SAN REMO AND GENOA.

We were now proceeding into a country with which many old associations were united, running back to schoolboy days,—a land over whose sunny skies and vine-clad fields so many raptures have been uttered; a land bearing evidence in its deeply-interesting ruins of the power of a great empire long since passed away; a land of the old classic literature, and of so much that was grand in ancient art. The pleasure of visiting it, long looked for, had come at last, and with high anticipation (a feeling, I suppose, common to most people) we entered Italy.

Our great difficulty on leaving Mentone was the weather. Friends who had just been travelling spoke of having had in Italy great severity of cold and much rain. One of these friends advised against going so soon, but another thought we might now without any hesitation set off. Perhaps impatient to leave after having formed our plans, we resolved to adventure, upon the theory of the Scotch saying, generally applied to the converse of the case, that the cold would be, as the spring advanced, ‘a fault aye mending.’ As it turned out, we would have been better to have waited eight or ten days longer after the 3d of March, the date of our departure; and, judging from our experience on this occasion, I should say that about the middle of March is the earliest time to commence a tour in Italy, after spending a winter in the sheltered regions of the Riviera. It is not only cold previously, but, except in favoured spots, the prospect is bleak and wintry. The vines which in the summer grow so luxuriantly and are so extensively cultivated, are leafless, the trees are bare, and the fields black.

We left old friends, and as we rattled through the street of Mentone we passed familiar places sorrowfully. Shortly afterwards we reached the Pont St. Louis, and were in Italy.

At the douane station beyond the bridge, we were stopped by the douaniers, who made a show of examining luggage; but they saw we were bona fide travellers, and we were not detained more than a few minutes. This brevity of detention and being spared the annoyance of having all one’s luggage turned out and tossed about, are two great advantages of proceeding by carriage. Passengers going by railway to Italy from Mentone are stopped at Ventimiglia for a weary hour, and must submit to the usual inspection.

The douane roadside station, to which we had often walked, stands high, and commands a remarkably good view of Mentone and all its surroundings. We looked back from this point and others on our way, not knowing if we should ever see this cherished spot again.

At the time we left Mentone, and for the greater part of the way, the air was full of an odour not over agreeable, and I fancied that it might be that the olive trees were being manured,—a process to which they are subjected every second or third year, when a ditch is dug round each of them, and part of the manure placed in it consists of old rags, which the better answer their purpose the older and filthier they are.

The day was fairly bright in the morning, and while we had the sun everything looked beautiful; but a black cloud which had been looming in the south arose, and, spreading, for part of the way obscured the great luminary, so that we could not see everything in perfection, and might only imagine how much more charming some parts must have been, had they been brightened by its rays. The want of sun also, as usual, chilled the air.

We passed Belinda and Mr. Hanbury’s garden, and came in sight of Ventimiglia, which lies about seven miles from Mentone. It is fortified, and commands the Corniche road and access to Italy in that direction. The town itself has rather a striking appearance, and is well worth a visit. It was an old Roman station, and in the time of Augustus a flourishing place, adorned and supplied with temples, baths, and other accessories of Roman life. Many remains of these ancient times have been found, and at present the ruins of an amphitheatre about a mile eastward have been discovered and are being exposed. Enterprise in the direction of excavation is sure to reward the authorities, who are undertaking it. A broad torrent bed intersects the town, through which the Roja, a stream larger than any at Mentone, flows. The banks of this stream, which really contains water, were lined by washerwomen pursuing their occupation according to the manner of those at Mentone, already described. This river is crossed by a bridge, whence a fine view is had up the wide valley to the mountains.

The road onward from Ventimiglia is dotted on each side by Italian houses, and offers a pleasant drive. After proceeding four miles, we arrived at Bordighera, or, as it is sometimes spelled, Bordighiera.

The promontory on which this small town lies, stretches far out into the sea. The town itself has been built on its west slope, and from Mentone always looks clothed in sunshine. Probably its half insular position may give a certain amount of softness to the air. It is now becoming a place of resort for invalids. The stranger population apparently is about from 150 to 200, more than one-half of whom are English. It is thought more bracing than Mentone, and may suit some constitutions; but it seems to want the shelter which most invalids require, and which is obtained elsewhere. It is, however, a bright-looking place, with several hotels. The Hotel de Bordighera, newly opened, is very pleasantly situated, with large garden in front. The other hotels are ‘D’Angleterre,’ ‘Beau Rivage,’ ‘Bellevue,’ and ‘Pension Anglaise.’ There are also about twenty villas, besides other houses, in which quarters may be obtained.

The people of Bordighera obtained from the Pope the privilege of supplying Rome with palms at Easter, in the manner afterwards mentioned (p. 298). The palm tree here, therefore, is a subject of special cultivation. We found the palm garden closed, presumably in preparation for Easter. Leaving the carriage, we ascended to the church or cathedral in the old town,—always a prominent object from Mentone,—and from this point, whence an extensive view is obtained, we took our last look, for that time, of the place where we had spent the previous three months so happily. Returning reluctantly to the carriage, we drove on, and soon passed round to the other side of the promontory, which thereupon shut out of view all the places whence we had come, and after proceeding seven or eight miles, reached San Remo.

SAN REMO.

San Remo is a place much recommended by physicians, often in preference to Mentone. Its air is said to possess all the invigorating qualities of that of Nice, with the warmth of that of Mentone; to be warm, exhilarating and soothing, and conducive to sleep. The mean winter temperature is stated by some accounts to be from 54° to 59° Fahrenheit; spring, 63° to 68°; summer, 72° to 85°; and autumn, 66° to 72°.[26] The icy Tramontane wind is said to be only slightly felt, and that in the west and more exposed end of the town, while the mistral is only known as a high wind. It is also asserted that the natives are healthy and long-lived. With all these recommendations as a health resort, San Remo cannot be considered to possess the attractions of Mentone, and it was with a feeling of disappointment we first entered the place. Perhaps our disappointment was increased by the difficulty of obtaining accommodation, and by the contrast in what we did obtain with what we had enjoyed at Mentone.

Arriving at the West End, we found all the hotels there full, and were glad to secure accommodation in one within the town, possessing a garden, dreary and overlooked by houses. The place—at all events externally—was not inviting; and as the weather was, during the greater part of our sojourn on this occasion, bad, with rain, our first impressions were not favourable.

San Remo is, like Mentone, surrounded by a half circle of mountains, but of a much softer-looking character. Bignole, the highest, is 4300 feet high. They do not approach so closely to the town, nor do they rear their heads so boldly, grandly, and picturesquely, but they do so without gap. In rear of them, though not visible from the town, are other and higher mountain ranges, belonging to the Maritime Alps. What are called rivers exist,—small narrow streamlets, scarcely amounting to what in Scotland we should term ‘burns,’—which trickle through the town (the Romulo after heavy rain was only three or four feet wide and a few inches deep); but they do not pass through valleys like those which give so marked a character to Mentone. San Remo also wants the protecting arms which Cape Martin, and Belinda, and Bordighera send out west and east into the sea. Capo Nero on the west and Capo Verde on the east no doubt create a bay, but are comparatively stunted arms. Then the railway passes along the coast and cuts the inhabitants off from the sea. There is therefore no promenade or road along the coast—a stupid mistake, to which the authorities ought never to have consented, and which deprives San Remo of what otherwise would have been its main attraction as a place of residence. The new town contains only a few good shops, in which things are not cheap. The old town, with a population double that of Mentone, is much larger than that of its rival. It is situated on a similar, but larger and loftier hill; but, unlike Mentone, which rests on the east, it rests mainly on the west slope of the hill, and is no doubt very picturesque, probably one of the most picturesque towns of the kind built for protection from the Algerine pirates. But though this may give value to it in the artistic eye, it is not a quality which contributes either to health or comfort; and one may justly say, parodying a common saying, ‘picturesque and nasty.’ Dirt, indeed, everywhere reigns—nay, some of the drains, even in the newer portion of the town, would seem to be above ground; and we found on our first visit the smells villanous,—a remark I am bound, however, to observe was not so applicable on occasion of our visit in the following year.

The railway station occupies a prominent position in the town, and passes by or cuts off the harbour, which lies outside of it. From the battlements or breakwater of this most untidily-kept harbour, a good view is had of the town and the mountains behind it. I made the ascent of the town through long narrow dirty winding vias, like Edinburgh High Street closes, only they are narrower, steeper, and tortuous, and far more dirty and unsavoury. Sometimes the road, paved with stone throughout, lies under dismal arched vaults, while the houses on each side are irregular and dilapidated—foul, dark, and dreary dens, rather than habitations for human beings. It was some relief to reach the platform on the summit, on which the large church called the sanctuary stands. From this point an excellent view is had all around. I descended by another of those curious vias, in which the houses support each other by arched flying buttresses, intended as a security against the effects of earthquakes, of which, however, we obtained no specimen shock during either of our visits to San Remo.

The mountains and hill-slopes surrounding San Remo are densely covered with olive trees, and to some extent with lemons, and afford shelter and walks to the visitors, but of a character differing entirely from those at Mentone. On the hillsides many wild flowers grow in rich profusion—hyacinths, narcissi, anemones, tulips, mignonette, gladioli, and others. Those who have been out exploring the country in the spring, return generally laden with bouquets, or rather bundles, of bright-coloured flowers.

Various excursions which may be taken to places among the mountains by assistance of donkeys, are described in a little volume called San Remo as a Winter Residence, by an Invalid, 1869 (Wm. Hunt and Co., London), to which, for further information regarding the town and locality, I would refer. I believe a lady is bringing out another guide-book with information up to date. In 1869, it would appear from the ‘Invalid’s’ little book that there were then only five hotels and twenty-three villas. Since the extension of the railway to San Remo, the number of both has largely increased. Now there are nine hotels and pensions in the east division of San Remo, and eleven in the west, some of which are said to be expensive. Of the West End hotels, one or two are situated well up on a hill-slope, the fatigue of greater ascent and the additional exposure being no doubt considered to be balanced by the expanded prospect. There are now also fully eighty villas east and west.

San Remo possesses, besides, a small public garden to the west of the old town—a very nice piece or strip of ground at the West End, laid out in walks and shrubbery, gifted by the Empress of Russia, who had honoured San Remo by her residence there some years ago. The gift is an accession to the place, and a pavilion has been erected, in which the band plays on certain days of the week. On other days it plays in the public garden or in a rondo at the East End. The West End of the town, where several of the best hotels are, has an open view to the sea,—that is to say, the sea can be seen from the road and public grounds,—and it is consequently more cheerful than the east; but it is much more exposed to the winds. The east end is more sheltered, and is thought to be more healthy. From the centre of the town eastwards, a broad pavement runs, provided here and there with wooden seats for the wearied pedestrian, and is practically terminated by the Hotel Victoria—a comfortable house, having a large garden reaching down to the sea, though the railway intersects a small portion of it at the bottom. A large hotel, called the MediterranÉe, has recently been built adjoining the Victoria, having a similar piece of ground stretching to the railway and sea also, though of course more newly laid out as a garden. All along this road, till it reaches a point nearly two miles from the old town, it is cut off even from the view of the sea, to which the only access is by many narrow filthy walled lanes. Beyond the Victoria there are various nice villas, one especially, called the Villa Patrone, a choice specimen of elegant design, and of a mode of wall ornamentation in pebble peculiar to the Riviera.

I found, from a list of strangers published at San Remo on 21st January 1877, the following interesting analysis:—

Allemands,	dont	46	avec fam.,	160
Anglais,	”	56	”	126
Austro-Hongrois,	”	8	”	20
Belges,	”	2	”	2
Danois,	”	0	”	1
Espagnols,	”	2	”	2
FranÇais,	”	8	”	17
Hollandais,	”	1	”	5
Italiens,	”	16	”	41
Roumains,	”	1	”	1
Russes,	”	14	”	30
Suedois,	”	0	”	1
Suisses,	”	2	”	5
Americains,	”	12	”	23
Asiatiques,	”	0	”	1
		——		——
Total,	dont	168	avec fam.,	435

In the following year, the Liste GÉnÉrale des Étrangers, dated 16th February 1878, gives the names of the strangers then in San Remo under their several nationalities, and winds up with the following ‘recapitulation,’ showing an increase on the whole. But it should be kept in view that, generally speaking, places in the Riviera are fuller in February than in previous months, the number of visitors being, in fact, then at its maximum.

Recapitulation.

Allemands,	dont	52	avec fam.,	171
Anglais,	”	70	”	167
Austro-Hongrois,	”	10	”	25
Belges,	”	4	”	6
FranÇais,	”	13	”	21
Hollandais,	”	8	”	15
Italiens,	”	24	”	64
Portugais,	”	1	”	1
Roumains,	”	1	”	1
Russes,	”	11	”	30
Suedois,	”	3	”	5
Suisses,	”	5	”	11
Americains,	”	13	”	28
		——		——
Total,	dont	215	avec fam.,	545

From these lists it appears that San Remo is principally frequented by the Germans and the English. A reason for the Germans flocking to San Remo, is no doubt to be found in the fact that Cannes, Nice, and Mentone are within French territory, where Germans are not particularly welcome—in truth, are sometimes, as I know in one instance, received by the French with marked rudeness; though it is to be hoped that this state of feeling, not unnatural after the late calamitous war, is now subsiding. But it may be taken as corroborative of this observation, that, judging from the lists published in the beginning of December 1877 (the very commencement of the season), out of about 850 names of strangers in Mentone (I state it roughly and without computing the number of families these names represent), only between 70 and 80 were German, principally ladies; while, so far as I can ascertain, there was only one German doctor in Mentone against six German doctors in San Remo—a fact, if I be correct, which speaks for itself.

Excluding the German element, therefore, it will be seen that the English very nearly equal all those of other nations put together. At the same time, one must observe that such lists require to be taken in a very general way. Implicit reliance upon them cannot be placed, as I have so often seen that names which ought to have appeared have been omitted for a whole season. Everything depends upon how the list is made up. If made up from persons handing in their own names to the newspapers, then it fails, because there are many who never think of doing so, while even hotelkeepers (whose interest one would think is to reveal the popularity of their houses) are very careless in furnishing complete information.

The San Remo Liste GÉnÉrale des Étrangers, besides other intelligence, gives the names of the ‘Medicins,’—viz., six German, three English, one French, one Russian, and thirteen Italian doctors. There are both German and English Protestant churches. The English church is a commodious building: the incumbent is the Rev. Mr. Fenton. The United Presbyterians of Scotland—I think the only station possessed by that body abroad—had worship in two rooms of the Villa Marguerita, where once a day on Sundays, the Rev. James Robertson of Edinburgh (just deceased) was, during our first visit, addressing, in a homely manner, crowded audiences; while in the evening he had service in a room of the Hotel des Londres, in which he was then residing, the English visitors of the hotel turning in to listen to one much respected by them all,—all sympathizing, too, in the sad cause which brought him to a place where he was destined, like so many others, to leave a loved one behind.

The great industry of San Remo necessarily consists in the cultivation of the olive tree; but one minor occupation is derived from the olive groves in the fabrication of articles of olive wood. That of San Remo is of a lighter colour and richer grain, and takes a higher polish than the olive wood of Sorrento. In the matter of inlaying, however, it does not appear to me that San Remo comes up to the better quality of Sorrento work, while the articles made are sold at a much higher price. The shopkeepers, I was told, consider the foreigners, and I suppose especially the English, as legitimate prey, and charge them more than the natives; nor do they ask high prices, as they do in other Italian places, with the intention of after abatement, but they stick to the price demanded, and are very stiff to move.

On one of the hill-slopes about a mile and a half out of town, we found a chocolate manufactory, the material for which comes all the way from Bordeaux.

The women when young are good-looking; many have the dark Italian eye, but, like the Mentone women, soon acquire, from the drudgery to which they are exposed, a hard-looking and dried-up appearance. They are treated as very beasts of burden, and are accustomed from early years to carry enormous loads upon their heads, far more so than at Mentone, and they glory in the amount they can carry. I have beheld one carrying an enormous log of wood on her head; and barrels, and every description of heavy articles, are constantly to be seen so carried. A lady told me she had a heavy oak table carried home to her house by her gardener’s wife, and it was thought nothing of. Such a thing as a rope and pulley, much less a crane to lift stones from the ground to the floors where masons are building a house, are utterly unknown. The women are employed as day-labourers, at something like a shilling a day, to carry the stones aloft on their heads. I have seen a woman, time after time, carrying a stone or a couple of uneven stones balanced, the one on the top of the other, on her head, up ladders nearly perpendicular, to a height of two storeys, to the stage where the masons were working. All they do is just to twist a handkerchief in a coil on the head, and then, with a most extraordinary power of balancing, they convey the load to where it is wanted. Men very seldom undertake the drudgery. If they do, they carry a lighter load, not, however, on their heads, but on the bent back or shoulders, protected by a sack. I have observed a woman carrying a stone on her head which it took four of them to lift. Their skulls and spines no doubt thicken and acquire some strange amount of hardy strength, but any nobler faculty must be crushed out of them; yet they never seem to feel their degradation, and would resent, I presume, the introduction of appliances by which their labour would be saved, and at the same time a means of livelihood taken from them.

Of all the instances, however, of this nature which I witnessed, the most marvellous was that of carrying a pianoforte on the head. On our second visit to San Remo, a lady informed me she had seen this sight. It seemed truly incredible, and perhaps, as she was an American, I was at first inclined to set it down to the national tendency to imaginative exaggeration. I looked anxiously for visual corroboration, seeing being in such a case believing, and I was not disappointed. The very day of leaving I had the good fortune to witness the scene, and was thus enabled to give full credit to the story. Happening to be in town, I met three women walking steadily along the street, their bodies erect, one in front and two behind, with the huge load of a heavy cabinet piano on their heads. I think each had one hand, at least, raised to steady it—a very painful exertion of itself to most people. Apparently, keeping pace together, this burden was sturdily carried as if it cost them no effort; while by their side marched a man in charge, who, I was thankful to observe (although, as I have read somewhere, it may be observed elsewhere, I think at Pompeii), carried no instrument of flagellation in his hand. Probably he would condescend to assist in raising the piano at starting, and in lowering it at its destination.

On this subject the writer of the little guide-book I have already referred to (San Remo as a Winter Residence), makes these observations (p. 26):—

‘The inhabitants of both sexes, but more particularly the women, are very good-looking, especially those from the country. You see most lovely faces amongst the girls from fifteen to twenty-five; they have as a rule good figures also, and neat feet and legs. They walk remarkably well, with a firm easy step, holding themselves erect. This results from their always carrying burdens on their heads, with which they go along at a quick steady pace, uphill or down, on rough roads or smooth, without ever raising a hand to support them, unless very large or clumsy in form. You seldom see a woman without something on her head; if she has not her bundle or her panniken, she will place the pad there on which she carries them. But this constant bearing of weights on the head has another and less admirable result, which is that the women very soon lose their beauty and their youth. I am told that it is quite usual for a woman to carry 100 kilogrammes on her head (220 lbs.) up to the mountains, and this every day; she will also bring a heavy bundle of grass or something back again. The men walk beside them empty-handed, or oftener still ride the mules and donkeys. Almost all the carrying is done on women’s heads. If a man has to transport a heavy weight, he takes his wife with him to carry it. I ordered a wooden horse for my saddle; the joiner who made it brought it home certainly, but on his pretty little wife’s head, not his own. The men consider it a disgrace to carry anything, a parcel even, and a woman’s highest ambition is to keep her husband in perfect idleness. A friend of mine, an English lady, was riding on a donkey one very hot day, accompanied by my servant Giovanni, a San Remese, who was, of course, trudging on foot by her side, and reflecting the heat of the day on her face. As they went along, they met a party of country people coming down from the mountains. In passing, a man, one of the party, stopped and spoke earnestly to my servant, who gave a laughing reply. When they had passed, my friend asked what the man had said. “Oh,” replied Giovanni, “he was telling me I ought to make you get off the donkey, and ride myself instead.” We had lectured him so often on the disgrace of the men taking their ease while the women worked so hard, that he quite entered into the facetiousness of the man’s proposition, an Englishwoman being in the case.’

In the redress of these women’s wrongs, might not an excellent field for the operations of the Women’s Rights Association be found?

Photographs are not cheap in San Remo; but one photographer (P. Guidi), under the direction of Signor Panizzi, has produced a large collection, numbering, I think, upwards of 150 specimens, size of nature, of the botany of San Remo. These are beautifully coloured from the plants themselves, and form a valuable and interesting illustration of the flora of the district.

We remained in San Remo from Saturday till the following Wednesday. The weather having been wet and disagreeable, we were by no means sorry when, the Wednesday morning proving fine, we resolved to quit a place where we had felt far from comfortable, and to proceed to Genoa by railway. I had, on arrival, exchanged at the banker’s a circular note, for which i got at the rate of 27·20 francs or lire per £ in Italian paper money. It was my first experience of this kind of money, and although it brought a premium of 22 francs per £10, the bundle of little notes was at first by no means assuring. However, I soon began to find it extremely convenient as well as profitable to exchange into paper. I paid the hotel bill and the railway fares both in paper, even although in the former case there was a notice up in the hotel requiring (although paper is a legal tender) visitors to pay in gold; and everywhere afterwards in Italy, paper was received as full value for what it represented. We had here for the first time to pay for all registered luggage according to weight. Putting railway fare and luggage cost together, however, the expense was, especially reckoning a deduction of 9 per cent. by use of paper, moderate. The fare first-class from San Remo to Genoa was 15 francs each, adding proportion of charge for luggage, nearly 3 francs[27] additional for each, say 18 francs or 15s., and deducting exchange, 13s. 4d. for a journey of about eighty-five miles, which is probably about a shade more than the average at home for second-class fare for a similar distance. However, the cost necessarily varies according to the quantity of luggage registered. To most Italians, who register none, it would be so much less; to many ladies who cannot travel without innumerable dresses, so much more.

Upon escaping from San Remo, the railway leaves the coast line and keeps a little inland—at least it nowhere cuts off any of the coast towns from the sea; nor could it well do so, as nearly all are built close upon the beach. It therefore proceeds rather behind them or through their outskirts; and, partly owing to this and partly to the numerous—vexatiously numerous—tunnels through which the railway is, from the hilly nature of the country, constrained to run, the views had, of the towns at least, cannot be equal to what is obtained by driving along the Corniche road. These Italian towns are exceedingly picturesque, both in appearance and in situation, and there can be no doubt that one misses much by travelling by rail, although it must be added that the route between San Remo and Genoa by no means equals that between Nice and San Remo. Clear, pleasing photographs of the towns on the line are published, and may give one some idea of them; but they are not, with one or two exceptions, the views seen from the railway. All views from railway carriage windows, however, even where no ogre sits to pull down the blinds, labour under disadvantage, and are too transient, and often too detached and interrupted, to enable passengers to catch and retain in memory general views of any place which a railway passes. On this occasion we had the carriage to ourselves, and eagerly availed ourselves of the opportunity to draw up blinds and gaze out right and left.

About three miles from San Remo, looking up a valley, one of those curious old towns which are perched on the top of a hill becomes visible. I had thought it to be Ceriana, which lies in that direction, a visit to which is one of the excursions from San Remo; but it proved, according to BÆdeker, to be a similar town called Bussana. The picturesque town of Porto Maurizio is invisible from the railway, which passes under it; while a little farther on, Oneglia and its harbour are just seen in approaching, and the railway stops at the landward end of it. However, at next station, Diana Marina, the railway traveller is rewarded by a most charming landscape. A chain of mountains hems in a valley, in the centre of which a conical hill rises abruptly, and on its top Diano Castello stands, another of those curious and picturesque towns which are so common in the Riviera and in Italy. The scene is one in which an artist’s pencil might luxuriate. The tout ensemble would make, as it no doubt has often made, a striking picture. At Alassio, nine miles farther on, we rested on our journey in the following year, and I shall return to it, therefore, further on. But leaving Alassio and passing under its west boundary the promontory of Santa Croce, looking seawards there was seen, perhaps about two miles out, the small rocky desolate-looking island of Gallenaria, on which a former proprietor had built a house for residence, but where, we were told, and could readily believe, his more sociable wife refused to live. Farther on upon the left, inland, but near the railway, the town of Albenga appears prominently. This is an old Roman town, and is an episcopal residence. Its many and thickly-planted towers give to it quite the aspect of a cathedral city. Touching shortly afterwards at Finalmarina and Noli, in about three and a half hours from the time of leaving San Remo, the large and imposing town of Savona, beautifully situated, came into view a massive-looking fort towering over and protecting the harbour below. Here many who travel by carriage leave the road and proceed to Genoa by rail, and those for Genoa going westward take carriage from Savona, the reason being, that the road and rail between Savona and Genoa run parallel to each other, while the route lacks the attractions of the remainder of the Corniche drive. From Savona, also, there is a direct line of railway to Turin. The train moves on, and eleven miles beyond Savona, reaches Cogoletto, which is said to have been the birthplace of Columbus, and is therefore a town of interest. The town, like so many others, lies on the beach, and the railway station only affords a view of backs of houses. Shortly after, the train stops at Pegli, a place about six miles from Genoa, a place of winter residence, and famous for its gardens, which attract excursions by visitors at Genoa, besides inducing others to take up their abode for more or less time at the hotels of the place. A little after six o’clock we arrived at Genoa, the train slackening speed as it passed amidst ranges of lofty buildings, which looked all the more grand that our eyes for so long had been unaccustomed to the dimensions of a town so large.

GENOA.

For many miles before arrival, we could, from the railway carriage windows, descry the ‘superb’ city with its tall lighthouse standing like a sentinel in advance. But one loses much in arriving by railway instead of by sea. The view had upon entering Genoa for the first time by sea is always spoken of as magnificent, and it must necessarily be very striking. The large natural basin which forms the port, protected by two long moles or breakwaters, emanating from each side like two arms, forms a semicircle nearly two miles in diameter, the east end terminated by the lighthouse, said to be 520 feet high above the level of the sea, and the west end crowned by the large and lofty Church of St. Maria de Carignano. From the harbour, filled with shipping, the ground rises all round to a height of 500 or 600 feet in steep slopes, upon which the city is built; a line of warehouses or other great white buildings, connected no doubt for the most part, if not altogether, with the trade of the port, forms the front rank, and gives an imposing facing to the whole. The buildings on the west side, however, exhibit but a slender cordon: the compact mass of the city lies upon the hill-slopes and hills of the east side, which extend outward considerably to the south of the east mole. The view, therefore, on arriving by sea, must be that of looking upon one-half of the sloping tiers of a gigantic amphitheatre; while backward from the city, which is surrounded by a double wall or line of fortification, the Apennines rise in still higher slopes, bold and stern, and probably afford some protection from the north winds.

Thus looks the famous city, once thriving by commerce, and powerful, till a spirited foreign policy led, as its natural consequences, to expensive wars, to weakness and decay. It revived, however, in time, and manifests a scene of peaceful busy industry, conferring upon it the position of being the first commercial town of Italy.

The faÇade of the railway station is one of great elegance. It is built of white marble, with beautiful columns surmounted by rich sculptured entablature. In the large open space or piazza in front, in the midst of shrubbery, there has been placed a beautiful monumental statue of Christopher Columbus, on a high round pedestal which rests on a large square base. The circular part, forming the upper portion of the pedestal, adorned by prow heads of an ancient or conventional type, is surrounded by four allegorical seated figures, one at each corner, representing religion, geography, strength, and wisdom, and by bas-reliefs delineating events in the hero’s life. Columbus stands pointing with his finger to a recumbent nude American-Indian lying at his feet. The whole is of white marble, and bears on the base a simple dedication.

It is a noble monument, and affords, as it were, at the very threshold of Italy, a remarkable specimen of Italian skill in sculpture, and particularly in graceful grouping of figures, and in designing a pleasing and handsome pedestal, from which those who have had charge of some recently-erected monuments at home might have done well to have taken a hint.

However, we had no opportunity then of studying either station or monument. We hastened to the omnibus of the Hotel de GÊnes, and drove there with a large company of English, by whom this hotel would seem to be principally patronized. Some of the hotels in Genoa are planted in undesirable localities. This one is situated facing the open piazza, where in the morning market is held, and in the immediate neighbourhood of all the principal buildings and good streets, the principal theatre, Carlo Felice, being opposite, and the post office within a stone-throw. Like most of the buildings in Genoa, the hotel is of a somewhat palatial order, having wide lofty staircases and rooms, some of them oppressively large. A bedroom we had seemed to be about 30 feet long by about 20 feet high.

The day continued fine throughout, but heavy rain fell through the night, and the next morning was very cold. We drove about for two hours to see the town; but it became so cold, wet, and windy, that we had to give up further visiting for that day. Among other places we visited Santa Maria de Carignano, a great church, built by the munificence of a single Genoese citizen, which crests the eastern height overlooking the town; and from the terrace on the top of it there are magnificent views of the entire panorama—the harbour, the coast east and west, the city, and the mountains, which there lay, covered with a coating of snow, which no doubt had fallen through the night, and gave a very bleak appearance to the surroundings. I could gladly have remained up for a long time (the others had not ventured), but the cold was so great that I could only take a momentary glimpse. We had also from the opposite extremity of the town a different view, looking from the harbour near to the lighthouse upward to Genoa, rising in crescent form line above line from the basin of the port. The street itself, which surrounds the port, is for the most part noisy, bustling, and dirty—by no means, therefore, attractive. At some parts the passage is nearly blocked by loiterers, who may perhaps, by a stretch of charity, be supposed to be actively prosecuting some busy calling, just as may be seen on the street of a country town at home on a market day.

The following day was dry, but cold, and afforded an opportunity for going about a little on foot, and seeing some of the large churches and the streets of grand palaces for which Genoa is famous. These palaces (some of them now used for purposes other than those for which they were built) are principally situated in a line of streets, called the Vias Balbi, Nuova, and Nuovissima. Like those of many of the Italian towns, these vias are paved with large flat blocks of stone, neatly, closely, and uniformly laid. The palaces themselves are massive stone buildings of the elegant Italian style now so often adopted by our architects in designing banks and public offices, the walls generally in rustic work, and the cornices rich and heavily projecting, the large windows protected from assault by thick outside iron gratings and stanchions, imparting a very prison-like look. The palaces are lofty and handsomely built, and the entry is generally by a large gateway to an inner court, round which further buildings are placed. Wide handsome staircases, quite a marked feature, conduct to the upper floors. The streets which are lined by these palaces are so narrow that the elegance of design is greatly lost to the eye. On this the occasion of our first visit, we had only opportunity of seeing the Palazzo Brignole, which contains a fine collection of paintings by the great masters Vandyke, Guido Reni, and others. Among them we observed a particularly good St. Sebastian by Guido. In the following year we visited some additional palaces,—viz., first, the Palazzo Durazzo on the Via Balbi, a magnificent house with a much-noted staircase. Notwithstanding the family were then residing in this palace, we were shown through about a dozen rooms, in which the hangings were of superb elegance, and the walls richly adorned with pictures. Thence we went to the Palazzo Balbi, a fine mansion, but not equal to the Durazzo; and thence to the Palazzo Reale, one of those royal palaces which the King of Italy seldom visits, but which he nevertheless appears compelled to maintain. The rooms are beautiful, the queen’s bedroom particularly rich and dazzling. The facilities afforded for seeing these palaces, which no one going to Genoa should, if possible, omit to visit, are very commendable. A fee of 1 franc to the attendant is all that there, as elsewhere in Italy, is expected.

The churches of Genoa are, like all Italian churches, very dark and very dirty—purposely ill-lighted, no doubt, to produce a dim religious light, and dirty because it is part of an Italian’s religion in church to spit upon the floor and otherwise to consider that cleanliness is next to ungodliness. The Cathedral of San Lorenzo and the neighbouring Jesuit Church of San Ambrogio are large buildings, especially the cathedral, and possess fine altars, surmounted by show pictures, and otherwise are richly adorned. The Church of San Annunciata, on the way to the railway station, is profusely gilded.

In the afternoon we walked to the Aqua Sola, a public park, which is evidently a place of resort of the Genoese gentry. Being a winter day, there were not many going about; but we saw a number of handsome equipages with Italian horses, their long flowing tails touching the ground. A very curious kind of curricle, such as we saw nowhere else, was constructed with high wheels, and seated, like a country mail cart, for one person only. This was drawn by one horse at full speed, and between two of them a race was run round and round the park. We had seen a good many of the women walking about town, having a mantilla or veil depending from the head—a graceful Genoese fashion, although one would hardly think it could afford much protection from either cold or heat. But here, for the first time, we saw some of the grand Italian nurses, who are generally dressed in a most peculiar and magnificent attire, their hair fantastically decked with large pins, very gorgeous to behold. There were evident degrees of magnificence, dependent, I suppose, to some extent upon the condition of the family in whose service the nurses were. The children also in their charge were attired in costumes more or less brilliant and rich, everything in Genoa being, I presume, from a palace to a hair-pin, necessarily ‘superb.’

Next morning we resolved to proceed to Spezia, but before going, drove out to the famous Campo Santo. It is situated about a mile and a half out of town, and the road to it is by no means choice; but the place itself is remarkable. The cemetery covers a good many acres of ground, and, judging from the inscriptions on the tombs, is little more than a quarter of a century old; but the mode in which it is laid out is peculiarly Italian. It was the first of the kind I had seen. We subsequently visited others in different parts of Italy; but there was not one which could be compared, for combined grandeur and tasteful, refined elegance, with that of Genoa. The main portion of the grounds is laid out in a large square, enclosing a piece of open ground, probably, speaking roughly and from recollection, six or eight acres in extent. This open ground apparently is used for the more common burials, and is in no way extraordinary, except for the contrast it affords to the enclosed portions. The monuments, thickly planted in it, are of the paltry, frippery kind,—little tumble-down, uneasy-looking crosses, gewgaw wirework, top-heavy miniature lanterns pending from poles agee,—mingled with tawdry remains of immortelles and withered flowers, so commonly seen in Roman Catholic grounds abroad, though, to do the Genoa burying-ground justice, it is much more tidy in this respect than is customary. A colossal statue of the Virgin stands in the centre of the open space. Round three sides of this ground (besides the fourth regarding which anon) there have been built, in white marble,—of which material there are quarries in the neighbourhood of Genoa,—two long, parallel, spacious enclosures or vaults. In the outer of these vaults, monumental tablets are ranged down the side walls row above row in great uniformity, recording the names (with usual dates) of the deceased persons who have been, or are presumed to have been, buried in cells of which these are the outer ends or sides. The tablets are all of white polished marble, and black lettered. There is nothing particularly striking about this part except its extent and, to our eyes, novelty. But the inner aisle or arcade and all the corners or prominent parts are devoted to statues and figures, and sometimes representations in alto relievo—all cut out of white marble, and erected in memory of the more eminent or more opulent citizens of Genoa, or members of their families, who are buried there. The monuments evidence possession not merely of the beautiful material out of which they are produced, but of great natural capability on the part of the Italian sculptors, and of a taste on the part of the public, either natural or educated, in that direction. Without according indiscriminate admiration, one may say that there was scarcely a piece of sculpture of which our best artists at home could reasonably be ashamed. On the one side of each arcade the memorials are, for the most part, mural; on the other, which opens by arches to the Campo, the principal monuments are placed one under each arch. The general character of the mural monuments is stately repose, some exceptionally being in action. But under the arches, between the supporting columns, the figures are often in startling resemblance to life. For example, one group is of a lady sitting up in bed, with an earnest fascinating or fascinated look, grasping the right hand of another in a long garment, loose from the neck to the feet, whose left arm and forefinger of the hand are pointing upward. In another, a charming female figure appears soaring with an angel upward resting on clouds, the group being pervaded, like so many more, by a marvellous grace and freedom of execution. Another is a mother with a babe in each arm. But it would be endless to describe them, the more especially as to do so effectively one would require to make each monument a special study—not to be recommended, because the vaults are cold, and it is not safe to linger in them. Only the west of the three sides of the quadrangle, and part of the south side, were then so occupied.

The fourth side of the square lies upon the slope of a hill, and advantage has been taken of this natural feature of the ground for the formation of terraces, in the centre of which, at the top of a magnificent flight of marble steps, a large circular church of white marble has been built, upon entering which we look upon a majestic row of black marble pillars, standing in a stately circle round vacancy as yet. When we saw it last, the church was not completed, and evidently would not be for a long time to come, for no expense seems to be spared to render it in every respect the grand complement of its beautiful surroundings. Upon the arcaded terraces, stretching away right and left from the church, we found some of the choicest groups of sculpture in the whole place. They are large and costly, and harmoniously graceful embellishments of the symmetrical structure. Behind these arcades, vaults have been built akin to those on the other three sides; while beyond, to the north, open ground on the hill-slope has been laid out for interments,—as yet sparsely dotted by monuments.

A burial-place such as this would at home cost such an enormous amount of money as practically to remove from our thoughts the possibility of erecting it. I presume it is only possible in Italy from the circumstance that the sculptor’s occupation is more common, and is less handsomely remunerated; but much also is due to the proximity of the material, and to an appreciation on the part of the public of the forms of high art. In regarding this wonderful enclosure, a mingled feeling will in many minds arise; for its solemn impressiveness, its silent grandeur, its touching monuments and bas-reliefs, its very unadorned inscriptions, carry us away in thought and sympathy to sad scenes of death and sorrow; while the brightness and purity, and the exquisite forms and seraphic tranquillity of the sculptured white marble, point to that beatific life beyond the tomb, where all is bright and pure and exceeding lovely—where the spirits of just men made perfect, in serene, undisturbed calm, dwell for ever in the rapture of heavenly joy, and, arrayed in the beauty of holiness, are surpassing glad amidst the burning thrill of boundless love and the celestial beams of ineffable glory, and the sweet music of angel song—for, they stand in the presence of God.

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