FEBRUARY 22d, we took the train for Nice, via Lyons and Marseilles. Spent the first night at the former and remained long enough next morning for a drive that took in the best part of the busy, populous, prosperous city. It is ever so much larger than I was thinking of, and its situation is one of extreme beauty. It is situated at the confluence of the Rhone and the Saone. Those lovely rivers wind picturesquely through it, spanned by handsome bridges—the Rhone by eight and the Saone by thirteen—dividing it into three parts, edged by broad quays and shaded by trees. The ranges of near hills are surmounted by fine residences, from which the loveliest views stretch out to misty mountains in the distance to the east, south and west. Nothing was wanting.

From there to Avignon was simply ravishing. The route descended the valley of the Rhone, almost touching its lapping wavelets. We “stopped off” at Avignon till the next train, which gave several hours—time enough to see the special things I had in my mind. Of course, it was a kind of pilgrimage to the shrine of Petrarch’s Laura. We saw the old Papal palace, the home of the popes during that century (from 1309-77) of their residence there. It is an interesting but dirty old pile, being used now as a barracks—French soldiers, in common with their nation, being not especially clean and neat. The torture and the prison towers were interesting historically, but the beautiful faded frescoes on the walls of the popes’ private chapel rather obliterated everything else. In one place, Petrarch’s face shone forth in almost its original freshness. The hair was golden, and the dark hazel eyes looked straight out with a living look, as if the brain behind were busy over all they looked upon. Mounting a little higher, we peeped into the cathedral; and higher still, we reached the Rocher des Doms, an abrupt eminence laid out in pleasant grounds, that command what is said to be one of the most beautiful prospects in France.

Thence we drove to the MusÉe Calvet, which contains the Vernet gallery, pictures of the four generations of that family of artists. There was a portrait of Petrarch, over which hung one of Laura. In the garden attached is a simple, tasteful monument to Laura—a square pedestal surmounted by a globe, from which rises a cross with a wreath of flowers hung upon it. It is all of white marble. From there we continued our drive across the bridge, from which is seen an old bridge stretching about two-thirds of the way across the river, with crumbling walls and arches. One end is entirely gone. I am sure it is left just as it is because of its effectiveness as a feature in the view.

Recrossing the bridge, we drove around the greater part of the city to see the fine old walls dating 1349, and still in an admirable state of preservation.

The moon was just full, and rose as we shot out of the station for our sixty-five miles run to Marseilles. We remained at Marseilles for several hours next morning, and had the inevitable drive. It was along the quay, and I had my first glimpse of the “blue Mediterranean.” It was an animated and thoroughly foreign spectacle; but the wind was high and biting, and the dust excessive, which made everything and everybody look dirty, even myself; so I was glad to settle down in our car for Nice.

We were soon in the “tropics,” olive orchards, orange and lemon groves, almond trees in bloom, palm trees, etc., lining both sides of the track.

At Cannes, an English lady, titled, Lady G——, got into our carriage, and she was thoroughly well-bred and agreeable. The train was crowded, and her husband had to go into another car, our “carriage” being for ladies only. No exception, even for “my lord.” Lady G—— then pointed out Gladstone’s villa and other beautiful places, and told us with a low, amused ripple of laughter of her gambling at Monte Carlo—it was very mild; she laid down a five-franc-piece, and lost; laid down another, and won; “so I quit even,” she said. We went to different hotels. Her carriage and servants in livery were waiting for her; and ours, a special one sent from the hotel for just us two—was waiting for us. Another carriage from our hotel bore thither a handsome baron, with a “love of a dog;” and as we arrived at the same time, our arrival created something of a sensation! It was a lovely hotel, right on the sea front, with a beautiful tropical garden in front—one wing ran out in front too; it was a two-story chÂlet. I had the corner room with windows taking in all that beautiful out-doors. I saw the moon rise out of the sea; and at intervals all night, watched her course to her setting. Then I saw the magical clouds and lights of the dawn on the water, and Venus rise and hurry away to herald the sun coming up in all his glory.

We went to hear Bishop Littlejohn, of Rhode Island, at the American Chapel in the forenoon; walked on the fashionable promenade in the early afternoon; then a tram-drive to the cemetery to see Gambetta’s monument and grave. The cemetery is on a high hill whose top is a fine plateau. In the most conspicuous part is a large square railed in by an iron fence entirely concealed by floral devices. In the center of this square rises a lofty pyramid, composed of floral offerings of every conceivable device, that were sent, it would seem, from the uttermost parts of the earth, to his funeral. Scattered round are other pyramids of the same. I think they said in Paris there were five hundred thousand floral offerings or tributes sent.

Next day, we made an excursion to Monaco and Monte Carlo! The former has the royal palace atop of a height with a view that would make a lazarone of me! I am sure I could do nothing but sit in “rapt ecstasy” and gaze at the blue sky, through the sycamore branches, or the denser blue sea from the balustrades that run along the edge of the great square in front. There is a barrack also. You know Monaco is one of the smallest kingdoms in the world. Its standing army numbers fifty soldiers! I saw a number of the fine, amiable-looking fellows. They looked trim, immaculate and soldierly, and as if they did not enjoy to the fullest extent their superabundant idleness. I can not attempt to describe the luxurious and sumptuous magnificence of the royal apartments. A lovely drive of ten or twelve minutes took us thence to Monte Carlo. We went into the Casino, the great gambling palace, made the tour of its superb halls and eight large tables crowded with players of both sexes and all ages and ranks. It made me heart-sick in a very few minutes, and I sat apart watching the anomalous and painful spectacle till my companion wearied, too, which was not till she had tried her luck and like Lady G——, “come out even.” We had a dream-drive home in the late afternoon. Next morning, a party of seven of us chartered a kind of coach for the celebrated Cornichen drive over the old Roman route as far as Mentone. From there we went to Genoa by train, never out of sight of something of exquisite beauty. Then Genoa for two nights and a day, a “field day” of sight-seeing—four palaces, four churches, a drive and shopping! Pisa for another night and day; saw its incomparable group—Duomo, Campanile, Baptistery and Campo Santo. How little I had conceived of their magnificence and beauty! From Pisa to Siena. Such a wonderful old place as this is! We leave to-morrow for Naples, via Rome, for a day, to “do it,” and return to Rome for Holy Week and Easter. I set aside three months for Italy, but Rome and Florence are a world in themselves for me. It snowed here yesterday; so it is very cold to-day.

I have had views at intervals of snow-covered mountains from Lyons here. I saw Mont Blanc distinctly—a colossal white specter, towering grandly in the upper heavens—at one point on the way. They said it was about ninety miles distant. They are splendid to look at, but not to feel. This cold on my travels has cut me down so. I am too stupid to write a decent letter.

L. G. C.

Siena, March 4, 1883.