may be going on at half a dozen side chapels
without attracting attention, except as we hear chanting in the
distance; and the eye swims in looking up at the vaulted roof. Behind
the choir, three lofty windows of rich stained glass cast a soft light
on the vast interior. If I lived in Milan, I should haunt that
Cathedral, since it is a spot where one may always be _alone_, as if
he were in the depths of the forest, and may indulge his meditations
undisturbed.
But there is another church, of much more humble proportions, which
has a great historical interest, that of St. Ambrose, the author of
the Te Deum, through which he has led the worship of all the
generations since his day, and whose majestic anthem "We praise Thee,
O God, we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord," will continue to resound
in the earthly temples till it is caught up by voices around the
throne. St. Ambrose gave another immortal gift to the Church in the
conversion of St. Augustine, the greatest of the Fathers, whose
massive theology has been the study alike of Catholics and
Protestants--of Bossuet and Luther and Calvin.
Near the church of St. Ambrose one may still see the mutilated remains
of the great work of Leonardo da Vinci--the Last Supper--painted, as
everybody knows, on the walls of the refectory of an old monastery,
where it has had all sorts of bad usage till it has been battered out
of shape, but where still Christ sits in the midst of His disciples,
looking with tender and loving eyes around on that circle which He
should not meet again till He had passed through His great agony. The
mutilation of such a work is a loss to the world, but it is partly
repaired by the many excellent copies, and by the admirable
engravings, in which it has been reproduced.
From Milan to Genoa is only a ride of five hours, and we are once more
by the sea. One must be a dull and emotionless traveller who does not
feel a thrill as he emerges from a long tunnel and sees before him the
Mediterranean. There it lies--the Mare Magnum of the ancients, which
to those who knew not the oceans as we know them, seemed vast and
measureless; "the great and wide sea," of which the Psalmist wrote;
towards which the prophet looked from Mount Carmel, till he descried
rising out of it a cloud like a man's hand; the sea "whose shores are
empires," around which the civilization of the world has revolved for
thousands of years, passing from Egypt to Greece, to Rome, to France
and Spain, but always lingering, whether on the side of Europe or
Africa, somewhere along that enchanted coast.
Here is Genoa--Genoa Superba, as they named her centuries ago--and
that still sits like a queen upon the waters, as she looks down so
proudly from her amphitheatre of hills upon the bay at her feet. Genoa
with Venice divided the maritime supremacy of the Middle Ages, when
her prows were seen in all parts of the Mediterranean. The glory of
those days is departed, but, like Venice, her prosperity is reviving
under the influence of liberty. To Americans Genoa will always have a
special interest as the city of Christopher Columbus. It was pleasant,
in emerging from the station, to see in the very first public square a
monument worthy of his great name, to the discoverer of the New World.
Genoa is a convenient point from which to take an excursion over the
Corniche road--one of the most famous roads in Europe, running along
the Riviera, or the coast of the Mediterranean, as far west as Nice. A
railroad now follows the same route, but as it passes through a
hundred tunnels, more or less, the traveller is half the time buried
in the earth. The only way to see the full beauty of this road is to
take a carriage and drive over it, so as to get all the best points of
view. The whole excursion would take several days. To economize our
time we went by rail from Genoa to San Remo, where the most
picturesque part of the road begins, and from there took a basket
carriage with two spirited ponies to drive to Nice, a good day's
journey over the mountains. The day was fair, not too hot nor too
cool. The morning air was exhilarating, as we began our ride along the
shore, winding in and out of all the little bays, sweeping around the
promontories that jut into the sea, and then climbing high up on the
spurs of the mountains, which here slope quite down to the coast, from
which they take the name of the Maritime Alps. The special beauty of
this Riviera is that it lies between the mountains and the sea. The
hills, which rise from the very shore, are covered not with vines but
with olives--a tree which with its pale yellow leaves, somewhat like
the willow is not very attractive to the eye, especially when, as now
withered by the fierce summer's heat, and covered with the summer's
dust. There has been no rain for two months, and the whole land is
burnt like a furnace. The leaves are scorched as with the breath of a
sirocco. But when the autumn rains descend, we can well believe that
all this barrenness is turned into beauty, as these slopes are then
green, both with olive and with orange groves.
In the recesses of the hills are many sheltered spots, protected from
the northern winds, and open to the southern sun, which are the
favorite resorts of invalids for the winter, as here sun and sea
combine to give a softened air like that of a perpetual spring. When
winter rages over the north of Europe, when snow covers the open
country, and even drifts in the streets of great capitals, then it
seems as if sunshine and summer retreated to the shores of the
Mediterranean, and here lingered among the orange gardens that look
out from the terraced slopes upon the silver sea. The warm south wind
from African deserts tempers the fierceness of the northern blasts.
And not only invalids, but people of wealth and fashion, who have the
command of all countries and climates, and who have only to choose
where to spend the winter with least of discomfort and most of luxury
and pleasure, flock to these resorts. Last winter the Empress of
Russia took up her quarters at San Remo, to inhale the balmy air--a
simple luxury, which she could not find in her palace at St.
Petersburg. And Prince Amadeus, son of the king of Italy, who himself
wore a crown for a year, occupied a villa near by, and found here a
tranquil happiness which he could never find on the troubled throne of
Spain. A still greater resort than San Remo is Mentone, which for the
winter months is turned into an English colony, with a sprinkling of
Americans, who altogether form a society of their own, and thus enjoy,
along with this delicious climate, the charms of their English and
American life.
It is a pity that there should be a serpent in this garden of
Paradise. But here he is--a huge green monster, twining among the
flowers and the orange groves. Midway between Mentone and Nice is the
little principality of Monaco, the smallest sovereignty in Europe,
covering only a rocky peninsula that projects into the sea, and a
small space around it. But small as it is, it is large enough to
furnish a site for a pest worse than a Lazaretto--worse than the
pirates of the Barbary coast that once preyed on the commerce of the
Mediterranean--for here is the greatest gambling house in Europe. The
famous--or infamous--establishments that so long flourished on the
Rhine, at Homburg and Baden Baden, drawing hundreds and thousands into
their whirlpools of ruin, have been broken up since the petty
principalities have been absorbed in the great German empire. Thus
driven from one point to another, the gamblers have been, like the
evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none, till at last, by offering
a large sum--I heard that it was four hundred thousand francs (eighty
thousand dollars) a year--to the Prince of Monaco, they have induced
him to sell himself to the Devil, and to allow his petty State to
become a den of thieves. Hearing of this notorious establishment, I
had a curiosity to see it, and so we were driven to Monte Carlo, which
is the pretty name for a very bad place. Surely never was the palace
of pleasure decked with more attractions. The place has been made like
a garden. Extensive grounds have been laid out, where orange trees and
palms are in full bloom. Winding walks conduct the visitor to retired
and shady retreats. The building itself is of stately proportions,
and one goes up the steps as if he were ascending a temple. Within the
broad vestibule servants in livery receive the stranger with studied
politeness, as a welcome guest, and with courtly smiles bow him in.
The vestibule opens into a large assembly room for concerts and
dancing, where one of the finest bands in Europe discourses delicious
music. Entrance is free everywhere, except into the gaming-room, which
however requires only your card as a proof of your respectability. One
must give his name, and country, and profession! See how careful they
are to have only the most select society. I was directed to the
office, where two secretaries, of sober aspect, who looked as if they
might be retired Methodist clergymen, required my name and profession.
I felt that I was getting on rather dangerous ground, but answered by
giving only my surname and the profession of editor, and received a
card of admission, and passed in. We were in a large hall, with lofty
ceiling, and walls decorated in a style that might become an apartment
in a royal palace. There were three tables, at two of which gaming was
going on. At the third the gamblers sat around idle, waiting for
customers, for "business" is rather slack just now, as the season has
not begun. A few weeks later, when the hotels along the sea are filled
up, the place will be thronged, and all these tables will be kept
going till midnight. At the two where play was in progress, we stood
apart and watched the scene. There was a long table, covered with
green cloth (I said it was a _green_ monster), over which were
scattered piles of gold and silver, and around which were some
twenty-five persons, mostly men, though there were two or three women
(it is well known that some of the most infatuated and desperate
gamblers at Baden Baden were women). The game was what is known as
_roulette_ or _rouge et noir_ [red and black].[5] You lay down a piece
of coin, a napoleon or a sovereign, or, if you cannot afford that, a
five-franc piece, for they are so democratic that they are willing to
take the small change of the poor, as well as the hundred or thousand
francs of the rich. The wager is that, when a horizontal wheel which
is sunk in the table--the _roulette_--is set revolving, a little ball
like a boy's marble, which is set whirling in it, will rest on the
black or red spot. Of course the thing is so managed that the chances
are many to one that you will lose your money. But it _looks_ fair,
and the greenhorn is easily persuaded that it is an even chance, and
that he is as likely to win as to lose, until experience makes him a
sadder and a wiser man. Of those about the table, it was quite
apparent, even to my inexperienced eye, that the greater part were
professional gamblers. There is a look about them that is
unmistakable. My companion, who had looked on half curious and half
frightened, and who shrank up to my side (although everything is kept
in such order, and with such an outward show of respectability, that
there is no danger), remarked the imperturbable coolness of the
players. The game proceeded in perfect silence, and no one betrayed
the least emotion, whether he lost or won. But I explained to her that
this was probably owing in part to the fact that they were mostly
employes of the establishment, and had no real stake in the issue; but
if they were _not_, a practised gambler never betrays any emotion.
This is a part of his trade. He schools himself to it as an Indian
does, who scorns to show suffering, even if he is bound at the stake.
I noticed only one man who seemed to take his losses to heart. I
presumed he was an outsider, and as he lost heavily, his face flushed,
but he said nothing. This is the general course of the game. Not a
word is spoken, even when men are losing thousands. Instances have
occurred in which men gambled away their last dollar, and then rose
from the table and blew out their brains--which interrupted the play
disagreeably for a few moments; but the body was removed, the blood
washed away, and the game proceeded as usual.
When we had watched the silent spectacle for half an hour, we felt
that we had quite enough, and after strolling through the grounds and
listening to the music, returned to our carriage and drove off,
moralizing on the strange scene we had witnessed.
Did I regret that I had been to see this glittering form of temptation
and sin? On the contrary, I wished that every pastor in New York could
have stood there and looked on at that scene. We have had quite enough
of firing at all kinds of wickedness _at long range_. It is time to
move our batteries up a little nearer, and engage the enemy at close
quarters. If those pastors had seen what we saw in that half hour,
they would realize, as they cannot now, the dangers to which young men
are exposed in our cities. They would see with their own eyes how
broad is the road, and how alluring it is made, that leads to
destruction, and how many there be that go in thereat. I look upon
Monte Carlo as the very mouth of the pit, covered up with flowers, so
that giddy creatures dance along its perilous edge till it crumbles
under their feet. Thousands who come here with no intention of
gambling, put down a small sum "just to try their luck," and find that
"a fool and his money are soon parted." Many do not end with losing a
few francs, or even a few sovereigns. It is well if they do not leave
behind them what they can ill afford to lose. Very many young men
leave what is not their own. That such a place of temptation should be
allowed to exist here in this lovely spot on the shores of the
Mediterranean, is a disgrace to Monaco, and to the powers on both
sides of it, France and Italy, which, if they have no legal right to
interfere, might by a vigorous protest put an end to the accursed
thing. Probably it will after awhile provoke its own destruction. I
should be glad to see the foul nest of gamblers that have congregated
here, broken up, and the wretches sent to the galleys as convicts, or
forced in some way to earn an honest living.
But is not this vice of gambling very wide-spread? Does it not exist
in more forms than one, and in more countries than the little State of
Monaco? I am afraid the vice lies deep in human nature, and may be
found in some shape in every part of the world. Is there not a great
deal of gambling in Wall street? When men _bet_ on the rise and fall
of stocks, when they sell what they do not possess, or buy that for
which they have no money to pay, do they not risk their gains or
losses on a chance, as much as those who stake thousands on the
turning of a wheel, on a card or a die? It is the old sin of trying to
get the fruits of labor without labor, _to get something for nothing_,
that is the curse of all modern cities and countries, that demoralizes
young men in New York and San Francisco, as well as in Paris and
London. The great lesson which we all need to learn, is the duty and
the dignity of labor. When a man never claims anything which he does
not work for, then he may feel an honest pride in his gains, and may
slowly grow in fortune without losing the esteem of the good, or his
own manly self-respect.
Leaving this gorgeous den of thieves behind us, we haste away to the
mountains; for while the railroad seeks its level path along the very
shore of the sea, the Corniche road, built before railroads were
thought of, finds its only passage over stupendous heights. We have
now to climb a spur of the Alps, which here pushes its great shoulder
close to the sea. It is a toilsome path for our little ponies, but
they pull up bravely, height after height. Every one we mount, we hope
to find the summit; but we keep going on and on, and up and up, till
it seems like a Jacob's Ladder, which reaches to Heaven. When on one
of the highest points, we look right down into Monte Carlo as into
the crater of a volcano. It does not burn or smoke, but it has an open
mouth, and many there be that there go down quick into hell.
We are at last on the top, and pass on from one peak to another, all
the time enjoying a wide outlook over the blue Mediterranean, which
lies calmly at the foot of these great mountains, with only a white
sail here and there dotting the mighty waters.
It was nearly sunset when we came in sight of Nice, gleaming in the
distance on the sea-shore. We had been riding all day, and our driver,
a bright young Savoyard, seemed eager to have the long journey over,
and so he put his ponies to their speed, and we came down the mountain
as if shot out of a gun, and rattled through the streets of Nice at
such a break-neck pace, that the police shouted after us, lest we
should run over somebody. But there was no stopping our little Jehu,
and on we went at full speed, till suddenly he reined us up with a
jerk before the hotel.
In the old days when I first travelled in the south of Europe, Nice
was an Italian town. It belonged to the small kingdom of Sardinia. But
in 1860, as a return for the help of Napoleon in the campaign of 1859
against Austria, by which Victor Emmanuel gained Lombardy, it was
ceded with Savoy to France, and now is a French city. I think it has
prospered by the change. It has grown very much, until it has some
fifty thousand inhabitants. Its principal attraction is as a winter
resort for English and Americans. There are a number of Protestant
churches, French and English. The French Evangelical church has for
its pastor Rev. Leon Pilatte, who is well known in America.
It was now Saturday night, and the Sabbath drew on. Never was its rest
more grateful, and never did it find us in a more restful spot.
Everybody comes here for repose, to find rest and healing. The place
is perhaps a little saddened by the presence of so many invalids,
some of whom come here only to die. In yonder hotel on the shore, the
heir of the throne of all the Russias breathed his last a few winters
ago. These clear skies and this soft air could not save him, even when
aided by all the medical skill of Europe. I should not have great
faith in the restoring power of this or of any climate for one far
gone in consumption. But certainly as a place of _rest_, if it is
permitted to man to find rest anywhere on earth, it must be here, with
the blue skies above, and the soft flowery earth below, and with no
sound to disturb, but only the murmur of the moaning, melancholy sea.
But a traveller is not allowed to rest. He comes not to _stay_, but
only to _see_--to look, and then to disappear; and so, after a short
two days in Nice, we took a quick return by night, and in eight hours
found ourselves again in Genoa.
FOOTNOTE:
[5] Perhaps _roulette_ and _rouge et noir_ are two separate games. I
dare say my imperfect description would excite the smile of a
professional, for I confess my total ignorance in such matters. I only
describe what I saw.