A EIDE IN MOKOCCO
AND OTHER SKETCHES
BY
ARTHUR CAMPBELL
TORONTO :
WILLIAM BRIGGS,
WESLEY BUILDINGS.
Montreal : C. W. COAXES. Halifax : S. F. HUESTIS.
1897.
Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand
eight hundred and ninety-seven, by Arthur Campbrll, at the Department of
Agriculture.
CONTENTS.
PAOB
A Ride in Morocco 7
A Glimpse of Rome 104
In the Land of the Mandolin - - - 178
A Beggar at Monte Carlo - - - 260
A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
I. ■■-:-■ • ■■■■■ ^ :.;■:-■;:,.,:
There is an old story, told in some tale, of an
English housewife who was forever preaching from
the text " Early to bed and early to rise." Unlike
most of the unpleasant people who preach, this good
woman lived up to her principles. She was in the
habit of getting up so early in the morning that by
ten o'clock the household duties were done, and she
was at her wits' end to know what to do with herself
the rest of the day. The Spaniard is not exactly like
the woman in the tale ; he spends the time between
sunrise and sunset doing nothing by preference. But,
in order that the day may be thus profitably employed,
he does what little is done in Spain for the preserva-
tion and regulation of human life at an unreasonably
early hour.
Accordingly, the dirty Spanish steamer Mogador,
which conveyed me from Cadiz in Spain to Tangier
in Morocco, was advertised to sail an hour before
sunrise in order that we might be in Africa before
noonday. I was awakened at half-past four, and,
after dressing and hurriedly despatching some rolls
and coffee, driven through the dark streets to the
8 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
water, where I descended a rickety ladder to a dirty
tender. The tender was already overcrowded. There
was more stuff, more baggage, more people on it than
there was room for, everything thrown together in a
heap. Forward I observed a number of grimy men
slouching around the engine, smoking, the man in
charge being apparently asleep, his head resting on
the coal bin. Aft there was a heap of bundles and
women, presumably the passengers. The man who
received me at the foot of the ladder pointed aft ; but
it was impossible to tell in the darkness which was
bundle and which w^s woman, and I was afraid of
sitting down on the wrong thing. So I stood still
where I landed, and placing my coat on the gunwale,
seated myself on it and lit a pipe.
On the wharf stood a number of men in black
cloaks with cigarettes in their mouths, and an old
hag in a ragged shawl, who had her head tied up
in a colored handkerchief. The men walked up and
down languidly, hugging their cloaks and speaking
occasionally in whispers ; but the voice of the
withered old woman echoed through the night. For
fully an hour she harangued the heap of bundles and
women below her on the tender at the top of her
voice, stopping only for a moment at intervals to
wipe her mouth with her hand. The women, like the
men on the wharf, were smoking, and seemed to pay
little attention to the advice tendered them. Finally
the old woman struck a light and proceeded to take a
whiff herself; and we all settled down to a quiet
smoke.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. , W
Nobody in Spain over hurries — no wonder they
di.strust the American nation — even if a woman picks
up a pin she does it in the Spanish manner ; that is
to say, she lets it lie. After sitting there for about an
hour, thinking of the warm bed I had left behind me
and the rolls and coffee that had remained uncon-
sunv>d, I began to consider the advisability of going
on shore again and getting some more breakfast.
Happily it was not cold, though a little chilly, being
the middle of January. When we started and ivhy I
never knew ; I must have been asleep. Probably the
man at the engine woke up by accident, and decided
to run us over and be done with it before taking
another nap.
The sun was rising when the Mogador steamed out
of the harbor of Cadiz, and the long line of white
houses on the Pasco de las Delicias behind the ram-
parts lighted up with the first beams. Then we
rounded Fort Catalina, and had a fine view of that
part of the city next to the sea. At the top of the
precipitous white cliff runs a wall, and behind the
wall rise tiers of dazzling white houses, the new
cathedral, a pretentious structure of white marble,
overtopping the picturesque old buildings around.
The city presents a superb appearance from the water,
rising with its white cliffs, white houses and white
walls, high against the blue sky; the long sandy
plain forming the isthmus which connects it with the
mainland, increasing by contrast the majestic effect of
city and fortresses set on a high hill.
The coast of Andalusia is beautiful and picturesque
10 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
— mountains all along the shore, their sides covered
with the olive, whose foliage glistened a silver grey
in the sunlight. In the little baj's and in the vallies
between the hills nestled villages and towns, their
white houses gleaming like pearls in the sun. I was
the only first-class passenger, and had the deck to
myself. The pile of bundles and women lay below me
amidships, a pitiful spectacle ; for all the women
became seasick at the start, and lay, each on one of
the bundles head downwards, bundle and woman
altering their position with every lunge of the steamer.
At first they wept and lamented, one calling to
another ; then, the pitching and rolling becoming more
violent, they fell to praying, each on her own account.
But this stage, too, had its limit ; before we were half
an hour out, their voices had become hushed, an
occasional moan alone giving evidence that life was
not quite extinct. It was a melancholy sight ; there
were five bundles, and on each lay a woman with a
face as white as a sheet; they lay with the head
hanging over the end of the bundle and the hands
grasping it at the side. As the steamer rolled to one
side the bundles and their burdens would roll likewise,
while a chorus of groans with an occasional shriek
filled one with pity for the unfortunate creatures.
Then, the Mogador rolling to the other side, the white
faces and despairing eyes would involuntarily turn
the other way. On one occasion, having struck a
particularly rough sea, bundles and women rolled
over altogether and got mixed up in so terrible a
fashion that another passenger and myself felt
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 11
impelled to fly to the rescue, and succeeded with some
difficulty in getting the several women extricated and
placed each on her own bundle again.
I did not like this other passenger. He was a short,
thick -set man with a florid face — a Portuguese. Of
Portuguese I did not know a single word ; of English
he knew two — Good-day. Neverthelcvss, he succeeded
in impressing me with the idea that he had a secret to
tell me, the knowledge of which would be of great
value ; but, as we could not make each other out, the
thing became monotonous. At length, by walking
away from him whenever he approached me, I man-
aged to convey the impression that I felt we were
uncongenial.
Much more to my taste were the " Spanish sailors
with bearded lips," who were typical specimens of that
lazy, good-looking and most polite of races. One of
them took me under his special care. I knew only a
few words of Spanish, and he could speak no other
tongue ; but I make it a rule always to speak the
language of the country I happen to be in, whether I
know it or not ; and it was surprising how well we
got along. We discussed the war in Cuba ; and,
when he found that all my sympathies were with the
Mother-land and that I prayed night and day for the
success of the Spanish arms, he almost embraced me.
We were standing talking, looking into each other's
eyes like two mesmerists, each giving his whole mind
to it in the effort to understand the other, when all at
once happening to glance for a moment over the sea,
he seized my arm, and pointing away to the south-east,
said, " Capo Trafalgar ! "
12 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
Capo Trafalgar ! The war in Cuba was forgotten,
and we went back in memory to a more momentous
struggle and a more eventful age. The cape juts out
sh'^rply into the ocean, a mass of wild black cliffs
risi precipitously from the sea, the waves dashing
and la, *ng themselves at its foot, rising in clouds of
white spiay. It is wild, grand, picturesque, almost
awful. Far away on either side one could see the
green olive-crowned hills sleeping peacefully in the
sunlight ; and in the midst, standing out near to hand,
rose these sharp iron-grey rocks with the ocean dash-
ing against them in impotent rage — fit picture to
associate with the remembrance of the day of battle.
The Spaniard watched me narrowly, as if he expected
me to make some demonstration ; which expectations
were doomed to disappointment. Then, breaking
forth into gesticulation and narration, he told me the
story of the fight, which I was able to understand
without effort, being already familiar with the same.
The wind was high and there was a rough sea on,
but not a cloud in the sky. The air was delightful
I felt devoutly thankful for the fine weather, for a
visit to the cabin in search of food was sufficient to
convince me that, in the event of foul weather, the
trip would have been miserable enough. It was
stuffy and dirty as might have been expected ; and
the moment I put my nose inside the door, the whole
world seemed to become garlic. I drew back at first ;
the smell of garlic is familiar enough if you have been
in Spain ; but in this cabin it was concentrated and
intensified. However the sea-breezes had sharpened
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 13
my appetite, and I was determined to have some more
rnlls and coffee ; so I persevered and made a second
attempt which was more successful. The coffee was
excellent, and so were the rolls ; while I was waiting
for them I inspected the staterooms, so that when
they came I was able to step back into the air of the
saloon, and found it a pleasing change. Those state-
rooms — the pen of a Zola alone could do justice to
them and the varieties of life that they contained.
At last the coast of Spain was left behind ; and the
shores of Africa, with the Atlas mountains piled up in
masses against the sky, came into view. It was
rough enough crossing the entrance to the strait of
Gibraltar, and the women on the bundles thought
their hour had come ; however about mid -day we
anchored off Tangier. As we had to wait some time
for boats to come to fetch us ashore, I had leisure
to look around. The first view of Tangier, seen
from the sea, is enchanting. The white houses, all
distinctly Eastern in style, rise tier above tier from
the water's edge to the citadel which crowns the
summit of a high hill. The citadel is dilapidated,
like everything else in Morocco, including the people ;
seen from afar, its crumbling walls with their
little square windows half broken away and the
suggestion of old-time battles in its battered towers,
it is romantically beautiful. Some of the houses
and hotels are built on cliffs ov^erlooking the sea, and
portions of the city lose themselves in little vallies
and ravines behind. The sounds and smells of the
narrow streets were indistinguishable ; and I sat
14 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
contentedly on deck, looking over the blue water and
enjoying the view. Behind the city and far away as
eye could see on either side, rose the mountains, a
blaze of wonderful colors. At the base they were
green — a vivid green that would have put Erin herself
to shame ; then, farther up a greyish-green mingled
with a greyish-purple tint, which was lost in turn in
a dark sombre purple-brown around which the last
remnants of the white clouds were slowly dissolving
in the hot rays of the sun. At their feet rolled the
blue water with its wave-crests of white spray glit-
tering in the sunlight ; above them smiled the bluest
of blue skies.
We had to wait some time to be conveyed ashore ;
but when once the boats put off to fetch us, it was
apparent that we would all be taken and none left
behind; for there were more boats than there were
passengers. Each boat was propelled by two swarthy
Moors with red fezes on their heads ; and long before
they reached the Mogador they were seen to be
engaged in a violent altercation. When they were at
last alongside, I began to be doubtful whether, after
all, any of us would land. They pushed and shoved
one another about, fell upon one another, knocked
each other out of the way, and splashed w^^ter about
to such an extent that soon not a dry spot was left in
any boat to sit upon — supposing that, by happy
accident, we should succeed in getting into one. The
torrent of Arabic, the yells, the screaming, the gesticu-
lations and contortions of the boatmen were inde-
scribable.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 16
I stood ready to be transferred at an auspicious
moment, my gladstone in one hand and my coat in the
other, enjoying the fun. There were five boats, all
manned by Moors. In one of them, however, I dis-
cerned a man who was not a Moor, a solemn-looking
individual clad in a long coat of sober grey with a
cap on his head, evidently a Spaniard. He had large
Spanish eyes, a long moustache and an expression of
intense gravity. He looked neither at the Mogador
nor at the boatmen, but sat gazing placidly at what-
ever came into view as his boat was whirled around.
His expression was that of an Adventist waiting for
the millennium — calm expectancy, combined with a
total absence of hurried preparation. I immediately
made up my mind to get into his boat.
It was no easy task, and the people on board
cautioned me in Spanish against being premature.
The Portuguese gentleman was particularly officious,
and I told him in good hoi est English to mind his
own business. He understood the remark if he was
not capable of translating it word for word. As for the
women, when the steamer stopped they had all come
back to life again, and while we were waiting sat on
their bundles, combing their hair. At the sight of the
boats and the boatmen, however, they turned pale
again. It looked indeed as if it would be " out of the
frying-pan into the tire."
Whether the others landed or not I do not know.
The Mogador sailed for Malaga the next day ; and
possibly some of the passengers never left her. I
know I was the first to venture. " I am not a
16 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
Spaniard." I said; "and therefore, having come to
Morocco, I am determined to be in Morocco." Luggage
in hand I descended a step or two ; and then, being
hastened in my descent by one of the Moors catching
hold of my leg and pulling it, went the rest of the
way headfirst — not, indeed, into the arms of the man
who had so kindly assisted me down — his boat was
pushed out of the way as I tumbled over ; I fell in
a heap into another.
It was rather watery, but I had no time to sit still
and think about it. I looked hurriedly around, saw
the melancholy Spaniard near me, and threw him my
hat and stick. He caught them and made a dash for
me; and I went over again headforemost into his
boat. A yell arose from the two boats which I had
made use of in passing, and I received a splash of
water in the face. But I was safe with the Spaniard,
who said in French — " Wait ! "
So I sat down beside him and waited. I found he
was a courier, and, after a few words of conversation,
thinking I might as well engage him as any other,
told him I should be glad of his services. In Morocco
one cannot get along without a guide, and the offer he
made was reasonable. We came to an understanding
and I felt that I had him. Not at all — he had me.
This man was Moreno. He was of Spanish blood,
born in Morocco, and frequently acted as guide he told
me when British officers came over from Gibraltar to
ride through the country. His English, what there
was of it, was excellent. When at a loss for an
English word he used a French one. But his know-
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 17
ledge of both languages was limited, and he was
frequently obliged to resort to Spanish. In Arabic he
was eloquent and long-winded — sometimes, I fear,
profane ; but the Arabic was reserved for mules and
Moors.
I am at a loss to describe the relation in which he
stood to me. He certainly acted the part of courier
and servan , bargaining and buying for me as well as
looking after my mule and escorting me from place
to place — and he was an excellent guide. But I could
not call him a servant : his was the tone of command,
the decisive voice, the dignity of ownership. I fol-
lowed and obeyed. He stood in the place of a father,
treating me as if I were a very small child whose
whims and notions were of no account, and who
required constant care. If I resisted, I was reasoned
with gently and told a story — how some other foolish
person had wished to do as I wished, and what awful
consequences had resulted. I 'jubmitted for it was of
no use to argue ; when he said it was bedtime I went
to bed, and when he came in in the morning and said
" Get up," I rose. When the mule was brought I got
upon its back and there I had to stay until bidden to
dismount. He regulated the time for meals and pro-
vided the food. From the time that I got into the
boat beside him until I left Morocco, I was no more
responsible for what was done than if I had been a
hoihy in arms. But he was honest and clean, respect-
ful and attentive, though very firm. One element of
a perfect character he lacked ; of what Carlyle calls
" the saving grace of a sense of humor " Moreno had
18 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
not an atom. To him a spade was a spade, a mule
a mule ; never once in the many ridiculous situations
in which we found ourselves during the next few
days did the gravity of his countenance relax.
We landed, going up something that in Morocco
serves as a substitute for a ladder, and found our-
selves on a crazy pier. Here we were surrounded.
A crowd of Moors, some in fez some in turban, some
overdressed and others scarcely decently clad, but all
dirty and all clamorous, closed in around us and laid
hold of me by the arm or leg as it pleased them best.
All wanted money, or to perform some service for
which payment could be demanded. Moreno, taking
my baggage, beat his way through the screaming
mob, answering invective with invective. I followed
close behind, shaking off my tormentors as one does
the flies on a hot summer's day, when for one brushed
off on one side a dozen settle on the other. We
advanced, however, by degrees, and soon reached
solid ground.
Tangier has been in possession of England, Spain
and Portugal ; each nation in turn gave it gladly away
to another with whom she was on bad terms and to
whom she wished to do a friendly ill. But no traces
of European civilization are visible in the streets or
in the habits of the people. There is still a European
population of over four hundred souls ; but the effects
of Eastern despotism are apparent in every nook and
cranny. We passed through narrow streets, so narrow
that all sunlight was excluded, so ill-paved that it was
dangerous to walk without taking care at every step
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 19
and difficult to walk at all, through a motley crowd
of men, women and children, many of whom clung
to one as one passed, and dodging mules and donkeys
at every corner. The streets were as filthy as one
could wish, the din indescribable ; but the novelty of
the scene more than atoned for the shock to nose and
ear. Such color, such types of men, such aspects of
Eastern life, were worth coming far to see.
At last we reached a hotel. Entering it from the
street was like passing from one civilization into
another; for the hotels of Tangier, in the midst of
the squalor and wretchedness of a degraded and
degenerate Mohammedan population, are European
in their commodiousness and comfort, and in their
luxury almost Parisian. I was among the first to
visit Morocco after the quarantine had been removed,
and consequently found myself the only guest in a
large and well-furnished hotel. My heart sank, not
from fear of cholera microbes, but lest, having the
whole house to myself, I might be expected to pay
for the use of it. The proprietor spoke English
almost as well as his native Spanish; but as he
would bargain only with Moreno for me as if I were
a piece of baggage, a three-cornered battle took place.
I named my terms and eventually they were agreed
to ; though I found, several days later, that we had
come to an agreement without a consensus ad idem
on one important point — I having stipulated to pay
mine host so many Spanish pesetas, and he having
bargained for as many English shillings ; which, as
money goes in Morocco, meant a difference of seven
2
20 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
shillings in the pound. However I had a bit of
paper written by Moreno, with the sum entered
thereon in pesetas, so I carried the day. I am bound
to say that I paid no more than my due for the
excellent food and kind treatment I received. When
the bargaining was over Moreno left me to enjoy my
luncheon, warning me not to go out until he came
back.
At luncheon I expected to be alone ; but when I
sat down I found myself one of two, the other guest
being the captain of a French merchant- ship. He
had either been drawing his pay or there had been
some other cause for celebration, for he had celebrated
to the utmost, and was as drunk as a lord. Like the
Moslems around us and in defiance of French taste, he
wore his hat at dinner. This compliance with the
customs of the country, however, appeared to extend
no further than the one particular act ; abstinence
from strong drink, a precept strictly observed by the
devout Mohammedan, was no part of his creed.
Though luncheon was not yet served, he sat with
bottle and glass before him, enjoying himself greatly.
As each bumper was swallowed he would give his
hat a tilt back, until at last it rested on his coat-
collar behind, falling to the floor at the next glass.
The waiter, a supple young Moor in fez with a bare
leg, kindly picked it up and returned it to its owner,
who placed it back on his head drawn well down over
the eyes.
The captain glared angrily at the Moor, and asked
when dinner would be ready. The Moor, spreading
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 21
his hands out like a fan, answered in English, " At
once." " Speak a civilized language and not Arabic,"
said the angry captain in French ; whereupon the
Moor, who knew a little English and a little French,
replied in the latter language. " Do you speak
English ? " I inquired of the captain. The captain
did not, but expressed his pleasure at finding me to
be of that nationality. He congratulated me on not
being a German or a Spaniard. Then we had a long
conversation, in which the map of Europe was re-
arranged according to the captain's idea of what it
should be; and many troublesome questions over
which the Powers are fighting to this day, were
solved in a few minutes. Had his advice been taken
and a war of extermination carried on aofainst all
Turks, Arabs, Moors and Egyptians, there would have
been no Armenian massacres, no more trouble with
Abdul Hamid, and no Cretan embroglio. He had
just glutted himself with the life-blood of the last
adherent of Islam when luncheon was served.
A noisy meal it was, and we both enjoyed it. The
captain drank to my good health and to the over-
throw of Islam, many times. I thought the food
excellent, but he found it otherwise, declared that the
fricassee was made of mouse-tails, and sent his soup-
plate flying across the table as if it had been a
curling stone. It was caught falling off the other
side of the table by the supple Moor, whose patience
and endurance seemed inexhaustible. The wine was
of the best — delicious red Spanish wine — and no one
could have found fault with it ; but the jolly captaip,
22 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
declared that what it possessed in (juality it lacked in
quantity, and ordered a fresh supply.
Whether he finished it when it came I do not
know; when I left him he was doing his best.
Taking my pipe, I went out and sat on the steps
at the side of the street — if a narrow, ill-paved lane
with a high white wall on either side pierced by an
occasional latticed window, may be so called. Dirty
men in dirty clothing, some wearing the fez and
others the white turban, crouched in the mud, sleep-
ing, smoking or quarrelling. Dirty women, with their
heads concealed in a white burnoose showing only
one eye, glided back and forth noiselessly. Dirty
children played around in the doorways and the
gutters; and at intervals a succession of yells her-
alded the approach of dirty donkeys laden with
hampers coming as hard as blows could drive them,
each driven by a bare-legged man with a big stick,
who screamed at the top of his voice as he approached.
Whenever one appeared there was a great hustling
and scampering and much complaint. Here and there
a ray of vivid sunshine fell across the street, throw-
ing the rest into a deeper shadow and adding a
glorious color to the whole scene.
Only one person took any notice of me, and that
was a bright-looking boy who stood opposite, leaning
against the wall. He wore a red fez, a dirty white
bed-gown and yellow slippers. This individual smiled
on me graciously for some time, and then, getting an
answering smile, said :
" Good morning, sir ; the English are nice people."
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 23
His English was excellent and I laughed, where-
upon he repeated the remark. I was about to go
over to continue the conversation, when some one
took hold of the white garment and flourished a
stick. Boy, stick and assailant disappeared around
the comer.
I thought of following, but the appearance ot*
Moreno on the scene prevented me. He was
mounted on a mule and leading another by the
bridle. They drew up at the foot of the steps, all
three looking very solemn, and I went down to
meet them. At the same moment all the street
gathered around us and began to clamor. Half a
dozen men and boys fought for the privilege of
holding my mule, a beast whom it required some
skill to move, but who would stand still forever of
his own accord. Moreno kept beating them off while
I mounted, and then we turned up the street, brand-
ishing sticks. We had them after us as thick as
mosquitos, but got clear of them eventually with-
out paying anything.
We passed up the crooked street, and rode in and
out through others of the same character. Now that
I was mounted, it was delightful ; no more need to
pick one's steps, uneven paving-stones and gutters
running zig-zag from side to side forming no obstacle.
I beat my way among the women and the donkeys,
and flourished my stick at the beggars with a feeling
of security. A strange city Tangier. Here I saw a
notice in French, announcing that within must be
posted letters for Europe; here one in English,
24 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
offering tobacco for sale ; and then others in Spanish,
informing you that you could buy a hat inside and
get your hair cut for so much. The Spanish were the
most numerous ; but all looked odd and out of place
amid the turbans, the squalor and the beggars.
Strangest of all are the hotels for tourists which
have a thoroughly European aspect, and look as if
they had been caught up in France or England by
a whirlwind and dropped by accident where they
stood.
We went up hills and down hills, the mules picking
their steps carefully over the jagged stones that lie in
heaps everywhere. " No one walks in Morocco," said
Moreno ; and it was unnecessary to ask why — no one
could. We met mules and donkeys, and a few horses
and cu.nels. The horses are small and graceful crea-
tures with short necks like the beautiful horses of
Andalusia ; but they are not as valuable as the mules
which are large and strong, as well as more sure-
footed. The animal you meet oftenest, however, is
the donkey ; and the poor donkey, half- starved, ill-
treated and dirty, seems more in keeping with the
place and people than the high-bred Arab. The
crowds of people whom we encountered everywhere
seemed to be doing nothing in particular. They slept
or smoked, or sat quietly on the ground waiting for
something to turn up. We were always something ;
when we approached they begged. Married men
wear a white turban, bachelors a fez ; so it is unneces-
sary to ask a chance acquaintance whether he is
married or single ; if he wore the turban one might
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 26
ask " How many ? " only tho question would be
thought improper. Children were everywhere, the
dirtiest, raggedeot one ever saw. And the smells ! —
but they pass description.
" Where are we going, Moreno ? " I inquired, as Tve
turned from one narrow lane into another, always, it
seemed to me, getting into a dirtier place than ever.
" Where are you taking me ? "
" To prison," was the answer.
" Good heavens ! " I said, " what have I done ? "
Moreno looked at me doubtfully, as much as to say,
*' Is he really as stupid as that ? " and I put on a very
serious expression, and asked " How long shall I be
obliged to stay there ? "
" One half hour — as you please."
" Shall I be handcuffed ? "
Moreno sighed, and then said, " It is a visit ; it is
not a prisoner." He had no conception of a joke,
then or ever. We rode on in silence.
Now it so happened that I had been reading a book
of travels in which the writer described his visit to
this place; and the diflSculty of getting there had
been, according to his account, very great. He had
begun by calling on the American consul, and the
consul had accompanied him to the palace. There an
audience was obtained of the Cadi, to whom he inti-
mated his desire. The answer had been a shake of
the head and the pronunciation in Arabic of the
word " impossible." Then had followed a long pala-
ver and some shaking of the Stars and Stripes in
the Cadi's face. Finally, as a mark of especial favqr,
26 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
the traveller, escorted by a retinue of servants and
officials, had gone to visit the dungeon.
I saw nothing of cadis or palaces, officials or consuls
around, only beggars and dirt. We stopped once at
an entrance gate ; but the only person of importance
we found on guard was an old man who sat in the
mud, leaning against the wall, humming. He had
long skinny brown legs, and enough muslin on his
head to have made a pair of bloomers, which would
have been an improvement. The old man held out a
hand, but did not stop humming. Moreno said he
was " holy," though to an unprejudiced eye he seemed
imbecile. Him we " tipped " as we rode through.
Inside was a courtyard so disreputable that I was
obliged to hold my nose as we entered. All the
noises that distract the ear and odors that distress
the nose seemed to be distilled and presented together.
It was veritably a slum, a most unclean spot. The
pavement was &o bad that the mules were obliged to
pick their steps inch by inch. The dirt that covered
it was indescribable, and the human creatures who
gathered around us, shouting and bickering, seemed
to have been made out of it. There were many of
them, and all were clamorous ; the maimed, the halt
and the blind, all crying together for backsheesh.
Not one of them seemed to be whole ; some had lost
an eye, others a leg. If anybody had both eyes and
both legs left, the eyes were in a shocking state of
disease or the legs useless. All, without exception,
looked to be villains of the deepest dye.
.Our saddles, bridles and legs were laid hold of, and
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 27
a great cry for backsheesh went up to heaven. But
a warning voice came from Moreno, " You will pay no
money to these people," and I clung to my beast and
resisted. Moreno dismounted. His mule was seized,
but he beat off his assailants and came to me. Then
I dismounted, Moreno keeping off the natives with a
stick.
We left the mules, merely tying them together,
and entered a narrow covered passage, Moreno
leading, I following behind. The crowd hung on to
me, crying for backsheesh in a manner to which I had
become accustomed, though I had been in Morocco
but a few hours. It was a very narrow passage,
scarcely four feet wide, and the dirty pavement as
elsewhere was very uneven.
We had not gone far when a formidable obstacle to
further progress presented itself. Seated on a stone
square across the passage was the figure of a gigantic
Moor, black as a Nubian and armed to the teeth with
a long Moorish gun and daggers. He was fast asleep,
but the noise we made coming in was enough to
wake the dead. Pulling himself together with a
start, his weapons clashing as he moved, he thrust a
magnificent arm across the passage-way to bar our
entrance, and in a voice of thunder ordered us back.
I stood still; the aspect of affairs was not very
reassuring. " A nice place this, Moreno," I said ;
'' that big fellow with his knives, in front of us, and
a pack of unclean maniacs hooting behind ! "
But Moreno preserved a business-like composure.
" This is the place for the money to go," he whispered ;
28 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
and, pulling a handful of copper coins out of his
pocket, he counted them leiaurely and emptied them
into the sentinel's lap. The effect was magical and
instantaneous. The brawny arm relaxed, dropping
as if paralyzed ; the colossal head sunk weakly on
the mighty breast ; the clangor of weapons ceased.
In less time than it takes to write the sentence this
Boanerges was again in a state of somnolence. We
went in.
After so much trouble in getting there, it would
have required a great deal to satisfy one's expecta-
tions. The interior of the prison, however, was
somewhat disappointing. The crowd inside resem-
bled very much the crowd outside ; their faces were
not a whit more villanous, nor was their condition
more disreputable. Movement was, indeed, more
difficult, for each of the prisoners had iron rings on
his ankles, the rings being connected by means of a
chain. They walked about, however, with consider-
able agility, considering the impediment, and gathered
together, clamoring for backsheesh, just as the free
citizens had done outside. It was a little better than
outside, for inside you have them only in front of
you. An opening in the wall about four feet high
and oval in shape is the medium of communication
with the outer world. It is raised about two feet
from the floor, and I asked for no permission to step
over ; the ground on the other side was like that of a
pig-sty.
A ragged individual who carried a gun stood
guard over the wretched creatures, ready to prevent
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 29
disturbances ; and he did the honors. Moreno held an
animated conversation with him ; and different crimi-
nals were brought up for my inspection. All crimes
were represented ; I made acquaintance with robbers,
cut-throats, murderers and other choice specimens of
the genus villain. They excited no loathing ; rather
it seemed to me hard that thev should be confined
thus, and so many of their fellows running loose a
few yards away. They were all occupied ; for, as no
food is allowed them by the Government, they must
do something for a living or starve to death. Every-
body had something to cell, and if I did not wish to
buy I was invited to bestow charity. I made a small
purchase of a murderer to encourage him ; he manu-
factured saddle-bags and was a benevolent-looking
young man — besides which I wanted a saddle-bag.
Moreno gave the guard a few copper coins, but I
had nothing to bestow on the prisoners except advice ;
and even that they did not get, for the disobliging
courier refused to translate. It was kindly meant,
for it referred to the cleaning up of their quarters ;
and, if followed, would have greatly improved their
health and comfort. Then, having met the most
distinguished of the lot, we took our leave, passing
out beside the still slumbering sentry. On getting
back into the open air we found ourselves surrounded
by the same crowd of disreputables who had impeded
our progress on entering. Half a dozen of them were
holding my mule, a beast that was willing to stand
still till Doomsday of its own accord. The demand
for backsheesh was renewed with redoubled vigor,
30 A RIDE IN MOkOCCO.
and Moreno drove away the mob while I mounted.
Then I looked around, selected the most villainous-
looking of the lot, and bestowed on him a small
copper coin of the value of about a farthing. What
impression it made and what thanks I got I do not
know ; flourishing our sticks we made our way out of
the courtyard ; and then, urging the mules to a trot,
we left the voice of their supplication farther and
farther behind until it died away in the distance.
" Well, Moreno," I said, drawing rein at the summit
of a steep hill, " I have been in prison, now I should
like to go to the palace. Can I see the Cadi ? "
Moreno did not know. " You may see him, sir, you
may not see him. If he rest himself, you see him; if
he do not rest himself, you do not see him. We will
go."
So we went to see if he was resting himself. The
approach to the palace was scarcely more imposing
than the approach to the prison had been. We rode
through narrow streets, full of noisy people, to reach
it. When we reached it, we entered a large court-
yard surrounded with white stone buildings. The
hot sun of Africa streamed down on the white pave-
ment, and was reflected in dazzling rays from the
white walls. On the farther side, some twenty or
thirty ragged men, each with a gun in his lap, sat
cross-legged in a row, resting in the black shadow of
the wall behind them. At one end of the court was a
covered arcade, to which a flight of many steps led up.
Under one of the arches sat, all alone in solitary
state, a fat figure robed in blue and yellow with a
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 31
white turban on his head. " That," said Moreno,
pointing to the fat figure, " is the Cadi of Tangier — he
rest himself."
We advanced over the white stones of the courtyard
as far as Moreno thought it prudent to venture, then
drew up and gazed at His Excellency — the four of us,
Moreno and I and the two mules — regarding him
with becoming reverence. He sat as motionless as a
statue, a bundle of blue and yellow drapery, a white
turban, two fat brown cheeks and a round nose com-
fortably set on the bundle and half hidden by the
white folds of the turban.
" He rest himself, the Cadi — it is the time of day,"
said Moreno.
"He does not see us," I complained, feeling that
all the interest was on one side.
" He does not see a Christian," was the reply. " If
you come from government, he must see ; if you do
not, he cannot see an infidel. He say we are dogs —
no more."
" Dog of a Christian " — even so. The Cadi, though
he saw, yet, as a true believer, could not notice. The
admiring gaze of a child of the west was to that fat
figure of no more account than the stare of the mule
upon which he rode. Not so much ; for the mule, if it
had a religion, was a Mussulman, having the expres-
sion of those who believe in fate and not in reason-
ing.
" And those men over there in the shadow," I said
to Moreno, pointing to the ragged men with guns
who sat cross-legged with their backs against the wall,
"who are they?"
32 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
"Those men — they are his soldiers— they are to
guard him." His body-guard — hence the guns.
" Well why don't they run up to us and ask for
money as everybody else does in Tangier ? "
" When the Cadi is here they cannot see a Christian,"
said Moreno gravely. " If the Cadi go they come for
money ; if the Cadi here, they do not see."
"Arc they paid well ? " I asked, looking at their
rags.
"They are not paid, these men. Sometimes he
pay them — not often. They beg — they work. The
Sultan has no money, except to get wives; they are
four hundred."
I looked compassionately at the body-guard, who
were, one and all, unconscious of our existence, like
their master ; and then back again at the Cadi. The
sun was hot, and the white walls dazzling; I put up
my hand to shade my eyes. All was so very still ;
had they been so many statues, they could not have
been more oblivious of our existence. In this little
scene one could see the pride, self-sufficiency and vain-
glory of the eastern world as in a nutshell. It was
very striking. I half wished the Cadi would go in, to
watch the soldiers spring to their feet and importune
us ; but His Excellency probably considered it infra
dig to move in the presence of such as we ; he sat on
without winking an eye. In a few minutes more
Moreno placed his hand on my arm, and whispered
that we must not stay too long; so I took a last look
at them, and then, turning round, struck the mule on
the flank to spur him on, and we rode out again.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 83
Moreno drew up before an open door, behind which
a flight of stone stairs led up to the floor above.
From upstairs proceeded a chorus of yells of a differ-
ent nature to those to which I had become accustomed.
I noticed the difference, and suggested that we go in
and investigate. " I take you in," said Moreno ; " this
is school."
We left our mules and climbed up the stone stair-
way. At the top was an open door. We sat down on
the floor at the threshold and looked through.
It was a small place, not more than fifteen feet
square. But little room was needed. An elderly
gentleman with an impressive turban and white
beard, sat on the floor with his back to the wall.
Around him, sitting with their backs to him, squatted
a number of little yellow boys, reciting the Koran.
They were packed together as close as it was possible
to pack them ; each wore a fez, and their tiny shoes
were lying all together in a comer. The children
looked prematurely old, their faces were so serious
and so yellow. They lose the look in after life, for
their faces turn brown ; the Moors are a handsome
race. Of course they took no notice of us, we were
unbelievers ; and they had learnt their first lesson in
life, that an unbeliever is a dog and need not be
noticed unless you can get money out of him. Not
two feet from me sat a very small child, whose face
was as yellow as a buttercup. His little toes were
peeping out from under his clothes, and I would have
muck liked to tickle him ; for, though we sat so near,
he was utterly unconscious of our presence. While
34 A RIDE IN MOROCCO,
I was looking at him and wondering what would
happen if I tickled those toes, his face puckered up
and he began to recite.
These children go to school to learn the Koran ; and
when they have learnt enough of it off by heart their
education is finished. Moreno pointed out the old
man who taught, and explained the process of teach-
ing. The old gentleman was quite patriarchal ; but I
decided that, even in oae's school-days, it was better
to have been born in the wild West. It was a very
melancholy type of school.
The child recited with great vehemence ; and I felt
that if I had to listen to his piping voice much longer
I would be obliged to turn the school for a moment
into a similitude of one in the West, and spank him.
The scorn of the true believer, expressed by so very
young a boy in so marked a manner, was too irri-
tating to be borne with patience. Lest this should
happen I rose and we descended the stairs.
Then we rode through the market-place. A num-
ber of camels and donkeys stood together in groups
in the middle of the square, leisurely eating their hay.
Around them, in a circle, sat their owners, men and
women from the country, all sitting on the ground
with their produce displayed on mats in front of
them. There were heaps of golden oranges and
mandarins, all kinds of fruit and vegetables, grain
and poultry. Gathered about each was a throng of
buyers, bargaining with much argument and gesticu-
lation in true Eastern style. Passing through the
market, we rode on into the country.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 35
The streets of Tangier are so bad as to be dangerous,
but the roads outside the city are, if possible, worse.
On each side of the road is a wall protecting the gar-
dens and vineyards ; and half of the wall is usually
standing and the other half scattered over the high-
way in the shape of heaps of stones. A ditch, some-
times a deep one, runs zig-zag along the road, keeping
as near the middle as possible ; and often, on account
of the holes and the stones, one comes to a standstill
and is obliged to jump the ditch to the other side,
only to return again to escape a new obstacle. We
rode along, sometimes on one side of the ditch and
sometimes on the other; and not infrequently the
ditch divided into two, forming a little island, on
which we stood deciding which way to jump.
But if the roads were bad, I was more than repaid
for the trouble of riding over them. We ascended a
long hill, and the view from the top was superb. On
one side rose the city, looking like spotless marble in
the glorious sunlight, its white houses with their flat
roofs rising tier above tier, catching a faint yellow-
ish tinge from the mellowing rays of the setting
sun ; while the crumbling citadel and the many towers
cast mysterious black shadows here and there, en-
hancing the beauty of the scene. Between us and
the city were patches of vivid green fields and
gardens, glistening like jewels ; even the road, seen
winding in and out down in the valley, looked
alluring. The rains were but just over. They
commence toward the end of October and continue
for about nine weeks; consequently the season of
36 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
verdure was at its height. The rain had just fallen,
the greenness was universal, the hot sun had as yet
wrought no blight on the vegetation.
But the view of the city was eclipsed by that on
the farther side. Away to the east and west and
south rose the mountains, piled up in purple masses
against a sky lovely as that of Naples, their soft
purplish rolcr blending in the shadowy parts into
a deep purple blue, sometimes streaked with grey
or lightened with floods of golden sunlight. Isolated
dwellings stood out here and there, on hillside or in
valley, like tiny cornelians set in amethyst and
emerald ; and down in the valley to the southward I
saw a long line of camels and horses, Arabs mounted
and on foot, with white turbans and flowing cloaks,
slowly making their way toward the mountains. It
was enchanting.
"Moreno, this is a fine country for the painter.
They are gloriously beautiful, those mountains ! "
Moreno looked around with a dull and unsympa-
thetic eye. " You can go in three days, and no more,"
said he. " I am the man who will take you."
I had told him I wished to cross the mountains; and
he had assured me that he was not only a good guide,
but the only reliable one in the country. There had
been no tourists in Morocco for many months on
account of the cholera; but two men had arrived
this very day in Tangier — Englishmen from the gar-
rison at Gibraltar — and Moreno was full of concern
lest they should come to grief, having engaged a
soldier and a guide in whom he had no confidence.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 37
" I should like to go to Fez," I said, " but it will
cost too much ; you and your soldier and the mules,
among you, would break me."
" Mahomet is a good soldier and I am a good man,"
said Moreno ; " you are safe. We do not break a man
in Morocco, only the Rifs. Vous comprenez ?"•
He frequently ended a sentence in this way, adding
" vous comprenez," as if French had been my mother-
tongue and we were speaking English for practice.
When he swore, he swore in Spanish or Arabic —
Spanish if he swore at me, Arabic if at the mules.
I felt flattered at the distinction. The Rif country is
in a state of chronic rebellion against the Sultan. If
you travel in Morocco, you must have a soldier with
you; his presence ensures your safety. In the Rif
country, however, they kill you, soldier and all.
" I am not afraid of the Rifs," I said boldly, not
having any intention of making a detour into that
part of the Moorish dominions where those amiable
people abound. " With you and Mahomet, I should
think one would be safe anywhere."
" A man who goes into the Rif country is cut with
a knife," said Moreno ; " I do not go."
" Pernaps I shall go alone."
Moreno swore — in Spanish. *' Two men go to-mor-
row to Tetuan, the first since the cholera," he said,
referring again to the Englishmen, as foreigners
always do, thinking that because one of your nation-
ality is doing a thing you must wish to do it also
— " and they have no guide, only Gilali who is a fool
and knows nothing. They come from Gibraltar,
these men."
38 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
" Well it will be best for me to go to Tetuan, too.
Are you sure there are no Rifs ? "
" You ride with me and Mahomet," replied Moreno
gravely. " Robbers ? — one, two or three, they are
nothing. After night you are not out — you will go
to Tetuan ? "
" Novi^ verrons. Vous cortiprenez ? "
Much more was said. I endeavor to transcribe
Moreno's remarks correctly; but it is impossible to
give them exactly as they were uttered. He spoke
English in the fashion of a child who recites by rote,
and French and Spanish words frequently got in by
mistake, of which he was quite unconscious. He
waxed eloquent, dilating on the beauties of the
country to be traversed, the comforts of travelling
in Morocco on mule-back, the incompetency of all
guides (except Moreno) and the inexpensive nature of
the trip. I put off coming to terms until the evening,
telling him I had decided not to decide. " But all the
same, I must cross those glorious mountains ! " I said,
turning again, and looking at the panorama which
lay spread out before me to the westward.
" No, those are the wrong mountains," said Moreno
gravely. "It is eight days to go by that way.
Tetuan is over those mountains," pointing eastward
with a fat finger ; " it is one, two, three days and no
more."
Moreno's literalness was painful. I resolved not to
indulge in any more raptures while he was listening.
His next suggestion was that I should go back to the
hotel for dinner ; and accordingly we started.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 39
When we got Imck into the city we came to a level
plain fairly well paved, and started our mules to a
gallop. I had been ao hot that my hat had become
heav}^ and I was wearing it on the back of my head.
Turning the corner the wind took it. I never had
so much trouble getting a hat. To begin with Mor-
eno was angry, and swore as he went to fetch it.
Then he had to fight with the whole street for
the possession of it. I rode around laughing, as he
beat one dirty Moor after another for the pains they
took to get it back to me without the intermediary
of a courier. But Moreno was obdurate and dealt
blow after blow with his stick, until at last it was
dropped at his feet and he was able to bring it to me.
" I am very sorry, Moreno," I said, " but you did
look so funny beating those beggars."
" In Morocco we do not laugh at that," said Moreno.
" I will never laugh again, Moreno."
"In Morocco we keep our hat on our head," he
said roughly, and kindly put mine on for me, jam-
ming it down tight over my eyes. We rode on, the
street following, clamoring for money because they
had picked up my hat.
At dinner I had the charming company of the
French captain again ; but he was reduced to a state
of semi- stupefaction, and contented himself with one
bottle of wine. His hat was drawn down close over
his eyes, and his voice was heard only in feeble
mutterings. After dinner I sauntered to the door,
and lighting a pipe, sat down to watch the street life.-
To my great amusement my young friend, the boy
40 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
who held such a favorable opinion of the English, still
stood opposite, and when he caught my eye, saluted
me with the same words, " Good morning, sir," very
distinctly pronounced.
" Good evening, boy," I answered, nodding ; " you
must make a distinction between morning and even-
ing. What do you think of the English now ? "
" The English are nice people," said the boy.
" So they are, boy ; and perhaps as grasping as the
Moors, only wc don't show it in the same way."
There was a short silence, and then the boy said,
*' You are going to Tetuan, sir ? "
News evidently travels fast in Morocco, notwith-
standing the absence of railways and telegraph wires.
Heavens, suppose they were preparing for me in
Tetuan already ! Instinctively I clutched my purse.
The boy seemed to divine my thoughts, for he wagged
his head and said solemnly, " Don't pay more than
three pesetas apiece for your mules."
The sum was what Moreno had suggested, so I
decided to let that item stand and fight others.
While I was thinking about it I felt a hand touch
me ; the boy was at my side, his palm extended. He
held it right under my nose. I looked at him in-
quiringly, and he said, " The English are nice people —
coffee."
I took out a coin submissively and placed it in the
open palm. There were a few words, " Good morning,
sir, the English are nice people," and then a pair
of heels were visible, disappearing up the street. I
saw him no more until I returned from Tetuan.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 41
When Moreno arrived he took me out with him to
a place which could only be described as a cafe chan-
tant — without the woman in white satin gown and
paste diamonds who usually figures on the stage in
such places. It was a long, low room, divided
half way across by a row of wooden pillars. The
entrance door was in one corner. At one end of the
room there was a divan on which we sat down,
Moreno and I ; everyone else, performers and habitues,
sat on the floor, cross-legged. The musicians, five in
number, sat in a circle. What their instruments
were, what sort of music it was, I cannot say. To
the western ear it was one long, loud succession of
frightful discords. They sang to the music, and the
singing was in keeping with the accompaniment.
Moreno interpreted some verses for me, and the
subjects were the same as those to which we are
accustomed in the western world — Beauty's eyes and
the stars of Heaven inspiring the sentiment. It
seemed to me that the melodies of Paolo Tosti were
more in accordance with the feelings they are intended
to express than those of the Arabian song-writers.
Perhaps, as the eyes of the African beauty are invari-
ably half hidden by an unsightly burnoose, the
African composer deems it consistent to veil his finer
feelings in a discordant jingle.
Other guests came and went, men and boys.
Turbans and fez were, of course, never doffed, but the
shoes were left at the door. In compliment to the
nation I kept my hat on my head ; but forbore going
so far as to slip off^ my riding boots. As soon as we
42 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
were seated a man shuffled up to Moreno and asked
him what we would take. Moreno wanted coffee and
I tea, at which Moreno shook his head. " If it
doesn't agree with me I shall know better the next
time," said I with some inward misgivings, as I
ordered the tea to be brought. Moreno was my
guardian, and I obeyed him in all matters of impor-
tance ; but I thought it hard not to be allowed a cup
of tea, and was determined to have my own way.
The drinks were brought. Moreno's coffee looked
very good ; it was strong and black with a delicious
aroma. The tea — well, in Morocco they make it weak,
and fill the glass (it is drunk in glasses) with green
mint, full up to the top ; it is sweetened overmuch
with brown sugar besides. A more disgusting mess
cannot be imagined.
Moreno sipped his coffee. I put my glass to my
lips and sniffed. I detest the odor of mint. I have
never tasted Moorish tea ; but that once I smelt it.
The smell made me quite ill. I put it down on my
knee and looked at it pensively. Meanwhile the
aroma of Moreno's coffee was tantalizing.
" You do not like it ? " said Moreno in the tone of
" I told you so."
" I don't know," I answered vaguely. And then,
turning to him, I said in a friendly way, " Moreno,
will you swop drinks ? "
*' ' Swop ' drinks," said Moreno, " what are they ? "
" Do you like tea ? "
" I can drink it," said Moreno with dignity ; " you
can not. I will change."
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 43
We " swopped." He drank the tea and I the coffee
with the feelings of a child who has found "papa
knows best." Then we paid for our entertainment
and went out.
When we returned to the hotel Moreno and I sat
down to calculate the cost of an excursion into the
mountains. To travel in Morocco one must have a
permit from the Cadi of Tangier. You are also
required to be accompanied by a soldier; if you go
without and are robbed or murdered you can make
no complaint ; it is your own fault. Moreno under-
took to get a permit that night ; and as for soldiers,
there was Mahomet, than whom a more trustworthy
person was not to be found in Morocco or out of it.
The name was suggestive, and I agreed to Mahomet.
Then I was bidden to go to bed, as we must be up at
half-past five and away. I remonstrated to no
effect ; we must start early in order to be in Tetuan
before the gates closed. To pass the night outside of
a walled town was dangerous on account of robbers
and murderers. I thought of the pleasing people
whom I had met in the prison, and agreed to an early
start. " But I shall never wake at five," I said.
" You will wake when I come," said Moreno ; " and
then you will get up. Now you will go to bed."
The door closed behind him, and I laid myself down
to rest with a new and rather pleasurable sensation —
that of being, for the first time since infancy, no
longer responsible for my actions.
44 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
II.
The hotel was built on the top of a cliff which
overlooked the sea ; and I was kept awake the greater
part of the night by the roaring of the wind and the
dashing of waves against the rocks. At last, how-
ever, I fell asleep, and was enjoying a sweet morning
nap when I became conscious that Moreno, booted and
spurred, stood beside me, candle in hand, announcing
in a business-like tone of voice that it was five o'clock.
Instead of leaping out of bed as he evidently expected,
I yawned and said there was time enough, which
made him look serious. He said that if we did not
start at once we might not reach Tetuan before night-
fall, and hinted darkly of robbers and bandits — so I
rose. Pointing to some coffee and a half of a loaf of
bread which he had brought with him, he went out
to see to the packing of our provisions.
I was choking myself with lumps of bread and
putting on a necktie at the same time, when he
reappeared and announced that the mules were
restive — which I can well believe. Nothing on earth
can move a mule if you are in a great hurry ; but if
you wish to take your time the mule bums to be
galloping on. " This tie is so troublesome, Moreno,"
I said ; " it requires time and patience."
" In Morocco you do not want a tie," said Moreno ;
" it is only Moors you see."
" Nevertheless I could not exist without a tie," I
explained ; " it is self-respect, I suppose."
Moreno did not understand ; but he helped me on
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 45
with the tie, and a terrible mess he made of it. I
scalded my throat with hot coffee, he put on my coat
for me, and down we went.
It was dark, damp and cool in the alley outside. A
young Moor was there with a lantern ; and the fitful
light filled the quaint little street with weird shadows.
Under that archway, behind yonder latticed window,
in the shadow of the doorway, one could imagine all
kinds of grim and romantic forms. In the dim light
I saw three mules, and on one of them sat the pictur-
esque figure of Mahomet. Few people with suggestive
names fail to disappoint, when at last you see them
for the first time before the name has become indivi-
dualized for you. Mahomet was one of the few ; his
name became him. He was a tall and well-built Arab,
slender, and graceful in his movements. His features
were regular and his smile prepossessing. A faint
moustache and the suggestion of a beard gave him a
benevolent look; and the face was an index to the
mind within. He was well dressed, wearing a great
many clothes, Arab-like ; a loose white cloak that hung
over his shoulders and all around his body, showing
here and there under the outer one of dark reddish
color which he wore over all. His turban, falling
behind over his neck and kept in place by a loose
string, was spotlessly white. Crosswise in front of
him on the pommel of his saddle lay a long Moorish
gun covered with the brass-work in which the nation
delights ; and a formidable-looking knife hung at his
side. Altogether he inspired me with great confidence
and respect at the outset; and the feeling deepened
46 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
on closer acquaintance. Moreno despised him; but
Moreno's opinion did not alter mine, though I was
obliged to treat Moreno as if he were infallible.
The mules did not impress me so favorably. To
begin with, I was obliged to ride in a Moorish saddle
with Moorish stirrups, not having thought of provid-
ing myself with a European one. Their saddles are
broad, flat and ill-made, badly stuffed, lumpy, and
generally greatly the worse for wear. Moors have
apparently no bones, muscles or nerves to hurt. The
stirrups are square. As mules stumble at times on
jagged rocks or in pitfalls, a heavy square stirrup
has its advantage ; your foot, once in it, stays there.
The mule may roll over, stumble, pirouette, or leap
the wrong way ; you are on his back at the end, even
if every bone be dislocated. But the habits of the
mule, and a square, flat, ill-stuffed saddle make a
journey of the kind somewhat fatiguing. Tourists
coming from Gibraltar frequently bring their own
saddles and ride horses, which is a more comfortable
method of making the excursion into the mountains ;
although the horse is not so surefooted as the mule on
the hills. As for me, I was " doing in Rome as the
Romans do," and had to take the consequences. The
young Moor held the lantern for us to see to mount,
and we got off, Mahomet leading, then I, and last
Moreno, the mules, no longer so eager to be going,
encouraged by volleys of Arabic in the front and
rear.
We picked our way down the steep, narrow street,
turning corners, passing under archways and crossing
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 47
ditches, getting gradually down the hill, until we
struck a street leading to the shore. Unlike the other
cities and towns of Morocco, Tangier has neither walls
nor gates ; you pass gradually out of the city into
the country. When we reached the shore, we found
ourselves on the outskirts of the town, the houses
rising on one side and the bare hills and fields on the
other.
The country around is very detiolate. There are
detached houses heru and there, and orange-gardens ;
but the houses and garden-walls are in a ruinous
condition, the roads detestable, and the hills bare.
Consequently the country outside the town is rather
dreary ; though the state of dilapidation into which
everything has fallen in Morocco adds a certain weird
beauty to the scene. The background of mountains
renders every view sublime ; but there are few trees
and no flowers along the roadside, and the evidences
of Asiatic despotism are visible at every step.
We reached the sea, and for some time the road we
followed lay along the shore. We rode on the wet
sand amid the sea-weed, the waves rolling in at our
feet, the breath of the ocean fanning our cheeks and
bracing us for the long climb over the mountains.
Nothing was ever lovelier than that ride along the
beach over the hard sand in the hour before the dawn
of day. We were travelling due east ; and, though it
was not as yet the hour of sunrise, looking out over
the Mediterranean, one could see a greyish glimmer
on the far horizon.' The water was of the deepest,
deepest blue, almost black, a silver fringe of foam
48 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
showing itself along the curved line of the shore where
the waves broke on the sand. The sky overhead was
full of deep night, and yet with suggestions of the
dawn, paling stars and streaks of purple in the east-
ward telling the approach of day. Low down in the
east it glowed deep purple, like the purple after sunset,
against which stood out the picturesque figure of
Mahomet, with his long cloak and white turban flut-
tering in the wind that blew from the sea. To the
right rose the mountains, veiled in the white mists of
morning, the summits of the hills invisible, but the
base showing a dark tint of green almost black, in
vivid contrast to the clouds that hung above.
As we rode on and on, the light on the water be-
came more and more distinct, the color in the sky was
reflected below, and the dark purple in the east grew
ruddier and ruddier, until a golden tinge began to
spread itself over the horizon, and the first streaks of
sunlight shot upward from the sea.
I could have ridden for hours along that shore, but
our route lay elsewhere. Turning sharply to the
right, we began to follow a winding path that led up
among the wild hills. Then began a climb. Tangier
lay behind us ; and as we turned and doubled the side
of the hill, a glance back showed the city rising
terrace above terrace, the white houses gleaming in
the first light of the morning.
There are no carriage roads in Morocco, nothing
but mule-paths. There are, however, mule-paths and
mule-paths. Sometimes you can see a path ; and if it
is on the level, or a long smooth hillside, you can
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 49
indulge in a gallop with impunity, knowing whither
you are going. But this is an exception ; as a rule
you see nothing but boulders in front of you and
pit-falls on every side. There is nothing to be done
but sit warily and let the mule find his way. During
the war with Spain the Spaniards penetrated to
Tetuan, and left as a memorial of their conquest a
bridge over one of the rivers not far from Tangier.
This bridge, or a half of it, still stands, broken off in
the middle. The mule picks his way over the broken
stones of the fallen half, and then jumps up on the
remaining portion, and trots gaily to the river bank.
I asked Moreno why the Sultan did not repair this
bridge, but was told that " he has no money, only for
his wives — in Morocco we do not repair." I noticed
with pleasure that there was only the one bridge.
Fording a stream has its disadvantages; but it is
preferable to crossing a bridge that is broken in two
in the middle, with one-half standing and the other
lying scattered in heaps of stones.
Mahomet in his dark reddish-brown cloak led the
way, looking, save for the long Moorish gun, like a
veritable picture of Ishmael. He went along at a
jog-trot, Arab-fashion, mule and man moving to-
gether and no rise in the saddle. This is all very
well for cavalry — a horse and a civilized saddle make
a great difference. I tried it in the Moorish saddle —
but a short experience was enough. I have never
been seasick ; but I felt the last stage of seasickness
that morning. Death would have been a happy
relief.
60 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
The Englishmen we saw ahead of us, two gentle-
men with guide and soldier, riding on the mule-path
half a mile beyond, around the mountain. I was
pleased to think they were going my way, for the
people whom we met were all Berbers and Arabs,
riding on camels or mules ; and the thought of seeing
an English face and hearing the English tongue at
the end of the journey was cheering. I whipped up
my mule, and we began the ascent.
It was fatiguing work, though the novelty more
than atoned for the fatigue. All day long it was
nothing but one mountain after another, with short
stretches of valley in between, vallies green as
emerald, covered with long, rank grass. There were
no trees; but low palmettos grew everywhere, and
some strange African plants of which I did not know
the name. Moreno never knew it either, except in
Arabic. In the vallies we could trot, which varied
the slow monotony of going stone over stone, up and
down ; but the vallies were usually narrow, and the
trot short. A stream was always forded and then
the mules would begin their slow ascent, climbing
up on a huge boulder, looking about, and then
plunging down in a hurry, just where one least
expected them to go. " Do not tie up your mule,"
Moreno would call out to me ; " he is not a horse.
Untie him and he will find himself."
This meant " give him a loose rein and he will find
his way"; at first I did not understand it, and he
was obliged to show me what he meant. I had lost
all sense of personal responsibility for my actions, as
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 61
far as Moreno was concerned ; and now it appeared
that I was to be governed by the mule.
I dislike riding a beast without knowing its name ;
" Moreno, what do you call the mule ? "
" Je ne comprends pas."
"What is his name?"
" He has no name — he is a mule."
So I named him after a dear friend left behind in
Canada, whom the animal's characteristics brought
into pathetic remembrance ; he answered to the name
in more ways than one.
Progress, even with the mules untied and finding
themselves, was slow, the path was so steep, a path
for the most part over the rocks. Often I could not
tell which was path and which was not, the mule
and I usually differing on the subject. Four times
my stirrup broke ; and each time Moreno tied it up
with a bit of string, saying it would never break
again. At last I got exasperated, and changed mules
with Moreno. His saddle, however, was much worn
and lumpy ; he had given me the best ; I was glad to
get back to my own beast. " The man who owns the
mule wants money," said Moreno.
" He ought to be ashamed of himself."
" He is not. He does not care. It ' is all one — he
wants money, that man ; he does not care."
"He wants a good thrashing," I said with some
indignation ; " if I had him here he would get it."
" No," said Moreno gravely, shaking his head, " he
is a big man ; you are not."
" I would do something with him, if I had him," I
52 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
Raid savagely ; and, brandiHhing my stick in the air,
I castigated the imaginary mule-owner with great
severity. Even that was better than nothing.
The sun shone bright, now up above the mountains ;
and no words can describe the beauty of the green
vallies, fading and merged in a lighter tint farther
up, which in its turn gave place to the rich purplish
brown of the rocky heights above. The deep blues,
almost indigo, the rich purple and the golden brown
of those mountain peaks were wonderful. And they
were wild, wild and rugged, no clustering foliage, no
trees to relieve the sides of the bills ; yet such glori-
ous masses of rich color I never saw elsewhere. And
the people were as wild as the country — great dark,
rough-looking men, with strong limbs and morose ex-
pression, all dressed in loose garments of the same
c lor, a dirty yellowish white. The Moorish villages,
mostly perched high up on the hills, are simply col-
lections of huts, built of stones and mud and thatched
with straw. Only in the neighborhood of cities does
one see the white stone house, set in an orange garden
and surrounded with a high white wall, so common
in pictures of the land.
We were not aliowed to dismount, that is I was
not ; Mahomet did, several times, to say his prayers.
It did not cause any delay, for he was not one of
those who expect to be heard for their much speak-
ing; a leap from the saddle, a spreading of his
shoulder-cloth on the ground, and a moment's
kneeling with his face turned toward Mecca, was
enough. He would be up again in the saddle, lei-
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 53
Kurely riding on uh before, in le8H time than one couI<l
conceive. When travelling, the devout Mussuhnan
need say no more than his creed, " There is no God
but God, and Mahomet is His prophet," which is done
in a moment. The grace with which Mahomet got
up and down, and the look of d jvotion in his eyes as
he knelt for an instant to pray, were really incom-
parable. I noticed that he never prayed when I
stopped to talk to Moreno, or when the stirrup
broke; he smoked hasheesh in a short yellow pipe,
with a bowl the size of one's little finger, regarding
the mountains with a dreamy, contemplative air.
Hasheesh is intoxicating, and, if you smoke enough,
stupefying. As they are forbidden wine by the Koran,
the Moors use it as a stimulant. Mahomet must
have been an old toper, for he smoked much, and it
seemed to have no effect on him.
Let no one suppose that this was a quiet journey ;
never, for one moment, did we hold our peace. It
was all Arabic, spoken to the mules in a high key ;
and, though ignorant of its meaning, I caught the
words parrot-like, and the hills echoed with a per-
petual trio. Trio, do I say ? Rather a chorus, like
that of demons ; for we kept meeting people all the
way — men on camels, men on asses, men on mules.
As soon as anyone saw us coming, he would scream
out to urge on his beast and warn us to make room.
Mahomet and Moreno invariably disputed the right
of way, and kept shouting to them and beating their
mules and donkeys back; and a volley of Arabic
would be shot from both sides, leading to the cou-
54 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
elusion that a bloody conflict was impending. Once
I remonstrated ; but the fire in Moreno's eye was
more alarming than the hostility of the Moors, so I
changed my mind, and did as the others did. When-
ever I saw a donkey coming, I leaned over and struck
it with my stick. I dislike cruelty to animals ; but
if every man you meet curses you and strikes your
mule, what can you do but curse him and strike
back ? Once we met a party of over twenty ; the
majority rode mules and donkeys, but there were two
horsemen. Among the crowd were two Spaniards, a
man and a woman. The latter wore a white veil,
and looked as if she was tired enough of the com-
pany she was obliged to keep. A crowd of dirty
Moors, yelling and screaming, surrounded her, form- .
ing her escort. She and the Spanish gentleman
who rode with her were the only ones of the party
who did not order us to stand aside and make way.
As we passed through this horde, my mule was be-
labored on both sides at once ; and I was unable to
return the compliment in full, though I struck out
and hit whatever came within reach.
The women were uncommonly quiet when we met
theUi, sitting mutely on their donkeys or at the side
of the road. All the talking was done by the men,
which seemed unnatural. They all wore the yellow-
ish white burnoose, showing only one eye ; and never
lifted up their voices, whatever the cause for com-
plaint. But they were real women. While the men
invariably passed me without condescending to look
at me, contented to curse with averted eyes and to
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 66
strike my poor mule, I found that the one visible eye
of the woman always met mine. One delicious
spectacle presented itself ; a huge Moor, very fat and
very yellow, came along riding a mule, his four wives
on donkeys following in a line. The Moor looked
neither to the right nor to the left, passing the " dog
of a Christian " in quiet scorn. But the women — the
wives — as they approached, turned, each of them, her
one visible orb full upon me with true feminine
curiosity ; and I gravely saluted each in turn.
What, what, was there hidden behind those yellow
veils ? And was one old and ugly, and another young
and fair, and another — but, alas ! I shall never know.
What a land !
It was half an hour past midday, and we had been
climbing up and climbing down for several hours in
the scorching sun, when we came in sight of the great
caravansarai on the top of the mountains. It looked
like a fortress ; a high stone wall about a hundred feet
in length and breadth with one door in the middle of
one side, is what it appears from without. It is built
of the roughest masonry, and must be centuries old —
delightful to the student of Ruskin and mediaeval art,
for no modern restorer has ever laid sacrilegeous hand
thereon, or taken up a subscription for repairs. There
it stands, there it has stood, there it will stand ; cen-
turies come, centuries go, it changeth not, save for the
occasional falling of another stone, which, like the tree
in the hymn. " as it falls, so it must lie." Some stones
had fallen on the ground under the arched entrance,
and looked as if they had lain there for a century ;
56 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
no one, I suppose, had ever thought of taking them
away. I felt tempted to do it myself ; but I was stiff,
and, besides, the act in Moorish eyes would have
seemed an evidence of unsound mind.
The inside is like the outside — unrestored through-
out. A rough arcade runs around the inner side of
the wall ; and under the arches is shelter for man and
beast. The court in the middle is covered with loose
stones, left there when it was built. When it rains,
they lie there among the mud ; when it is fine, the
dust blows on them ; half an hour's labor would cart
them all outside, and make a level courtyard. In
one corner the caretaker lives, along with a few
ragged, unkempt individuals, who carry guns and
are supposed to act as protectors from robbers and
other ills.
Rude as it was, I rejoiced greatly at the sight of it.
Moreno rejoiced also. He felt the heat, I the fatigue
of climbing and the discomfort of a Moorish saddle.
As for me, I revelled in the hot sunlight, and chaffed
him on finding it warm in January. In the summer
months the heat on these hills must be intense, to the
European almost unbearable ; though, for my part, I
prefer (in this present world) a land with a warm
climate. We left the mules in the court in charge of
a Moor, and made our way over to the corner of the
caravansarai reserved for human beings. On a wide
divan covered with brown matting lay a dissolute-
looking young Moor, stupefying himself with the
fumes of hasheesh. Some one gave him a shake and
a kick, and he disappeared into an inner room, while
I took his place.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 67
The Englishmen with their escort we met riding
out as we rode in, which I half regretted and half not,
being more intent, for the moment, on food and wine
than the forming of new acquaintances. The appear-
ance of Moreno, bringing cold chicken, bread and
mandarins, with a bottle of wine under his arm, was
more refreshing than anything else could possibly
have been at that moment ; and we fell to, and began
to feast.
It was truly delicious, that lunch at the caravan-
sarai ; and I ate and drank like a half-starved creature,
Moreno having proved himself a good caterer. He
sat on the divan beside me and shared my meal,
Mahomet sitting cross-legged a short distance away.
The latter had provided his own refreshment, and it
consisted of half a loaf of hard brown bread, which he
munched in dignified silence. I desired to share my
better provision with him ; and, though at first refus-
ing utterly in Scriptural fashion, he ended by taking
something of everything — except the wine, which
being a devout Mussulman, he refused to touch. This
commandment they seem to keep. A member of the
Woman's Christian Temperance Union coming over-
worked and disheartened to Morocco, might, as long
as she remained among the natives, enjoy complete
repose. Should the call to arise and be doing suddenly
come to her, she need only attach herself to the first
European she meets ; for in this cholera-ridden country
no one ever ventures far without a goodly supply of
wine.
After we had finished our food, the Moors brought
58 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
us coffee, which they made in the inner room over a
fire of charcoal. Moreno and I both appreciated it.
Mahomet preferred tea — or hot mint and sugar — and,
having lighted his hasheesh pipe again, presented it to
me with some ceremony, as is the custom of the
country when you desire to pay a compliment.
I bowed gravely in acknowledgment. Hasheesh, or
Indian hemp, is not to be indulged in with impunity
by the novice ; a pipe or two produce intoxication ;
one or two more stupefaction. However, I took the
pipe and had a few whiffs, Moreno warning me not to
smoke much of it, and returned it with several bows.
I found my own pipe and tobacco preferable.
" In half an hour we start to go," said Moreno sol-
emnly, not looking, however, as if he were in a hurry
to move. I remonstrated on the short time allowed
for a rest, and was again threatened with bandits. A
party of English, men and women, had, he said, made
the journey in three days, having tents and an escort
of soldiers. If I had wished to go slowly, I could have
done it of course — for a consideration. Speaking of
money suggested the land of freedom. " Do American
women ever come this way ? " I asked. " Have you
ever acted as courier to any ? "
The effect of this question was painful to see.
Moreno's happy expression vanished, he assumed a
tragic air, and said, " Once — but do not ask me ! "
"But why can you not tell me? You acted as
courier to some ladies — "
" Once — it was a bad time — do not ask me."
Nevertheless I persisted in knowing. " It can do
you no harm to tell me now, Moreno ; it is all over."
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 59
" Two American women come — come to Morocco —
come to Xaiigier ; and they say they ride to Tetuan."
" Well, go on, Moreno ; don't be ill."
" They dress in silk — silk — to come to Morocco ;
silk — dresses of silk — it is true." Moreno's face was
a study.
'* Very unwise. And they rode to Tetuan ? "
" They dress — it is for the theatre — to ride to
Tetuan ; it is true."
" Did they get there ? "
" No ! They say donkeys, I say mules ; they say
donkeys, I say horses; they say donkeys, I say
anything not donkeys ; they say donkeys. We ride
donkeys."
All his charges had evidently not been as obedient
as I.
" And then, Moreno, having got their own way
about the donkeys, what happened ? "
" My God ! In the mountains came a storm, came
a wind, came a rain — rain, wind — rain, wind — rain,
wind. Donkeys fall all the time ; dresses wet all the
time ; women cry all the time." And then followed
an outburst in sonorous Spanish, in which the un-
fortunate women were consigned to a land many
times hotter than Morocco, and to the care of guar-
dians compared to whom the savage bandits of the
mountains were lambs.
" What on earth did you do, Moreno ? "
Moreno lifted his hand and raised his eyes with
the air of a tragedian. "God Himself, in heaven,
know what I do that day — I do not ! "
60 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
Mahomet, having smoked several pipes of hasheesh,
rose and went to fetch the mules. I would willingly
have rested for several hours on the divan, and slept
and dreamed away the hot afternoon; but such a
blissful experience was not to be mine. Instead
there was the Moorish saddle and the rocky hills;
and prudence dictated an early start. We paid the
keeper of the caravansarai for our coffee, distributed
a few coppers among the ragged individuals who
hung around, and took our leave.
The sun was now very hot, and beat down fiercely
on us as we descended the hillside. The first two
hours' riding after you leave the caravansarai, is by
far the worst part of the journey ; it is all climbing
up and going down steep hills over the rocks. The
only alleviation is a delightful view of the city of
Tetuan, lying in a green valley, far below in the
distance. It is fifteen miles away, or " four hours,"
as they say in Morocco, counting distances by the
time it takes to traverse them, having no measure-
ments by the mile. The two cities, Tangier and
Tetuan, are forty-five miles apart, a good day's
journey when you take into account the country to
be crossed. To be done comfortably, one should take
two days to it. But there in the valley, far away,
lay Tetuan, a long white streak, looking like a string
of pearls and opals lying on emerald velvet ; a back-
ground of soft purple mountain towering above it,
blending with the blue of the sky. There it lay, the
full gleam of the sunlight upon it ; for we were
travelling due east, and the sun was now behind us.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 61
As we descended we lost it, and two weary hours
passed before we saw it again ; and then it began to
appear as we went up and down, again and again,
seeming always to be as far away as ever. It seemed
a long afternoon ; but gradually one felt the sun was
getting lower and lower, and hot upon one's back.
The shadows of the mountains grew longer and
longer; blue shadows crept over the green vallies
around us, and the purple hill-tops lighted up before
us, and shone like purple-gold. And we kept slowly
on our way, step after step, Mahomet's white turban
and flowing cloak disappearing down the hillside in
front of me, and Moreno swearing in Arabic to urge
on the mules behind — a solemn procession.
The road improves as you approach Tetuan, and
the last hour and a half is by far the best part of the
journey. The path leads through a long valley, which
presently becomes a gorge, the purple mountains rising
almost perpendi<.ularly a little distance away. The
sun shone brightly through the gorge, the entrance
being full west ; but in a short time we emerged upon
a plain, a large valley completely shut in by the high
mountains ; and, turning to the right, found ourselves
in the shadow of the hills. Here we started the mules
into a gallop, and went briskly along in the shade for
about two miles, until we came to a river. The river
was forded, and then we found ourselves in the sun-
light again, with a hill in front of us to be climbed.
But it was the last hill, and we took it leisurely.
When we at last got down into the green valley
again, Moreno informed me that there were no more
62 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
mountains to pass over. We could not see Tetuan,
but he assured me that we were getting there in good
time, before the gates closed. So we rode on in peace,
in the shadow of the mountains, the hilltops all aglow
with the glory of the sunset.
Moreno fell quiet at the end, and even left off talk-
ing to his mule. In perfect silence we rode, now at a
walking pace, now at a trot, through this wild valley,
with the glow of evening around and above, and an
even stillness in the earth and sky. And, though it
seemed that we would never do it, yet in the end the
last hill was rounded, the last brook forded ; and we
began to ascend the slow-rising plain, with the white
walls of the city gleaming golden in the rays of the
setting sun before us.
Here it became noisy again, for we mingled with a
stream of people who were returning from the country
for the night, some driving their flocks and herds
before them. Flocks of black goats, sheep with the
shepherd going before them, donkeys toiling under
heavy loads, women carrying baskets, men on foot,
men on mules, a motley crowd — we all mingled
together, picking our way over the worst of roads,
jumping ditches, and stopping occasionally at the
boundaries of vineyards to decide which was the
pathway and which the wall.
Tetuan is a walled town, lying in a green valley,
forty -five miles east of Tangier. Mountains, destitute
of vegetation, rise more or less precipitously, a few
miles away, on every side. The white walls are pic-
turesque, old and ruinous, weather-stained and crumr
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 63
bling ; here and there are the dilapidated remains of
towers, and here and there a gate, which is closed at
sunset. Seen in the golden glow cast by the setting
sun, this dilapidated old wall with its crumbling
towers and its old-time gateway with the black
shadows under the arch, looked like the picture of
another age. It all had a dead-and-gone look, as if
it were but the ghost of the city one saw ; and one
seemed to smell the grave. Yet it was full enough
of life, and noisy enough within and without — the
strange fantastic life of the East unveiled in all its
novelty and charm. One can image, not describe, the
scene — camels, mules, donkeys, flocks of sheep and
goats, crowds of men and women, all hurrying along
together, jostling, crying, swearing, struggling along
pell-mell up the stony path, close to the crumbling
walls, under the archway, through the gate ; while
the setting sun threw a halo of glory around every
nook and cranny, and made the dirty yellow burnoose,
the tawny cloak of the Arab, the red fez and the
white turban, gleam brightly with gorgeous color as
the mob struggled along.
We went in with them, and passed out of the sunset
into a narrow street, whence all sunshine, except when
the sun was directly overhead, was excluded. Inside,
the city was all animation. The hour for closing the
gates was drawing near, the day's work was done, a
motley crowd filled the narrow streets, and we were
surrounded on all sides. As we turned to the right
and took the street leading to the " Christians' quar-
ter," where there was an inn, a crowd of young men
64 A RTDE IN MOROCCO.
and boys gathefed around us, beating the mules,
asking for money, and urging us on, with shouts
and laughter, over the uneven pavement.
The fonda, or inn, to which we made our way, was
kept by Spaniards ; and here let me say that, what-
ever be the discomforts of travel in Morocco, a clean
bed and a good dinner are obtainable in Tetuan. The
inn was a good one. It was a quaint, square building,
several stories high, with three small rooms on each
flat ; and from a distance looked like a tower.
I was tired enough to drop with fatigue, but decided
to dine first. Messrs. X. and Y., the two Englishmen
who had ridden on ahead of us, had dinner with me ;
and so good was the dinner and so excellent the wine,
that we forgot we were fagged out, and sat up till
midnight, talking about Morocco and comparing our
experiences on the mountains.
III.
Moreno was always waking and calling me early ;
he did not exactly suggest the " May Queen," being
very prosaic ; but his habits recalled the first line of
that poem to one's mind. I was aroused from a sweet
sleep to find him, dressed for riding, standing by my
bedside. His expression suggested that of a mourner
at a funeral come to find another mourner, and fearful
lest the burying take place without him.
"You will be up at once ?" he enquired, anxiously.
" No, I think not — in fact, I think I shall stay in
bed."
A RIDE liW MOROCCO. 65
" Sir !" in an accent of dismay.
" Is it a fine day, Moreno ? "
" It is a tine day. You will get up ?"
" Not I ; I am going to stay in bed awhile. Seven
o'clock ? I mean to stay here until ten."
When we had retired to bed we had all registered
a solemn vow that we would have our own way for
once, and remain in bed till we chose to rise. I could
hear Gilali, the other courier, trying to arouse Messrs.
X. and Y., as I lay there. Whatever weakness they
might show, I was determined I would keep to my
purpose.
For a few minutes Moreno was unable to speak ;
then he stammered out a few sentences.
" There is Tetuan — you will see Tetuan ? There
are gardens — orange gardens ; you will see orange
gardens ? It will take all day ; in five hours with the
mules " —
" Ah, those poor mules ! they must be so tired. Let
them have a rest, Moreno."
The disgust in Moreno's face at the idea of giving
the mules a rest was worthy of a picture. His jaw
fell ; he looked at me again, and said doubtfully, " Are
you well ? "
"I never felt better," I said cheerily, which was
true ; I never did. " But I don't know how I should
feel if I went riding ; I might be stiff. We say in
English, ' Let well alone.' "
Moreno did not understand. He stood a minute or
two looking at me, and then began to tell me a story ;
as a '^ond parent will sometimes tell a troublesome
66 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
child how differently a neighbor's little boy behaved
under similar circumstances. " There was a man,"
said he, " and he was an English man — and his name
was Mr. F. — and he came to Morocco, and he said
he would ride to Tetuan; and he did ride. And
when he came to Tetuan he could not lift himself on
the mule, because he was a — sick ? — no, not sick — he
was a " —
I suggested, " A delicate man."
" He was a delicate man ; and he came to Tetuan,
and he could not move himself on his legs " —
" He was stiff from riding ; so am I."
" And Mahomet took the legs of him, and I took the
arms of him, and we took him up the stairs and we
put him in this bed."
" If I had only known, I should have saved myself
three flights of rather steep stairs," I said, inter-
rupting.
" And we put him in this bed, and he was a delicate
man " — he raised his whip — " in the morning — HE —
got up ! "
I threw my head back and laughed. " I am deli-
cate, too, Moreno. I shall get up, too — in time. Not
now — not to see paradise, much less dirty Tetuan.
Let me alone. Come back at ten. And let those poor
mules rest and eat barley ; it will be a day for them
to look back upon all their lives."
So Moreno, finding it hopeless to think of infusing
some of his own spirit into me, was forced to go away
and mourn alone. He first brought me some coffee,
remarking that the delicate Mr. F. had got out of bed
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 67
to take his. But I ignored the precedent. Then I
was left in peace.
At ten o'clock I went out with him to see Tetuan.
We first wended our way to the market-place, through
a number of ill-smelling streets. Moreno often as-
sured me that the inside of a Moorish house is clean ;
it ought to be, for everything in the shape of dirt and
refuse is flung out of it into the street. So bad is the
pavement and so numerous the heaps of garbage, that
one is obliged to walk as if tipsy — on both sides of
the street at once.
The market place, a great square, was a busy sight,
full of country people who had come to sell, and
towns-people who had come to buy. To buy any-
thing, even an orange, requires much bargaining;
needless to say, there was a great clatter of tongues.
The donkeys, who had brought the produce of the
farms in on their backs, stood in groups, looking
sleepy and contented in the bright sunshine, occa-
sionally chewing a wisp of straw or nibbling at each
other's necks. Around on the four sides of the square
rose glittering white walls, dazzling in the sunlight as
only a whitewashed wall can be ; and, looking be-
yond, one could see the minarets of the mosques
standing out against the blue sky.
The scene suggested Naples. Everyone was begging,
and chattering without a pause for breath ; while, at
the same time, no one seemed capable of any other
exertion. The vendors of fruit sat on the ground in
groups, with heaps of splendid oranges and man-
darins spread on mats before them, patches of golden
68 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
yellow glittering here and there in the sun. Those
who sold fruit and vegetables were mostly women,
and they sat on the ground, cross-legged like the men,
the unsightly burnoose hiding all the head but one
eye. But though preserving the strictest decorum in
this respect, according to eastern ideas, it may be re-
marked that in the land of the Infidel some of them
would have been considered scarcely decently clad.
We walked about followed by children who asked
for money, and urged by the market-women to buy
as we passed. A sharp eye and a brown hand would
emerge from what appeared to be a bundle of un-
bleached cotton ; and, while the eye held us, the hand
would deftly finger the heap of oranges in front,
turning them over to show off their glorious color and
size, a voice from an unseen mouth speaking volubly
in an unknown tongue.
As I stood at the upper end of the square, I sud-
denly became aware that I was the centre of an
interesting crowd. An old Arab Shereef or descen-
dant of the Prophet, who was followed by a number
of little boys and beggars, had approached me, and was
going round and round me in a circle, intoning a sort
of chant. He was a very old man, with a beard like
cotton wool. His head was surmounted by some-
thing that looked like a flower-basket turned upside
down and embroidered with sentences in green. The
remainder of his costume consisted simply of a dirty
white bedgown and slippers. In one hand he held a
large basket, not unlike the one that adorned his head 5
and, as he went round and round intoning, he kept
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 69
swinging the basket backward and forward in my
face. " Who on earth is he ? " I called out to
Moreno, who stood apart.
" That old man is holy," said Moreno.
The old wretch smiled on me, and waved the
basket with more muscle. He kept on turning,
moving round me in a circle; and I began to turn
also, so as to keep facing him. This caused much
merriment among the crowd ; and a number of small
boys began to circle outside the old prophet, so that
we formed a sort of "circus with double rings."
"What does he want, Moreno?"
" He want money, that old man," said Moreno.
I might have guessed as much. I gave him a few
coppers, for I was getting dizzy, turning round this
way. The money had its usual effect. These Moors
and Arabs are not like organ-grinders who play on a
little longer to show their gratitude ; the moment your
money is in their hands you become but a " dog of a
Christian," and as the dirt under their feet. The old
swindler turned his back on me and went his way.
Moreno and I wended our way to the bazaar.
There are many. Members of the same craft dwell
in the same street. We went first to see the shoe-
makers. A shoe- shop in Tetuan is a small square
room, with a divan running round two sides. One
side is open to the street; and on the fourth are
arranged shelves, whereon are displayed the shoes
ready for sale. The shoemaker sits cross-legged on
the divan, cutting, polishing and sewing ; a solemn-
looking individual he is. And they all look the same.
70 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
Carlyle, in his fruitless search for the ideal workman
in this age of quackery and sham, would have found
him in Morocco. For the shoemaker does his work
in a manner that would have charmed the Sage of
Chelsea, sewing away as if all the world was a pair
of shoes, and he had the making thereof.
From the shoemakers we went to the Jews, for it
was only a step to the Jewish quarter. I did not
remain long among the sons of Abraham ; neither
their appearance nor their dwellings invited a close
acquaintance. Ragged as the poorer Moors are, one
felt in the Jewish quarter that there are infinite
degrees of raggedness. The same may be said of
dirt. I can only hope that the inside of the Jews'
houses was cleaner than the outside. Compared with
the Jewish quarter, the rest of the city was clean.
It is a melancholy fact, however, that in Morocco
neither Jew, Christian nor Moslem seems to have any
leaning toward that virtue which is next to godliness.
One of the most interesting sights in Tetuan is the
street of the gun shops. These little shops are all in
a row ; all are very small, and the tools used therein
are of the most primitive kind. But there were the
gunsmiths hammering, sawing, chopping, polishing,
twisting, in little holes with a floor of clay, a bench
for furniture, and a fire, a knife and a hammer for
machinery.
It was most interesting ; and we stood in different
doorways watching the workers inside. In one place
we saw a man with a hatchet cutting pieces of walnut,
until they took the shape of a stock for a gun.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 71
These, when cut into shape, were held in the smoke
of the fire until they were blackened with it ; then
they were hastily oiled and stood up against the wall
to dry. In another shop a man was polishing a
barrel, and it looked to be a very poor barrel indeed ;
in fact I had my suspicions, when I examined it, that
it had served as a piece of gas -pipe in its better days.
A few steps farther, and I saw a gun being put
together. They are very clumsy weapons as far as
use is concerned ; but it must be confessed that they
are extremely ornamental, for the Moorish gun is
very long and is covered with brass- work. When a
Moor carries one, and has one or two knives besides
in their glittering brass sheaths, he is quite a formid-
able looking person, reminding you of Byron's Tales,
dear old Monte Cristo, and such things.
We saw the prison and the palace, but not the
Cadi, for which I was extremely sorry. I heard
about him, however ; he had bought his way to
power, just as our rulers do in the West, paying the
Sultan to put him in instead of the sovereign people.
It seems to me the Moorish way is the better, as far
as the politicians themselves are concerned ; you
certainly know where you are. The Cadi in power
had his predecessor in prison, carefully guarded, and
with iron rings on his ankles. With us the pre-
decessor is leading the Opposition in Parliament,
making mischief every moment. In Morocco, if you
are in, you are in ; if you are out, you are out. I
was very curious to see the late Cadi, but it was
impossible, Moreno said ; the man in possession kept
72 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
him closely guarded. They told me he was quite
contented with his lot, grateful to be allowed to exist
at all, submissive to destiny. I could not see him, but
was obliged to be content with a view of his dungeon
from the outside — a massive stone building whose
grim walls we passed on our way to the chief glory
of Tetuan— the great mosque.
They won't let you go into the latter, A plank is
placed across the entrance, over which may step
neither dog nor Christian. A.i a matter of fact, the
whole place is visible from the outside, so it matters
little whether you go in or not. Wide horse-shoe
arches form the entrance ; and by standing with my
feet against the plank and my body bent forward, I
could survey the whole of the interior at my leisure.
It was a big, oblong court, covered at the top, and
with an arcade running around every side. The
arches of the arcade were the usual horse-shoe arch,
and all covered with arabesque mosaic in white and
blue. I saw no other color. The floor was paved
with white marble, and in the middle was a slab of
marble a foot in height, with a slight hollow in it.
From the ceiling, within about ten feet of the pave-
ment, hung at least fifty ostrich eggs, of a pale opaque
white or bluish color. It was a beautiful interior in
its way, but cold and bare. After the palaces one
sees in the south of Spain, those of Morocco look poor
indeed. I was told that at Fez there are to be seen
courts and galleries in the palace of the Sultan in
which the beauty and design of the ornamentation
are scarcely inferior to that of the Alhambra itself.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 73
Whether it be so or no, I cannot say ; a British consul
told me, and the consul had been told so by a
Spaniard who was a plumber, and who had been
hired by the Sultan to do some plumbing in the
royal residence. How a Sultan of Morocco, with
the power of life and death in his hands, came to
allow a plumber to escape with his head on his
shoulders the consul could not say.
Moreno suggested at last — I thought he never
would — that we should go home ; so we returned to
the inn. When I reached the fonda I was greeted
by X. and Y., who congratulated me on having gone
into the town to spend the day, instead of to visit the
orange gardens outside the gates. They had gone to
the latter. I asked about the orange gardens, but X.
and Y. remembered nothing about them ; they could
recall only stones, ditches and mud ; and declared that
a visit to the gardens was but the last straw in the
way of breaking one's back and dislocating one's
jr nts. I went out and told Moreno. Moreno's face
lighted up almost into the semblance of a smile, and
he gave vent to a loud " Ha, ha ! " With a guide like
Gilali and a soldier like Ibrahim, what else was to
be expected ? Let me ride out with him and
Mahomet, and he would show me a paradise — the
mules were all ready and were eating their heads off.
But to his entreaties I turned a deaf ear, and went
back to my friends.
X. was a handsome bachelor, Y. a married man ;
and one of the advantages of matrimony, omitted by
St. Paul and not enumerated in the Book of Common
74 A RIDE IN morocco:
Prayer, became apparent : Mrs. Y., not knowing what
sort of fare would be provided for her husband, had
given him a package, which, when opened, was found
to contain some Ceylon tea. We ordered hot water,
and soon had a delicious brew. There was no milk
to be got ; but they brought us some strips of bread
toasted and some stiff jelly made from oranges, which
formed a most palatable accompaniment to the tea.
Having discovered that there was a British Consul
at Tetuan, X. and Y. had resolved to go out and look
for him ; and when we had finished our tea, they set
forth. As they proposed bringing him back to have
dinner with us, I did not go with them ; but, instead,
ascended to the house-top to get a good view of the
city, and pry, as far as possible, into the affairs of the
neighbors.
As I have before mentioned, the fonda was built in
the shape of a tower. My room was on the third flat ;
and, after ascending another flight of stone stairs, I
found myself on the house-top, around which ran a
low wall. The view of the city was a splendid one.
I could look down into several of the narrow filthy
streets, and watch the people and the donkeys scram-
bling together in the dirt beneath. The minarets of
different mosques rose here and there, and very white
and clean they looked, standing out against the sky.
The sun was descending, and the great mountain
which rises west of Tetuan concealed it from view,
throwing a deep blue shadow over the open land and
the greater part of the city ; while the green valley
and the hills rising to the eastward shone brightly in
the sunlight.
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 75
I had also the satisfaction of looking down into our
neighbor's garden. Seen from the street, one could
just perceive a touch of green above a high white
wall ; looking down from above, one saw the touch of
green to be the top of a large orange-tree, fairly bend-
ing under the burden of fruit it bore — large yellow
oranges, the whole tree a blaze of color with them.
The oranges of Morocco are, I think, the most deli-
cious in the world; and I am sure these were the
finest oranges in Morocco.
But I should not have cared to stand under that
tree, or, indeed, anywhere near it. The garden was
simply a pool of filth, mud and water that looked to
be knee-deep. There was a fig-tree in one corner and
a vine grew against the wall ; but there was no sign
of verdure nor even a path to be seen — nothing but
the ground of a pig-sty. It was far, indeed, from
fulfilling one's idea of " living under your own vine
and fig-tree " — even with the oranges thrown in. The
place looked desolate. A ragged man, sitting on a
stone in the gateway, was the only visible occupant ;
and he sat as still as a statue, with a vacant look in
his eyes. Mine host of the fonda, who had come up
after me to point out different " objects of interest,"
suggested that he was waiting to say his prayers. I
suppose it had never entered into his head that it
would be nice to clean up the garden.
I stood watching the shadows creep over the vallies,
and the people coming in from the country for the
night, until a noise below announced the return of X.
and Y. They had found the consul, and brought him
76 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
back with them. After a little while dinner was
served, and we sat down at the table, a party of
four.
The consul was a most interesting person. He
was a man of considerable parts, and possessed the
gift of tongues in a high degree. Eight years' resi-
dence in Morocco had made him familiar with all the
manners and customs of the people ; and we learned
more about the country from him in a few hours than
we could have learnt in a month from guides and
books. How that man did talk! It was eight
months since he had seen an English face and heard
his mother- tongue — but he made up for lost time
that night ! I felt rather pleased that I had known
so little of the people before coming among them, for
the tales he told us were blood-curdling. One felt
like the man above whose head hung the scimitar
suspended by a hair.
After dinner, the consul suggested that we should
all go home with him to spend a quiet evening ; and I
went below to tell Moreno that I was going out with-
out him. Moreno thought I was running a great
risk, going about the city with no better guide than
Gilali. I remarked that, besides Gilali, we were four
Englishmen, and had Moors with lanterns to light us
on our way. He allowed me to go, but waived all
responsibility for the consequences.
Two Moors with lanterns went in front, and we
came behind with Gilali, X. and Y.'s courier. The
streets at night are dark and dismal, and a lantern is
indispensable. The consul lived in one of these dark
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 77
lanes, but not in the Christians' quarter, to which he
told us he had refused to move. The Christians, a
few Spanish of the lowest class, live in a very unde-
sirable locality; and the consul preferred to dwell
apart from them. Every week or so, he said, he
received a message from the Cadi, requesting him to
go to his own place ; but hitherto he had resisted all
efforts to dislodge him, professing, like Abdul- Hamid
of Turkey, a keen wish to satisfy all demands — and
holding on.
An iron gate was unlocked by a servant within,
and we entered a small triangular court, off which
the rooms of the house opened. He led us into the
chief of these, a long, low room, the furniture of
which would have driven a European woman of
fashion wild with envy. During his eight years'
residence in Morocco he had collected an immense
number of curios, and the place was crammed with
them, stuffs such as one cannot buy elsewhere,
pottery, and all manner of odds and ends. We spent
some time in examining these, and the interest was
increased by the curious tales attaching to many.
When we finished our examination of the furniture,
we stretched ourselves on a comfortable divan, and
our host brought out a jar of whisky and some
tobacco, bidding us make ourselves at home — which
it need hardly be said we did.
The best tobacco can be secured in Tangier, brought
thither from England. As for the whisky, we needed
it to buoy our spirits up, for our entertainer pro-
ceeded to tell us stories of the country. He had told
78 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
us some at dinner ; but, with true art, had reserved
.the best for the hours of evening. I shall never for-
get those stories. They are not to be told here, nor
would it be possible to give all the gruesome details
which heightened the effect. Every vice under the sun
must flourish in Morocco in its most aggravated form,
and every villainy which it entereth into the heart of
man to devise must lend a dramatic interest to the
dullest of Moorish lives. No one tale, taken alone,
would convey an idea of the scope and ingenuity of a
Moor who wishes to break a commandment. And
his manner of telling was most impressive ; he used
few words and indulged in no superlatives, recounting
what he had himself seen, as if he had been in th*^,
witness-box. We listened, sipping whisky at inter-
vals, reflecting that we were in Tetuan, and could not,
by any conceivable effort, get out of the country
within forty-eight hours.
The evening passed rapidly, and we were loath to
leave. But we were all tired; so we roused the
Moors who were sitting in the court jabbering, and
proceeded to say good-bye. The lanterns were lighted,
we all made our way out, and the consul himself
locked the heavy iron gate after us. We were sorry
to part from him, for he was a fine fellow. His life,
spent in that wretched corner of the world, would if
written, read like a tale of the Dark Ages.
Again we sallied forth into the dark streets, picking
our way over the uneven pavement and round the
puddles with the help of the lanterns in front.
After winding in and out through a labyrinth of
, A RIDE IN MOROCCO. #
lanes, our guides came to a stand-still at a spot where
three streets met. Around on every side were high,
crumbling walls without a window to be seen, dark
archways indicating the entrance to a house or lane
as it might be. The Moors with the lanterns had a
long story to tell Gilali, and kept pointing this way
and that, the flickering light, as the lanterns were
swung around, forming weird shadows, now on this
side, now on that. The three were talking hurriedly
in low tones, and gesticulating ; all were enjoying it
hugely, for Moors love a sensational story. Gilali
understood no English, but spoke a little Spanish.
X. was the only one of the three of us who could
understand him ; and he, after some coaxing, learned
the reason of the stoppage. A dark and bloody deed
— robbery and murder — had been done a few nights
previously in this lonely spot. Gilali gave very few
particulars; but the gestures of the Moors were
sufficiently suggestive.
Glancing around, I thought I saw somebody
crouching in the darkness under one of the arch-
ways. We went toward the spot, and a flash from
the lantern revealed the dead body — not of a man
but of a donkey. The poor beast had evidently
dragged itself up to the wall and leaned against it for
support, when death had come to end its life of toil
and tribulation. Despite the associations of the spot
selected, it had not been a violent death. To judge
from its expression, indeed, it looked as if the animal
had died of grief.
We hurried aw^ay from this uncanny spot, feeling
80 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
as if we were to. figure in one of the consul's future
tales. Our footfalls echoed on the stones as if they
had been the sound of robbers in pursuit ; assassins
lay concealed in every shadow ; every puddle was a
pool of blood. As a matter of fact, the streets were
almost deserted. Now and then we saw a form
crouching under an archway, or a solitary figure dis-
appearing round a corner; but these people were
silent, and might have been ghosts. We seemed to
be the only living beings in the city. Not a light
was to be seen, save the fitful glare of our lanterns
lighting the path ahead ; not a sound but our own
footfalls broke the stillness. At last, after a good
deal of turning in and out, we arrived safe at the
fonda. Moreno was sitting up for me, and was, I
think, a little disappointed at seeing me return with-
out a wound. However he sent me to bed without a
scolding ; and we all went to sleep to dream of battle
and murder and sudden death.
IV.
Morning, however, dispels all fears : and a lovelier
morning than that which broke the following day
never dawned. It is needless to say that Moreno
was the first to taste of its delights, and that he rose
with intent that I should share them with him.
Early, early, while the purple mountains were light-
ing up with the first tints of misty sunshine, we
were in the saddle and away.
We all rode out together, Gilali and Moreno,
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. §1
Ibrahim and Mahomet ahead, I following with X.
and Y. But while X., Y. and myself rode side by side,
enjoying each other's conversation, discussing the
incidents of the previous evening and drinking in
the fresh air of the mountains with thankful souls,
the same happy state of things did not exist among
our servants. Moreno and Gilali had a deadly feud,
and Mahomet and Ibrahim regarded each other with
feelings of the bitterest disdain. It was pointed out
to me by Moreno, and I had noticed it before myself,
that Ibrahim carried no gun. So poorly are the
Sultan's soldiers paid that they are frequently obliged
to beg for food, or have recourse to other trade than
that of soldiering ; and it often happens that, no other
remedy being available, they are compelled to pawn
their weapons to obtain the means of subsistence.
Ibrahim's gun was in pawn ; and he was trusting to
the munificence of Messrs. X. and Y. to get it out
again. •
Fineness of feeling is apparently not one of the
Arab characteristics ; for Mahomet rode side by side
with Ibrahim, taunting him the while. Violent alter-
cations in dignified Arabic disturbed the serenity of
the morning; and we rode on, Moreno and Gilali
quarrelling behind, and Mahomet jeering and mocking
in front. Mahomet, I was pleased to observe, pre-
sented much the better figure of the two, with his
long gun and good clothes; Ibrahim was ragged.
These soldiers go with one to protect one from Rifs,
the tribe of brigands who are one of the curses of
Morocco ; but it looked as if all the fighting we were
^'2 v A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
to hav(3 would be Jiinong ourHclvcH. Finally I
thought it wiwe to put an end to the diHputo, and wo
Hcparatcd, X. and Y. going on ahead with their GHCort,
anrl I following in the old way, Mahomet before
nio and Moreno behind. Thenceforward all went
wmoothly, the disputants reserving their curses for
the poor mules.
I liad been too tired at the end of th(; journey
thither to fully appreciate the country around 'J'<!tuan.
We were riding through a wide valley which ended
in a gorge between tlie mountains ; and the path ran,
twisting and turning, among the greenest of low-
gi'owing palmettos. Such green, then to be seen at
its best after the winter rains, was wonderful ; so
deep, so rich, so full, glowing in the sunlight. All
around us were mountains rising precipitously into
the Hue heavens, tinted with green and greenish-
grey, and blue-brown and richest purple, lighted with
the sun of Africa. There is little sign of vegetation
on these hills, they are arid ; to the agriculturist,
such as he is, they are waste land ; to the man of
commerce they are an ol)stacle great beyond measure.
But to the traveller who looks for richness of color
and pictures(jue form, they are sublime. 'J'he path
ran along cm the level for two or three miles; and the
mules went along at a gallop, making good time.
Indeed Moreno said that if he had known we were to
ride so fast he would not have been up so early —
though tliat I cannot beli(!ve. I said as much. In
answer I was told that I might take my own time at
the caravansarai, and rest two hours if I plojised ; and
• A HIDE JN MOROCCO.
I HKintully decided to do ho, Uiough I was Hoity aftor-
wardH, as will apj)oar.
At last w(3 r(uiclied th(3 mountairiH, and th(3 \/(3ari-
Hoirio climb up and down Ixitjan. It H0(3nied to ino
HonH'-tinicH tliat wo w(3re J^oing at the rate of a mile
an hour, l^ut tlicj inuI<!H wcjn; the Hoh; judgeH of the
pace ; and they \*o through life on the copy-book
principle of " hIow and Hure." Climb after climb,
d(!Hcent aft(;r deHcent, tlie Hamc; Htonen carefully
arr'ang(3d acroas the path, the .sauK! gifldy turnH, the
Hame jumpH, tluj sanio .streamH to be forded. When-
ever there are two paths, the mule chooHo.s the one
the rider would avoid ; whenever there iw a choice
between walking near the mountain-.side and walking
on the brink of a precipice?, the mule chooHCH the
p'ocipicc — acting from a desire, doubtlesH, not uncotn-
inon in human-kind, of showing that ho can do it if
he likes — "and always untie him and he will find him-
self" shouted Moreno at a bad place; so that we
invariably went along the brink wherever there was
a brird< to keep cl<Nir of.
It was a delightful ride, however; and wo kept
mcteting the same curious and interesting types of
native — Arabs and Moors, or I?(!rb(a-s, as they are often
called in books; and statiily camels, and camels that
had had their day and wer(3 no longer stately ;
and donkeys in whose (expression whole generations
of resignation seemed concentratcul ; and mules — but
all mules look Jilike — and occasionally a horseman,
haughty Arab with magnific(5nt eyes and flowing
turban, who would ride up, meeting us with a grave
6
84 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
salute, which no Moor ever condescended to do. It
was delightful. And in due time we arrived at the
old caravansarai, and found X. and Y. already lunch-
ing on the greensward outside. Moreno wished to go
inside and r(?cline on the divan ; but I refused. So
two Moors brought out .some matting, which they
spread on the grass against tlie wall ; and I sat down
beside my friends to eat my mid-day meal in the
sunshine.
After half an hour or so, the other party set out ;
but I, mindful of Morenos promise, decided to rest
long. Moreno sat beside me, his back against the
wall ; and Mahomet, disdaining support, spread a mat
at my feet and sat cross-legged thereon, smoking
hasheesh and sipping mint tea between whiffs of the
pipe. Moreno drank copiously of the wine, of which
we had a plentiful supply: and seemed, for once,
inclined " to rest and be glad of the gods." The
truth of the old saying, " In vino Veritas" was again
exemplified ; for, under the influence of wine, Moreno
became as stolid-looking as a statue of the young
Buddha. I ate one delicious orange after another,
Moreno preferring some Moorish fruit, which I tasted,
but found unpalatable. As to its taste, go into a
turnip-field, pull up a tough swede and eat it raw,
a little of the earth with it to give it a bitterish and
acrid taste, and you will enjoy Moreno's favorite
fruit, which, I think, will never become popular out
of Morocco. ■
After finishing the oranges, I leaned back against
the wall to enjoy a smoke, and lapsed into a sort of
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 66
dream, in which Mahomet's flowing turban and pipe
of hasheesh mingled with visions of distant lands.
Moreno lit a cigarette ; and we were all three dreaming
lazily, the smoke going up in little thin wreaths, when
an old man of the mountain, a shrunken creature of
hideous aspect, came hobbling up to us. When he
reached us he squatted on the ground at our feet, and,
with threatening gestures, assailed us violently.
He was the most withered specimen of humanity I
ever saw, even in that withered land — so lean, so skinny
and so brown — looking as if his flesh and blood had
been extracted by an embalmer and the skin and bones
steeped in tobacco-juice. His clothing consisted of a
yellow shirt, leggings and turban ; and their condition
suggested the dirty man in Punch, who writes, "Thirty
years ago I used Pear's soap, since which time I have
used no other." Seating himself in front of us, his
whole frame convulsed with passion, he began to curse
at the top of his voice, rocking himself backward and
forward the while. There were periods of spasmodic
convulsion and then intervals of comparative calm,
tempered with muttering and gurgling ; then, all of a
sudden, both arms would rise convulsively and his
body would sway again. Every few moments, when
the screams subsided, he would hold out a withered
hand and shake it at me. The fingers were like those
of a skeleton.
What it was all about I had not the slightest idea.
Mahomet preserved his imperturbable serenity of coun-
tenance ; and Moreno, looking at the old maniac out of
his matter-of-fact eyes, contented himself with shaking
86 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
liis head solemnly from time to time. The old wretch
made a most picturesque study, seated there with the
blazing African sun beating on his yellow clothes and
withered brown skin ; and he was not in the least
alarming; for he had no weapon, not even a tooth. <
"What is it all about, Moreno ?" I whispered, full
of curiosity to know what we had done.
Moreno spoke ; but it was in Arabic, and in answer
to the old man. What he said was not well received.
Fire shot from the eyes of the old Moslem, and, throw-
ing up both arms, he blazed out anew. Then Moreno
answered again at greater length ; and the old man,
though hardly condescending to listen, was evidently
at a loss to meet the argument. He beat his breast,
swaying his body to and fro; and then, suddenly
clawing the air, gave vent to a succession of yells,
wagging his head the while and showing his toothless
gums.
" He is a fool, this old man," said Moreno.
" That is a self-evident fact," I remarked. " What
I should like to know is, what form his monomania
takes." r:
Moreno did not understand me. He was talking to
the old man again in Arabic ; in fact they were both
talking together — one might say screaming at each
other. Mahomet sat placidly, taking whiff after whifF
of hasheesh, showing his teeth, set in a smile, in be-
tween times. Evidently he enjoyed the argument ;
but wisely forbore to take a side.
*' He is a fool, this old man," said Moreno again in
English, both parties having paused for want of
• A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
breath. " He is a fool, this old man ; he trust too
much in God."
A peculiar form of monomania, to say the least. I
showed some surprise. " He trusts too much in God ?
How ?"
" He is a fool, this old man. They trust too much
in God these people."
There was another, but shorter, outbreak on both
sides ; and then the why and the wherefore of all the
trouljle was explained to me. The French, during the
cholera epidemic, had sent doctors over in the interests
of science, who had attended the Europeans in Tangier
with much success. In the eyes of the Moors, medi-
cinal treatment is regarded as a personal insult to
the Deity, and all doctors are supposed to be acting
in concert with the devil to oppose the Divine will.
The old man of the mountain had heard of this
infamous attempt on the part of the Inlidel to inter-
fere with the decrees of Providence ; and I was the
first unbeliever who had crossed his patli since the
epidemic. He had been apprised of my coming, and
was come out to curse me in the name of God and
the Prophet.
" I tell him among us sixteen die, among him three
thousand in Tangier and tnree thousand in Tetuan ;
because doctors say, ' Boil drink-water and live clean '
— and we do and they do not," said Moreno.
" And what did he say to that ? "
" He is a fool, this old man ; he trust too much in
God," repeated Moreno, grimly. " He say, ' If God
will a man die, he die; if God will a man live, he
A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
live ; doctors and drink-water are nothing but devil.'
They trust too much in God, these people."
The old man now, it appeared, was asking for a
drink. I handed him my glass. It had contained
wine ; and when the old fanatic smelt it, he rinsed it
several times before he put it to his lips. After
drinking some water he began again in the same
strain.
"It is no use to talk to him," said Moreno,
solemnly. " They are all the same, these people ;
they trust to God for everything, and to themselves
for nothing — they are Moors." »
The old man of the mountain had thus the last
word. When he found that Moreno disdained further
argument, he rose and held out to me a bony hand.
" Wants money," said Moreno.
I refused to give him anything at first ; but Moreno
insisted, remarking that it was the wiser course
always to propitiate them — at least he used a
Spanish word which I took to mean " propitiate." So
I placed a few coppers in the withered hand, feeling
that it was hard lines to be obliged to pay for one's
own cursing. Taking the money, the old wretch spat
on the ground and turned away, giving expression to
a pious wish that the epidemic might claim at least
one more victim. Then he hobbled off; and was soon
lost to sight among the rocks.
Having got rid of him, we bethought ourselves of
continuing the journey, and Moreno went for the
mules. Refreshed with food and wine, we rode off
again, but made slow progress, the path now lying
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. Sl"
amon^ the rocks, and the way leading up the high
mountain. When we were about at the summit, a
threatening cloud appeared in the sky ; and in an in-
credibly short time the storm burst. It seemed to
gather all at once ; and before we knew it was coming
it was on us. The rain fell in torrent^, coming down
like a thunder shower, and so thick as to almost hide
us one from the other. Moreno wrapped a coat
around my shoulders, which was a protection as far
as it went ; but my legs was exposed to it, and in a
few minutes I was wet through from the hips down-
ward. Down it came, a perfect deluge, blinding one ;
and it was very dismal there on those wild mountains,
going along at a snail's pace, knowing that it was
impossible to hurry a single step. I began asking
myself, as all travellers do at odd times, " Why does
anyone ever want to travel ? "
But these rains do not last long. After a little it
slackened somewhat; and when it was beginning to
subside into a drizzle, an incident occuvred. Moreno,
who was riding behind me, but who kept a sharp
look-out in spite of the rain, was heard to say in
solemn tones, " Here they come." At the same moment
Mahomet said something in Arabic, and Moreno
answered, adding in English, " Walk him steady, walk
him steady, walk your mule and do not mind ; here
they come."
" Who are coming ? " I had a vague idea that
figures were approaching ; but could make out
nothing in particular calculated to alarm.
"One, two, three, four," said Moreno solemnly;
** here they come ; one, two, three, four."
90 A RIDE IN MOROCCO. '
" I see them ; who are they ? "
" Robbers," said Moreno grimly.
" Oh, real brigands ? "
" Do not mind," said Moreno. " Walk your mule,
and do not look at them."
" It has been my dream from a child to meet bri-
gands," I said; "but I am too wet to enjoy it."
Indeed the rain had washed all feeling out of me.
Go on mule-back in a Moorish saddle through a
mountain storm, and you become insensible to hope
or fear.
Had they meant to attack us, they would have lain
in wait for us, and not come out to meet us in the
open. There was no cause for alarm. One, two,
three, four, they came in single file up the hill-side;
and savage-looking brutes they were. After taking
a look at them, I decided that Moreno was right, and
it would be a mistake to travel in Morocco after dark.
As they approached, Mahomet turned toward the
leader with a grim smile, showing his teeth ; and, as
they passed, turned round and covered them. They
had no intention of molesting us, it was quite evi-
dent ; but Moreno said, " Walk him steady, and do not
look at them.."
Curiosity, however, conquered my fear of disobey-
ing Moreno ; and the leader and I exchanged smiles-
He was a wicked-looking brute, and I felt no desire
to come to a closer acquaintai ee. They were all bare-
headed, and wore coarse cloaks of the roughest sack-
ing. Each carried a clumsy gun. As they passed,
Mahomet stood guard, looking quite formidable ; but
: . A RIDE IN MOROCCO. tt
they walked steadily on round the brow of the hill ;
and soon we saw them no more.
" Do they rob many people ? " I enquired, now that
we were free of them.
" They do," said Moreno solemnly " ; "a village
burnt, it is two days to-day, and a man killed. It
was these men we have met — I do not know, it might
be."
"And I suppose there are many gangs of them,
just such as these ? "
" It is the same anywhere in Morocco," said Moreno
— "robbers. One house burnt one night, another
house burnt another night — and they kill people."
" Is it not safe, then, to ride alone ? "
" I have ride alone," said Moreno ; " not often. I
ride fast, and no stop between Tangier and Tetuan ;
but it is better not."
" You are a brave man, Moreno," I said, smiling ;
he was behind me and could not see the smile.
" I am a coward," said Moreno grimly ; " I have a
wife and I have two children."
" That is not evidence of cowardice," I answered
gravely. "I think it is a brave thing to have a wife
and two children."
The story, however, was only just beginning ; that
was but the prelude. " I am a coward," he said ;
"and I have a wife, and she is not a coward. The
cholera come to Tangier, and my wife say, * Moreno,
you are a coward, you will go to the mountain ; I am
not a coward, I will live in Tangier/ So she live in
Tangier and the two children — and I go to the moun-
tain, because I am a coward."
92 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
"DidHhe take it ? "
"Sho did not take it — \intio your mule."
" I keep liiiri untied ; but what can one do in Huch a
place as thin ? "
" Thin ia a bad place," Haid Moreno.
It was. It would have been hard to find a worse.
The rain was now holding up; and, after descending
the hill, we found ourselves for a while on a level
plain. Our condition, however, was worse than ever,
and I found myself regretting the rocks. Though
the rain had ceased, it had wet everything thoroughly ;
and we were riding over clayey ground, full of pit-
falls. At every third step the mules stumbled.
Nothing could be more exasperating. I was wet
through and getting numb, in addition to which the
perpetual stumbling of the mules seemed to dislocate
every bone. When you ride with Moorish stirrups
there is no danger of ever falling off ; but the torture
of the thing is aggravating. Whenever one of the
beasts stumbled, Moreno gave vent to a loud "Ha, ha,"
as if it were the first time on record that such an
accident had happened. This irritated me; and so
whenever my mule took three steps in succession
without a stumble, I took to crying " Ha, ha," which,
Moreno said, confused the poor beast. Finally I
became exasperated ; and once when we were down,
I quickly slipped my feet out of the stirrups, and
announced that I was going to walk a bit for a
change.
"You can not do that," said Moreno.
" Why ? My legs are cold and wet, and I am going
to warm them."
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 03
He (liHrnountcd and came up to me. " You will not
walk," ho said.
" But why not ? It will only bo for a few minutes,
and we could not \fo more slowly than wo are ^oing
now."
Moreno's countenance was troubled. He saw signs
of rebellion. Then a happy thought struck him, and
lie reverted to the old parental method of argument.
He told me a story.
" There was a man," said he, " and he was a Gor-
man ; and he came to Morocco, and he said he would
walk — and he did walk."
" Exactly ; and so shall I."
" He said he would walk, and lie did walk. And in
the end they saw him, and he sat on the hill ; and
there was one Moor on one side of him and another
Moor on another side of him ; and one Moor on one
side of him gave him an orange, and another Moor on
another side of him gave him a piece of bread."
"Very kind of them. What next ?"
"There was no more of him. It was three days
after that day, and they found him ; «nd there was
nothing of him but himself."
"You mean to say he was naked — and alive ?"
"He was naked — and he was not alive. There
were twenty places in him — and they were cut with
a knife."
I mounted.
I had heard this story the evening before ; it was
one of the many told by the consul. This German, a
merchant, had been foolish enough to walk up the
94 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
mountain without guide or soldier. He had been seen,
as Moreno said, >.itting on the hillside in company
with two Moors, sharing their evening meal. After
that he disappeared ; and in three days his body was
found in a secluded spot, stabbed in twenty places.
Not a trace of his clothing was to be seen ; in other
words, "there was nothing of him but himself." I
had little fear of coming to an untimely end ; but it
was better to be influenced by the story. Spaniards
never walk, and they cannot conceive of anyone else
doing anything so foolish. I should, no doubt, have
felt much the better for the tramp, bad as the road
was ; but it was of no use to argue with Moreno.
Mahomet, who had taken advantage of our stoppage
to enjoy the fumes of hasheesh, put his pipe away
again, and we went on as before. However disagree-
able it might be, it was impossible to move along at
any but a snail's pace, for the rain had made the road
in some places almost impassable. I now regretted
having spent so long a time at the caravansarai, as
Moreno said it would not be possible to reach Tangier
before nightfall.
We went on, up and down, sometimes stumbling,
sometimes not, but always slowly. Owing to the
clayey nature of the ground in the vallies, the path
over the mountains was now the most tolerable part
of the journey. The chief difficulty was in crossing
the brooks at the foot of the hills ; the banks were so
slippery ti- .t the feet of the mules would give way 5
and more than once I thought that the animal and I
were going to r »! over together, to land in the stream
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 95
below, a confused mass of mule and human flesh.
Mahomet had an unpleasant habit of bending his
head back until we behind him could see the whites
of his eyes, and then emitting a gurgling noise from
his throat. Whenever he did this, Moreno would say,
" This is a bad place ; you will untie your hands and
feet " — which meant in plain English, " Be ready to
roll off if the mule slips."
One amusing incident, however, occurred. We came
down a hill, at the bottom of which was a river, not
very deep, indeed, nor broad, but perhaps a hundred
feet from bank to bank. This stream had, of course,
to be forded ; and, after some careful working of their
feet down the slippery bank, the mules plunged in.
To get a mule into a river is one thing; to get him
out again, another. The poor beasts were hot and
tired; and they had been cursed and beaten shamefully
for what was, after all, not in the least their fault.
They found it cool and refreshing in the river ; and
in the river they chose to stay.
A ridiculous sight we must have presented, had
there been anyone looking on from the river i)ank.
There we were, the three of us, in the middle of the
river, beating, coaxing, scolding the obstinate mules,
and unable to make them move forward. Instead
they went round and round in a circle, kicking,
splashing and capering, indifferent to the blows that
were showered in quick succession on their poor
backs, or the curses heaped upon their obstinacy,
working, now up stream, now down, but never a bit
nearer the farther shore. The water came over the
96 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
stirrups ; but as we were already wet to the skin, that
mattered little. Mahomet and Moreno were beside
themselves with rage ; the air was lurid with oaths
and curses in Arabic. Moreno's cheeks puffed out
until he looked like an owl, and his eyes gleamed
like fire-balls. But the anger of their riders had no
effect on the beasts; there we were, turning round
like tops, seeing first one side of the river and then
the other, and enjoying in turn a view up and down
stream. I could not help laughing aloud, it was so
absurd ; but the laugh jarred on the nerves of Moreno,
who said, " In Morocco we do not laugh at a mule."
Needless to say, we eventually got out of the river,
or this narrative would never have been written.
Mahomet's mule set the example by suddenly making
a bolt ; and I saw the stately Arab one moment and
the heels of his mule in the same place the next ; and
then saw no more — for my mule was accustomed to
follow where Mahomet's led, and tried to get even
with it. I had just time to fling myself forward on
its neck as it scrambled up the bank, in Biblical
phrase " by leaps and bounds." Moreno's ascent was
not visible to us who had gone before ; but as it is
impossible to conceive of Moreno in other than a
dignified position, I presume his mule followed with
more deliberation.
Night was coming on, the last gleams of sunset
were fading on the hills, the sun was sunken below
the horizon. The beautiful green tints of the vallies
had darkened into black ; the stars were beginning to
twinkle above. Here and there masses of dark cloud
A RIDE IN MOROCCO, 97
hung over the mountains, taking wild and weird
shapes in the gathering gloom ; but above us the blue
sky deepened into the softness of night, clear and
serene. Owing to the darkness we were compelled
to move along more slowly than ever ; and every few
minutes Moreno would call out to me, " Do not tie
him, he can see his way," and I would let the mule
go his own gait. Then there were complaints — " Sir,
you do not keep the path."
" Moreno, the mule is choosing his path, and he
refuses to follow Mahomet ; " to which Moreno would
reply, " He is a mule."
This sort of thing went on for some time, until my
attention was attracted by a horrible noise proceeding
from the hill in front of us. We were approaching
a village, and could just distinguish the conical houses
and the glare of a few fires ahead of us in the dusk.
A fearful sound emanated from this settlement that
sent a thrill through me. We were entering a gorge
between two mountains ; and the village was perched
on the hill to the right of the pass. The night was
on us; the hills rose before and behind in black
masses that presented a dim, blurred outline against
the sky. As we descended the mountain path, we
seemed to be passing into a black chasm, the sides of
which rose precipitously. On the tops of the pre-
cipitous wall flickered the tires; and forms of men
were distinguishable here and there, looking down
from above ; while their voices rang out in the dusky
twilight in a wild, weird chant. It sounded like a
war song, as if intended to terrify any wayfarer who
98 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
might be wandering, as we were, over the hills at
night-time.
As we approached, the chant seemed to grow wilder
and faster ; and I could see more plainly the forms of
men, dressed in the rough costume of the wild
creatures of the mountain, sitting on the brow of the
hill and looking down. Mahomet heeded them not ;
he went on solemnly and majestically as ever, his
white turban serving as a guiding star to me in the
darkness. " Moreno," I said suddenly, wheeling
round, " Moreno, what is all that noise about ? "
" It is the Moors — there is a village — these are the
hill-men."
" I know that. What are they doing ? What does
it mean ? "
" They sing, these Moors."
A tiresome man Moreno. But to ask question
after question and be told what you already know, is
one of the inevitables of travel. The only way is to
persevere. ,
" I know they are singing ; what is it all about ? "
" They sing at night, these Moors," said Moreno.
" Man, don't tell me that — of course they do. Can
you sing?" , .
"Sometime. Now I do not sing."
" No, quite right. What are they singing?
" It is Arabic."
I kept on. " They are singing in Arabic, Moreno?"
" They are."
" And they are singing a song ? "
" They are."
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 99
" And there are words to the song ? "
" There are ; Arabic words."
" And what are the words about ? "
" It is a song they sing at night."
" Exactly. They sing about the hills and the sky,
and the birds and flowers and sweet breezes, do they ?"
•' It is not that."
" Oh, they sing about war and blood, cutting people
in twenty places with a knife, eh ? "
" It is not that."
" Then what is it ? "
" It is love," he answered ; and he said it with such
feeling that all the poetry of passion seemed to be
concentrated in the three words.
Love — I stopped again to listen. That fantastic
chant, that wild cry, that hideous yell — love. It rose
on the wind, it filled the valley, it echoed among the
mountains, it rang out in the darkness; it might have
been the howling of demons. And yet it was "love" — a
love-song ; a song of love and passion, inspired by those
queer objects in burnoose, showing one eye, which, in
Morocco, are the substitute for women. There was a
fascination about it, now that I knew what it was ;
and I turned my head and gazed long and earnestly
at these strange creatures sitting, just above us,
among the rocks, and filling the air with their wild
cries. And we went on in solemn procession —
Mahomet, mj^^self and Moreno — along the pass, the
silence broken only by the sound of the mules' hoofs
on the stones, and the echoes that were flying among
the hills.
7
100 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
When we had passed away from them and were
alone with ourselves again, it became very dismal. I
know of nothing more wearying than to be obliged
to ride very slowly at night when you are wet, cold
and hungry. Every few minutes we came to a " bad
place," ditch, stream of water, pile of rocks, or bridge
that was broken down, and no longer a bridge but an
obstacle. And Moreno would say, " Untie your mule,
untie him much, and untie your hands and feet;"
which meant, " Be ready for any emergency," though
we met with no accident nor misadventure.
I thought we would never reach Taiigier ; but we
did. Moreno saw the lights of the hotels in the city,
several miles away, through two mountains that inter-
vened. I had given him no credit for possessing any
imagination, but he was evidently gifted with a little.
When we actually did .trrive. and had climbed up
through the town to the hotel, I expected to be like
the delicate Mr. F. who " got up," and be carried in.
But the sight of a cheerful interior, seen through an
open door, had a vivifying effect ; and I was the first
to dismount, jumping off the mule and scrambling up
the steps in a manner quite astonishing to Moreno,
who, for some time past, seemed to have decided that
I had lost all bodily and mental power.
I found my bedroom just as I had left it, except
that the bed was unmade and there was nothing but
a mattress visible. An ugly Spanish woman was
lighting a candle ; and I explained to her by signs,
that, being cold and wet, I preferred to have my
dinner in bed, and desired that the bed be made
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 101
ready at once. She smiled and nodded, as if she
thoroughly understood me ; and went out, as I fondly
thought, to get some sheets and blankets.
Nothing of the kind. She came back bringing a
bottle of whisky and some water, things very well
in their way, but not what I wanted at the moment.
My first wish was to get rid of my wet clothes ; and,
as I had no others, the only thing to be done was to
go to bed. However, I said " Gracios," took some of
the whisky and again explained by signs what I
I wished done. Again she went away.
This time I stood awaiting the sheets and blankets
with confidence. In a few minutes she returned, with
a dish of fruit, another of cheese, and a plate. I
stormed in English; she answered in Spanish; I
pointed again to the bed and went through a panto-
mime which any woman — keen-witted creatures as
they are — could understand. She nodded her head
and said, " Si, si, senor," several times. Again she
departed.
This time I was sure of her ; so I took oflf my boots
and coat to be ready as soon as possible. In no long
time she came back — with a bottle of wine in one
hand and a table-cloth in the other. This was more
than flesh and blood could bear. I shut the door and
placed myself against it, while she proceeded to lay
the table. As she had so far brought only two
bottles and two plates, this did not take long. Then
she tried to get out. But I stood against the door,
scolding. She nodded and smiled in a provoking
f£|^hion. I tfilked ; 9h§ talked ] each gf us speaking
102 A RIDE IN MOROCCO.
his or her native tongue. " Woman," I said in
English, " you and I understand one another perfectly
well, though we are speaking different languages ; I
am determined that you shall make up that bed ; you
are determined that you wont ! Don't protest ; you
know what I mean as well as I do myself; it is
nothing but the cursed contrariness of your sex,
doing everything but the one thing you are told !
But do that you shall !" And, opening the door a
crack, I called loudly for Moreno.
The much-enduring Moreno came rushing upstairs,
and I explained to him in a few words what I wished
done. Moreno repeated my orders in Spanish, and
she gave me a look that spoke volumes. Moreno
went out for the sheets and blankets, and I stood at
the door and held it until he brought them. Then
she began to make the bed. When the sheets were
spread she made another effort to get out, but I
noticed a pillow-case lying on a chair, and pointed to
it. She saw herself outwitted, and smiled at me
sweetly, taking her defeat with resignation. Then I
let her go, and was soon in bed ready for dinner, which
the woman was again engaged in bringing in. Send-
ing Moreno out to buy some English tobacco, I sat
down on the side of the bed to enjoy my dinner. It
was an excellent dinner — soup, fish, chicken, cheese
and delicious fruit, with a bottle of red wine to wash
it down. After the wetting I had got, I was looking
forward to all the ills to which the flesh is heir on
the morrow, being, like Mr. F., "a delicate man."
The dinner was superb, and I felt doubtful whether I
should ever e^-t another ; duy\\ vivimus vivamus, If
A RIDE IN MOROCCO. 103
this was to be tlie last, I determined to make the
most of it. On the morrow the curse of the old man
of the mountain might take effect ; the night was
mine. Moreno arrived with a cigar and some English
tobacco. He carried away the dinner — what there
was left of it — and insisted upon my taking some
more whisky, which he called *' English drink." Then
I bade him good-night, saying I was doubtful
whether I should ever get up again.
Moreno had no such doubts. " You will get up
when I come," said he ; " you do everything that I
say, when the time is come." And with this kind
word of encouragement, he went away home to his
brave wife and two children.
I thought I was now alone for the night ; but a rap
at the door, a few minutes after Moreno's departure,
announced the return of the ugly Spanish woman.
In her hand she carried a bottle full of hot water.
Coming to the bedside, she made signs that I was
to put it to my feet, going through a pantomime
which intimated that it would be a preventive of all
the ills to which I was looking forward. Taking it
from her with many thanks, I did as she directed me ;
and she went away carrying my blessing with her.
The spectres of fever-and-ague, rheumatism, pneu-
monia and Asiatic cholera, which had been hovering
around my head, vanished into thin air under the
benign influence of that hot bottle. And for it I was
indebted to the despised chambermaid. The incar-
nation of contrariness was become a ministering
angel ; or, putting the two characters together, she
was but — the usual woman !
A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
I
"If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of
these churches, I am damned past redemption, and,
what is worse, damned to all eternity. I am deeply
read in Boston's Fourfold State, Marshal On Sancti-
fication, Guthrie's Trial of a Saving Interest, etc.;
but there is no balm in Gilead, no physician there —
for me; so I shall turn Arminian, and trust to
* sincere, though imperfect, obedience.' "
So speaks Robert Bums, writing on the subject of
religion ; on which subject I have not a word to say,
being neither Roman nor anti- Roman. But one
morning the words of the poet came into my head as
I stood on the top of St. Peter's dome, and looked down
over the Eternal City. On my mind, as possibly on the
minds of ninety-nine out of a hundred, Rome left the
sense of a lost faith. Everyone goes to worship ;
many come away sceptics. All the gods are there to-
gether, all their symbols and incarnations — ancient
mythologies and the successor of St. Peter, Imperial
ruins and Tiber embankmeats, Michael Angelo frescoes
and the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele, Papal Dominion
A CtJMPSE OF ROME. 10.')
and Italian Unity, Bones of the Martyrs and Protest-
ant missions, the First Century and the Nineteenth
— whatever be yonr ^od, go to Rome.
And whatever be your fad — go to Rome ! Thither
turns the enthusiastic soul, yearning for the reunion
of Christendom ; and thither also goeth the agnostic,
to witness the crumbling-to-pieces of a worn-out
faith. There gather multitudes from every hind and
of every tongue to receive the blessing of an infallible
pontiff; and there the accumulated curses of centuries
rain down on priest and papal power. Thither goeth
the worshipper of the art of the Renaissance and the
triumphs of antiquity, to behold with rapture the
stanze of Raphael and the Apollo Belvedere; and
thitherward also flock the devotees of Modern Pro-
gress, to exult in the draining of the Tiber basin and
the hideous rows of houses in architecture of the
packing-case style that abut the castle of St. Angelo.
In Rome, if anywhere, Triumphant Democracy is
trumpeting the approach of a newer and brighter
day ; and yet, surely, on the Capitoline Hill, Carlyle
i'imself might sit down to witness the descent of a
" hag-ridden and hell-ridden world " into the nether-
most abyss.
At first sight, the city is oppressive to the imagina-
tion and disappointing to the eye. After the incom-
parable beauty of other Italian cities it appears
modern and common-place, even vulgar. There is a
certain gloomy grandeur that answers to the questions
in your soul, " This is Rome " ; but you stop over and
over again, stunned, and confess to yourself " it is not
106 A GLIMPSE OF ROMM.
the Rome I looked for." I had come, like St. Paul's
Athenians, ready to worship all the gods together;
it was difficult to know where to begin ; so I deter-
mined to saunter about for a few days, and see nothing,
to wait until I had breathed the breath of the Eternal
City and walked its streets before I fell down to wor-
ship at the shrine of new or old divinity.
This, in Rome, you cannot do. I remember my
first day. I went out intending to see nothing, my
guide-book and tiresome travellers with a taste for
archaeology, carefully left behind. I rambled about
awhile, and presently found myself in front of a
building which could be no other than the Pantheon.
Of course, I went in ; and, on entering, the dullest of
mortals could not fail to be impressed. An inscrip-
tion over tne door tells you at the outset that it was
built by Agrippa, the son-in-law of Augustus, so that
as you cross the threshold you walk in, in the
Augustan age. A great vault, a great dome, no
windows light coming from a round opening in the
dome above, lighting up a round hall with monu-
ments of marble and gilded inscriptions on the wall ;
all this is taken in by the eye at the first glance. It
had been raining, and the brown marble pavement
was wet where the rain had come through ; but
standing under the opening, I could see the blue sky
above. Then I looked round into the shadow at the
marble monuments. Where once stood the statues of
the gods now stand tombs and altars ; you come from
the Augustan age through the centuries into the era
of papal dominion, and read the inscriptions of the
: A gLimPs^ of ROMn. lo*?
Popes. A little farther, and you are in the age of the
Renaissance, standing by the tomb of the prince of
painters ; for Raphael rests under the dome of the
Pantheon, and, in his memory, there is a statue of the
Madonna on the high altar, facing the door.
It is not, however, to worship the divine genius of
the greatest of her painters that modern Italy comes
to the Pantheon. Next to Raphael's there is another
and a statelier tomb, a tomb fairly buried in masses
of flowers and wreaths piled up by the hands of
hundreds of pilgrims. At the right of the high altar
rest the remains of the first king of Italy, the liber-
ator, the ver galant' uomo, the incarnation of
modern Italian history, Victor Emanuel. And so,
having walked across the church, I had walked
through nineteen centuries ; and two thousand
years with all their great names and their
changes of civilization, their tale of growth, glory,
decadence, destruction and renaissance, came crowd-
ing in on my mind with crushing intensity, and
seemed to hang over my head, visible to the bodily
eye. Foi one who had come out to see nothing, I felt
that I saw much.
I took leave of the Pantheon and sauntered on.
In a few minutes more I stood still with admiration
before the Fountain of Trevi. Rome is noted for her
fountains, the most beautiful in all the world ; and the
most beautiful of Roman fountains is the Fountain of
Trevi. Often described and pictured every day, I
shall attempt no description. Neptune reclines there
in splendid majesty, with Health and Fertility on
108 A GL/MPSM OF kOMj^. .
either side of him as they ought to be, and the water
pours in magnificent streams here and there, so ex-
quisitely arranged that no arrangement is apparent ;
one might fancy that the god had stationed himself
there, and asked old mother Nature to send the water
in whatsoever direction that seemed to her good.
Around the fountain stood groups of peasants and
beggars, drinking and chattering, or asleep on the
stone steps; and visitors were taking a draught of
the water or throwing pennies into the basin, in ac-
cordance with the old superstition — drink of the
Fountain of Trevi and throw a penny into the basin,
and good fortune will follow you and you will come
back to Rome.
I sauntered on, determined to see no more, thread-
ing my way through a number of narrow streets
past stately and gloomy palaces, stopping finally in a
square, the central part of which was railed off, having
been excavated. A number of pillars, all broken off,
stood below me, looking miserable and out of time, as
if asking mutely why they were there, obliged to
stand thus, broken and battered, to witness the busy
life of a barbarous age as it throbbed on backward
and forward in the narrow streets around. This was
the forum of Trajan — all that is left of what was
accounted in ancient times one of the wonders of the
world. At one end rises Trajan's column. It still
stands, looking down on the ruins of what was once
his glory, pointed out to millions of earth's pleasure-
seekers and hero-worshippers as they come and go.
But Trajan stands on the top no more; perhaps as
r A GLIMPSE OF ROME:. 109
well, for surely the scene would be too much for even
marble to bear. Instead, one of the Popes has put
St. Peter there ; and the apostle, keys in hand, gives
his episcopal benediction to the ruins of that civiliza-
tion which it was his mission on earth to overthrow.
Some people revel in ruins, nay gloat over them ;
going about, book in hand, too happy if only they
can identify a pillar here, a statue there ; even sitting
down on them and listening to lectures about them.
Others pass them by as tiresome, too ignorant to
know what it all means, too careless to ask. With
neither class have I any sympathy. These unsightly
wrecks of what was once Imperial Rome sadden me
beyond measure ; nor could I ever, during the many
weeks I was in the city, pass the Forum Roman um
without a shudder, so complete, so utter, so hopeless,
is the desolation of a spot for ages the centre of the
world ! •
I got back to my hotel, having finished the day
which wai to have been spent in doing nothing; and
discovered that, in Rome as elsewhere, from the
sublime to the ridiculous is but a step. On going
down to dinner I found myself placed next to Little
Dotty.
Little Dotty was a small person with a round head,
almost completely covered with narrow braids of hair.
She was an Englishwoman and a widow, but might
have been anything of any country as far as her
appearance went, or manners ; for she was, as people
said, " Well, you know, poor little thing, she 7)iean8
well; but she's not — not — you know what I mean.
110 A GLIMPSE OF ROM£.
She's not dangerous — O dear no, not a bit — and
not quite off; but, you know, she isn't" — and she
wasn't. She talked unceasingly about nothing, telling
you what the state of the weather was in a tone from
which one might expect to hear that the dome of ,
St. Peter's had fallen in and the Pope been buried
under it.
"Do you know what Mrs. Nincompoop has been
doing to-day ?" said Little Dotty impressively, laying
her hand on my arm. " She's been on the Pincio !
And she saw the King of Italy driving along in his
carriage with an officer beside him ; and he took off
his hat and bowed to her — to Mrs. Nincompoop —
fancy ! And, dear me, such a time as it was ! There
was such a crowd of people, carriages and horses, as
you never saw — people coming, people going, and
officers riding by — and the band playing and feathers
flying and all !"
Now everybody goes every afternoon to the Pincio ;
the band plays ; people pay and receive visits in their
carriages; and the King and Queen drive around,
bowing right and left as they pass ; and have bowed
to everybody, time and again, all through the winter.
This adventure of Mrs. Nincompoop's was not as
exciting as it might have been.
But we were obliged to listen every evening to
these recitals. Mrs. Nincompoop, herself, never spoke.
She was a damp-looking woman, who suggested the
idea that she had brought some of the fog of old
England abroad with her. She had a habit of coming
to the table in her bonnet, with the veil half down ;
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. Ill
and would sit as meek as Moses while her doings
were proclaimed to the multitude. Like Moses, how-
ever, she had someone to speak for her ; and day by
day we learned from Little Dotty what she was
doing, thinking and saying. As her expeditions were
strictly confined to what an American gentleman
called the "guest portion of the city," and as her
opinions differed in no wise from those of the guide-
books, I cannot say we were greatly the gainers
thereby.
I never repeated my experiment of walking about
Rome and seeing nothing. On the contrary, for two
weeks afterwards, I never went out without an object.
With me was a friend whom I shall call Buzz, an
excellent man, but with one decided weakness — he
had the church mania. There are some three hundred
and sixty -five churches in Rome, and Buzz was fired
with an enthusiasm to see them all. We did not —
for, as he never hurried, it would have taken months
— but we did very well. As he did not understand
Italian and I did, I was obliged to keep by his side,
and act as the medium of communication between
him and the monks, sacristans and priests. He would
miss nothing — was there a picture or a relic (and
what church in Rome is without these attractions ?)
Buzz must see it. Doors were opened, curtains were
lifted for us, and we were taken down into cellars to
look at skeletons. I think I can say truthfully that
we neve:- escaped a picture or missed a bone.
At St. Peter's, needless to say, we spent many
delightful days ; but of St, Peter's it were better not
112 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
to write ; for, having begun, when would one ever
end ? Indeed, one might almost say the same of all
the Basilicas ; to do them justice one would need to
fill many volumes. St. John Lateran, first in rank of
the five patriarchal churches, omnium urbis et orbia
ecclesiarum mater et caput, is perhaps the most
interesting, it is so old, and the name is suggestive of
so much that is venerable. As you approach it, a
glance at the old Lateran palace to which it is
attached, takes one back, in imagination, to the Dark
Ages ; though the building, as it appears at present,
dates only from the sixteenth century. On entering,
this great church is somewhat disappointing. Look-
ing down the nave it is bare ; and the colossal statues
of the apostles in front of the pillars have neither
grace nor dignity. The vast choir, however, is won-
derfully rich in historic treasures, and glitters with
polished marble, ancient mosaic, and the gilded tracery
of the balconies that overlook it. Then when you
have examined the famous canopy over the papal
altar, which is said to contain the heads of St. Peter
and St. Paul, you feel the impress of the spirit of the
place ; and the suggestions associated with the name
of the old church on the Lateran are individualized
for you for evermore. The gorgeous ceiling, glit-
tering with gold and full of saints and angels, the
grand and gloomy choir whose walls are one vast
treasure-house, and the long, empty nave with its
sombre pavement and colorless statues, group them-
selves together and form one consistent whole. You
look up at the Gothic canopy, with its |:e4 Qurtaii}
■ A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 113
behind which are kept the heads of the apostles and
under which is a wooden table, said by tradition to
have been used as an altar by St. Peter ; and then
down on the stately bronze figure of Pope Martin V.,
who kneels facing it in front. Around are the peasant
women of Rome, kneeling and telling their beads.
You realize that you stand, as it were, in the very
heart of the old Latin church ; and the centuries are
linked together above you in wood and stone, marble
and precious mosaic, until you feel yourself drawn
back into the twilight of the Dark Ages.
Far different are one's feelings ct the Basilica of
San Paolo — to give it its full name, San Paolo fuori
le mura, St Paul's outside the walls. This magni-
ficent church was destroyed by fire in 1823, and has
been rebuilt since ; it is, therefore, entirely modern.
With its splendid pillars of Simplon granite, its costly
marbles, its glittering malachite, its altar columns of
oriental alabaster and its portrait medallions of all the
Popes, it is possibly the most gorgeous church in the
world. But it is not beautiful. The glitter is not the
glitter of tinsel ; all parts of the world have contri-
buted their quota of precious marble, and one Roman
lady gave her jewels, in order that her favorite pontiff
might have diamond eyes. But it is cold, and appeals
neither to the artistic sense nor to the imagination, a
gorgeous Roman Basilica of the nineteenth century, a
Christian church that has no suggestion of religion
— unless it be the worship of wealth and grandeur.
The Benedictine monastery, to which it is attached,
has been suppressed by the Italian Government lik§
114 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
all institutioiiS of the kind, and is tunisd into a
museum. The monks are gone, and there are no
worshippers — only tourists running around with
guide-books in their hands, exclaiming aloud at the
profusion of precious marbles, and peering through
their glasses at the pope with the diamond eyes.
You stand at the end of the vast nave, surveying all
this empty magnificence, and ask, was it worth the
while ? In answering the question, one must remem-
ber that a church dedicated to St. Paul has stood on
this spot ever since the fourth century ; and that the
two Popes, Gregory XVI. and Pius IX., who were
chiefly responsible for the building and decorating of
the edifice, never contemplated that a time would
come when the order of the Benedictines would be
suppressed, and their residence converted to a national
museum. It takes a long time to get there, and the
site is as uninteresting as a place in the vicinity of
the Eternal City can be No historic associations
cluster around any portion of the building. The
effect is melancholy — one feels as one might feel upon
visiting a superb mansion erected by a departed
friend, into which he had not lived to enter and
which can find no tenant.
Santa Maria Maggiore, or " Great St. Mary's," is not
a favorite church with the tourist ; I cannot remember
meeting anyone but myself who loved to go there and
linger under its stately roof. It is the most conspic-
uous church in Rome, standing on the summit of the
Esquiline, with vast open spaces at the front and
back. From whatever side you approach the Esqui-
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 115
line, this stately pile looms up before you, serving as
a landmark, seated in solemn grandeur on the summit
of the hill. It is sombre inside ; a grey note seems to
pervade, lightened here and there with a gleam of gold
or mosaic of many-colored marble. The magnificence
of St. Paul's, the suggestiveness of St. John Lateran,
the variety of San Lorenzo, are wanting ; there are a
dozen smaller churches containing greater trea-
sures ; yet Santa Maria Maggiore seems to me the best
type of the Roman Basilica, it is at once so majestic
and imposing, and, at the same time, so pre-eminently
suggestive of the purpose for which it was built.
Perhaps it was the " dim religious light " that
wrought the charm — or, it may be, the little groups
of worshippers who were forever coming and going,
or the tired old peasants who were wont to sit and
nod dreamily under the shadow of the grey pillars —
but charm there was ; and, of all the great churches
in Rome, I visited it oftenest and liked it best.
San Lorenzo fvbori le mura, the fifth and last of
the five patriarchial churches, is, like San Paolo, some
distance from the city. Instead of a monastery there
is a cemetery attached to it ; and cemeteries are one
of the few relics of papal dominion which the Italian
Government has not suppressed. The church is very
interesting, for it is built in " pieces " ; there is a new
part, an old part, and a very old part ; but all these are
one church, though you notice inside, going up and
down steps, that it was not planned entire as it now
stands. At the back you go down a long flight of steps
and find yourself in the chapel wherein lie the remains
8
116 A GLIMPSE OF ROME,
of that much fought-over pontiff, Pius IX. He
asked for a simple tomb, and the white marble sar-
cophagus is devoid of ornament. But the Church
desires to do all honor to the staunch upholder of her
temporal rights ; and, accordingly, the chapel which
contains his body is to be a marvel for all ages. The
whole world is contributing to the decorating thereof,
each bishop having a little piece of the wall set apart,
to be filled in with costly mosaic and stamped with
the arms of his province. The effect is brilliant in
the extreme.
It would take some time to barely enumerate the
churches we visited ; and every church has its history,
its relics and its treasures. There was San Carlo and
San Lorenzo in the Corso ; Santa Maria and Santa
Cecilia, in Trastevere ; Santa Maria sopra Minerva,
celebrated because it is the only Gothic church in
Rome, and very peculiar " Gothic " at that ; the Santi
Apostoli, the Gesu ; Santa Maria degli Angeli, at the
Baths of Diocletian ; the Ara Coeli, with its celebrated
image, the Santissimo Bambino', San Pietro Montorio,
with its marvellous view of Rome ; and San Pietro in
vincoli. The last contains the celebrated statue of
Moses, by Michael Angelo.
Michael Angelo — the mention of his name suggests
to anyone who has ever been in Rome, hours of futile
argument, passionate invective and furious declama-
tion. Ever since his day artists and sculptors have
worshipped him with blind and unlimited devotion.
Perhaps, even in his own times, there were people
who thought his Moses impossible. Even the wor-
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 117
shippers admit that the drapery is so, and that the
law-giver, seated as he is, could not get up. A few,
also, agree that it is impossible for a man's knees to
be bigger than his head. His beard, too, is impossible,
and he is represented with horns. Whenever you
approach Michael Angelo you are entangled in a
web of impossibilities — but with all the artists and
sculptors around worshipping criticism is impossible.
To go on to tell of other churches and other im-
possibilities of Michael Angelo would weary the
reader. Every day we seemed to hear of a new
church to be visited, and began again.
One day, however, I felt tired of it all, and ran
away. I was standing at the door of the hotel, and
saw the delightful Mrs. B. hailing a cab. She was
alone. I called out to ask her if she was going for
a drive ; and, if so, begged that I migh* have the
pleasure of going with her.
Mrs. B. got into the carriage, and arranged herself
comfortably on the cushions. Then, fixing her bright
eyes upon me and smiling sweetly, she said, ' Yes,
you may come, and I will drive where you like, and
as long as you like — but on one condition only. Ask
me to go into a church, and I shall go raving mad ! "
Needless to say I was at her side in a moment ; and,
casting a hurried glance up at the window of Buzz's
room, called out to the cabby, " A lla Porta Pia — al
piu presto possible" and we were off.
It was quite exciting. She, too, had friends
afflicted with the church mania ; and we felt as if we
might be pursued. The cabby went well ; Italians
118 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
like to drive at a breakneck pace ; and we flew up the
Via Venti Settembre, past the Ministry of Finance
and the Embassy, through the Porta Pia, as if we
were driving for a wager. Only then, when we were
outside the city, did we breathe freely. True there
are churches outside the walls ; and we passed two,
which the cabby, after the manner of Roman cabbies,
pointed out. But we screamed so violently at the
sight of them that he cracked his whip and increased
speed again ; and we were soon fairly on the road to
the Campagna.
It was one of the loveliest of spring days, though,
in Italy, the remark is inapplicable, for all spring
days are the loveliest. We soon left the houses and
churches behind us, driving up a gently undulating
hill and then down the other side. Here we were
really on the Campagna ; stretching away for miles
and miles ahead, of us, lay the green plains, green
with the fresh greenness of the spring ; and the air was
laden with the fragrance of innumerable hyacinths.
We drove down over a long winding road in the open
country, stopping at last at the Osteria built beside
the mineral springs of the acqua acetosa, the
efficacy of which waters is held in great esteem by
the Romans. The well-house was designed by
Bernini, that Bernini whose bad taste did its best to
spoil the City of the Pontiffs, and whose over-
ornamentation did deface St. Peter's. It has not,
however, spoilt the acqua acetosa, nor does the well-
house detract from the charm of the scene on which
it stands. We refused to drink of the water, but our
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 119
cabby drank a (juart bottle of it. drinkiii»^v)iit of the
bottle-neck; and then asked for more, graciously
explaining to us his state of health, and the bimeficent
effect which he expected tlie water to produce. Then
we drove on again over the wide Canipagna.
After awhile we forsook the road, and drove over
the green grass. The white hyacinths grew in
thousands everywhere, and we got out of the carr.'age
to walk among them. Mrs. B. and I commencecl to
pick them ; and when the cabby saw us doing it he
followed our example ; and we soon returned to the
carriage with three armfuls. We got tired of stoop-
ing at length, and told the cabby to desist picking
them also, as we should not know what to do with
so many; as it was, the carriage reminded us of
carnival time in Nice, when one drives to the
Promenade dea Anglais with a carriage-load of
blossoms to participate in the battle of flowers.
Far away on every side stretched the Campagna,
though in the distance we could discern the Sabine
mountains, with towns and villages dotting their
sides, whose white houses were glowing in the bright
sunlight. The cabby kindly indicated the direction
of Tivoli, which we knew already very well, and
afterwards named a few other places, to any one of
which he said he would be happy to drive us. But
we assured him that although fleeing from our friends,
we were not prepared to cut ouraelves utterly adrift
from them by anything so rash and improper as a
flight to the mountains. On the contrary, when we
got into the carriage, we ordered him to drive back to
120 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
Rome by the Porta del Popolo ; and the horses' heads
were turned in the direction of the river.
• So we drove rlong the bank of the Tiber, following
it in its windings, watching the dirty yellow water
flowing oetween the green banks of grass, and finally
crossing it by the Ponte Molle of ancient and modern
fame. We were now on the road by which formerly
the traveller from the north approached the Eternal
City, when, as yet, railways were not. To the right
rose* Monte Mario, with its stately pines and white
villa, where I once spent nearly a whole day, lying
under the laurels and smelling the yellow mimosa,
only to be evicted as a trespasser at the end. On the
left we passed the Villa di Papa Giulio, when, for the
last time, the cabby tried to lure us into sight-seeing,
saying to himself mournfully, after each refusal,
"Papa Giulio, Papa Giulio" — as if the Pope Julius,
who had sat to Raphael for his portrait, had been a
personal friend recently deceased. Then the stately
Porta del Popolo came into nearer and nearer view,
until we drove up to it and passed under into the
city.
In the Piazza del Popolo we dismissed the cabby,
who no doubt thought it a very tame home-coming,
after such an exciting departure ; and climbed up the
stairs leading to the Pincio. On the Pincio all was
animation, as the Roman world goes there, every after-
noon the hour before sundown, to take the air. The
band of the Beraaglieri was playing airs from " Caval-
leria Rusticana "; people of fashion were driving round
and round the triangle, or sitting in their carriages,
' A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 1^1
paying and receiving visits; and pedestrians were
sauntering lazily up and down. The best known of
all resorts in Rome is the Pincio, but never an unin-
teresting sight. If you tire of the people and the
music, you can stand by the wall that runs along the
precipitous sides of the hill, and look down into the
green alleys of the Borghese; or, walking along to
the front, you can look over into the Piazza del Popolo,
with its stately obelisk in the centre, surrounded
by four water-spouting lions. Facing the Porta del
Popolo is the entrance to the Corso, with its churches,
Santa Maria del Popolo and Santa Maria de' Miracoli,
on either side. The carriages are coming and going,
in and out of the Corso, in a long black line ; and a
long half-circle of them extends from the Corso to the
inclined plane leading to the Pincio, the beginning of
which is just under you and the end beside you at
the top. They come and go, and come and go, and
frequently all come to a standstill, the crush is so
great. Then, each side of the Corso, is another street*
beginning beyond the two churches, the Babuino on
the left and the Ripetta on the right, main arteries,
second only to the Corso, of the old city of the Popes.
You watch and watch and watch until you are weary ;
and then, raising your eyes, you see, far beyond, the
mighty dome of St. Peter's standing out against the
sunset sky, grim and gigantic, towering aloft, keeping
guard over the Eternal City at its feet.
122 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
11.
On the evening of the Annunciation I was in a well-
known caf4-chantant in the Via de' due Macelli,
sipping my coffee, when a young woman of beauti-
ful but artificial complexion, resplendent in white
satin and diamonds (?), appeared on the stage and
commenced to sing the "Ave Maria." ' . v
Both words and air were familiar, yet I fancied I
must be mistaken, a hymn seemed so out of keeping
with the place and the performer. It might, perhaps,
be a parody — from the character of the singer, judged
by her face, one might have expected anything — but
psalm-singing. So I turned to an Italian officer who
sat next me, and made enquiries.
" She is singing the * Ave Maria,' signore ; it is in
honor of the day, I' Annunziazione."
I bowed, and said, "A thousand thanks," as is
proper ; but if I said little, I thought the more. In
no place but in Rome could such a thing happen ;
but in Rome — well, you may expect anything, and
need be surprised at nothing. I went on sipping
my coffee, prepared to listen with due reverence ;
but, to my amazement, the rest of the audience were
not of the same mind. She had not gone far before
the whole room was in a ferment. A few were crying
" Brava," but the majority were hissing and hooting ;
the louder the one cry, the louder the other. In a
short time all the occupants of the caf^ were engaged
either in encouraging her to go on, or insisting that
she should stop and sing something else. It was a
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 123
perfect uproar. Again in dilemma, I appealed to
the gentleman beside me ; and again the matter was
explained.
The singing of the " Ave Maria " was a recognition
of the festival ; the recognition of a church festival
was nothing less than a recognition of the Church ;
the recognition of the Church was treason to Italy ;
all loyal Italians were protesting. As for those who
cried " Brava,'' and who were quite as eager in their
way, they were of the Pope's party, and were seizing
on the occasion to "demonstrate." All was clear.
No harm was done. The " Ave Maria " was sung,
even if no one heard it ; the singer retired, hissed and
applauded ; a clown came out to perform, and every-
one cooled down under the influence of his buffoonery ;
but the incident was a glimpse into the Roman char-
acter. The RomauR are as fickle as the wind ; they
shout for united Italy to day, and may shout for the
Pope to-morrow, only to dethrone him and declare for
a republic the day after. Without any " inward and
spiritual grace," they have faith in the " outward and
visible sign;" and, in their advocacy of a policy or
doctrine, show neither moderation nor sense of justice.
All Italians, however, are extremists on one side or
the other when you mention the Church question. I
never mentioned it ; but was frequently called upon to
listen to fierce invective, delivered quite regardless of
what might happen to be my own feelings or pre-
judices. I was once on board of a small coasting
steamer, going through the Tuscan Archipelago, with
a captain who spent the best part of two days playing
124 A GLIMPSE OF HOME.
on the mandolin and preaching a sermon against the
papacy. - v ,
It was a trip to be remembered. The first day was
wild and winterish, the rain was falling in torrents,
and the Tramontana was blowing a stiff breeze.
Besides myself there were two passengers — a girl,
who sat in front of the cabin fire combing her hair,
and a man, who, fearing that he was going to be ill,
leaned on me for support. The latter was the more
objectionable, for he had breakfasted on garlic, and
clung very close. Everyone knows that sea-sickness
is a blessing in disguise, so I prayed old Father Nep-
tune to bless the two of them, and do it as speedily as
possible.
The prayer was heard. The girl was the first to
feel it. She left one or two tufts of hair hanging
straight, and fled, overpowered by a stronger instinct
than that of vanity; and while I was rendering
thanks for this release, my other fellow-traveller
began to find his caro amico a broken reed, and,
ere long, sought refuge in his berth. I was left
alone with the captain, who lay on a sofa singing
love-songs to the accompaniment of a mandolin.
He was the most peculiar skipper I ever chanced
to meet, though 1 have met with many kinds. Occa-
sionally one of the officers or men came below and
gave him some information as to wind and weather,
which he would acknowledge with a curt " Va bene";
but the mandolin never left his hand. He 8ang songs
of all countries, having been in all — " Annie Laurie,"
" Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay," " Dixie," and airs from " Cav-
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 125
alleria Rusticana," following each other, all sung to
Italian words and with Italian grace — until, all at
once, the mandolin was flung away, and he gave vent
to a loud " Thank God ! "
A short silence ensued, and then came an outburst
of invective. The occasion of the * Thank God " was
the passing of the Civil Marriage Bill in Hungary,
and the invective was levelled at the Church. It
would be impossible to repeat even the mildest phrases
which he used; such frenzy and such ferocity could
not be expressed on paper. It fairly staggered me;
and when I had a chance to get in a word, I said so.
" Ha," said he, "you are English — what do you care ?"
And then followed a long dissertation on the English
and their modes of thought, which, though uttered in
a tone of reproach, was, from my point of view, a
compliment to the nation I represented. The next
breathing space he took, I said so.
" What is your religion ?" said he, asking the ques-
tion at rather a late hour, considering what had been
said on the subject.
I told him. " And you," I asked in return, " what
are you ? Nothing, I presume ? "
" Nothing ? " cried the man, with open eyes ; " me —
I am a good Catholic."
This assertion I received with a laugh of incre-
dulity ; but he was in earnest, he was a good ( 'atholic,
though, to the northern mind, a man who made his
four sons curse the Church every night when they
said their prayers, seems an anomalous sort of church-
man. Nevertheless he explained his position, and
126 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
carried conviction with his words — for Italians are
nothing if not plausible. He was a good Christian
and a Catholic, but full of passionate hatred toward
the Pope and the Church, as enemies of united Italy,
the House of Savoy and Garibaldi, the gods of the
modern Italian. The argument — for I argued with
him all the time — continued during the evening and
thoughout the next day, broken only by interludes of
music, when his feelings found expression in more
amiable words, sung to the accompaniment of the
mandolin.
He was not a solitary case. On one occasion I
went to the railway station in Rome to meet a train
due at eleven in the evening. It was two hours be-
hind the time ; I had taken a higlietto d'ingresso to
the platform and felt disinclined to go out again ; so I
sauntered up and down, turning at last into the
baggage-room where I hoped to find a seat.
The baggage-master, a nimble old man with a fiery
eye, was the only occupant ; and he was leaning over
the counter, reading the THbuna. He asked me what
I was looking for, and I told him ; whereupon he
politely handed me a chair.
I sat down. The old man continued his reading,
making an occasional remark about the weather and
the great number of forestieri in Rome ; and I
answered in monosyllables. Finally, having finished
his paper, he asked me how I had spent the day.
As it happened, I had been on the Janiculum, ad-
miring the view of the city and inspecting the statue
of Garibaldi. At the mention of the name the old
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 127
man's eyes flashed fire, he drew himself back and,
with one movement, threw off his coat, which fell to
the floor behind. Then, rolling up his shirtsleeve,
he thrust his bare arm under my eyes — " Ecco,
Signorivo ! "
There was the scar of a sword-thrust running from
the elbow diagonally across, half way to the wrist.
As he showed it, his eyes continued to flash and his
face glowed with a smile of triumph.
" Una cicatrice ? " — a scar. . ^r :r y ' -
" A memorial of that great day ! " And then fol-
lowed a perfect torrent of words, as he described the
scene. I think even one who knew not a syllable of
Italian would have understood him ; it was wonderful.
I could see Garibaldi in plumed hat, his red cloak
flying in the wind, standing on the summit of the
hill and pointing to the great city, while his voice
rang through the air, thrilling every soul \Tith the
magic words, "Roma o Morte !" — " Rome or Death!" —
the enthusiasm of the revolution, the rush forward, the
fire and fury of the conflict, all were there, living,
burning again. And then there followed invectives,
cursings, and maledictions, showered hot on poor old
Pius IX — curses on him living, curses on him dead —
they fell like thunderbolts from the thin withered
lips, while the lightning flashed in his eye. Him I did
not contradict. He was entertaining me ; and, in any
case, it would have been unkind to interfere with
such joy as was bom of the memories I had
awakened. I let him bless and curse. Garibaldi
rose serene to the highest heaven, to be for evermore
128 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
the li^ht of the world; while the Pontiff sank,
with the unanimous consent of humankind, to the
bottom of the bottomless pit — if such a Hibernianism
may be allowed. Viva Vittorio Emmanuele ! Viva
V Italia ! but, above all, Viva Garibaldi ! ■
The partisans of the Church are just as extreme
in their way ; but as such of them as I chanced to
meet belonged to a different class, the exhibition of
feeling on their part was not so violent nor so
picturesquely expressed. It may be remarked, how-
ever, that some people do not consider it quite decent
to mention the name of Garibaldi in good society;
and the evening after I met the old man at the rail-
way station, I had the pleasure of spending a few
hours with an old lady who held very extreme views.
An allusion to the statue on the Janiculum was met
by a wave of the hand and the curt remark, " We do
not mention such people in this house."
When Holy Week arrived, we had ample oppor-
tunity of seeing such church ceremonial as lingers
under the blighting influence of Italian rule. To
Buzz I was indebted for much that I would other-
wise have missed; for he used to wake me in the
morning and bid me arise and come forth, when, left
to myself, I should probably have slept.
I think we saw everything and heard everything.
Little Dotty, instigated by Mrs. Nincompoop, went
about on the Wednesday, warning everybody who
had left a picture in a church un visited, to go and see
it immediately, as the pictures would be veiled from
Holy Thursday until Easter. Buzz and I left for
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 129
church at once ; but found out later that, though the
pictures were veiled, the sacristan, for a few pence,
would roll up the veil and let you have a peep. On
that Wednesday, the finest of the services was the
singing of the "Miserere" at the Gesu, by the students
of the German college. But Holy Thursday was the
busiest day of the week. In the morning we saw
the oil consecrated, the relics venerated, and also
lieard high mass, at St. John Lateran; and in the
afternoon, we heard the papal choir sing the "Miserere"
at St. Peter's, and saw the exhibition of the most
precious relics and the washing of the high altar.
It was a curious sight, St. Peter's, that after-
noon. A motley crowd, composed of all nations and
all sorts and conditions of men and women, thronged
tlie great nave and transepts of the church, all push-
ing and jostling one another, walking up and down,
praying, joking, chattering, criticising, laughing, even
flirting. Grave priests were there, come from far-off
lands to worship at the tomb of the apostle, frivolous
women to see and be seen, pickpockets to ply their
trade, the devout to pray, the unbelieving to laugh,
the philosopher to moralize ; and a few simple souls,
among whom I was one, to hear the music.
But no one else seemed to pay any attention to the
service ; and I soon found that " in Rome you must do
as the Romans do," and flutter about. I was intro-
duced to a gentleman from New York ; and we
walked up and down, discussing an heiress whom we
had both met, and her chances. Once I heard an
irreverent Roman exclaim, " Hist — there's the angel's
130 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
voice, he's bej^innin^ a solo," and I rushed toward the
choir to hear the Pope's favorite chorister; but the
noise around me was too great ; and I went back to
my new acquaintance, to ask more questions about
Miss Millions.
Notwithstanding these drawbacks, it was, in its
way, a most impressive sight. The vast cathedral
seemed vaster than ever, when one saw such a multi-
tude of men and women surging and swaying back-
ward and forward on the marble pavement, so infini-
tesimally small each one, and covering only the
ground like flies; while the massive pillars rose
heavenward, and the ceiling loomed dim and distant
with its sombre gold, far above, as if it had been
built to house a race of giants, and were desecrated
by the horde of restless pigmies who were strutting
about with such self-importance beneath. In the
midst rose the great Baldacchino, with its columns of
gilded bronze rising ninety feet in the air, over-
shadowing the high altar under the great dome. In
the dim light of the late afternoon there was a
mystery, a grandeur, a sublime beauty in the scene.
And there was nothing to relieve the duskiness;
the ninety-three ever-burning golden lamps, which
twinkle like stars before the tomb of St. Peter night
and day, were extinguished because of the Passion ;
only the light that struggled in from the far away
windows in the north and south, made the twilight
visible, save when an acolyte or chorister went
picking his way through the crowd, carrying a
flickering taper. Truly a not-to-be-forgotten sight.
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 131
And tramp, tramp went the people; and the hum
of voices rose and fell continuously in all languages,
broken now and again in the distance by outbursts
of song from the white-robed choir, who sat far away
in the shadow of the papal throne.
At last the "Miserere" came to an end, and there was
a rush from all sides toward the high altar. The
altar of St. Peter's is washed on Holy Thursday, a
ceremony which is said to take place nowhere else.
There is not much to see, but everyone, unhappily,
wishes to see what there is; and the pushing and
squeezing is very great. I found myself wedged in
between the crowd and one of the pillars of the
Baldacchino, an excellent place from which to view
the ceremony, and an excellent place to be flattened
into the semblance of a pancake. The marble altar
was left quite bare, with nothing on it but a number
of glasses full of red wine. A procession of cardinals,
canons and other dignitaries, went up and solemnly
spilled the wine over the stone ; then went down and
came back again with little bunches of hyssop, with
which they washed the wine over every square inch
of the surface.
When this was at an end, the crowd broke up to
collect again under the gallery of St. Veronica, where
the relics are displayed. This ceremony jarred on me
much, 80 irreverent was the crowd, so loud the
laughter, so audible the criticisms. For my own part,
I have no taste for these things ; but the association
of ideas lends, or ought to lend, a solemnity to such
an exhibition. It was sadly lacking. The Romans,
9
132 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
themselves, are a very irreverent people, and do not
behave difterently in church from vvliat they do in
the theatre or ganiin^-hall ; conse(iuentIy, foreigners,
" doing as the Romans do," in Rome conduct them-
selves with a flippancy and want of the sense of the
fitness of things that jars on a sensitive mind, and
takes away from a religious service that elevating
influence without which it nmst degenerate into a
melancholy farce.
After this scene, the solemn ceremonies in the
Vatican, whither I drove in the early morning of
Easter Day to see the Pope celebrate his private mass
in the presence of the Embassies, were a pleasing
contrast. We arrived at the Bronze Doors about
half-past seven o'clock ; and, after showing our cards
of invitation to the Swiss Guards, were ushered up
the Royal staircase to the Sola Megia, or Royal
Saloon. All the guests were on the point of arriving,
to be in place when the Pope should enter, the men
in full dress, the women with black lace veils over
their heads and dressed in black silk or satin, re-
minding one of the churches in Southern Spain with
their rows of stately Spanish women, each wearing
the graceful mantilla, who kneel on the marble floors,
and look so beautiful in the sombre light.
The guards at the door of the Sistine Chapel
inspected us, and escorted us to our places. I found
myself in a good position to see and hear, standing
between an American monsignore and a couple of
French gentlemen, an old man and his son; who, if one
may judge anything from face and form, were of aij
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 133
ancient and lumorable Legitiniiat family — so exquisite
and reHned were their features, so polished their man-
ner, so devout their behavior.
To decorate the Sistine Chapel in honor of any
event would be sacrilege. A small altar, draped with
scarlet, and having a canopy above it of the same
color, stood against Michael Angelo's "Ijast Judgment;"
and on it were eight golden candlesticks. This was
the oidy change in the chapel from what one saw
every day. A semi-circle of the Guard of Nobles, in
their uniform of blue and gold with silver helmets,
extended from each corner of the altar to the wall on
either side. Down the middle of the chapel, from the
altar steps to the door, there was a double row of
Swiss Guards in their flaming uniforms of red and
yellow, with lofty white plumes on their helmets and
antique pikes in hand, keeping the way clear for the
Pope's procession. On either side were benches for
the guests of the day, foreign ambassadors and their
families having front seats. From the ceiling the
master-pieces of Michael Angelo looked down ; and
before the eye, around and above the altar, the figures
of the " Last Judgment " stood out with tremendous
force— demons, wild and raging, souls falling into
the abyss — and far above the golden crucifix that
stood in the midst of the golden candlesticks, appeared
the vision of the Crucified seated on the clouds, a stern
and relentless judge, with arm uplifted pronouncing
sentence on the world.
- We waited for some time ; but at last the papal
choir burst into song. At the same moment the
134 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
procession appeared at the door, Swiss Guards and
Knights of Malta, followed by cardinals and grand
dignitaries of the household ; and last, borne in the
mdia gestatoria, a red-and-gold chair, on the shoulders
of twelve ecclesiastics in crimson gowns, came the
successor of Hildebrand and Gregory the Great.
Unlike many of the men who stamp their impress
on the history of their time, Leo XIII. is not dis-
appointing in the bodily presence. I knew him well
from his portrait, as everybody else knows him ; and
he impressed me much more favorably than the
pictorial representation. He is very old and very
white, with skin as soft as a baby's ; but there is a
greater fulness in his cheeks than is observable in his
photographs ; and this softens his smile into one of
winning sweetness. However winning the smile may
be, no one could suspect it to be the senile smile of an
old man in his dotage; for, under his small white
brows and above those soft wrinkled cheeks, look
out the sharpest of little eyes, full of intellectual
vigor that twinkle and sparkle with wonderful keen-
ness, telling the world that the greatest pontiff the
Roman Church has had for two centuries, retains,
at the age of eighty-six, all his mental force and
vivacity.
He advanced slowly, blessing everyone on either
side, with a smile sweeter than honey. But the eyes
belied the smile. There is no malice in those eyes,
only keenness of intellect and capacity for seeing
straight and far. As I looked into them, they
seemed to be saying, " Ha, ha ; I see you, you dear,
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 135
devout people, bending with such reverent faces, who
talk so much about my troubles and do so little to
help me out of them ; and you, you well-bred heretics,
with your courtly manners and curious glances, I see
you, too ; and I bless you, one and all, with right good
will — if there be any benefit in it, heaven knows you
needit!"
Neither is the resemblance to Voltaire, of which so
much has been said, as striking as in the portraits of
the Pope. The greater fulness of the cheeks accounts
for this, and takes away that sharp cynical look that
seems to lurk in the lips, as seen in photographs.
This resemblance to Voltaire is said to be a sore point
with the pontiff; but it is hard to say why. The time
has surely come when the world may cease to frighten
itself with the name of the great Frenchman ; and the
venerable successor of Benedict XIV. might look back
over the intervening century and say, with a smile,
" Yes, here I am, in face and form an image of your-
self, building up where you threw down, governing
the Church you thought to destroy, doing good where
you did ill," — for what the great Frenchman did for
humanity is now patent to all the world ; and what
he did and said, in his biting, witty fashion, against
the Church and its rulers, has, even if they remember
it with resentment, shown them a wiser and better
way to lead mankind than known of in the days of
Louis XV.
And so he advanced by degrees to the altar, where
he was robed and said mass, giving communion to the
embassies. Then a low mass was said by his chaplain,
136 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
and from him the pontiff received the communion,
sitting in a low chair to the left of the altar. Then,
after having retired through a side door into an
adjoining room to breakfast, he came out and took
his seat on the throne ; and the embassies did homage
and kissed his foot.
The service was imposing and full of grandeur ;
yet not even the sublime figures of Michael Angelo,
looking down on one from above the altar, awoke
that sense of spiritual awe produced on entering the
great churches of the north. Neither St. Peter's nor
the Sistine Chapel, nor any of the gorgeous churches
of Rome, tell of the rise and triumph of the faith. If
they speak, it is to suggest the Renaissance ; and their
glory is the glory of world-wide dominion. But in
the north, whether one rests under the golden mosaics
of St. Mark, or the vaulted roof of SS. Giovanni e Paolo,
or stands, with awestruck soul, on the old red brick
pavement of Santa Croce, comes, like a mighty torrent
full upon the inner man, the spirit of the ages of faith.
Glorious may be the mosaic, matchless the art; yet
they speak to one of heaven and not of earth. In the
old church of Santa Croce in Florence, with its gaunt
grey walls, its red brick floor and its marvellous
Giottos, this feeling is felt to the full. One realizes
something of the faith of those who wrought of old,
building for the glory of God and in the hope of
heaven. As you pace up and down, the bare walls,
the massive tombs and the gloomy roof far above,
speak of the toil and the conflict, the burning zeal,
the martyrdoms, the living faith, of a long-past age.
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 137
The light streams in through the many-colored win-
dow that fills the space behind the altar, and lightens
the grey pillars with a mystic semblance of the halo
worn by those who have on earth fought even unto
death for the truth. The spot is holy. Whatever be
the spirit in which one enters, once there, he is back
in the twilight of the Middle Ages, back with the stern
spirits of men who found life short and stormy, but
with never a doubt as to the right and the wrong.
And we stand and gaze wistfully, plunged in thought,
wondering at the old times, and yet —
" Malgre nous vers le ciel il faut lever les yeux."
But it is never so in Rome. Papal Rome lives in the
present, and not in the past. To others its interest
and its glory may arise from its antiquity ; for itself,
it forgets the past in the present ; or writing the words
" Roma semper eadem " on its banner, finds the pre-
sent age but a repetition of many that are gone. In
their day, Hildebrand, Innocent III. and Paul V.
warred with the world and with the spirit of their
age, and fought the fight with the weapons of their
times ; so now Leo XIII. grapples with the nineteenth
century, and seeks to overcome the enemy with the
weapons it has made for itself. In papal Rome there
is the present to be secured, the future to be fought
for; the past is gone.
138 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
III.
"What attracts you most in Rome ?" said a tire-
some-looking man in spectacles, who carried a still
more tiresome-looking volume under his arm ; " what
do you consider the chief objects of interest ?"
This sort of question is to me most irritating ; and,
without stopping to think, I answered, hurriedly,
" Well there are three Spanish dancers at a cafe
chantant just round the corner, who, I think, have
pleased me more than anything else in the city.
Their grace and beauty are something marvellous ;
and if you wish to spend a pleasant evening — "
But by this time the man was gone. I did not know
his name nor anything about him; and though we
met often afterwards in the corridors of the hotel,
we never spoke. If I happened to run against him,
he would look in my direction ; but, where I was, he
saw nothing. Answer the questions you are asked,
suiting the answer to the questioner, and you will
soon make yourself a name. Great reputations are
often built up in this way. But a great reputation is
a terrible incubus ; it is much more easy to travel
about without one.
The Spanish dancers, delightful as they were, en-
grossed far more of my attention than they would
have done elsewhere, for Rome is dull of an evening.
The theatres are inferior to those of other Italian
cities, and the streets at night afford little entertain-
ment. Florence, Naples, Milan, Genoa, Venice — in these
lively romantic old towns one can wander around,
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 139
night after night, and find the life of the streets
more exciting than any comedy ; in fact I am not
sure that in the case of the majority of cities one
can only know them, seeing them by night. But it
is not so in Rome ; at night the Eternal City sleeps in
a double sense. True, one can go out and stand
under the walls of some brown old palace and
imagine all sorts of things, Bravos rushing along with
flashing stilettos, wounded lovers lying in the dark
archway, gutters running with blood, beautiful
women with veiled faces shrieking at the windows,
cowled priests disappearing in the darkness — and so
on. But when the imagination begins to flag, and
one comes from romance to reality, the passers-by
turn out to be very ordinary people, such as you may
encounter in any western town; and the woman at
the window is probably enjoying her evening smoke
and expectorating on the pavement.
Sometimes I spent the evening at home ; but that,
too, had its drawbacks. One evening I remember. I
had my choice of the smoking-room and the corridor.
The smoking-room was unbearable, because of the
good men. These were four young men from the Far
West, who were incarnations of that peculiar virtue
which causeth hatred and loathing to arise in the
souls of the not-so-good. They neither smoked,
drank nor swore; but in spite of their abstinence
from tobacco, they monopolized the smoking-room
every evening after dinner, sitting, the four of them,
at the four sides of the one table, with pens, ink and
paper before them, writing their diaries. When all
140 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
had finished, each would read aloud his own pro-
duction to the others. Such diaries as those were !
When I reflect that there may be people reading
them at this moment, I shudder at the thought of all
the unnecessary suffering there is in the world. Com-
pared to those diaries, the doings of Mrs. Nincompoop,
herself, were romantic and adventurous.
I sought refuge in the corridor, and commenced a
t^te-d'tete with the delightful Mrs. B. This was
pleasant enough in itself ; but at the other end of the
divan sat Little Dotty, telling the pathetic story of
her married life to a man who was a perfect stranger.
Her manner was decidedly stagey, her voice thrilled
and vibrated, and she sat with one hand raised im-
pressively. Every word was audible. We bore it
for some time ; but when she came to the period at
which her husband had been accused, though falsely,
of flirting with another woman, the delightful Mrs.
B. became hysterical, and was obliged to retire to her
chamber, leaving me alone. Such was one evening
at home.
After the church -going and the ceremonies of Holy
Week, any light form of recreation was pleasing. On
the morning of Easter Monday, Buzz and I climbed
up to the top of St. Peter's, and, sitting down on the
ball that crowns the dome, gave vent to our over-
charged minds.
Everything seemed at an end; nothing appeared
to be left but wreck and ruin ; we found the world
out of joint. We abandoned all thought of reuniting
Christendom ; Holy Week had convinced us that the
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 141
bond would be but a rope of sand. Romanism we
regarded as lost; we were regarding it from St.
Peters' dome, looking down into the Vatican ; and to
our inner eyes the Latin Church was sitting, like a
ghost from the Middle Ages, amid the ruins of two
civilizations, calling to the world in vain to go back.
We thought of Goethe and his worship of culture
and hope of elevating mankind by means of litera-
ture and art ; but we had wandered day after day
through the long galleries of the Vatican, and had
worshipped only to despair. It was very terrible.
Modern progress was visible in the hideous rows of
buildings down in the Borgo, some with the scaffold-
ing still standing, because the speculator who built
them had failed and abandoned them ; and then,
across the Tiber, we looked on the old houses, half
torn down, and shuddered. In 's studio I had
seen a collection of his pictures representing Rome
before '70; and like the Jews who had beheld the
glory of the first temple, wept to see the second. We
looked down on the Italians, struggling under their
burden of taxation, sinking under the yoke of the
Triple Alliance, heavy-hearted after the disasters of
Abyssinia, and remembered Mrs. Browning and her
Casa Guidi Windows, when all the world looked out
with her and felt its pulses beat quickly at the cry of
" bella Liberta, O bella ! " — such a bright dream
it had been, that liberty was going to cure all ills ;
and now, when all was accomplished, where was the
gain ? The thought sickened us — were all dreams of
men to end so ?
142 A GLIMPSE OF ROME,
Only one bright spot met the eye. Far away the
blue Sabine mountains were smiling peacefully in the
April sunlight, their sides dotted here and there with
white villages and towns, reminding us of the olden
days when Romulus and Remus began to build their
city, and wondered where the women were to be
found to come and dwell therein. In those old times
there had been no dead gods to mourn over. The
thought was refreshing. One could not go back ; be-
neath us lay the ruins of that civilization of which
Romulus and Remus had been the beginning, now
dead beyond hope of resurrection. But we decided
to run away to the Sabine hills, whence had come
the women to mother the sons of Rome ; and to the
Sabine hills we went.
One always comes back, however, and goes on.
After a climb over the hills and a breath of the fresh
air on the mountains, we came back with clearer
heads and a determination to be sensible.
Nothing strikes me oftener, when travelling, than
the foolishness of other people. What they have
read about from childhood they rush away to see as
a sort of duty ; and thus they work up a semblance
of enthusiasm about the dullest of realities — for there
seems to have been a sort of tacit understanding
among the people who write books of travel to spend
all their energies in lauding the wrong things. I
remember listening, open-mouthed, to a woman who
raved about the Catacombs ; yet, in the Catacombs, no
human being could ever have found anything but
weariness. The early Christians haunted them, it is
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 143
true ; but it was a choice of two evils — stay below
and be safe, or come out and be eaten.
They are dismal holes. It is like going down into
a well. I spent a morning in them — four hours —
and came out a new man ; to get back anywhere
above ground was in itself a joy. You go down a
ladder into a well, a Dominican monk leading the
way. Arrived at the bottom, you find yourself in a
dark, damp, undergound labyrinth of small passages,
brown, grimy and gritty, with a suggestiveness of
rheumatism about them. The monk lights tapers,
giving one to you and keeping one himself ; and you
go prowling about, in and out, for hours through
these dismal places. The sides of every passage are
honeycombed with holes, wherein they once buried
the dead. Most of the bones are gone ; being those
of early Christians, they were accounted holy, and
were carried away by the cart-load to sanctify other
places with their presence. Twenty-six cart-loads, it
is said, were taken to the Pantheon and put under
the floor. Many are left, however. The monk holds
a taper up, and you read a quaint Latin inscription
over a cavity, stating that so-and-so, with his wife
and children, lie underneath. The monk thrusts in
his hand and brings out a bone — an arm or leg of
one of the family — and gives it to you to examine.
Then you go on groping along. In another moment
you stumble over something ; it turns out to be a
stone coffin containing a skeleton. You go on and
find yourself in a chapel, of which the wall is
crumbling to pieces ; the monk explains the pictures
144 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
and emblems with which the walls are decorated,
sometiiiuis preaching a sermon on the doctrines sym-
bolized. After you have prowled about for some
time in this manner, you are told that you might go
on for weeks ; which I do not doubt in the least. I
did not feel equal to more than four hours of it ; and
when I once more drank in the fresh air and the
sunshine, I felt that the heroism of the early martyrs
was explained — people who spent much of their time
in such holes must have found any escape a relief,
even if they came out only to face the lions.
Out of these gloomy underground regions once
more, I flew to the galleries of the Vatican, my
refuge after a visit to anything that disappointed ;
where forgetfulness of all else was found in the con-
templation of the glories of ancient art. Only the
artist and the poet can do justice to the treasures of the
Vatican and the Capitoline ; no tourist may presume
to sit down and write of them without misgiving.
Yet, since the art treasures of the Vatican are the
most soul-satisfying and most incomparable of all the
many wonders of Rome, when one has wandered
through those galleries, day after day, standing mute
for hours before the marvels of a dead civilization,
one cannot help just a word. Day after day I went
back again to see the sculpture ; day after day you
go. The crowd pours in and rushes round with guide-
book and catalogue, and out again, having seen —
you are alone — entranced, forgetting everything and
everybody, you sit down in a corner and give your-
self up to contomplation of what man has conceived
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 145
of immortal beauty, and called into immortal life.
Here one wants no artist friend to tell him what
to admire and what to decry. It is better to wander
about alone ; and if you admire the wrong thing, what
matter? To me the Cnidian Venus surpasses that
of the Capitoline — even that of the Medici — and is
surpassed in turn only by the Venus of Milo. Let
everyone here ind Ige his own fancies. But no one can
describe, in detail, his experiences in these galleries ;
his feelings of awe on beholding that majestic bust
of Zeus in the beautiful round room ; his raptures
over the Apollo Belvedere ; his delight in looking at
the Mercury with the divinely beautiful head, and who
has, alas ! such very human legs. And if I disliked
the famous " Laocoon," so much the better ; there
was more time to spare for gazing at the Apollo. " O
to be Pope for a few weeks," I thought to myself one
morning, as I sat down on the edge of the little foun-
tain in the octagonal court of the Belvedere, " and I
would shut all these infamous tourists out, and have
the gods to myself, to live and feast on their beauty
till it became a part of my being ! " But still one
can enjoy them without stint. You get up and fly at
times; but the vulgarians who come and madden
you pay short visits, and you can go back again to
worship. It is an interval of pain, coming back to
the nineteeth century ; and then the bliss of self-
forgetfulness once more. Yet sometimes they are a
burden too bitter to be borne. I went one morning
to the Capitoline, to sit beside my best beloved of
statues, the "Dying Gaul"; and for more than q.ii
146 A GLIMPSE OF NOME.
hour, four unspeakable women sat there with nie, dis-
cussing another woman's clothes. I tried in every way
to express disapproval, throwing out hint after hint
in vain ; the subject was too engrossing for them to
notice my existence. I changed my position to no
purpose ; they changed theirs. I went and sat in a
corner, as far away as possible ; one of them followed
me (they were making a pretence of looking at it all
the time), and sat down beside me. For a moment
she was silent ; then, with eyes riveted on the statue,
she said to the others across the room, " Well, it's to
be hoped she will have sense enough not to wear that
black." There lay the " Dying Gaul," his body resting
on his arm, his sword dropped beside him, forgetful
of his pain, his life-blood ebbing away, his spirit calm
— the past dimly present, the present already passed
— simply waiting, waiting for death. And on chat-
tered the women — where she got them, why she
chose them, who made them, and when she would
wear them — it was infamous.
I say nothing of the Sistine Chapel, being half a
heretic — as regards Michael Angelo. Those immortal
frescoes ! All artists are agreed that they are the
greatest pictures in the world ; but to the vulgar
mind that knows nothing of art, they are wanting,
unnatural and unbeautif ul. Time after time I crooked
my neck, trying to feel all that one ought to feel,
when looking at that ceiling ; but it was useless. I
thought of the woman who had worked up an enthu-
siasm over the Catacombs ; but the woman, like all
women, remained incomprehensible and inimitable.
A GLIMPSE OF ROME, 147
Tlio Philistines were there in companies, each day,
with j^hisses and ^uide- books, growing apoplectic in
their outbursts of admiration — their very presence
seeming a desecration. For if one cannot see any-
thing of the living beauty of humanity in these
extraordinary frescoes, yet something of the old mas-
ter's sublime intellectual power and gigantic force of
character impresses itself upon you as you gaze ; and
you feel that words of praise or blame are out of
place — as Carlyle would say, " Silence alone is ade-
(juate." Yet I re-read Shelley's letters from Rome, in
which he declaims against the great painter, with
pleasure ; it is always so comfortable to dissent with
famous people.
It was a relief to return to the Stanze of Raphael,
and to admire because I could not help myself.
Whatever artist be your favorite, you feel, coming
out of these rooms, that he, and he alone, is the
prince of painters. And here, and in the Borghese, the
lover of pictures can feed his passion to the full.
The greatest gem of the latter gallery is undoubtedly
Titian's " Sacred and Profane Love." It is soul-
satisfying — all except the title; for neither is the
one sacred nor the other profane. The fashionably-
clad woman would, in real life, have proved a safe
companion and true friend ; while the sweet girlish
creature, who sits in unconscious grace by the foun-
tain, might, from her very innocence, have proved a
snare. In fact I pin my faith to the profane love and
not to the other, who, as the years go by, may develop
into the less trustworthy of the two. However it
10
148 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
matters nothing ; in this case there is little in a name.
Such coloring is Titian's, and Titian's alone; it is
matchless. There they sit for all the world to admire
and theorize over, forming a picture which one can
never forget, and the seeing of which becomes one of
the thousand things that go to make up the fulness of
life.
When you have mentioned the Borghese, you have
mentioned the greatest of private galleries in Rome.
But there are many only second. To see Beatrice
Cenci's sweet, childlike face, you must go to the
Barberini. They caU the gallery in this palace the
gallery of disappointment ; but it is not. Beatrice
does, indeed, look very unlike a girl who is to murder
her father ; but contemplation of her sweet innocent
features adds only increased interest to her dark and
tragic tale. True the mistress of Raphael has a hag-
gard, tired look ; but time has been unkind to the
Fornarina, her portrait has not lasted well ; it shows
signs of age. Perhaps she had a face that old age
might have rendered repellant, and the years have
done for her dead what the^'- would have done for her
living ; or it may be that her charm was that which
cannot be portrayed on canvas. She may have been
one of those beauties whose fascination is in the
living face, and whose expression defies the photo-
grapher. As she was beloved of Raphael, let us think
the latter.
When, in the company of some English artists, I
mentioned the name of Guido Ifeni, their faces sud-
denly became a blank. After a pause, one of them
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. l49
went so far as to say, " Well, if you admire Guido,
you need say no more ; we have nothing in common
as regards pictures." In spite of this man, for whose
opinion, indeed, I would have had no great reverence
were it not backed by others, Guido has painted one
of the great pictures of Rome. The "Aurora" on the
ceiling of one of the rooms of the Rospigliosi palace
is worth going far to see. There you have Apollo, all
in a glow of sunlight, bringing in the dawn, with the
earth lying far beneath, still slumbering in the blue-
black darkness of the hour before daylight. The
female figures following are full of grace and beauty,
and scatter flowers in the wake of the god's gleaming
chariot in unconscious ecstasy, bringing in a new day
of joy to the sleeping world. If never before or
after, Guido was, once, a great painter. Looking at
it, I forgot that the poet had inspired the painter,
and kept fancying that the painter had inspired the
poet ; until I remembered that the poet in my head
was one of the ancients, when I realized that I was
turning the course of history upside down, and plac-
ing the effect two thousand years behind the cause.
From pictures in other palaces one always goes
back to the galleries of the Vatican, back to the
Stanze of Raphael, back to the Sistine, back to
those splendid halls where the remnants of ancient
art stand side by side, telling the centuries of " the
glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was
Rome." In those long galleries, crowded with the
busts and statues of emperors and statesmen, poets
and orators, one can read over again the history of
150 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
the " Decline and Fall " with clearer eyes, seeing in
marble the men whom we knew of old in the pages
of Gibbon. There stand Antoninus Pius and Marcus
Aurelius, looking the image of themselves — that is,
looking as such men of pure and lofty purpose should
appear ; there is the Imperial Augustus and the bust
of Julius, whose bodily presence alone would indicate
him to be the master of the world. There are the
Flavian line; Vespasian, kingly and self-control led,
with something in his face that recalls the first and
greatest of the Caesars ; Titus, self-respecting, yet not
overwhelmed with a sense of what his awful respon-
sibility was — rather an ordinary face ; and Domitian,
a big fellow, who, in a private position, might have
contented himself with the sport of killing flies
with a needle, but who, on the throne of the
world, found himself somewhat out of place. But
these galleries are not all satisfying to the student of
physiognomy. True Commodus has a sensual under-
lip, and Nero's face fills you with loathing, even
before you read his name underneath ; but to think
that that dainty little head with its tiny feminine
mouth should belong to the terrible Tiberius ! I came
across him over and over again, and each time he
filled me with astonishment. I could not, as it were,
put the man and his history together.
And then one comes out from the days of the Empire,
and walks up to the Quirinal, to see the present King
of Italy — jumping the gap of eighteen centuries in as
many minutes — poor king, with his wild, staring
eyes and ferocious moustache, how helpless he looks,
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 151
and how willing to follow the man for whom he is
looking, if he could only find him ! Of him it can
never be said, " Like father, like son." The former
was a living incarnation of strong will and resolute
purpose ; even his statues — and they are everywhere
— speak of a tough determination to do that which
he wills. But this characteristic has not descended ;
Humbert hath it not. And the principino — well,
since small Tiberius, with his little feminine head,
lives in history the type of terrible resistless power —
let no one despair of the principino. At any rate
he will have his day, if he lives to reign in that great
yellow palace that crowns the Quirinal ; and then we
shall see what there is in him of good or evil.
It is a vast and rather ugly palace the Quirinal, all
square or rectangular inside and out, everything
smooth marble, sheeny satin or shining gilt. Zola
speaks or the bareness and discomfort of the Vatican,
nothing to be seen but pier-tables, stools and an occa-
sional throne; but it is the same at the Quirinal,
straight-backed chairs ranged in a monotonous row
against the wall, all gilt and cushioned with scarlet
or blue or green — no comfort there, or indeed any-
where in Italy, of the English kind. Outside of this
stately, unbeautiful palace, however, stands one of
the most splendid relics of ancient art — the marble
horse-tamers — on the hill beside the fountain. I
know of no other piece of sculpture at once so
striking at first sight and so satisfying on close
inspection. It is all of a piece, unrivaled, in every
detail a miracle of art. And so from the ugly
152 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
modern world we have wandered back again to
antiquity; and go home for the hundredth time,
mourning for that civilization which died and was
buried so many years ago.
. ^ . IV. ■.
One morning, as I sat among the ruins of the
Forum, feeling rather despondent as usual in this
melancholy place, a hand was laid on my shoulder and
a voice said, " Can you speak English ?"
I nodded ; " Yes, certainly."
"Well — will you please tell me — what is that
edifice ?"
I looked around in the direction indicated by the
young man's forefinger. " That," said I, " is not an
edifice ; it is a ruin — the Flavian amphitheatre,
generally called the Colosseum."
The young man went off, and I could hear him
calling out to his friends, " That edifice is the Colos-
seum," — and I saw him no more. He belonged to a
party of " Cook's personally conducted " tourists, who
were going through the ruins. The conductor was
moving rapidly along ahead, naming the " objects of
interest " as he went. A few weary souls were
lagging behind with a sort of pathetic despair in their
faces, as if they felt sure they would miss something
and could not help themselves ; but it was hard to
keep up and to see everything, the conductor went
along so fast. One of the mysteries of this world that
I cannot unravel is a personally conducted tour ; how
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 153
can mortals bear it ? I have met them everywhere.
In Venice I saw a party, three gondolas full, going
down the Grand Canal. The conductor stood up in the
middle gondola, calling out the names of the different
palaces and buildings on each side as they passed
along, pointing with his forefinger like the young man
in the Forum. And the people in the gondolas looked
keenly appreciative, and appeared to be enjoying it.
No doubt when they got back home they would say
they had been in Venice and seen everything. As
Buzz said when I refused to go to Santa Maria degli
Angeli on Holy Saturday, thereby missing a sight of
Queen Margaret kissing the bone of a saint, " there is
no accounting for tastes."
For my own part I cannot bear company at a ruin.
A companion who makes his own remarks and obser-
vations is a bar to perfect comprehension of the place ;
a guide is simply exasperating; even a book I find
intolerable, though one is sometimes necessary in
order to enable you to find your way. It is better to
be alone, to let the mind get absorbed in its surround-
ings, to allow the imagination to build up here and
there, to re-people and reanimate the scene without
external aid. Otherwise there is no illusion ; and
surely, in visiting a ruin, the object should be, first
to see it as it now is ; and then, having grasped the
idea, to see it as it once was, the marble new and
white, the statues standing in all their completeness
and glory, and people passing to and fro, in and out,
full of the matter of the moment.
— I spent one Sunday morning at the Colosseum
154 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
alone. There may have been others there ; but I saw
no one else. I climbed up a steep flight of stone
stairs into a gallery, and sat down on a piece of
stone, giving myself up to reverie. In a little while
the broken galleries and arches were pieced together,
the marble facings were back again, the awning of
sailcloth stretched overhead. A little longer, and I
saw the place filling — up the stairways came tumb-
ling pell-mell, in hundreds and in thousands, the
Roman populace; and the air was full of the chattering
and laughter of a myriad voices. In the arena stood
groups of gladiators, fair Gauls with golden hair and
curious rope-like collars, waiting in silence the hour
that was to decide their fate, and straining their
eyes in expectancy of the coming of Divus Csesar.
I saw the Emperor come in and seat himself upon
his throne, surrounded by his household ; I heard the
men in the arena shouting as they stood before him,
"Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant;" I saw a wave of
expectation roll along the breasts of the waiting
thousands as he gave the signal, the holding of
breath, the craning of necks as the conflict began ; I
saw the combatants, indistinct, far below — a gleam of
polished steel, the swift moving of white limbs, the
tension of strong muscles, red blood flowing on the
yellow sand of the arena — and the roar of eighty
thousand throats acclaiming the victors came ringing
in my ears. Surely this was better than sitting amid
a crowd of modern men and women and listening to
a lecturer. True my Romans may have differed a
little in their language and customs from those of the
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 155
books, the scene may have been in detail untrue to
life as it then was ; what matter ? All was in a way
vague and indistinct, but very real ; if it lasted only
for a moment, yet I saw it. And when it was all
over, there was the sun pouring down on the grim
old arches, there the ruined wall, the half-excavated
arena, the desolate terrace of crumbling stone on
which formerly stood the throne of the Caesars. All
was quiet as the grave. Death had claimed them all
— and so many centuries ago. What was left was
this.
Romantic people like to visit the Colosseum by
moonlight. There is a melancholy charm about the
old arches, as the soft light steals in here and there.
Moonbeams light on the dilapidated stairways and
play in the crannies among the broken stones; shadows
fall on the yellow sand of the arena ; ghosts wander
in the deserted galleries ; and the gigantic walls rise,
majestic and beautiful, against the dark blue sky.
One glorious moonlight night I drove down with the
delightful Mrs. B. Our feelings were not altogether
attuned to the occasion, for a jolly army doctor at the
hotel saw us into the carriage, and called out after us
that he would have all the remedies for Roman fever
in readiness against our return. He had himself
been laid up for some days with a touch of the fever,
caught sitting on a ruin in the shade, and forbade our
going. As we proved obdurate, he promised to nurse
us both through it, adding that we should each get a
dose in the morning that would make us sorry we
had disobeyed him. ^^-.-.---..----rr-------- ^ ■.,—
156 A GLIMPSE OF ROMM.
Nevertheless, though the ague-stricken spectre of
Roman fever stalked before us as we wandered in
and out among the hoary ruin, we enjoyed it to the
utmost, deciding to make the best of the present
whatever the future might have in store. By moon-
light the vastness of the place increases, it becomes
tremendous ; the number of galleries and dens seems
to multiply a hundredfold ; the walls rise to the sky.
And it is so silent, so death-like ; not a sound from
the noisy city penetrates into that cavern, full of
ghosts of dead emperors and martyrs, soldiers and
gladiators, statesmen and citizens of Rome ; all is still
as the grave. And the long-drawn agonies of the
arena, the fierce fight and the fury, seem present
and yet gone. You are there —it is all there and you
see it — yet you see it ages and ages ago — it is gone.
In the light of a moon, shining as it shone then, the
Colosseum stands as the sepulchre of the old Imperial
Race ; or, again, like the corpse of a civilization from
which the life and soul have forever fled, fled when
the world was sixteen centuries the younger. It is
mournful, it is pathetic, it is soul-inspiring. The
ghost of old Rome seems to look through the arches
and say, " I am gone and dead and buried, never to
live again ; but if you wish to know what I was when
I was at my play in the days of my grandeur, being
then alive. Imperial, and mistress of the world, look
around you — and after all these centuries you will
catch a faint glimpse here !"
We kept walking up and down, not daring to sit —
for the fever spectre grinned if we stood still — and
• A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 157
gave free rein to our imagination. We fancied our-
selves early Christians, and stood in the arena, wait-
ing for the lions ; then we were Roman citizens in the
gallery, watching the wretches who worshipped the
Galilean meet theii just reward below ; and then,
again, we proudly stood on the Emperor's throne — or
w^here it once had been — and sought relaxation from
the care of governing the world by wagering king-
doms on the success of a favorite gladiator. Every-
where we saw ghosts ; and the delightful Mrs. B., who
wished above all things to feel a thrill, experienced
the sweet ecstasy of perfect realization. To crown
all we caught no fever ; and the jolly doctor had the
mortification of seeing us before him at the breakfast-
table the next morning, refreshed in body and mind
by our expedition.
Almost more imposing than the Colosseum itself are
the ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, standing out in
immense detached portions against the sky like colossi
of brick. I had passed and repassed them often,
going up and down the Via cli Porta San Sehastiaiio ;
and, one morning, walked down to spend some time
there, taking a book in case I should be unable to
identify the caldarium and frv/idarium, or hot and
cold water baths, without it. When at last I got
there, my mind was quickly distracted from antiqui-
ties by one of the very latest flowers of modern civil-
ization, in the shape of a stout gentleman from the
" wild and woolly west," the sole visitor at that early
hour, who advanced to meet me with an expression
of intense relief on his fat face. - -r~^ -—-^^^^^-^^-^^^ir-
158 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
"If I don't make a mistake you're English ?"
He was tall and very stout, clean shaven. A large
blue button with red and white hieroglyphics on it
adorned his coat ; and, although I would much have
liked to know what it meant, delicacy forbade me to
ask. This was a mistake; for if he judged other
people by himself, as most of us do, the feeling would
have been incomprehensible.
" I speak English, if that is what you mean."
" That's what I mean, sir ; you've just come in time
— a minute later and I'd ha' knocked them two
beggars down endways — never known what struck
'em !" — pointing to two Italians, one of whom was a
cabby, and both of whom looked utterly bewildered.
" Here I am, two days to see the whole o' Rome in ;
this feller " — pointing to one — " brings me down here,
and — I've done it, done it all — can't get away — he
won't go. Damn me, a minute more and I'd have
driven off by myself. Can you speak this lingo ? "'
« A little."
" You're the man, sir — you're the man ! Here I
am, they keep pointin' at this and pointin' at that and
jabberin' — don't understand one damn word. And
they don't understand a word / say ; sometimes they
try French and sometimes they parley their own lingo
— don't know a word of either."
** That is unfortunate," I remarked. " You say you
must see the whole of Rome in two days ; you are
undertaking a great deal."
" Rome in two days, and more'n an hour lost in
these baths," continued the stranger, who, now that
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 159
he had found some one to understand him, seemed in
no such hurry to go ; " did 'em in twenty minutes —
great place — Caracalla knew what he was about " —
looking up at the stupendous piles that towered above
us two hundred feet in the air — " more brick in these
baths than in many an Amurrican city, Caracalla knew
what he was about — tell that there man to take me
to the Palatine Hill, the Roman Forum, the Colosseum
and St. Peter's Cathedral — got 'em all down on a slip
of paper — and to be quick about it, or I'll chuck him
and get another."
I told the cabby what was expected of him. He
seemed dazed. In fact the visitor was enough to
bewilder one. He dominated the place, his presence
seemed to fill it ; he looked about him with the air of
a proprietor, and surveyed the three of us as if he
owned us also. The other individual came up sheep-
ishly, and asked me if I knew the meaning of the blue
button with the hieroglyphics on it. I was obliged to
confess my ignorance; and we all began to move
toward the entrance, the centre of the throng expati-
ating — and expectorating — as he went.
"A great place — great baths — though where the
water was, don't say. Guide-books ? — haven't time
to go into them — well now — English I surmise" —
stopping a moment to take a good look at me.
" No."
"Not English — Amurrican?"
"No."
° " Not English and not Amurrican " — a pause —
" may I enquire what your nationality is ?"
160 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
** I come from Canada."
" Canadian - don't know much about em — want to
be annexed ?"
" Not juHt at present."
" I'm from Kansas — what's that feller for ?"
" I don't know — a guide I presume — one of the
men who han<^ round ruins in Rome, hoping to make
an honest penny out of strangers."
" No use for him — tell him to get to — !"
I did not though. I allowed him to touch his hat
to the Kansas man and ask for something. The
Kansas man asked him if he took him for a — fool,
and got into his carriage, ignoring the outstretched
hand.
" Well — I'm satisfied with the Haths of Caracalla —
I'm satisfied with the Baths — tell that man he s got
to make up for lost time — Palatine Hill and then the
Roman Forum — good day to you." The cabby
cracked his whip and away they went, the Kansas
man surveying the hillside as they passed along
with a look of keen inquiry.
I was left alone among the stupendous ruins, alone,
yet not alone ; the man from Kansas seemed to be
everywhere. I could not get rid of him. I wandered
about and opened and read my guide-book; but it was
of no use. Though I identified the tepidarium and
frlgidarlum, and endeavored to conjure up ghosts of
the forms that must once have flitted to and fro
through those deserted halls, the effort was vain.
Modem democracy oblitered ancient imperialism; the
figure of the man from Kansas wao standing where I
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 161
would feign have beliekl the stately forms of the
Antonines ; the nasal twang of Western America
drowned the voices of the effeminate dandies of the
latter empire, as they sat gossiping in the Peri fit tjlium.
He was everywhere. So at last I surrendered to him,
and gave up all attempt to deliver myself from his
influence. Doubtless, had I been on the Palatine,
that, too, would have become Americanized ; so hard
is it to escape the influence of the age in which we live.
For a long time I was unable to go up the Palatine
Hill. To one's mind, though one knows better, the
name suggests bewildering piles of glittering marble,
palace succeeding palace, the floors of which seem to
echo with the footfalls of the Caesars. The real Pala-
tine, as it appears at the present day, is a confusing
medley of yards, full of piles of broken bricks and
earth. Not even shattered fragments of pillars remain
to remind one of all its ancient glory — only these
little bits of brick heaped up in masses, like the
remains of cellars after a fire, only much battered. I
forbore going in from feelings akin to those one might
have in calling to pay one's respects to a queen who
had been reduced to go and live in a workhouse. It
seemed kinder to pass the spot by in silence.
Lectures are delivered at the Palatine ; indeed it is
a favorite haunt of the lecturer. Mrs. Nincompoop
went to one, and was much edified thereby — though
afterwards she remembered nothing of what she had
heard. The delightful Mrs. B. spent an afternoon
there, listening to a lecture, and subsequently identify-
ing the different piles of brick. The lecturers are, as
162 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
a rule, scholarly men; and the listeners — sometimes —
intelligent people. They learn, they say, so much.
And it is a very serious entertainment, they really do
listen intelligently, having " read up " before going —
though one young woman, according to Mrs. B., forgot
herself and asked in an audible tone, " Who was
Caligula ? " — shocking everybody within earshot by
her want of historical knowledge. At any rate they
pay, which is a good reason for giving them ; and it
is the "correct thing" to go — which is enough to
induce anyone to make the effort.
Coming down from the Capitoline one lazy after-
noon, I strolled over toward the Palatine. I could see
neither lecturers nor listeners, and no tourists were
visible ; it was a scene of utter desolation. So I put
my feelings aside for the once, and decided that I
would not incur the reproach of leaving Rome without
a visit to this world-famous spot.
The hill is surrounded by a wall with a gate of
entrance ; you pay a franc to the gate-keeper and he
turns a stile, — you are on the Palatine. This I did,
and found myself in a labyrinth of old cellars, brick
walls here there and everywhere, all tumbledown or
tottering, piles of bricks, most of them broken into
little bits, lying on every side.
I wandered on among them with a feeling of
despair ; nothing but broken-down cellar- walls to
mark the site of all those famous palaces ; it was
crushing. I went on, making my way upwards, in
here and out there, not caring to stop or breathe.
Which place was which I did not know nor care. I
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 163
could tell now, if I looked up a guide-book and found
the plan, just where each of the different buildings
lav ; but to write about them as if I had seen them
or identified them, would be simply to copy from
Baedeker ; and like some other travellers whose writ-
ings I have read, I should go right or go wrong just
as Bcddeker goes.
I rushed quickly through them, disgusted, until a
turn in the path brought me to a gardener's cottage.
It was to all appearance deserted, but there were
evidences of occupation around in the shape of gar-
dener's tools. Flowers also and a small patch of
vegetables in the immediate vicinity showed that the
picturesque little building had an inhabitant. Pas^jing
the cottage and climbing a little space, I found myself
on the brow of the hill, the piles of brick and the
sand-pits left behind. I stood in the old Farnese
garden.
Nothing could be more in keeping with the Palatine
Hill than this garden. Lecturers would stand aghast
if told that this unexcavated spot is the most char-
acteristic part of those famous ruins ; yet so it is. It
is ages since it was in use, the centuries have come
and gone, and the Farnese garden has been suffered to
go to decay. Here and there is a tree, here and there
a straggling flower, here and there the moss grown
remnant of some old marble seat. Such is the top of
the Palatine Hill. After wandering about awhile
through the melancholy walks, I sat down on a
mouldering old stone bench, letting my head rest
against the face of an emperor that stood behind.
11
164 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
The nose of the face was broken off; and for that
reason it formed a very comfortable support to the
head. It was a place and a time to dream.
It was a lazy afternoon., one of the hot spring days
of Rome, when one ^els inclined to sit still and think,
enjoying the dolce far niente of the Italian land.
There was not a breath of wind, not a movement in
tree or flower. The leaves of the trees looked, indeed,
as if they had not stirred for a century ; the flowers
seemed innocent of growth or change ; all wore the
same aspect of weird beauty and melancholy decay.
There was little foliage, little vegetation ; and what
little there was, was in keeping with the scene, attun-
ing the mind to reverie. Memory of a glory that was
departed and a greatness that was gone, breathed in
the very air. Under me, under the earth on which I
trod, was the ancient palace of Tiberius, buried with
all its tales of tyranny and tragedy out of sight, the
galleries and halls where the morose despot had paced
up and down hidden in the ground. The sunset
glory lighted up the western sky, and shed a sickly
glow over the deserted garden.
But if the ghosts of the Caesars were buried out
of sight, the spectres of old cardinals and popes
seeme'^ to flit back and forth continually through
those melancholy walks, the forms of the Caraflas
and Farneses and Borgheses, looking as they look
in their portraits. They passed to and fro, disap-
pearing in the shadows, and coming back again to
look once more over the eternal city with coun-
tenances full of anxiety — thinking, no doubt, of
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 165
the troublesome innovators in the north who had
arisen to challenge their right to reign as spiritual
lords over a united and subject Christendom.
The sun went down low over the Aventine, and I
rose from my bench and paced to and fro in the de-
serted walks. I could see the stupendous ruins of the
Baths of Caracalla looming up behind, and I felt a
wild desire to go back to them to explore, and then
down among the broken bricks of the Palatine, itself,
until I knew them all throughout. " This may be
done," I said to myself, " and why not do it i " Yet
I never did. Now, far from Rome, I feel that, once
back, I, too, like other people, would come to know
the Palatine. But it was not to be ; I wandered up
and down, looking over at the old Aventine, hating to
go, full of too great reverence for the past. So the
sun went down lower and lower, and the Capitoline
grew dim and grand in the dazzling twilight ; the
shadows of the spare trees spread themselves long
over the old Farnese garden ; the day was eni^'ed. I
had seen nothing— in the language of my Elansas
friend, so many hours had been wasted in looking at
what was already setn ; yet I had in some measure
drunk of the spirit of the place. The weird, melan-
choly decay of those old gardens with the palace of
Tiberius under them cast over me a charm which hung
about me as I wended my way homeward ; and to
this day their memory invests with a soft and melan-
choly interest the recollection of that Imperial seat.
No one endowed with any poetic feeling and who
has a sense of the fitness of things, should leave Rome
166 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
without a visit to the English cemetery down near
the Porta San Paolo. It is one of the most fascinating
spots of its kind that I have ever seen. The cypresses
grow everywhere, their straight and mournful lines
pointing to the sky whichever way you look. The
white tombstones are scattered thick and numerous ;
the flowers grow luxuriant. At the back runs the
brown crumbling wall of Aurelian, overshadowing the
graves of English men and women, like an uncon-
scious monument raised in memory of the Pagan
Romans. The air is hushed and quiet with the sense
of death — the death of the long-gone Empire, the fall-
ing to sleep of the latter-day sons and daughters of
not less Imperial England. Great names are carven
on some of those white tombstones, names immortal
in English poetry and song. If they sleep far from
home under the blue Italian sky, their place is yet
meet for them, they rest with the shades of a mighty
race whose name and work like that of their own
fatherland, endures forever, whose descendants in
some measure they are, whose language and literature
they have learned and loved, whose history is linked
in its later years with the dawning of their own
world-story, and whose religion has inspired some of
the sublimest of the works that are the glory of the
English tongue.
Shelley lies right under the wall. A slab of white
marble, lying flat on the ground with flowers grow-
ing thick at the edges, marks the spot where his
ashes are laid to rest. Beside him is his big bluff"
friend, Trelawney, another slab of marble of the
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 167
same shape and size covering the grave of the
erratic Cornishman. They looked well lying there
side by side among the mould and the little violet
leaves, with the crumbling brown wall of Aurelian
rising behind them and the cypresses keeping their
melancholy watch on either side. Some one had
thrown a large bunch of beautiful spring violets on
the grave of Shelley, and they were withering up in
the heat of the sun. Under the fading flowers I
could read, engraven on the white stone, the well-
known lines from the Tempest —
*' Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea change
Into something rich and strange."
The sculptured tombs of poets, with sunlight falling
on them through colored windows in a stately church,
suggest to me something out of tune — a life and a
" death-and-sleep " not answering to each other. That
this ethereal spirit, so akin in some ways to the
ancient pagan ideal, should, after his short and
stormy life, lie here in the shadow of old Rome
" made one with nature," the violets blossoming above
him and the voices of the eternal city singing afar
off of " life's endless toil and endeavor," seems pre-
eminently fitting.
A few steps from the grave of Shelley, and I stood
beside that of John Addington Symonds. It is a stately
tomb with a long Latin inscription on it — for those
who delight in long Latin inscriptions. Roses are
planted around. I had not then read the story of the
168 ■ A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
man's life ; but yet something came to me of it, as I
stood there and looked at his tomb. Something sug-
gested mental conflict, the eternal questioning of the
nineteenth century, the lost faith of former times.
Either I had sometime read portions of the man's
poetry, and the sense lingeied in my brain though
the words were forgotten, or the influence of a dead
man's spirit is felt when one stands, unconscious, and
looks down upon his tomb ; who shall say ? At any
rate, as I stood there in the dim twilight, while the
long shadows of the cypresses fell around on the
marble and the grass, something of the spirit of this
brave nineteenth-century Englishman was borne in
upon me from his grave ; as though he, being dead,
could yet hold fellowship with such as were passing
by.
V.
It is as difficult to take leave of Rome as of a
woman who at once fascinates and exasperates you.
You know if you stay you will be fascinated again ;
new charms will delight you, even if also new vexa-
tions arise to madden and distract you ; the temp-
tation to sit down and wait a little longer is very
great. We found it hard to tear ourselves away.
Buzz and I. However it had to be. We went
around and said a last good-bye to all the glories,
walked for the last time under the dome of St. Peter's,
paid our last homage to the art-treasures of the
Vatican, threw a last penny into the fountain of
Trevi, and, for the last time, stood on the Pincio and
saw the sun go down. As a matter of course, we also
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 169
went to take a last bird's-eye view of the eternal
city from San Pietro Montorio, to look down for the
last time on that bewildering panorama of churches,
palaces and ruins through tear- dimmed eyes. Zola's
hero went there at the outset; but he was a visionary.
We preferred to know what we were looking at be-
fore we went to look down over it from afar ; and
had gone there only after a stay of some weeks.
Then, when all was done and the last tear shed,
Buzz refused to go. He made some weak excuse for
remaining a day or two longer ; and I consented.
I was glad that I did. There was a certain pleas-
ure in going back to the galleries of the Vatican,
and sitting around seeing nothing in particular,
with the sense of having done my duty by all the
treasures before and taken a proper farewell of each.
There was an added charm in sauntering through the
Corso and the Piazza Venezia, after an absence that
had promised to be life-long, looking at the people
and the shops in the old familiar way ; and there was
the Pincio with the same crush of carriages, the band
playing " Cavalleria Rusticana," and the sun going
down in his glory, just as of old. It was delightful.
Then at last Buzz packed his portmanteau and
declared himself ready to go. The morning of our
departure dawned ; but when he came into my room
he found me standing at the window, deciding not to
go. " This," said I, " is a world of give and take ; I
stayed over once for you ; now you can wait for me."
So we stayed on. Another weekly bill came in, and
the chambermaid had another cry.
170 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
There was always the same trouble about my bill.
The hotel regulations allowed me one candle a week,
extra candles to be charged half a franc apiece. I
went out, at the beginning, and bought candles at the
rate of four for half a franc, thereby saving several
francs. Nevertheless, whenever I got a bill, there
was always the same charge for extra candles. This
used to put me in a rage ; and the proprietor, an
excitable little man of four feet nothing, would
dance about with uplifted hands crying, '* If he
will only calm himself, if he will only calm him-
self for one little minute, everything will be done ! "
Then the item would be struck out of the bill,
and the chambermaid, poor guiltless creature, sent
for and rated until her sobs echoed through the
corridor. After all I might as well have used the
hotel candles and paid for them ; for nothing but
money could stem the torrent of that young woman's
tears. I was simply robbing the master to pay the
maid. However, looking back over it, I feel a certain
satisfaction in having robbed the master.
I took my real farewell of Rome from the top of
the castle of St. Angelo. Those who get permits to
go through it at the Colonna palace, assemble about
eleven o'clock in the morning at the gate, and are
conducted over the old pile to the top by a fat and
loquacious guide, whose knowledge of English is com-
prised in the one word " fireworks," which he fancies
to be the English for fuoco — " fire." This old man is
almost as interesting in his way as the castle itself.
He laments his ignorance of foreign languages, but
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 171
makes up for it as far as possible by acting the part
of the historical characters who were once inmates of
the ancient pile, and teaches history by signs. In a
Kindergarten he would be invaluable. When you
reach the dungeons, he sits on the stone floor and
gives himself up to the abandonment of grief, person-
ating the beautiful Beatrice Cenci. As he is very fat,
very ugly, and not very clean, the effect is ludicrous
to a degree. In the torture chamber a still more de-
lightful entertainment is in store for the visitor. An
imaginary fire is lighted in the chimney, and the old
man gets very hot and says " fireworks." Then the
inquisitors are seated, and he takes a nail and warms
it at the fire. Beatrice Cenci is then brought in and
you are shown on the floor the spot where she sat.
He stations himself there, and makes believe to take
off his boot and stocking. Then the hot nail is
applied to the foot, the old man saying " fireworks."
In the character of the hapless Beatrice he screams
and faints, picking himself up and exclaiming, " Pove-
retta Beatrice Cenci ! " The visitors sit round con-
vulsed with laughter.
Getting the old man alone one morning I had an
argument with him, explaining that " fire " and not
" fireworks " was the word he ought to use. The old
man shook his head dubiously; he thought I was
mistaken. I argued that I was English and must
know. At last a gleam broke over his countenance,
and he exclaimed, '* I have it ! There are English-
English and American-English ; English-English is
' fire,' American -English is ' fireworks.' " I thought
that clinched the argument.
172 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
The mid-day gun is fired at the castle of St. Angelo ;
and the * correct thing" is to get up upon tJie Httle
tower that rises from the flat roof of tlie castle, and
watch it go off below. The female tourists scream
and drop their guide-books ; and the old man laughs as
heartily at the joke as if he were witnessing the sight
for the first time. Then you are free to look about
you a bit.
This little tower on which you stand is a famous
spot. The Archangel Michael was seen there once
upon a time, and it was in his honor that the name,
" Sant' Angelo," i.e., Holy Angel, was given to the
mausoleum of the Emperor Hadrian. In the old Im-
perial days many emperors were buriea there. In the
dark ages it served as a citadel, and in the place of
Hadrian's statue one of St. Michael was put up, to
commemorate the angel's visit. The popes had rooms
there, and kept their prisoners there ; a long covered
passage, now falling to pieces, was built, connecting it
with the Vatican. Time after time, in the troublous
days of old, it was besieged and battered. Now it is
a show.
The view from the top of the Castell Sant' Angelo is
one of the most suggestive in Rome. St Peter's and
the Vatican are near ; and you can survey them at
your leisure, standing out in all their vastness and
grandeur. But the covered gallery, built to connect
the castle with the palace of the popes, is falling to
pieces ; and no one thinks of repairs — for is not the
castle " nationalized," and a possession of the King of
Italy? — the pope can come thither no more. The
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 173
churchman looks up at the threat dome standing out
against the sky, and down at the dilapiihited gallery,
with wistful eyes. To him the crumbling to pieces of
that covered passage is a syml)ol of broken faith — of
the severance of the bond which united his country
and his church.
The view on the other side is dismal in the extreme.
Here are no ancient palaces and stately temples — only
a vast confusion of huge s(juare buildings ranged in
rows, the unfinished monument of rash speculation in
the first days of the Italian occupation, block after
block of buildings, square, modern, unsightly, some
finished, some with the scaffolding standing, some
empty, others the refuge of the poor who hang their
rags out of the windows and scatter the evidences of
their squalor before the doors. A great French
novelist describes them in one of his works ; but not
even the pen of a Zola can paint the wretchedness of
new ruins, the horror of fresh decay, the incongruity
of poverty in half-built palaces ; it must be seen to be
understood.
The view, as you look across the river, is yet more
dreary. The yellow water of the Tiber rolls on under
the Bridge of St. Angelo, as of old ; but on either
side curbed and shut in by the new embankment of
white stone, which has been built by the Government
at a cost almost incalculable. To build it, the old
houses that stood on the river bank had to be torn
down; but the destroyers did their work by halves,
leaving something of each house when it was unneces-
sary to tear away the whole. Gaunt walls stand
174 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
gapinf( at you, pieces of bedrooms, fragments of stair-
ways, doors opening to the air twenty feet above tlie.
pavement, bits of wall-paper fluttering in tlie semi-
demolished passages — it is a hideous sight. Artists
lament the old days. When first you hear them, you
listen with unsympathetic soul, remembering how
great a thing was the uniting of Italy in one nation.
But when you stand on St. Angelo and look down
on the sights and scenes around, you are moved to
bitterness of spirit; the half-demolished houses on
the one side of the river and the unfinished palaces
with their squa'"d inhabitants on the other, move your
contempt. You ask yourself, " Is this, then, what her
deliverers have done for Rome ? "
What shall we say ? The Pope looks out of the
windows of the Vatican and sees with the eye of faith
the day when he shall enter the castle of St. Angelo
as its rightful lord, the sword of St. Michael, as it
gleams in the sunlight, reminding him of the day
when the archangel spared and delivered the city in
answer to Gregory the Great. The "progressive"
stands proudly on the castle wall, with the flag of
United Italy waving above the angel, and, looking
over with covetous eyes on the great dome of San
Pietro, plans the abolition of the Pope and the
" nationalization " of the Vatican as an interesting
memorial of the old days of tyranny and superstition.
The politician and the man-of-the- world stand there
and meditate on a way to reconcile the two. " God
reigns — and the Government at Washington still
lives," exclaimed the good General Garfield, feeling
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 175
tliat, so mucli certain, tlie world was safe : — yet to
how many of the sons of men the one fact seems
incompatible with the other.
Meanwhile the tourists are chattering. The Ameri-
can is calculating the cost of the embankment in
dollars, and, with an eye resting on the unfinished
structures in the Lungo Tevere, lamenting the col-
lapse of the " boom " ; the Englishman is looking
anxiously at his watch and recalling the fact that
it is the hour for luncheon ; the women are in ecsta-
sies — " it is simply too perfect for anything, and we
must buy photographs of it this afternoon." Then
the old man, his personification of historical charac-
ters being at an end, collects them all together and
drives them before him like sheep, down through the
popes' rooms, the inquisitors' rooms and the burial
chambers of the emperors, until they are all safely
landed in the courtyard. There he takes leave of
them, making a long speech in which he expresses
his pleasure at having conducted them through the
old castle, and his delight at their satisfaction with
what they have seen and with his method of showing
it. Then you pass along through the gateway and
find yourself once more outside the walls — you have
seen St. Angelo.
It was the last place I visited ; for we were obliged
to tear ourselves away. It was not an exciting
departure ; we had contemplated going so often that
it had become almost a familiar scene. I think the
people in the hotel were tired of seeing the last of us,
and had begun to regard our " last words " as a daily
176 A GLIMPSE OF ROME.
experience to be undergone, like the recital of the
doings of Mrs, Nincompoop by Little Dotty. The
proprietor, the little man of four feet nothing, was,
however, deeply moved, even to tears. Most bitterly,
too, did the cabby who drove us to the station,
bewail our going. It was a loss to Roine the poor
fellow said; indeed, if we could liave believed him,
the eternal city felt the shock. It was only when
we had reached the station and he discovered that
we were going to pay no more than the ordinary
fare, that his voice i-egained its calm and lost its
quiver. Then, like other spots visited, loveil, revered
and regretted, Rome was left behind.
But with a difference. Other places, no matter
how much loved :ind regretted, live in the memory as
when we last lieheld them. Venice, first of all cities
in loveliness and individual beauty, lingers in the
mind as when we last saw her, smiling in the
summer sunlight under the bluest of skies, her fairy
palaces rising dreamlike from the sea. The picture
last printed on the memory endures forever. But
with the eternal city it is not so. The farther away
one is, the nearer she looms in the imagination — all
other places become dwarfed. Every spot is ideal-
ized, every haunt sacred. One feels that only to
stand on the curbstone in the Piazza Venezia and
listen to the newsboys crying the Trihuna and the
Popolo Romdno as the twilight gathers and the long
line of carriages passes in and out of the Corso,
would 1)0 a joy. The disappointments of the first da3\;,
are forgotten ; the memory of petty grievances and
A GLIMPSE OF ROME. 177
vexations fados away. The city tliat was and was
not the thin^r wo dniai.iod of, beconieH a^rairj tlie
dream. Thc^ story of tlie acres, the beginnin^r, the
K^owth, tlie triumpli, the decay, of old and new
civdizations, talces an incarnate sliape and is em-
balmed in stone-we see the Kternal City, and afjain
we write it Home 1
IN THE LAND OF THE
MANDOLIN.
I.
Vedi Napoli e poi muori runs the proverb. The
Neapolitans repeat it over and over again, and believe
in it. Ono can, indeed, dream of nothing lovelier
than floating on that glorious bay with the glittering
white city, the castle of St. Elmo crowning the sum-
mit of the hill, in front of one ; with the hills of
Ischia and Capri looming dindy in the purple twi-
light at either end ; wlnle the thin column of smoke
from the crater of Vesuvius rises far away to the
right against the blue Italian sky. So much is seen,
so much unseen — suggested only. Though old Vesu-
vius may look comparatively harmless, as we slumber
on the blue water under the blue sky in the lazy
afternoon, we know that, over there behind those
white villages, lies the city of the ancients once
buried deep by him in the day of his wrath — kindly,
perhaps, with a thought of the pleasure he was lay-
ing in store for us modern people — but with such an
accompaniment of horrors as makes the mind tremble
to think upon. One cannot see Pompei ; but one
knows it is there ; and that is the charm. One could
IN THE LAN!) OF THE MANDOLIN. 179
not toll at a diHtance what they were, but one knows
that the patches of green down below the black
plain of ashes on the mountain side, represent thick
clusterin<( vines grown for that strong red and white
wine called Lacrimae Chridi, to drink of which is so
dangerous if you wish to travel fast or far. Of Sor-
rento one can see only the cliffs with their white
villas and hotels, gleaming high above the purple
water ; but the thought of the orange groves nestling
in the hollow under the hills behind, with their
golden })urden and fresh blossoms that fill the night
with fragrauce, throws a romantic charm over the
pictures(jue town. And there is Torre del Greco, a
place that has been destroyed more than twenty times
and still stands — wonderful little town — so full of
life and vigor, at the foot of the volcano. " Naples
commits all the sins and Torre pays for them," say
the Neapolitans, in spite of the very different lesson
the gospels teach us in reference to tumbling towers.
Naples does, indeed, commit all the sins ; but if Torre
paid for more than her own, her destruction would
need to be very complete and to overtake her every
day.
Vedi Napoli e pol niuori. 1 saw it first in the
cold grey dawn of a February morning from the
deck of a coasting steamer. After landing and
spending the day prowling around the city, thread-
ing my way through those narrow little streets that
are all steps, jostling the crowd of beggars and man-
dolin-players that haunt Santa Lucia, and sauntering
through that noisy thoroughfare, the Via Roma, I
12
180 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
came to the conclusion that no one had ever been so
prepossessed with NaT)les as to be willing to give up
the ghost after a sight thereof — though thousands
must have died from the smell.
At first the place is almost unbearable. Hundreds
of people come every year and remain a few days,
going away because they cannot stand it. Foolish
tourists — it is the most fascinating city in the world —
as well as one of the dirtiest ; the charm grows upon
you every hour, every minute, the longer you stay.
Not the charm that appeals to the mind or the soul
or the artistic sense ; but a sensuous charm that lures
one into a state of dreamy intoxication. One real-
izes why it is that, in all the many centuries of
her existence, this lovely city has never produced its
quota of great men or minds ; the air of Naples
induces a delicious langour ; life in the present seems
all sufficient, the toil and endeavor of a less lovely
land forgotten. It is a life akin to that of the lotus-
eaters, a land where it is always afternoon.
The population is in the neighborhood of half a
million — mostly beggars. Among the beggars I in-
clude the cabbies as well as the mandolin players.
All are thieves. Of godliness, and of that virtue
which is accounted next to godliness, I do not think
any of these people have ever heard. Nevertheless,
when you have once got used to them and are no
longer conscious of the difference between right and
wrong, cleanliness or dirt, they are delightful in their
way. When your nose is once acclimated and you
have abandoned the last remnant of personal dignity,
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 181
go and stroll down in the Villa Nazionale and through
Santa Lucia and the narrow lanes. 1 he life you will
see there is full of interest.
First there are the cabbies, ai: infernal nuisance
everywhere, but in Naples beggaring all description.
They stand in groups, playing with one another,
tickling and pinching each other and then running
away with screams of laughter, playing pranks that
we Anglo-Saxons begin to look upon as childish when
we discard petticoats and assume jacket and trousers.
When they see you coming, all rush forward together
and lay violent hands upon you. It is a perfect
Bedlam ; the flattery, the lies, the disputation among
themselves, the inducements offered by this one and
that, the pulling about you get — in no other city
could one stand such effrontery for a moment. But
however indignant I might be in tlie beginning, I was
always obliged to laugh in the end, the scene was so
absurd. But everyone does not laugh ; an insular
Britisher at the hotel where I was staying spent one
evening on the verge of apoplexy ; he had been lifted
into a cab against his w411. There is no danger
of being taken against your will, however ; if you
are lifted in, in spite of yourself, on one side, there is
always a gang of them ready to lift you out on the
other, each man in the hope that you will end by
engaging him.
Then there is the Neapolitan woman, a glorious
creature — well built and healthy-looking, w^ith olive
skin and eyes like a vision of Mahomet's paradise.
Her raven locks are surmounted by a gaudy silk
1«2 IN rHK LAND OF THE MAN DO UN.
handkerchief, lar^e rin^s hang from her earn, and she
has the manner of a sultana. She carries two babies,
one on each arm; and lialf a dozen children, with eyes
like their mother, play around her. As you approach,
this superb creature places herself s({uare in front of
you, and the children cling to your trousers All cry
with one voice, " Ho moLto fame, signore" (1 am very
hungry, sir) "Ato molto fame, siynore, ho motto fame."
You stand still a moment, looking at her eyes ; the
vision rej)ays you for the interruption in your walk.
She improves the moment, breaking forth into a
rhapsody. She has seen many a man who is bet
hetto (very handsome) ; but of all the bet bettoH slie
has ever seen you are the most bet fjetto ; she is poor
and miserable and wretched, and so are her children
— nine of them, or ten, or perhaps twenty ; and all
on the verge of starvation — but a single penny be-
stowed by such an Adonis as yourself would turn
purgatory for them into paradise, — " Give me but one,
you angel ! "
It is hard to get rid of this woman, hard to refuse
her. But then, farther along, you see so many more of
them waiting for you ; and you know that one penny
bestowed will bring the whole street after you ; you
do refuse. " I am very hungry, too," I used to say —
" and as for beauty and health, look at me and say
which of us two is the fairer and the fatter ? " But
it was of no use ; if I gave the penny they would all
pray for me so hard that I would soon be as fat as a
porpoise — and even more betto.
r Then there are the men of the port, dark-skinned
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 183
and lithe, witli red capH on their heads and eyes as
fidl of wickedness as any of Byron's villains. Ind(!ed
tliey look as if they had stej)ped bodily out of the
Corsair or Don Juan. One of them seizes you by
the lappels of your coat, and, showing the whites of
his eyes and ^nniuu^ from ear to ear, begs of you to
entrust yourself to him. There are thin<^s in Naples
that he can show you and no other man can, places to
which he can take you for less money than any other
villain in the universe. A dozen of liis companions
vociferously declare to you that he is a liar and a
knave — which you could tell quite easily from look-
ing at his face — and that they and not he are the
safest guides on sea or shore. You shake him off*
and lie goes away laughing; you shake them all off*:
but they turn up at intervals of every two minutes,
still laughing and grimacing, full of flattery and lies,
holding out their hands and asking at least for a
huona raano — which is a Neapolitan euphemism for
a tip.
Then there is the street l)oy. He goes along beside
you, turning head over heels in a long succession of
somersaults; and ends by standing on his head just
between your legs, so that you cannot move without
kicking him in the neck. As he stands there he cries
lustily, "(In soldo, svjnorino, nn soldo," — a ha'penny,
sir, a ha'penny. You jump back and go round him.
He sees hinjself outwitted and tries again. Again
outwitted, he runs away to find some other foreigner,
laughing heartily. He is like all the others,
shameless but good-natured. One pleasing trait of
184 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
character the Neapolitans have; they are a happy
people. " Be virtuous and you will be happy " is an
old adage. Visit Naples, and you will learn that
the one state does not necessarily imply the other.
Then there is the old man with the mandolin, who
holds out his hat ; he is the professional mandolin-
player, Those who are playing the mandolin and
have no hats, are playing only for their own or other
peoples' amusement, and are amateurs. If they hold
out a hand (as they frequently do) they are infringing
on the rights of a privileged class of persons. In this
calling, as in others, there are amateurs who intrude
upon professional rights. But the old mandolin man
with the hat who confronts you everywhere lives by
playing. If I were to say how often a hat — and such
a hat ! — is held before you, I should be disbelieved.
He is always old — sometimes blind — sometimes one
leg is wanting, sometimes both — but he always has a
hat. His clothes are always scanty, and in such a
state of decay that ic is marvellous how they hang
together ; his execution is feeble, his music inferior to
that of the amateur. But you need not listen to it
long; stand still a moment, and he will stop and hold
out the hat.
Then on the Villa Nazionale is the man with every
variety of tortoise-shell comb for sale, which he
pesters you to buy, following you and flourishing first
one kind ( l comb and then another in your face. The
price gets lower and lower, until one wonders how
little he will take.
Then there is the flower-seller. It is difficult to
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 185
pass him by, so lovely is his display. Such flowers as
one sees in Naples ! Enormous bunches of sweet
violets piled, one on top of another, heaps of daflbdils
and jonquils, glorious camellias, pink and white and
rose color, a perfect joy ! One flower-man especially
amused me. My ideal flower-seller is a girl of sweet
sixteen with a bright face and winning manner ; but
the person who used to display the loveliest flowers
in all Naples was a coarse, overgrown youth of
eighteen or twenty, with sharp, protruding teeth and
large horny hands. Yet, withal, he had the manner
of a little girl, and a rather silly one at that, running
after everybody with leers and grimaces, paying ex-
travagant compliments, and pleading with the language
and gestures of a prima donna in a love-scene. One
morning he caught me in his arms and by main force
pinned a superb scarlet camellia in my button-hole,
saying as he did so, " Heavens, wiiat an efl'ect ! If
you knew how well you looked with that, you would
never go without one again "
" I don't want one," I said angrily ; " and I won't
pay for it." " Take it as a gift then," said the wretch,
clasping his hands in a transport of admiration ; " take
it as a gift — only take it ! "
I had a cigarette-case in my hand ; and, determined
not to pay for what I did not want, threw him a
cigarette, saying, " there — be off" ! " Alas ! I discov-
ered too late that the cigarette was worth more than
the flower ; and every morning after, as I turned the
corner, I had the creature dancing round me like a
monkey, flourishing camellias and crying " Una
1H6 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
ciqaretta, Signore, una cigaretta!" Here as else-
where experience is the only teacher.
Then there are the cameo-Hellers, who ply their
trade anywliere and everywhere. You get cameos in
the shops ; but unsuspecting people must sometimes
patronize the h'lwkers in the streets, or they would
not be there. It takes a long time to make a purchase
unless you wish to get rid of your money in a hurry.
Vendors of corals are another pest ; it is better to buy
them of the women in Capri. They ask five francs
when you land, come down a few soldi every few
minutes, and when you are on the point of embarking
to return to Naples, offer you the article for half a
franc ; then buy it. Quack doctors are to be found in
Naples as everywhere else ; and are as delightful as
in other lands.
Vendors of flowers and cameos and coral are to be
found only in the Villa Nazionale and the principal
thoroughfares and squares. In the narrow streets
where the poorer classes live it is the sellers of food
and useful wares that predominate ; and they do not
molest a stranger — though a man once did try to
coax me into buying a pair of chickens. Every-
where is macaroni, a dozen different kinds of it —
displayed for sale on trays, ready for cooking, being
cooked, and being eaten. The Neapolitans live in
the streets, eat, drink, talk, quarrel, sing and sleep
there. The noise and the dirt are indescribable.
All these old streets are very narrow and the houses
are many storeys high; the bright sunlight cannot
enter, save when the sun is directly overhead. The
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 187
HUHHhiiie and the Mack aliadows, the white lionses
and the crowds of people, i-oniind one often of Spain.
Besides wliich, it should not be forgotten that Naples
and Sicily were once an appendage of the old Spanish
monarchy.
Naples is built on the side of a steep hill — so
steep that many of the narrow streets are nothing
but steps from one end to the other. It is a pictur-
es(iue sight that meets the eye, standing at one end
and looking up or down. The washing is hung on
ropes from window to window across the street, and
sometimes you rub yotwv face against some garment
drying, as you pass. The street is full of people, all
chattering and smoking, except those who are asleep
on benches in front of their doors ; and all happy as
the day is long. Cries resound on all sides from
hawkers, who are selling everything in the w'ay of
eatables that you can think of, carrying trays on
barrows or in baskets slung on their arms. Black
goats run up and down the stone stairways, and go
even into the houses to be milked : — strange sight to
the western eye, a city where they do the cooking in
the street and the milking in the house. Even cows
are sometimes compelled to climb up and down these
steps, when brought into town to be milked ; but I
believe the cow is forbidden the house. The patient
donkey may be seen waiting in front of many a door,
while his master or mistress tarries to smoke a
cigarette or enjoy a short gossip with olive-skinned
Fiametta, as she stands with sleeves rolled up, pre-
paring the macaroni for the midday meal. In these
188 IN THE Land of the mandoliM.
narrow lanes you see, of course, no horses ; if you wish
to drive, you must go through these long winding
streets that stretch in serpentine curves backward and
forward, until they reach the upper portion of the
city after a lengthy ascent.
As you walk up or down the stone stairways you
pass through a noisy crowd — women washing babies,
women washing clothes, women washing macaroni,
women cooking, people eating and drinking, quarrel-
ing or singing, people playing the mandolin, hawkers
crying their wares, drivers of donkeys or goats,
screaming as they go by — it is all noise and con-
fusion — but a most picturesque sight the dirty street.
And the people have all the same happy-go-lucky,
lazy look of contentment, even when they hold out a
hand and tell you they have not eaten for a week.
They have no care or thought for the morrow, many
of them no occupation — except begging. And life in
the street is so very easy — you do the washing there,
and when it is done you have only to upset the tub,
and there is all the trouble of carrying away the water
saved — it runs over the street. You boil the macaroni
at a little charcoal stove and take it out and nibble at
it, holding it high above your head, when it is ready
to be eaten. You shell peas and empty the pods
where you sit. After eating it is as easy to wash
dishes and throw away the water as at a picnic.
Then you can tilt your chair against the side of the
house and smoke a cigarette and go to sleep just where
you are. Tourists avoid these streets and seldom go
about Naples on foot ; they say it is dangerous and
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 1S9
disgusting, the place is so dirty. I found it delightful ;
and used to boast that I never encountered anything
disagreeable. It was a mistake to boast, however;
for the next time I went out, a woman who was
making an omelette threw away the egg-shells just as I
passed, and they flew in my face. I went along with
little bits of ^^^ sticking to my cheeks and coat collar.
But these are trifles. The ordinary tourist who lives
at a big hotel up on the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele
and drives out to do the " sights " with a handkerchief
held to his nose, does not see Naples at ail. To see it
you must see the people at home — that is to say in the
street ; Naples is always at home to anybody who has
legs and can use them.
Morning down on the shore of the bay, the Villa
Nazionale on one side and the blue blue water on the
other, is delightful in the extreme. The Villa Naz-
ionale is a large garden or park, planted with palms
and other trees, and full of flowers. At the back is a
long row of old lofty houses ; and the narrow streets
leading out of it between the houses, are of the kind
above described. I used to saunter, every morning,
up and down along the paved road with a stone para-
pet that abuts on the bay, beset by hawkers, persecuted
by beggars and mobbed by cabbies — until at last they
all came to know me and met me oidy with a grin and
" good morning." The old fishermen with their hard
weather-beaten faces sun-browned to the color of
mahogany, were a curious and always interesting
sight, as they stood in lines of fifteen or twenty, rope
in hand, bring! ng in their nets. Hundreds of people lay
190 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
about on the stone parapet or were lollinfif on benches,
dreamily doing nothing. As ^ou approach Santa
Lucia on the one side, the crowd thickens, and the
villains on the look-out for a job or (more often) for
some one to rob, become a nuisance, annoying you
with their perpetual attentions. At the other end,
where the road narrows .and runs along the shore in
the direction of Posilipo, the women with babies are
the chief annoyance. Nowhere did there seem to be
so many mothers and such an appalling number of
young children as there ; I could count five or six
large women ahead of me, each waiting with her two
babies and her dozen of children, at every turn. The
cry " Ho molto fame " will always be associated in
my mind with that road.
You look out on the water where the sunlight is
playing on the ripples and on the boats and cordage,
over to where the blue hills of Capri are sleeping
in the purple sea. Some days it looks near and
others far; I never saw Capri look twice just the
same ; but it is always beautiful, and never quite
distinct. Glance shoreward toward the city, and the
eye rests with delight on the old mass of red and
yellow buildings on Pizzofalcone, a spur from the
hill behind, which rises, dividing the city, 1 jhiud the
busy quarter called Santa Lucia. Away over behind
one can see the thin column of smoke from Vesuvius
rising into the blue heavens. Over all falls the
glorious sunlight, beating on the blue water of the
bay, on the white ytone of the newer buildings, the
old red and yellowish tints of Pizzofalcone and the
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 191
flowers and palms of the Villa ; and the smell of the
sea comes to you at every breath, mingling with the
not- so-pleasing odors of the city behind you ; and you
begin to feel something of the delicious languor,
characteristic of the place and people, that impels
yea to sit down like the beggars and the macaroni-
men and enjoy a smoke under the influence of the
morning sun.
One sight the most indifferent of tourists must see :
the mandolin-player is ubiquitous ; him you cannot
escape. They perform every night in the hotels and
in the street outside. Usually four or five come in
together, with mandolins and guitars ; Neapolitan
songs are sung, and they dance the tarantella. They
are very emotional these people, and though most of
them have never been out of Naples and never expect
to go, they cannot sing *' Napoli " without tears —
the very thought of saying " Good-bye, my beautiful
Naples," being too much for them. In every street
and alleyway, at the door of every church, at the
corner of every thoroughfare, is heard the tinkle of
the mandolin. The road to Pompei is full of musi-
cians ; at Portici, at Resina, at Torre, at Torre Annun-
ziata, at the gate of Pompei you find them performing.
The tinkle is heard on Vesuvius, mingling with the
rumble of the volcano ; it answei*s the moan of the
waves on the shore of Castellammare ; it is heard
in the orange groves of Sorrento ; it ech .>es among
the rocky crags of Capri — you cannot get away from
it. At last I declared that if I threw myself down the
crater at Vesuvius I should expect to find a man play-
ing on the mandolin, tumbling down alongside of me.
102 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
'' II. " ' ''"■■■■^-'■
There are many ways of cjetting to Pompei ; you
can go by train or drive or foot it. I have tried all
three. The first is a very unrom antic method ; the
guide-book tells you of the views to be seen from the
carriage window, and of the celebrated spots over
which you pass ; but you see the views and feel the
proper thrill at the historic stopping-places only if
you keep one eye glued to the guide 1 ook and the
other to the time-table. In a smoking-carriage,
wedged in between beery Germans, gossiping Ameri-
cans and dirty Neapolitans, how can one see anything
of the romantic Bay or experience any heart-throbs
at the thought of passing over the buried city of
Herculaneum ?
A drive to Pompei is quite exciting ; but the excite-
ment is caused by the driver. I have never seen
anything like the Neapolitan grin. The cabby turns
around and faces you with his mouth open from ear
to ear. It is not, as Dickens would say, " one vast
substantial smile," but the grin of a wicked Italian,
the grimace of a mischievous imp. He tries to per-
suade you to go to — some place in just the opposite
direction to whither you are bound, stops here there
and everywhere, urging you to change your mind.
These creatures chatter all sorts of nonsense, never
ceasing to grin the while. What other people do I
don't know ; I always got out or made a pretence of
getting out, which was the signal for a hurried start
in the right direction. You go along at such a rapid
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 193
rate that you expect to run over scores and kill some
dozen or so of the populace. Not at all ; when the
speed slackens and the dust you have raised begins to
settle, you find the populace are driving with you. They
hang on before and behind; one sits beside the driver,
another on his knee ; if you let them alone they will
eoon be sitting on your knee. All this I never per-
mitted ; but it was a fatiguing warfare I waged. Cabby
and I fought all the time ; he never drove respectably;
either we were stopping for him to talk, or we were
tearing along at break -neck pace enveloped in a
cloud of dust, with screams echoing on all sides ;
there was no medium. As a rule I took a stick with
me; and by flourishing it in every direction as we
went, managed to keep the carriage clear of hangers-
on. As to the talking, I was accustomed to engage a
carriage in this manner : " I am going to Pompei —
do you understand ? — to Pompei : we go direct, and
no one is allowed to jump on (I will see to that
myself) — and the first word you speak — mark this
attentively — I will get out and take another cab."
One day I was as good as my word ; I did get out,
old habit having proved too strong for cabby. 'I'he
next day I engaged the same man ; and though he
frequently turned round with the same old grin, he
found me frowning and prepared to jump ; he said
not a word.
It is an interesting road if rather dusty, running
through the east end of Naples, through Portici and
Resina, Torre del Greco and Torre Annunziata. All
the way you meet crowds of people, doing nothing
194 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
till they see you coming, wheij they all fly forward
at once with outstretched hands, swarms of beggars
old and young, soldiers, women — everyone looking
jaunty, happy and dirty. The Beraaglieri in worka-
day costume, with red caps on their handsome heads,
come along in companies in a sort of Indian trot ;
old men with mandolins hold out a feeble hand with
a hat in it as if by instinct, though they may be at a
second storey window ; women with babies, unable to
press through the throng, cry "Molto fame," catching
you for a moment with a gleam of their height eyes;
children yell, sailors grin wickedly at you and say
" Buona passegiata — buona mano," as you whirl by
them. Everywhere is macaroni hanging out to dry,
all kinds of it, hung in the bright sunshine. It is
better not to look at it ; you will have to eat it in an
hour or two, and the less you see of it off the table
the keener appetite you will have for it there.
It is a long walk to Pompei, fifteen miles of hot,
dusty road. I have walked out — or started to walk
out — more than once. One day I got as far as Torre
del Greco, and it began to rain in big drops. I took
a vetturino.
Now the guide-book says " Whatever you do, never
get into a vetturino " ; and as most tourists believe as
firmly in the guide-book as John Knox believed in
the devil, they are not likely to be led astray and
follow my example. It looks like a gypsy- waggon,
straw in the bottom, two long seats at the sides, and
a white covering. Inside it is full of fleas — and
other things. I got in, partly to escape a wetting.
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 195
and partly because I like to defy the guide-book.
There were five women and one man in it. They
were as kind as possible and insisted upon my taking
the best seat, that beside the driver. Had I not had
it, I could not have remained — it was awful inside.
As it was, I had a comfortable seat and could put my
head out into the open whenever I wanted a breath.
The guide-book is right ; it is a mistake to get into a
veitnvino.
When we reached Torre Annunziata it stopped rain-
ing, and I was able to say good-bye to the people in
the vetturino. The summit of Vesuvius was hidden
in the clouds, and th<.'re was a mist lower down,
concealing the bare black plains of ashes and old
lava. The vineyards, however, where the vines had
as yet not budded, showed clearly ; and the straggling
villages of Boscoreale and Boscotrecase, that lie on the
side of the mountain next to Pompei, were conspicu-
ous in the misty gleams of sunshine that fell on their
white houses. To the stranger these villages suggest
bravado; they seem to be right in the path of de-
struction, standing as they do between Pompei and
the crater, half way up the mountain sid3. As a
matter of fact, however, all the recent lava streams
are crossed the other side of the mountain ; and
Torre del Greco, which is really nearer, has been
destroyed when these venturesome villages have
escaped. Women have a pleasant habit of standing
at the gate of Pompei and saying, "Suppose it is
buried again, to-day, while we are in it ? It might
be ; for what has happened once may happen again."
13
190 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
Should this unlooked-for catastrophe occur, Boscoreale
and Boscotrecase will never be heard of more.
The sweeping curve of the bay here is lovely.
You look over at the white houses of Castellammare
with the mountains rising behind ; and then on the
placid water of a deep purple-blue, at its foot. It is
classic ground, famous in ancient story, celebrated in
English song. I do not know just where Shelley
wrote his lovely " stanzas " ; I suppose any place
along the shore of the bay would be equally fitted
to inspire them. But roaming on the beach near
Castellammare suggests Shelley. You look down
at the water and —
'• See the deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown " —
and then along the line of the shore, and
*' Blue isles and snowy mountains wear " .
The purple noon's transparent light."
The air is redolent of poetry. The matchless charm
of the scene, the sea and sky, the mountains and
vallies, lull one into a sensuous dream. And Shelley's
lines come back to you, one and all ; there is all the
outward charm, and, coupled with it, the sense of
something wanting; the outward eye is conscious
of an environment of perfect beauty, the inner sense
of a want that fails to find for itself expression.
There are three or four inns near the gate of
Pompei, all more or less primitive, but all comfort-
£^,ble abodes if you wish to remain for some days in
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN 197
the immediate vicinity of the ancient city. As a rule
these inns are patronized only by visitors coming
from Naples for the day. They lunch there and
" do " Pompei in a few hours, returning to the town
in the evening. But a few ardent and erratic souls
who wish for more than a passing glimpse of the
wonders of the place, find it convenient to lodge
thereat. At " Diomede's Hotel " which stands just
by the wall of Pompei and a few steps from the
modern gate of the city, I found a comfortable lodg-
ing for several days. It is primitive and clean — a
not always obtainable combination in the land of the
mandolin. The ground floor consists of several din-
ing-rooms, outer, inner and innermost, with a kitchen
attached. To get to my room I was obliged to go
through the kitchen, then through the garden, then
up a flight of steps cut in the wall of Pompei, and
lastly over the kitchen roof — happily flat. Had the
second destruction of Pompei, expected by so many
female tourists, taken place during my stay, I should
have been the last to escape. At night I had to be
led up and down by a man who carried a lantern.
Had the weather been inclement I could not have
indulged in much running to and from my bedroom ;
happily it never rained more than a few drops at a
time.
The city of Pompei is beautifully kept, and well
guarded from the meddlesome fingers of unprincipled
foreigners, who would be only too glad to carry it
away, piece by piece, in their pockets. Barely a half
of it is excavated as yet ; and it will take at least
198 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
fifty years to complete the work at the present rate
of progress. But a vast deal has been done ; and, as
you enter the gate, you can see the ancient city
rising " majestic though in ruin " before your eyes.
The streets stretch this way and that and are lost
in the distance — as an American friend once said of
Gibraltar, " It's quite a settlement ; but it looks vurry,
vurry old."
The guides are a fine body of men, v/ell chosen,
and some of them speaking two or three languages —
though I own that, if you wish them to be intelli-
gible, it is wise to let them speak Italian. Though,
like most of my countrymen, I cannot speak French
with ease, I cannot endure to have it spoken by an
Italian. English, Germans and Italians have each
their own method of murdering the French language ;
but inasmuch as our way differs from that of the
ethers, we naturally consider it to be the only toler-
able one. The guides follow you about; they are
forbidden to let you go around alone. But they
leave you to yourself if you desire it, never hurry
you, and it is always convenient to have one of them
within call ; many houses are locked, and many
rooms and pictures shown only on request. Without
the guide you would fare badly. These rules and
regulations do not apply on Thursdays, when you are
admitted free ; but on Thursdays one cannot get into
the closed houses nor obtain a glimpse of the curious
sights which reveal to the modern world the condition
of social life and morals in a Roman city of the first
century.
m THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 199
It is always a difficult question to answer '* What
sort of a place is this or that ? " Places, like people,
never appear wholly the same to two different pairs
of eyes. " Tell ma what your taste is," says Ruskin,
'' and I will tell you what you are." The wise man
and the fool, the unlettered man and the erudite, will
alike look with interest upon Vesuvius in eruption,
pouring forth its lava stream and sending its thick
column of smoke a mile up into the blue heavens.
But let them descend the mountain side and enter the
old Roman city, and what to one will be a joy unspeak-
able will to the other be a dreary disappointment. It
is " the correct thing " to rave about it ; but thousands
come and go away again, delighted in their hearts to
think that it is done with.
Two things are indispensable to the perfect enjoy-
ment of Pompei ; if you have them, even in a slight
degree, your visit to the city will be an epoch in
your life ; if you have them not, your admiration
will be feigned, and the gratification you express will
be merely to conceal your disappointment. Given a
certain degree of imaginative power and a slight
acquaintance with the language and the civilization
of the Roman world, and Pompei will surpass all
your wildest expectations ; without these it must
disappoint you. The houses, streets, shops, theatres
and baths are all there ; but they were buried for
eighteen centuries in ashes and lava ; the roofs of
the houses are gone, most (not all) of their furniture
destroyed ; the pictures on the walls, though in a
wonderful state of preservation considering the
200 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
circumstances, sometimes half obliterated, and nearly
always defaced in some degree; nothing is perfect.
The bare walls of houses stand in rows, houses open to
the light of day, the temple in the Forum as '^estroj'^ed
by the earthquake, the markt :-place empty a^ ghost-
like. If you have no imagination, no inner l^ to
see with, you cannot rebuild that which is fali*:jn
down, repaint and refurnish those desolate homes, nor
repeople those deserted thoroughfares. If you have
not sufficient knowledge of the old civilization to be
able to image to yourself the men and women who
ate and drank, bought and sold, loved and hated and
married and died in that ancient city under the
shadow of Vesuvius, if the inscriptions and names of
things which catch your eye might as well be written
in Turkish or Japanese for all you can make of them,
then must this enchanting city be to you nothing but
a confused jumble of old stone w^alls, the symbol or
relic of something, you know not what.
But walk about a little, and let your imagination
have free play. Ask your guide questions about this,
that and the other ; let your mind turn back to the
great museum at Naples, and gather together all the
treasures you found in its galleries ; read the inscrip-
tions just as you come across them, as if you were
arriving in the town in the year 30 A.D. to visit some
friends ; get yourself body and soul into the old
world of Imperial Rome, concentrated for the time
being in this little provincial town — and lo ! it is all
there, all impact, built up and alive with people — all
is present. Elsewhere one builds up in the imagina-
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 201
tion ; but nowhere else can one do it as at Pompei,
because nowhere else is there so much to build with.
The houses are there and the rooms, the ovens, the
receptacles for the wine and olive oil ; and in the
museum you saw the cook:' ng utensils and some loaves
of bread, meat prepared for dinner, figs and olives —
a little hard and black after eighteen centuries of
interment — but suggestive. In the little bedrooms or
cuhicula the slaves slept ; in here the master of the
house received his guests and transacted business;
you see the pictures on the walls, the furniture is
gone. But out here in the open court behind, you
find a marble table and an altar ; there the family
spent the most of their time. There is the dining-
room with its fine colored wall, there the kitchen with
its oven, there the staircase. Another room ; it must
have been a bedroom surely — rather dark — ^you think
of all those little bronze lamps you saw in the museum
that were picked up here ; they were carried in and
out by servants, running at the call of Marcus or
Caius or Julia or young Marcellus. Look through
that open door ; it leads into the garden. Cannot you
see the old Roman family, living, before you ?
It is a good thing to go into a house and stay there
until you know how a Roman house was laid out ;
afterwards you will not need to be told which part
is which. The houses differ greatly in size and
vary in plan; but they are all built on the same
principle. There are enormous houses with any num-
ber of rooms, and nothing distinctive about them ;
there are small houses and mean ; and some beautiful
202 IN THE LAND OF TH£ MANDOLIN.
and with an individuality of their own, such as the
lovely Casa Nuova recently excavated. Then learn
the shops and then the baths. As one knows some-
thing of the interior of a modern house by looking
up at it from the outside, so one can soon get
acquainted with the plan of Roman houses in Pompei;
and, walking along the street, you can image to your-
self the view behind this wall and that. Make
yourself at home in the house of the tragic poet.
He is thinking too much of his tragedies to attend to
the mundane affairs of life ; so you must do your own
catering. Yon go down into the market, buy some
fish of the fishmongers in the centre, then call at a
butcher's stall at the side and order some meat. This
done, you go to look for a bakery. You find one
and order your bread. A few steps further and you
pass a wine-shop. Poets rarely forget to keep a
supply of wine on hand to stimulate their inspiration ;
but in case this poet should have forgotten, request
some to be sen^ to the house while you think of it.
Rather tired of the noise and the dust, you ask the
way to the baths, and enjoy a cool plunge, listening
afterwards to the gossip of the men around you,
though you do not know their names. They are
whispering together, talking of the latest freak of
Tiberius, who is living in seclusion over there in
Caprese not so very far off; and somebody is telling
a hideous tale of the tyranny of Sejanus up in Rome.
Really, now that so very little frequently condemns a
man to arrest on a charge of treason, it is hardly safe
to speak about such things. Coming out refreshed
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 203
you call at a tavern, seeinj^ one on your way back,
and have a cup of wine. Then, returning home, you
drag the poet out for a stroll in the Forum before
supper, and suggest going to the theatre on the
morrow. For the time being you must live in
Pompei, and not be merely looking at the ruins of it ;
and there is so much, so very much of it there that
this can be done by anyone who will remain for a day
or two to get familiar with the place. The thousand
trifles that have been found put us in touch with the
former occupants. In Rome you look at the ancient
Romans as you look at kings and queens of the pre-
sent day ; they bow to you graciously from their car-
riages, and you see them moving about in dignified,
royal fashion, remembering ever that they are in the
public eye. But in Pompei you can ait with the
slaves in the kitchen, chat with the family in the
periatyliwm, and, if you prefer low company, lounge
in the little room behind the wine-shop at the corner.
It is a delightful place for one who wishes to see the
ancients at home.
The few scholars and artists whom I encountered
spent their time copying frescoes and making notes.
As I had then no intention of writing about the place,
I had nothing to do ; and simply sauntered about with
a guide following afar, making friends with the former
owners of the city. Bulwer Lytton's Pompeiians I
did not meet ; my acquaintances were not nearly so
respectable as his heroes and heroines ; in fact they
were most disreputable people, and their friendship
in any city of the modern world would be enough to
204 m THE LAM) OF THE MANDOLIN.
cut one off from any but the very best society. One
superiority to the modern Neapolitan they had ; they
bathed often. But, like the modern Neapolitan, they
had no respect for anything in the world, human or
divine, a shameless people. However they were a
novelty ; and, being only ghosts, I fell into no mischief
among them.
I passed two or three days in this profitable and
fascinating manner, before I began to think of doing
anything else. Then, one evening, I decided to go up
Vesuvius the next day for a change. We were com-
ing out of the city, my companion and I, and going
into the inn for dinner ; it was beginning to rain and
looked rather cheerless ; we both commenced to
grumble. " If it rains I can't go out," I said to him ;
" and I shall have to spend a dull evening, with only
you for company."
" Just what I was thinking," was his rejoinder ; " I
shall have nothing to do but smoke and yawn ; for
you know your conversation is apt to become flat."
But life, when you are travelling, is one long
comedy. It may sometimes drag a little ; but new
characters enter when you least expect them, and
your interest revives again. Sometimes it becomes
a screaming farce. This night was one of those
times. We expected it to be a dull evening ; but it
was full of amusement.
When we went in we looked into the inner dining-
room, the sola da pranzo, and found the table laid
for six instead of for two, as usual ; after the daily
sight-seers vanished we were ordinarily left alone
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 205
together. Wondering who the four strangers might
be, we went off to get brushed up for dinner.
When we returned we found two of them seated
at the table, waiting for dinner ; and took our places
opposite to them. Two women sat side by side, one
large and imposing, clad in sober brown, the other
slight and short, wearing a red jacket embroidered
with gold braid. Both had a pre-occupied, 'itense
air, and seemed to be self-absorbed. One glance at
them was sufficient to reveal at least a few facts con-
cerning them ; they were English, they were maiden
ladies — and they both had wheels in their heads.
I dislike sitting and looking at people without
knowing their names. It is impossible (unless you
come from Kansas) to look across a table and say
" What is your name, M or N ? " to a stranger ; so I
give them all names " out of my own head." The
taller and older of the two was a majestic person with
a large mouth and a tragic air about her brow. She
suggested voluminous correspondence and a capacity
of going through with anything she undertook even
unto the death ; I named her Clarissa. The younger,
who wore the red jacket, had rather a handsome face.
She had evidently been born into the world to follow
the lead of the elder, as far as her body and mind
could support the strain. She had a nervous mouth
and large dark eyes, the sort of eyes that denote
incipient insanity, and which may be studied in the
members of the Society for promoting Psychical
Research. Thinking of the Society for Psychical
Research suggested Mr. Stead; and I named her
206 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
Julia in compliment to his familiar spirit. Each, I
felt sure, had a monomania ; and it must be the same
monomania or they would never have sat so quietly,
side by side, waiting for dinner. I knew it would
show itself before long, and was content to sit still
in expectation. '
It did. A dish of macaroni was brought in and
put before each of us; and we commenced to eat.
Friend McDonald helped himself to wine, which he
drank without water. I poured out some for myself,
and was proceeding to fill the glass from the water
decanter, when Julia cried impulsively, " Oh ! — don't !
— stop ! " — and Clarissa added in sepulchral tones,
" Do you know what you are doing ? "
Instinctively I hung my head with shame, resting
the water decanter on the table. " I was only going
to fill my glass with water," I said meekly.
" You are mad — you will kill yourself," said Julia
intensely — " don't ! "
" Only going to fill up your glass with water,"
repeated Clarissa with scathing contempt in every
syllable — " only going to poison yourself, to kill your-
self — only endeavoring to introduce cholera or typhoid
or some other dangerous disease into your system —
and yet you say * only.* "
" I always drink a little water with my wine," I
said feebly. " I like it better so, for I drink a great
deal, being a thirsty soul. Is it dangerous ? "
" Dangerous ? " said Julia — " it is death. The water
is full of death."
" It is full of microbes," added Clarissa.
JN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 207
Microbes — this, then, was their hobby : they had
microbes on the brain.
"Microbes?" I said; "I know nothing of microbes."
" Evidently not," said Clarissa with emphasis ; " we
do. We know that the water in Italy is unfit to
drink, being full of germs. The microbes swarm.
At any moment the water-drinker may succumb to
cholera or typhoid fever — possibly both."
" Everybody drinks water/' I remarked dubiously ;
"and yet people live."
" Everybody does not drink water," said Clarissa ;
" and those who do sooner or later pay the penalty."
" We have been six weeks on the continent," said
Julia, " and we have not tasted one drop of water ;
we know the danger. The water in Rome is said to
be the best in the world ; but we did not drink it,
because we knew that, when we left, we should feel
the want of it the more. Every day, every hour, I
long for a glass of water. I would give anything to
have one now. But not for all the world could I be
persuaded to taste a drop."
" No one but a fool," said Clarissa, " would run the
risk of disease and death for the sake of gratifying
a moment's whim by taking a drink. The water is
full of microbes ; no wise man or woman would touch
it."
" I have been in Italy for months," I said in
answer ; " I have been drinking water constantly,
and have suffered from neither fever nor cholera, nor
any other ailment."
" Perhaps, if you persevere, you will find out your
208 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
error in the end," said Clarissa grimly ; " one never
knows just when the microbes will take effect."
" You have escaped hitherto," said Julia ; " you may
die to-morrow."
" We shall see," I said gravely, filling up my glass
as I spoke and tasting the mixture. " At any rate I
am going to risk it."
Julia looked at me in pity, Clarissa in scorn.
" I don't drink very much water," I said in apology ;
" you can see, yourselves, how little."
" What matter how little or how much ? " said
Clarissa in a tone of voice which spoke volumes of
contempt for such a person — " one drop is sufficient
should it contain the microbes."
" I suppose so."
" You suppose so — then why do it ? "
" I don't know," I answered, feeling like a worm.
" The water of Rome is the best in the world ; that
of Naples now comes from the same source. The
guide-book tells you when to avoid the water."
" And you trust entirely to the guide-book in
matters of life and death ? " said Clarissa derisively.
Friend McDonald kicked me under the table, for
this was a tender point. I always laugh at people
who live according to Baedeker.
" No," I said — " but in this one point I am guided
by it. Do you really believe one drop of this water
taken into the mouth is sufficient to cause death ? "
" Certainly," said Clarissa emphatically ; " one drop
certainly is sufficient. A consistent and sensiljle per-
son would hardly question the statement,"
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 209
'* But there are times — different times — when one
can hardly help taking one drop ; what is one to do ? "
'* You can boil the water," said ( larissa.
" There we disagree in practice though not in
theory," said Julia nervously, looking at Clarissa ;
" my friend always boils the water in the morning for
her teeth ; I do not — though when I take it into my
mouth I am careful not to swallow a drop."
I kicked Friend McDonald, and then blushed — it
was diflficult to repress a smile. " It seems to me you
run a great risk," I said ; " if I thought as you do, I
should boil the water for my teeth."
Then they, began to argue the question between
them. We listened with keen appreciation. In the
middle of the argument there was a bustle in the
room outside; and, a moment after, entered Mrs.
Hobson, U.S.A., followed by her son.
Mrs. Hobson was a short, stout woman with a flat
face. She had her bonnet on her head, and held both
hands up before her, bandaged with handkerchiefs.
She was followed by her son, a lanky youth of
eighteen or twenty with a lean greyish face and large
spectacles on a small nose. The chair at the head of
the table was empty ; and Mrs. Hobson sank into it as
one exhausted.
We expected her to faint away; but she didn't.
Her eyes closed ; but her mouth opened and she spoke.
" Wal — I've done Pompei and Vesuvius - and Pompei
and Vesuvius have done me. They're done — and I'm
done ! "
There was a pause ; and feeling it incumbent on
210 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
somebody to say something, I hazarded a remark. —
" If you did them both to-day, it is no wonder you are
tired ; to do so much in one day is not advisable."
" We lose no time," drawled Mrs. Hobson, opening
her eyes to see what manner of man she was address-
ing, and then shutting them again, as though a short
view of him was sufficient ; " we've no time to spare.
We do Castellammare and Sorrento, to-morrow — then
Amalfi and then Capri— we don't stay long at a place
— do it and go on. We came out from Naples at
eight o'clock this morning and did Pompei — finishing
at one. Then we lunched at this place. Allowing one
hour for lunch, we took horses at two o'clock to make
the ascent of Vesuvius ; we just had time to get up
and get down. We rode up, and I was carried over to
see the lava in a basket. I felt the brown lava to see if
it was hot, and burnt this hand " — here one of the
bandaged hands was held up — "and then, coming
down, the guide left off leading my horse, and it stum-
bled and threw me over its head ; and I sprained this
wrist " — here the other bandaged hand was shown —
" and here I am — done ! "
"Baedeker warns you never to do Pompei and
Vesuvius the same day," said Friend McDonald ; " it
is too much."
Mrs. Hobson opened one eye and regarded him with
languid interest. She did not answer his remark-
What she said was — " Son, a drink ! "
The lanky youth poured out a tumbler-full of pure
water, and was about to raise it to her lips, when
Clarissa and Julia simultaneously uttered a warning
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 211
cry and said, " Don't ! " Mrs. Hobson's eyes opened
at the cry and she sat bolt upright, again exclaiming
— " Son, a drink ! "
" The water is poison — all water is poison — it is full
of germs — it is death to drink it — there are microbes
in it — you may die of fever — take wine."
These were some of the cries that burst fron; the
lips of the Englishwomen as they saw the American
woman about to touch the fatal fluid. Wine is free in
these inns ; I passed my bottle at once ; so did Friend
McDonald ; so did Clarissa and Julia. All our wine —
each guest has a bottle to himself — was pressed upon
Mrs. Hobson.
But there was life enough left in those bandaged
hands of hers to take each bottle separately and put
it resolutely back. Fixing a cool stare on Clarissa
and Julia, she said calmly, " I am temperance ; " and
motioning to her son to hold the tumbler to her lips,
she drank the water, draining it to the last drop.
And then the battle opened.
She was " temperance." The argument was loiig,
and it would stretch my sketch to too great a length
to reproduce it in full. But it was as delightful as
any scene from Sheridan's plays. Mrs. Hobson was
temperance ; her principles forbade indulgence in even
the lightest Italian wines. If she drank them with-
out the danger of becoming intoxicated, they might
nevertheless induce a taste for a more deadly poison
than the most microby water in Italy. The taste
once formed, she who had been a bright and shining
light among total abstainers might end her days in
14
212 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
drink, and fill a drunkard's ^rave. Tlien thore was
the bad example to " won " wlio liad never tasted a
drop of the destroyer, and who was sworn never to
do 80. In vain did Clarissa and Juha threaten her
with Asiatic cholera and typhoid fever; she admitted
them to be possible evils against which no one, even
the wine-drinker, could be secure ; but the taste for
" liquor " was a certain evil, tenfold more to be
dreaded than the deadliest disease ; and from which
she, and people who lived as she, were at least certain
to escape.
The scene surpassed anything in fiction ; Tom
Jones and IVie Rivals contain nothing more amusing.
The dispute continued through dinner, after which
Mrs. Hobson and her son retired to t' eir rooms to
prepare for another day of hard work. When they
were gone, Clarissa repeated the epilogue to the play ;
it reflected gravely on the American character and its
unreasonableness. I suggested that there were
" cranks in all countries," if you went to look for
them ; to which Clarissa replied that the colonies were
not far behind the republic in their production of
the species. As was right and proper, Clarissa and
Julia had the last word ; and then they, too, retired
from the scene, with the air of women who, having
had a solemn duty to perform, have performed it to
their own satisfaction.
Friend McDonald and I were left alone. Sitting
down, we lit our pipes, and made merry over our
quondam companions, laughing until we cried. We
saw them no more ; early in the morning they all
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 213
went away, Mrs. HoUson and "son " to do Caatollam-
inare and Sorrento, Clarissa and Julia to visit the
romantic old town of Anialti and warn any thoughtless
souls who might be found imperiling their lives with
water drinking, of the darigers to which tliey were
exposed. We lost them — but sometimes tliey haunt
my dreams. If I am low-spirited, I conjure them up
again and spend a happy hour, the vision of Mrs.
Hobson's placid face as she preached her gospel to
those monomaniacs of another kind, present to my
eyes, and Clarissa's scornful accents and Julia's
screams ringing in my ears.
III.
The first thing everyone does on arriving at Naples
is to look at Vesuvius. Vesuvius is frequently very
disappointing ; if there is a cloud anywhere in the sky
it seems to drift over to the volcano, hiding the cone
and the smoke from view. Sometimes, for days
together, there will be clouds on Vesuvius, though the
weather may otherwise be fine and the sky elsewhere
serene. When it rains, or when the sky is overcast,
the mountain is completely hidden from sight; you
can see nothing but the base.
The best view I obtained in three weeks was at
night after an outflow of lava. For several evenings
I stood for some time looking at the fiery glow on
the mountain side, gleaming in the dark night. It was
not much of an eruption, as eruptions go ; but to one
who never sees a volcano it was a grand spectacle.
214 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
Everyone wishes to go up Vesuvius ; and ninety-
nine out of a hundred people go by Cook's air rail-
way. They go to see the crater and have a view
of the bay and the city from the top. I never made
the ascent so, but I have seen other people doing
it. They drive out from Naples, packed in carriages
under the protection of Messrs. Cook, till they get
to the air-line. Beggars and guides are stationed at
every turn, ready for plunder and extortion. You
see swarms of beggars, swarms of tourists, swarms
of guides, fighting one another in a cloud of dust.
Then the men who belong to Cook pick out their
tourists and pack and sort them. The tourists, Ger-
man, French, English and American, are then huddled
up together in a cable car and so dragged up the
cone. Could anything be more awful ?
I think not. Travellers themselves, submissive in
all else, complain of the want of romance about it.
The sight filled me with pity for the man or woman
of sensibility who sits packed away among the Philis-
tines, at the mercy of guides and in the hands of
Cook's agent. It was quite pathetic. But so enslaved
is the ordinary tourist, so completely under the thumb
of the guide-book, that few of these unfortunate
people even so much as stop to ask if it is possible
to get up the mountain in a less vulgar manner.
People talk of the hard and fast laws of society,
and the impossibility of breaking away from them
and not doing just as others do. It is nothing to
the law of travel; you are bound hand and foot;
everybody seems to be in league to prevent you from
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 215
doing anything or looking at anything that every-
body else does not do or look at. Ninety-nine out
of a hundred submit ; and the hundredth has to fight
with everybody about him before he gets his way.
Once I wanted to go to a little theatre in Rome that
foreigners never patronize ; I asked the hotel people
the way. They assured me that I did not want to
go there, it was no good — no English ever went. I
insisted; they insisted — I would be bored to death
there ; it was the Gostanzi or the Nazionale that I
wished to go to — they would direct me to either of
these. The cabbies talked in the same strain. In
the end I got a plan of the city and acted as my own
guide. Everywhere I had the same trouble ; but
everywhere, I think, took my own way and did as I
chose — though I have had guides follow me, cursing
me under their breath for my obstinacy, and demand-
ing double pay for being taken out of their ordinary
route— which is not pleasant.
When I talked in the hotel at Naples of making
ascents without the aid of Cook, I was looked upon
by many people as an iniposter, and told by some per-
sons it could not be done. These people I answered
out of their own mouths ; for they all swore by
Baedeker, and Baedeker speaks of horses and guides
to be hired at Pompei, and tells you what you ought to
pay for them. Nevertheless, comparatively few people
make the ascent of Vesuvius from Pompei, unless
they happen, like Mrs. Hobson, to be there and are
determined to do everything in one day. But nothing
in the world is easier ; and you escape all the vulgarity
216 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
and hideousness of the other method, the swarms of
tourists, beggars and guides, the clouds of dust and
the cable-car.
I waited at Pompei in vain for a day when there
were no clouds about the mountain-top; and then
decided to ride up to the new crater to see the fresh
lava stream in spite of the clouds. It was a daring
act, done in defiance of the guide-book and Cook's
agent. You go up to see the crater and get a view of
the city and bay. Neither could be visible — so why
go ? Afterwards, when I came down, I felt that I
had never enjoyed anything more in my life ; guide-
books and agents are not always to be blindly
obeyed.
You hire a guide at one of the inns, and agree
upon the price to be paid. He provides the horses,
one for himself and one for you. You start early in
the morning, the earlier the better, as no one wishes
to be hurried when on such an expedition. I secured
a splendid guide. He was the only one who offered,
but a better one I could not have wished. His name
was Antonio, and he understood everything — even
English — the only man whom I met in Pompei pos-
sessing such an accomplishment. He had been in the
artillery in Rome, and was a most intelligent fellow
— an important matter, for a guide who is to ride
with you must be a companion and a servant in one.
I left everything to him, stipulating only that it
should not rain during the day — which he promised
without hesitation.
We rode off in the direction of Boscotrecase, over
_-:':y.'''- In the land of the mandolin. 2iT
country roads that ran between the vineyards. We
passed a few houses, but not a great many. The
houses in southern Italy are all alike, beautiful pic-
tures. They stand usually amid vineyards and fields,
here and there ^n Italian pine with its umbrella-like
top lending its graceful form to the picture of which
the centre is the irregular flat-roofed house, white or
slightly yellowish in color, with patches of black
under the eaves or in the doorways. When you
approach these picturesque dwellings, you find them
not so attractive as at a distance ; they are all filthy,
and the smell of them is sufficient to prevent your
going inside. The walls that enclose the vineyards
around Vesuvius are lower than those you see in the
north ; and you have not that unending vista of high
white masonry forever before your eyes that so often
renders the country road in Italy one long monotony.
The ascent is gradual until near Boscotrecase, when
it becomes steeper. Boscotrecase is, like all Italian
villages, one long rambling town street set in the
midst of open land, vineyards below and the bare
mountain side above, the roadway paved and the
houses all looking ancient and tumble-down. Into
the courtyard of what might have been a stable, a
dilapidated fortress, a ruined castle, or an olive mill,
but which actually was an osteria or inn, my horse
suddenly turned. I went with it. Antonio followed
and dismounted, calling upon me to do the same.
" Why do we stop here, Antonio ? I am not tired."
" The horse expects it, sir ; he always rests here a
while, and he expects it."
218 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
Horses and mules in Italy expect a great deal.
Above all they expect to stop and rest every hour at
some comfortable tavern, while the guide — out of
respect of course for the animals' feelings — smokes a
cigarette or two, strums the mandolin, or makes eyes
at the landlord's wife and daughter. The donkey is
the only creature in Italy who expects nothing — the
only counterpart of the world-weary, over-worked
native of the west. Donkeys always gave me a
home-feeling ; there was about them a suggestiveness
of " work, work, work and be resigned to it," which
is the normal expression of the country man and
woman in America. The other inhabitants of south-
ern Italy are pagans, living an irresponsible life,
ground down perchance with taxation and poverty,
but none the less happy in their lot, satisfied with
their tiny share of bliss in this paradise of a world —
and without a conscience They have their bread to
get and heavy taxes to pay — but they have no sins to
account for, and there is always the supreme happi-
ness of existing. But the donkey takes life as hard
as any New Englander ; to him the world is a vale of
tears, and life one long conflict with the powers of
darkness. He does his duty and his only reward is
a beating ; for him there is no rest but in the grave.
Should the Salvation Army ever set up its banner in
southern Italy, the donkey will be the only creature
whose experience will enable it to step up and give
such suitable platform evidence as that peculiar insti-
tution requires of its adherents.
We rested for some little time. Antorio took off
IN THE LAND OF THE MAPDOLIN. 219
his boots and held a lengthy con/ersation with a
young woman who brought out a bottle of red wine
— lacrimse christi — of which I was invited to partake.
The guide-book says in plain words, " It is advis-
able not to partake of any of this wine on the way
up," — so I declined with thanks ; and sat looking on,
while Antoriio smoked and joked, with his feet rest-
ing on the table.
After a little while the horses were brought out
again, graciously willing to continue the journey.
We mounted and rode off. The whole population
came out to see us go, and accompanied us to the
village limits, the small boys shouting at the horses,
their elders wishing us l pleasant day — and all beg-
ging for soldi. We went along the one street at a
rapid rate, making quite a clatter on the rough
paving-stones ; and soon left Boscotrecase behind.
A new ascent commenced. The vineyards began
to give way to barren tracts of bare ground ; and the
earth had a black look, as if we were in the vicinity
of a coal mine. Vesuvius could not be seen ; all was
white cloud just above us. Looking down towards
Pompei, we saw the vineyards stretching out on
every side for miles beneath us. In the distance we
could just see the bay and no more ; there was a
mistiness in the air, and I began to wonder whether,
after all, I had been wise to come up on so unpro-
pitious a morning.
The roads were good, tiiough one may say roads in
Italy are always good, except where you have to
climb mountains by the mule paths, which, paved as
220 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
they are with stones, are likely to give one a good
shaking up. After some time, I cannot precisely say
how long, we reached the White House.
This is an irregular white stone building with a
square roof, and is the last house you pass when
going up the mountain on this side. Why it should
be called the White House I do not know, seeing
that all the country houses are white. Perhaps,
as it stands just on the verge of the great plains
of old black lava and ashes, it looks exceptionally
white by contrast. It marks the extreme limit of
vegetation, a few stunted pines that straggle here and
there forming the only green in the surroundings.
The White House is a sort of osteria, and serves as a
stopping-place. Antonio dismounted.
" What are you getting off for, Antonio ? Must we
stop here ? "
" Yes, sir; the horses expect it."
The horses again. I dismounted. As there was a
table with some chairs in front of the door, we did
not go inside ; but sat without to wait until the beasts
were willing to go on. The padrone brought out, as
before, some bottles of wine and glasses : but again
I refused to be tempted. He was followed out by
an old, very old man, with snow-white hair and one
eye. This old man was so covered with volcanic
dust that he suggested the idea that he had been
hung down the crater for a week or two to see how
much of it he could collect. In his trembling hands
he carried a mandolin.
With a profound bow he stood before us and
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 221
commenced to play. The tunes were barely recogniz-
able, Napoli, Santa Lucia and Funiculi-Funicula ; as I
knew what was coming I knew what came. The
mandolin was out of tune, and the old man's fingers
were too stiff to make any music ; it was execrable.
I sang over the songs as he played them. I have no
voice and cannot sing a note ; but the one perform-
ance was as good as the other. When it stopped lie
held out a hat and asked for a biiona mano. In return
I held out my hat, remarking that singers also ex-
pected to be paid. The Italians like a feeble joke
better than none ; and all laughed, including the old
man. Then we talked about the weather. The. white
clouds hung just above our heads ; we were not in
them, but the top of the house seemed to be. The
padrone and the old man both promised me I should
have no rain, which was the one thing that I was
afraid of ; and in return for their kindness I distri-
buted a few pence. Then we started again, turning
the brow of the hill immediately behind the old
house. In two minutes we were in the clouds.
The white mist hung so thick in the air that I
could just see my horse's head and no more. Turning
round, Antonio and his steed appeared dimly visible,
following behind like shadow forms on a foggy night.
The ascent was gradual and the road was good, being
merely black ashes fine almost as dust, in which the
horse's feet sank an inch or two. Antonio started
me into a gallop; and away we went through the
mist. The road twisted and turned, I could not see
a yard ahead of me ; to guide the horse was
222 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
impossible ; so I let him find his own way along. The
white vapor was thick on every side ; I might have
ridden into a chasm like a second Marcus Curtius,
and been none the wiser — until I got there. It
flashed across my mind that this might happen as a
judgment on me for the fun I had made of Mrs.
Hobson; I might come to grief as she had done.
But if I did not know the road, my little horse did ;
and he went along at a gallop, round here and there,
up, up, up, always turning gently to the left. Then,
all of a sudden, we emerged from the clouds and I
drew a long breath ; the sight that met my eyes was
simply sublime.
In front of us rose the mountain, black as night, a
thousand feet in the air, grand, black and terrible, its
summit lost in the grey sky above, the column of
smoke invisible, not to be separated from the dark
masses of cloud that hung over the crater. On every
side were heaped up together little mountains, piles
of rugged lava heaped one upon another, black as
ink — where not perfectly black, the color of rusted
iron, cinders of stone. Far to the right and left
stretched plains of black ashes, sinking here and
there into vallies, rising here and there into hills.
Everyone knows how vast, mysterious and illimit-
able, stretches of country become in the dark or the
twilight ; these black plains and chasms, these rugged
hills of old lava, seemed to extend into space. I could
see around me for many miles ; and it was a vista of
inky blackness and darkness, no sky above, only
masses of grey cloud ; and beneath — well the whole
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 223
vast expanse with the cone in the middle of it was
floating on a sea of pearly white cloud. Except just
where the cone rose, the horizon was everywhere
visible, a sea of soft rolling vapor. And the contrast
was wonderful, the black so black, and the white
clouds so white; the mountains and the plains so
heavy, like masses of iron, the sea of white on which
they floated so light and evanescent.
We rode along, still at a gallop; and you could
almost fency you were riding through the lower
world. I kept calling out to Antonio as we went
along, in order to hear the sound of my voice echoing
in these strange regions. We went on and on, going
still to the left around the cone, every moment leav-
ing the sea of vapor farther and farther below, and
getting nearer the dark lava crags that seemed to form
an impassable barrier ahead, looming up against the
grey sky.
The road winds around the mountain, and it was a
long ride. Thousands of people see this sight, every
year ; but one who has never seen it, or who looks
upon it for the first time, will understand the fascina-
tion of the ascent. The road winds around the cone,
and we went on, leaving hill after hill, plain after
plain, behind ; and I had the feeling that I was
travelling in chaos or in the shades below.
At last, after a long gallop, during which the
grim solitude was like that of a desert and the
silence broken only by the sound of our horses' hoofs,
we came in sight of the observatory below, and, above,
the wire rope railway of Messrs. Thomas Cook and
224 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
Son. The cable car was not running ; for no one, nob
even an American tourist doing Naples in a day,
would have come up to see the view in such weather
as this. So we rode round the point at which the air
line commences, and struck a wild path leading up
among the lava hills.
It was very wild. We hid left the black plains
behind, and were now climbing over old lava streams.
It was all dead and cold this cinder of stone, hard
and sharp, and piled up in in^mense heaps that looked
like masses of cold iron v-hat had cooled off in the
open. The path wound in and out, and the little
horse still broke into a gallop when the ascent was
not too steep. Sometimes we rode along the edge of
a precipice, where, looking down, you saw pike points
sticking up by the thousand — a nice place for pushing
over one's unpleasant acquaintances. Sometimes one
wondered where the pathway was ; but the horse
always knew and kept going on, making good time.
Those rests below had evidently fortified it for the
labors to follow.
At last we sighted three or four rough-looking men
with alpenstocks in their hands, standing on the brow
of a hill above us. When they saw us, they began
to descend. At the foot of this hill the horse stopped.
" Now, sir," said Antonio, dismounting, " the horses
can go no further. These are guides ; we must give
ourselves up to them, and go on, on foot."
The guides took possession of us. They were like
all guides, and would have their own way. If you
wish to differ from them, you must run on ahead of
JN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 225
them. I tried it, but. they overtook me, and seized
me by the arm. One deftly alif)ped an (tiuto around
my waist. Aiido is the Italian for "help;" on
Vesuvius it means a piece of rope round your waist
of which the guide holds the end. Such things are
necessary on the Alps; but on Vesuvius, where the
ascent is neither difficult nor dangerous, they are quite
superfluous. I made such a fuss about it that the
aiuto was taken off, and then we went on amicably.
The ascent, over the crags of broken lava, is not very
fatiguing, not worse than that of any steep hill.
There were live guides there, and, as far as I could
see, no other sight-seers were on the mountain ; so I
had them all to myself. On the way down we met
several Italians who had ridden over from Naples ;
but I saw no foreigners at all.
The climb was tiring; but when we came to the
fresh lava stream fatigue was forgotten. It had
cooled to a brown color on the top, and was cracked
and broken into large masses like ice-cakes. In the
cracks it still glowed red-hot, and the smell of burning
stone was oppressive, almost sickening. The heat
was like that of an oven. It is a grim sight a cool-
ing lava stream, acres of this molten rock cooled to
cinder color here and glowing red-hot there, rising
before your eyes. We stood beside it for some min-
utes, all the guides talking together, I pretending to
listen but hearing nothing ; then they invited me to
cross it to where the lava was still flowing, higher up.
I did not touch it, remembering Mrs. Hobson's ban-
daged hand. The basket in which she had been
226 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
carried up the hill I had Hcen below. They put
women in them for fear of their petticoats coming in
contact with some hot lava, and thereby catching fire.
The " new woman " will be spared this indignity.
It was hot to the feet as we passed over it. When
jumping the crevices, where you saw the red lava
glowing beneath you, a fiery breath seemed to come
up, like a suggestion that you had reached a region
not mentionable to ears polite. It was not in the
least alarming, as we jumped nowhere more than two
or three feet ; and the guides catch hold of you if you
come to a bad place. Their aid is not to be despised,
for a fall might mean a scorching. What was really
dreadful about it was the heat ; it was suffocating.
Two or three times I stopped and declared I would
go no further ; but the guides only laughed and said,
" Who comes so far goes all the way ; " so there was
nothing for it but to push on.
At last we came in sight of the flowing stream.
It had dwindled to the size of a brook, or rather two
brooks — for two small streams of it were flowing out
of the hillside, one not fifty feet from the other.
We made our way over to it, and I was planted on
a square cake of cooling lava, just on the edge of
the stream.
It was so hot there that I felt a momentary view
of it was satisfying, and said I would go back again.
But to this the guides would in no wise agree ; in-
stead they went through the old, time-worn perform-
ance of fishing out some liquid lava and cooling it
round a penny. This they presented to me ; and I
IN THE LAXD OF THE MANDOLIN. 227
accepted it with thanks, heing too hot to decline.
Tlien, again, I suf^gested j^oinj^. Not at all ; men
who came up with tliem had to fish out some lava,
themselves, and cool it.
J said I had no mind for such an occupation, and
asked them what good it would do me to try. They
replied that I would be able to say I had done it.
I suggested that it would be as easy to say so —
should anyone encjuire — without doing it ; people who
travel always profess to have done everything. But
it was of no use to argue ; Tom Dick and Harry from
all the world over had performed this feat ; and so
must I. The perspiration was running down me as
it was, and I felt my face scorching ; however, after
two or throe fruitless efforts, I managed to land
sufficient of the stuff to make a halfpenny with — if
such material were in demand for such 'b. purpose ;
and everyone was satisfied.
After this senseless performance, we went back.
Exhausted as I was with the heat, I got over the
cooling cakes and fiery crevices with the agility of a
monkey ; and soon stood on terra firma^ breathing a
sigh of relief. Getting as far away from the hot
stream as possible, I sat down to eat some luncheon
which I had carried up with me. Then we scrambled
down the mountain side to where the horseswere
waiting, and took leave of the guides.
The descent of the mountain was slow, for I was
weak with the heat and had to walk my horse the
whole way. Antonio rode ahead of me coming down.
One pleasing incident there was. All of a sudden the
15
228 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. '
clouds below broke ; and Naples with the blue bay
sleeping at her feet, came into view, fifteen miles away.
The long line of the shore, with the white city lying
in a half-moon around that water of a turquoise blue,
looked surpassingly lovely. The white vapor framed
the picture, and the picture hung on walls as black as
night. It lasted for a few minutes only, for soon the
white clouds rolling along obscured the vision, and
all was darkness and chaos. But the one glimpse was
delightful. Then we descended into the plains ot
ashes, and made our w^ay along at quicker pace ; and
the mountain rose higher and higher at our back and
the plains grew wider and wider around us, until at
last we plunged into the clouds; Vesuvius with its
gloomy grandeur was left invisible behind.
Another day I walked up the mountain, going, how-
ever, only as far as the white house which marks the
limit of vegetation. There I had a magnificent view
of Castellammare and the bay, lying with my back
against a hillside and drinking in the beauties of the
scene while I rested and smoked a pipe. The water
was quite calm, at such a distance it appeared abso-
lutely glassy ; the island of Ischia was a blurr of deep
purplish blue, the hills behind Castellammare the
same color, but not so dark. In that atmosphere there
is always the peculiar haze, which, though itself in-
visible, lends a charm to distance unknown in America
where the air is perfectly clear, and where far-off
objects have no dimness and mystery about them.
Behind me stretched the black and barren fields of
lava with ashes in the foreground, the cone rising
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 229
behind with a small cloud hovering over the crater,
hiding the smoke — or rather making it impossible to
distinguish smoke from cloud. This black mass with
the black fields around it, stood out clearly against
the deep blue sky, making a very striking picture.
When I wandered down over the barren fields
dotted here and there with stunted pines, the scene
lost its impressiveness. Vineyards rose in front, the
long hills were covered with them ; and behind, the
black plains and lava hills receded from sight.
Luxuriant greenness must clothe those fields and vine-
yards later in the spring ; at that time the leaves had
not unfolded on the vines ; and one could but picture
the mass of verdure that would meet the eye a few
weeks later. Many flowers, however, were in bloom,
and small green tendrils were creeping over the white
stone walls ; one could see it was springtime. Thou-
sands of lizards ran in and out among the stones of
the walls, sunning themselves 'and rioting in the ap-
proach of summer.
I felt hot and thirsty after my tramp up the moun-
tain, and saw with delight an old osier ia ahead of me.
It was a very old building, if one could judge from its
state of dilapidation, and perfectly pink in color.
These osterie are not clean ; no one could call them so
in the wildest freak of exaggeration ; yet all things
are comparative ; compared with the farm-houses they
are not dirty. You can approach the door, and,
having approached, enter, without feeling a desire to
beat a retreat. I went in.
Inside two or three rustics were having their
230 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
afternoon wine in a room which in America we should
call the " bar," though it bears little resemblance to
the same, except that it is usually close and dirty. I
sat down on a chair and called for some lacrimce
chriati.
The padrone came forward. He was a specimen of
humanity found only in the sunny south, fat, ragged
and olive-brown, with a face as full of sunshine as his
native skies. Such eyes as these people have, such a
smile — if there were not so many of them one would
soon be wheedled out of all one's pocket-money, so in-
sinuating are their manners. He begged of me to rise
at once ; guests of distinction were never received in
this uninviting room.
Though sure that no guest of distinction had ever
entered this primitive place, I bowed my thanks, and,
rising, followed him up to the roof, where I found
several chairs and a table. I was requested to sit
down, and he left me, returning in a minute or two
with a bottle of wine and a glass which held a pint.
Then, sitting on a chair with my feet on the stone
parapet that ran along the roof, I drank the red wine
and was rested and refreshed thereby. The padrone
sat on another chair a little distance away ; I gave
him a cigarette and we became quite friendly. He
had a number of flowers growing in pots on the
parapet, and enquired if I knew the names of them.
I knew all but two, and he had the pleasure of telling
me those. They delight in teaching you their lan-
guage — though I would advise one to learn nothing
from a southerner. The Neapolitan dialect is so
W THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 231
peculiar that it may almost be called a language by
itself. A stranger finds it incomprehensible ; but, as
in Venice, people make themselves understood by
speaking to you in a different language than that they
use to each other — though their Italian is never as
beautiful as that of the Venetians.
The padrone was sorry to see me depart, and sorrier
still that one bottle of wine was sufficient to invig-
orate a distinguished guest. But the afternoon was
wearing to a close, and I had some miles to cover
before dinner-time ; so I bade him and his lacrimcB
christi farewell. When I got started afresh I agreed
with Baedeker that it would not be advisable to drink
of lacrimce christi on the way up the mountain. I
will not say it is intoxicating ; but I will say that
after drinking a bottle of it you feel as if you had
finished a cask. However by the time I reached
Pompei, I had recovered my lightness of step ; and
was quite ready for the good dinner which awaited
me at the old-fashioned inn.
IV. ;-•,. ./;;,: ■.^■„. ■'_:/...■/ " ■■ ■
One delightful morning at Pompei I rose early,
intending to walk to Sorrento to spend a couple of
days there. I breakfasted at the inn with a bundle
lying on a chair beside me, answering many questions
the while. No Italian ever walks if he can possibly
help it ; they are good walkers, and are equal to any
amount of tramping if put to the test; but as for
walking for the pleasure of it, they would as soon
232 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
think of creeping on all fours. However, I said I
was going to Sorrento, and going to walk. English-
men are known to be lunatics, and they believed me.
There was some shaking of heads and some gentle
remonstrances addressed to me upon the folly of such
an undertaking ; and then the good people made up
their minds to it, and wished me a pleasant day and an
enjoyable time in Sorrento. Quite unconscious of the
sensation my departure was to make, I shouldered my
bundle and bade them all good-bye.
It was early morning, when some time must
elapse before the first train comes out from Naples,
bringing its victims; the crowd of cabbies, relic-
vendors, flower people, mandolin-players, guides to
Vesuvius, guides to Pompei, and beggars pure and
simple, who cluster round the city gates to make an
onslaught when the long-suffering traveller descends
from the carriage or the railway train, was standing
idle. Quiet prevailed ; even the voice of the man
with no legs, who leans against the wall of the city
just outside the gate and proclaims his woes in
piteous tones, was hushed. He was lying flat on the
ground asleep. But here and there, there were
individuals nodding their heads in a state of semi-
consciousness ; and when I emerged from the inn,
staff" in hand and my bundle on my back, the alarm
was given and the mighty host rose and prepared for
battle.
I shall never forget my departure from Pompei
that morning. It suggested a picture I once saw
called the "Triumph of Scipio." The conqueror of
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 233
the Carthaginians was so surrounded with men,
women and horses, the human part of the crowd
all yelling at him together, that progress must have
been difficult. This morning I played the part of
Scipio. Cabs went before and behind me and at my
side, the cabbies standing up and shouting at me,
coaxing, flattering and warning me by turns, endeav-
oring to outbid one another. They thought it a trick
on my part, that I was pretending to walk in order
to be able to make a better bargain ; and, though
determined that in the end I should get the worst of
it, rather admired the spirit which had prompted the
act. The flower-women were persistent, never more
so, for there were no other forestieri within a mile
of us ; little bouquets went into my pockets — the
hands that placed them there going into my face —
and, after a few moments of flattery and solicitation,
snatched them out again. All the beggars in Pompei
were walking with me ; but their cry, if it went up
to heaven, passed unheeded on earth. I missed the
man with no legs ; but doubtless he was with me in
spirit. The hubbub and dust were very annoying;
and progress was slow.
However, no one got anything, no one was noticed ;
down the road doggedly I paced, in here, out there,
caught now, caught again, but always emerging, reso-
lute and desperate. As I got farther and farther
away from Pompei, the crowd thinned. Cabs began
to drop out of the procession. I would hear a
a malediction, and then the horses' heads would be
turned homewards. Whenever this happened I would
234 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
call out good-bye, and the crowd would laugh. Men,
women and children grew tired of the tramp ; throats
got dry, crying " Molio famrie " ; one after another
dropped off" and gave it up. At last I was left
walking alone with only three cabs driving alongside.
One of the three cabbies looked at me despairingly ;
I turned to him and waved good-bye ; he left me.
Then another made his last offer, and in answer I
said good-bye to him, too. It was now Hobson's
choice.
I thought the last fellow was showing great perse-
verance ; but I was mistaken. In a few minutes he
got out of his cab, and, advancing, seized me by the
arms, begging of me to listen for "only one little
minute " — un momentino.
I listened. He was driving back to Sorrento with
an empty carriage, having driven an English party to
Naples the night before ; he knew I meant to walk,
which of course I had a right to do, if I pleased ;
but for one lira he would take me all the way. Let
me consider the matter.
One lira — to drive fifteen miles for less than a
shilling — was such a thing ever heard of ? Of all
people I most despise the man who, having started
on a walking-tour, drives ; nevertheless I got in and
said " Done ! "
We drove along that splendid highroad that runs
round the hills by the shore of the bay — through
Castellammare, and up the mountain side beyond it.
Francesco took his own time, mindful of the fact
that I was paying but one lira ; but this pleased me
IN THE LAND OP" THE MANDOLIN. 235
the better, as I wished to enjoy every inch of the
road. A little the other side of Castellammare we
were hailed by a little old gentleman with an um-
brella in hand. He pointed the umbrella at us and
we stopped. He, too, was going to Sorrento, or rather
to Meta, which is just above it on the hill — would we
take him ?
I had no objection, and the old man got in. There
was some bargaining, and Francesco agreed to take
him for half a lira, which made me feel as if I were
paying double fare. He was no acquisition. He
sat down and put up his umbrella. The poor old soul
looked as if he had been out in the wet all his days,
and had always used the same umbrella. It was put
up to keep off the sun in the present instance ; but
as it was full of holes the sun came through and
made queer dancing figures on his faded cheeks and
still more faded garments. He sat as still as a
mummy, and was the only Italian I ever met who
possessed the " divine gift of silence."
The drive along the side of the mountains, the high
hills on one side and that glorious Bay of Naples on
the other, beggars description. The water was of the
deepest, purest blue ; looking down where the hills
were reflected, it was of a rich purple color. Far off
the islands rose, misty and dreamlike, a still deeper
blue across the bay, out in the midst of which a tint
almost like turquoise prevailed. The great city
gleamed in the sunlight pearly white, far away
behind the turquoise blue. On the left rose the
mountains with their covering of olives, here and
236 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
there gleaming a patch of golden yellow where a
farmhouse, set in a lemon garden, nestled in the valley
at the turn of the road.
After some little time we passed the three rocks
known as the Three Brothers — / tre fratelli — and
reached Vico Equense, a picturesque old town, three
or four miles from Castellammare. Of course we
stopped there to rest the horse. The old man slept
in the carriage under his umbrella ; Francesco went
into an osteria to refresh himself with wine; I sat
down on the crumbling stone steps of a fountain in
the square to revel in the sights around.
It was a very dirty old square, not remarkable for
anything in particular, but quaint and interesting
like all old Italian towns. Crowds of children were
playing about, and loiterers hung around the street
corners or lolled on benches in the shadow. I was
shabbily dressed and wore a slouch hat made in
Italy to be worn in Italy ; I passed for a native, and
was left unmolested. When we got started again I
took out my brier-root to have a smoke; and the
Inglese stood revealed. The whole street ran after
me, in despair doubtless to think I had been allowed
to rest so long in peace. But it was too late ; we were
off, and they were unable to catch us.
The country, when you pass Vico Equense, is
delightful beyond everything. The road winds
around the cliffs, and you are always on the shore
of the bay, sometimes far above, sometimes lower
down. All around grow the gnarled olives with their
strange foliage, glistening silver grey in the sunlight
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN 237
and a melancholy green in the shadow. And lemon
and orange trees dot the hillsides, and cluster thick in
the vallies, with here and there fig trees and pome-
granates beyond the garden wall of a white stone
farmhouse. As the carriage rolled along, I lay back
and gave myself up to enjoyment of the scene,
pleased to find my fellow-traveller so quiet. Placid
old soul, he had but one object in life, and that to
keep the sun from his eyes.
After a while, as Francesco was walking the horse
up a hill, I got out of the carriage and followed it
on foot for a change. It was hot on the road ; but
the scene around was so enchanting that I almost
wished I had walked the whole way to make it last
the longer. It was the very ideal of a day in the
"sunny south," earth, air and sky blending in a
dream of light and beauty. A party of tourists
drove past while I was footing it up the hill, two
carriages full of them. They were sitting with their
faces buried in their guide-books, reading, no doubt,
of the magnificent view of the Bay of Naples to be
had from the road over which they were passing, and
which, when they got home, they would boast of hav-
ing seen — or possibly noting the " objects of interest "
to be visited at Sorrento which they were now ap-
proaching, in order to save time on their, arrival. All
were reading but one, and she was asleep. I scanned
them narrowly as they passed by, raising a great
dust; but they were as unconscious of my gaze as
they were of the beauties of the route.
It was four hours before Francesco reached Meta,
238 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
or Upper Sorrento, as it would be called in America.
You drive round a deep ravine, full of verdure, and
see Sorrento lying below you, deep in orange-groves,
the blue water sparkling at the foot of the pre-
cipitous cliffs on which the town is built, the
mountains with their covering of olive trees rising
behind it.
I saw but little of Sorrento, for I had but little
time to stay there. It looks like a place whither one
would wish to go to end one's days, a romantic and
beautiful old town, sunk deep in orange groves and
encircled by lovely hills. My hotel was on the cliff;
and one could look down over the white rocks and
revel in the glories of the bay, or watch the boats and
boatmen with their red caps on their heads, as they
went and came. Turning the other way, one found
oneself in a garden of oranges, where one could
smoke and dream and felt like writing romances.
I saw nothing that any guide-book would make a
note of or tourist visit ; but passed two delighful days
roaming about, climbing up and down and sauntering
in the picturesque streets and among the oranges. A
morning spent in the workshop of one of the wood-
inlayers was not the least interesting part of my visit.
These inlayers of wood are artists; the trade is
handed down from father to son, and boys are
apprenticed to it when young ; to become proficient
is a labor of years. A round table in the middle of
the room, a long one at the side, a small knife and
some polish ; that is all you see in the shop. There
they sit, the master-workman and his apprentices.
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 2.39
cutting, glueing, and polishing those ohin strips of
olive and pear and orange wood, fashioning them into
exquisite patterns and pictures with their skilful
hands. The shop is divided into two parts ; wares are
displayed for sale in front ; the work is done behind.
You can go in and inspect at your will. I do not
know how many of these shops there are in Sorrento;
I visited five, but there may be many more.
Nowhere did I hear such music from the mandolin
and guitar as in Sorrento. Five musicians came to
my hotel, which was not a fashionable one, to play
after dinner. The Neapolitans handle the mandolin
with skill ; but these men had more than taste and
skill — they had soul. Those soft Italian melodies are
suited to the sensuous beauty of southern Italy ; they
accord with the lives, or perhaps interpret the lives, of
those who sing them. The musicians charmed me ;
I shook hands all round and divided a box of cigar-
ettes among them, which so delighted them that I
was taken out and given a private recital, being the
only listener. Tears came into their eyes as they
rendered the intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana ;
and, when they finished, they broke into expressions
of the keenest admiration for the music and its
composer. Then they played again and then again ;
and all for the love of it, for I paid them nothing.
They had played in the hotel for money ; and now
they wanted to play for some one who would listen
and appreciate and were content. The next morn-
ing, as I passed down the road, I saw one of them
standing in a doorway, and he ran out to shake my
240 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
hand and say Buona passegiata — " a pleasant walk.*
When I offered him some money to drink my health he
refused it — which no Neapolitan could ever have done.
I spent the evening at an old trattoria or tavern,
among working-men who sat around, drinking red
wine and smoking after the labors of the day. We
had little to say to each other ; but one cannot fail to
be favorably impressed with the men of Sorrento. It
may seem presumptuous to judge of a place after two
days' experience of it ; and yet I am sure that these
Sorrento people are a fine race, in every way head
and shoulders above the depraved Neapolitans.
It was not then that I crossed to the island of
Capri ; and yet, as no description of the Bay of Naples
could be complete without the mention of that en-
chanting spot, I will go over in imagination by boat
from Sorrento to the Marina Grande on the shore of
the island facing Naples, and climb the road that
leads up to the little town of Capri perched on a
saddle between the high hills, stopping at a small
hotel on the way.
Adequate description of Capri is impossible; its
mysterious and fascinating beauty was renowned in
the ancient world ; and the spot will be forever asso-
ciated with the name of the dark-souled Tiberius,
whose villa, miserable ruins of which only remain, is
still the first spot toward which the traveller turns.
A mass of purple mountains with patches of olive
green here and there, and along the shore a bewilder-
ing medley of white cliflfs, rises more or less precipit-
ously nearly two thousand feet in the air from out a
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 241
green and purple sea, the sides dotted with white
villas and hotels, the old towns of Capri and Anacapri,
the one perched on the saddle of land between the
two lofty peaks of the island, the other half lost
in the shadow of Monte Solaro which with its ruined
castle of the times of Barbarossa crowns the highes-.
hill — such is Capri. Seen at sunrise or in the glory
of the sunset ; viewed through the hazy atmosphere
from a distance over the bay, when the noonday sun
is pouring on the cliffs and the hillsides, and the water
sparkles as if full of gold and jewels ; or in the twilight
when the colors are toned to softest red and purple ;
or at night from under the cliffs when all above is a
blurr of blue black with shades of silver, and when
deep shadows are on the sea — it is alike beautiful.
When once you are there and have begun to explore,
the fascination of the spot increases. Distances are
short ; and you go on climbing and climbing, following
now one path and now another, revelling at every
step in a new vista of enchanting beauty. The Punta
Tragara, the Natural Arch, the road to Anacapri, the
view from Monte Solarc the descent to the Piccola
Marina, the villa of Tiberius — all these are lovely in
themselves, how lovely one does not realize at the
time ; for every step you take on the way to any one
of them reveals a picture of rock and sea and sky
sufficient in itself to fill the artistic soul with rapture.
I shall not attempt to describe these spots; any
adequate description of them would be impossible.
But once seen, their loveliness lingers in the memory
forever,
242 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN
I went to Capri intending to remain one day ; but
the wind blew so hard that no steamer could come
over from Naples ; so I remained there. I stopped at
a delightful little hotel, which reminded me of the one
I had left at Pompei ; as, though decidedly primitive
in many respects, it was clean and comfortable. You
went up a flight of stone steps and found yourself on
a terrace which was the cellar roof ; here we break-
fasted and lunched. Behind was a large room where
we dined. A prolongation of cellar roof which ran
along one side of the house, served as a corridor and
smoking-room. In order to go from one room to an-
other you had to go out on this, as there was no hall
, inside. What sort of places these hotefs are in wet
weather I have no idea ; happily I had fine weather
during my stay, except that it blew a perfect gale.
The signord padrona, or landlady, was a woman of
stone ; for a whole hour did she and I stand facing
each other, striking a bargain, before we came to an
agreement as to how much I was to pay for board and
lodging. No one, I am well assured, ever got the
better of that woman. She had a square chin and a
mouth expressive of stern determination ; her eyes
glittered like a cat's. On her head she wore a veil of
black lace, which lent grace and dignity to her move-
ments. She had completely solved the servant ques-
tion ; with a wave of the hand or a twist of the head
she appeared able to effect anything ; and her three
domestics ran hither and thither like hunted hares,
trembling at the sound of her voice. When I left I
gave one of them two pence; and I saw the poor
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 243
creature run to her mistress and hand it over before
my back was turned.
There were eight of us there, those three days,
four English and four Germans. The Germans — two
men and two women — were uninteresting. All were
fat, and all were rather chary of the use of the hair-
brush. The Englishwomen, of whom there were also
two, were not monomanaics like Clarissa and Julia,
but were quite as entertaining in their way. One
was comparatively young and very handsome. She
was an artist, and sketched and painted away all day
untiringly. Her manner w^as overwhelming ; she
reminded me of the River St. Lawrence during the
spring floods I named her Miss Freshet. The other
was an old maid pure and simple, a kind and talkative
body, with just a touch of spitefulness in her voice
when she uttered the word " men," whom the good old
thing hated on principle. Miss Freshet and Miss
Hateman, Mr. Starcher and myself, made a lively
quartette ; and the fact that Miss Freshet and Mr.
Starcher were not on speaking terms rather lent
piquancy to the conversation, seeing that, though not
talking to, they talked at each other without ceasing.
I tramped so much during the day, and climbed so
many steep hills that I felt impelled to spend my
evenings at home. The first night I remarked at
dinner that it was blowing so hard it would be im-
possible for the steamer to come to the island in the
morning ; and that consequently I should have to pro-
long my stay.
"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," said
16
244 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
Miss Freshet heartily. " Although I am neither
righteous nor a man, my fervent prayers have always
availed much. I shall pray to-night that it may
blow, blow, blow — a gale, a hurricane."
" I hope your prayers will not be availing, this
once," I answered ; " for I cannot afford to stay here
any time."
" Everyone for himself," said Miss Freshet ; " I
shall pray for a raging wind. Anything to keep
you with us ! "
It seemed to me that I had made a conquest, and
I felt not unnaturally elated. Alas! After dinner,
while I was walking up and down the terrace with
Mr. Starcher, smoking, I learned that he, too, had had
his day. But a deadly feud had followed, and she
was playing me off against him ; every word of en-
couragement to me was only another stab to wound
him. I was but a catspaw. It was a sudden down- -
fall. I composed my mind, leaning on the stone
parapet and looking down at the black water and
the white surf dashing up against the rugged cliffs.
The blue sky was dotted with innumerable stars, and
the lights of St. Elmo glimmered fitfully on the far
horizon. " One woman the more in the world," I
said ; " and she is like the rest."
Mr, Starcher was a type of Englishman now getting
rare — the old type. Manner, clothes, voice and method
of speaking proclaimed that in him there was no
compromise with ideas or customs not having their
origin between the Tweed and the English Channel.
His ch' was large and cut square, his voice thick ; he -
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 245
wore a very high collar and checked trousers. He
expressed himself in long ponderous sentences, veiling
the most ordinary thoughts in such paragraphs of
verbosity as sometimes to be almost unintelligible. I
asked him if he were related to Mr. Gladstone. As it
happened, he regarded that venerable statesman as his
country's greatest enemy, — and a coolness arose be-
tween us.
He refused to go to bed; so I took a book and
candle and retired to the dining-room, where there
was a sofa. This was a mistake. In a few minutes
the door opened, and the most awful old hag hobbled
in. She had a dirty handkerchief on her head, and
was suffering from a cold in the same region — but I
shall not give particulars. Shuffling over to the table,
she took up Miss B'reshet's bo I tie of wine, uncorked
it and put it to her lips.
I called out in dismay, telling the old horror that
this was forbidden. She smacked her lips and
laughed, wished me good evening, and paid me com-
pliments after the manner of her race Then she
went on to the next bottle.
She took them each in turn. When mine was
seized I made a feeble effort to save it ; but it was of
no use. She appeared to think she was paying us a
compliment to drink of our wine in this fashion, and
gratified me by tasting mine twice, wishing me good
health. Her own, she said, was not good (she told me
what was the matter with her), but she hoped I would
enjoy long life and find a beautiful wife. Then the
Germans had their wine tasted, and the old wretch
246 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
hobbled out again. In Italy never go into the
kitchen on any pretext whatever, and never sit in a
dining-room after a meal is over.
I did the island as well as it can be done without
the aid of a guide or a book. You soon learn all the
paths — for the roads are nothing more, except the
great highroad up to Anacapri — and get the whole
island into your mind's eye. A ramble through the
old town of Capri, past the Hotel Pagano down to the
Hotel Quisisana, brings you to the path that leads to
the Punta Tragara. This is a beautiful spot, command-
ing a fine view of the bay and the magnificent rocks.
Beyond it is a very steep hill, at the top of which the
view is, if anything, finer. Here you sit and rest. It
is a bleak spot, and one can lie on the spare grass in
the sun and look round and see nothing behind but
barren hillside. Far below lies the blue water beyond
the rugged hills and cliffs. The pathway to the
natural arch — ArcoNaturale — is not so beautiful, lying
in the hollows of hills and across fields. I climbed
several walls to get to it ; but with guide or guide-
book, I have no doubt it can be reached more easily.
This curiosity in stone is worth going far to see — so
wild and weird are the surioundings, so steep the
descent below, so striking the view of the water from
the different points where one rests in going down.
Then there is the villa of Tiberius to which you
climb through vineyards and fields, set up on the
summit of the south-east promontory of the island.
The ruins themselves are uninteresting, simply piles
of broken bricks like those of the Palatine Hill in
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 247
Rome ; but here no lecturer confronts one, nor can the
most painstaking archaeologist make anytl>ing of
these heaps of rubbish. At the top is a little church
with an old monk in charge, who brings out a book
and asks you to write your name in it— also to pay a
few pence for the privilege. At first I declined, but
he was so kind, bringing me a chair and giving me
stones to throw into the water, that at last I relented,
wrote and paid.
A wall runs round the cliff at the top by the
church; and when you look over you think the
water is not far below. It is of a lovely purple
green color, clear as crystal; and you can see
little white pebbles lying at the bottom, gleaming
like pearls. It is over a thousand feet beneath you.
A stone dropped over takes so long in falling that
you realize how far above it you are. Nowhere is
the water so lovely as here ; the purple and sea-green
tints are absolutely indescribable. Under the water
lie the pebbles and corals ; and you fancy the bottom
lined with emerald and opal and sea green and pink
shells and filigree work of golden-brown.
A ramble over the island is fatiguing ; and I found
that everyone, like myself, spent the evening at home.
After dinner, shunning the dining-room, I allowed
myself to be lured into a game of cards. Miss
Freshet, Miss Hateman and Mr. Starcher sat waiting
in the primitive little salon ; and I joined them. Two
fat Germans also played. They spoke no English
and Miss Hateman no French; so Miss Freshet re-
peated each question in French as it was asked. It
248 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
was a game of the cross question and crooked answer
class, which I would recommend on any occasion
when it is considered desirable to set people by the
ears or raise awkward situations. The pack was
dealt; one person asked a question, putting down
his card ; and the holder of the next in sequence gave
it up, saying "I," and asking another question in
turn. It fell to me to begin, and I played an ace,
enquiring, " Who will be married first ? "
As I had hoped. Miss Hateman held the king; and
she flung it down with a cry of, " goodness, I hope
not ! " — plucking up courage, however, to ask in return
" Who will marry me ? "
As good luck would have it, I held the next card,
and bade her look upon me as her future lord and
master; whereupon Miss Freshet exclaimed, "0 for-
tunate woman ! " But this happy beginning was no
forecast of the end. It wound up in a storm. The
Germans asked insipid enough questions, such as
'* Who is good of heart ? " and the like ; but Miss
Freshet and Miss Hateman were pointed and per-
sonal, and I kept them in countenance as well as I
could, racking my brain for something startling. The
signoro. stood behind the group, regarding us all with
a face of stony indifference, wondering, doubtless,
how long the thing would go on before we went off
to bed and allowed her to save another penny's worth
of candle. At last Mr. Starcher became indignant
and Miss Freshet cutting ; words were exchanged ;
and Miss Hateman, who sided with Miss Freshet on
principle against one of the hated species, added fuel
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 249
to the flame by well-timed casual remarks. The
unkempt German with the fat wife pushed his
chair back and looked on in silence, not under-
standing a word. The cards fell unheeded on the
floor ; faces wore an expression full of wrath.
I withdrew a little and took up a book which lay
on the table. It proved to be an Italian Testament,
one published by the S. P. G , the only one I came
across in Italy. The dispute became more and
more acrimonious, the manner of the disputants
becoming more severely formal as their remarks
became more biting. I felt it incumbent on me to
do something, but could think of nothing. The
Homily on Backbiting with which, according to
Macaulay, Queen Mary II. used to regale hf»r court
on similar occasions, would have been in order ; but
it was not by. I turned over the leaves of the
Italian Testament, and, having found St. Paul's ex-
hortation to brotherly love, read aloud a few verses.
N o one understood but the signora ; and she crossed
herself at hearinfj the heretical volume. How it
came to be there I do not know. I fancy the good
woman had some sort of superstitious notion that
the presence in the house of this Anglican production
would in some mysterious way exert an influence on
members of that schismatical persuasion, and draw
them into her toils.
The altercation continued for some minutes more ;
and then Mr Starcher, rising in a dignified manner,
withdrew. The two ladies hurled the last word at
him as he disappeared ; and then the signora, opening
250 IN THE LAND OF THE ISANDOLIN.
her mouth, said huona sera — good-night — to the
remnant of her guests, a polite intimation that it
was time for us, also, to retire to our rooms.
I finished my visit in Capri by going to a funeral.
Happening to be in the little parish church in the
morning, I noticed several old men come in, carrying
a bier. They sat down on benches, and then the
sacristan appeared, bringing some bundles of what
looked to be old sheets with holes in them. These,
when unrolled, turned out to be the peculiar gar-
ments worn by the members of the Misericordia —
that is men who go to funerals as mourners, carry-
ing biers and attending generally to the decent
interment of the dead. Such brotherhoods exist
everywhere in Italy, in every parish ; and those who
enroll themselves hold themselves always in readi-
ness for these solemn duties, despite any other
engagement. The bundles having been unrolled,
the old men commenced to dress up in them. Very
grim they looked. The hood sticks up in a point
at the top, there are two narrow slits for the eyes
and another for the mouth. The body has holes
for the arms and a covering for the sleeve, lest any
of the underclothes should be seen. A white cord,
fastened behind, is tied around the waist. When
these garments were all on and these ghastly figures
were moving around, the dim old church with its
bare grey walls and flickering tapers presented quite
a picture ; it suggested Hallowe'en and Hobgoblins.
They ran about hither and thither, chattering the
while, until everyone was ready; and then, taking
. IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 251
the bier with them, started down the road. Bro-
thers of the Misericordia usually wear black garments
of the cut above described ; but this was the funeral
of a child. The dead are always borne on biers in
the south I saw a funeral in the country near
Naples when the corpse was being carried along the
country road It had a bright red pall ; and I may
have been mistaken, but to my eyes the cheeks of the
young girl whose body lay on the bier had been
painted an almost equally brilliant hue. On this
occasion in Capri there was an ordinary coffin. What
left the deepest impress on my mind was the smell of
the church ; for, having seen the beginning, I desired
to see the end, and was obliged to wait long. The
grease, garlic and incense of centuries had combined
to make that smell ; and long after I left the place
behind me I could detect it on my clothes, and was
obliged to sit down on the cliffs and let the sea breezes
blow through and through me before I got rid of it
for good.
Vedi Napoli e poi inuori — after a ie\Y weeks of
Naples and the Bay, I began to say it too. I was not
ready to die having lived to see Naples ; only willing
to admit that, taking it all in all, I desired to see
nothing more lovely. To go away for a few days and
then to go back again and go over the same ground
once more, to wander aimlessly about until you become
familiar with the character of the city, to prowl
around at night, looking in everywhere, loitering at
252 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
street corners and talking to beggars — this is the
way to see Naples, or indeed any place.
The best bird's-eye view of the city is perhaps that
obtained from the old monastery of San Martino just
below the castle of St. Elmo on the heights of the
Vomero. The monastery, which was formerly as
much of a palace as a monastery, and which is now
quite deserted and kept up as a museum, is the most
interesting building in Naples and also the cleanest.
The church is a superb specimen of its kind ; the
interior resembles somewhat that of the Certosa of
Pavia. There is the same splendor of white and
colored marble, combined with the same lightness
and elegance. The C^ertosa is far-famed and (let me
be pardoned for saying so) rather over-rated ; the
church of San Martino little known and little sought.
Yet T confess that it struck me as the more beautiful
of the two - if one can compare anything so small
with anything so vast. The effect is finer. I was
unprepared tor it ; and wandered up and down for
over an hour, admiring it in the mass, stopping now
and again to scan the paintings on the ceiling or
finger the ^a/^is lazuli set in the white marble of the
many altars. ..
At the left of the high altar is the sacristy, and
beyond the sacristy is the tesoro or treasury The
walls of these rooms are lined with wooden cabinets,
exquisitely carved. As you enter the door of the
treasury, you see facing you one of the most striking
pictures in the world, the greatest of the great paint-
ings of Spagnoletto. All the morbid love of death
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 253
aiul Hufferin^, all the Hoiiibre gloom that we associate
with the Spanish character, seems to have been inten-
sified in Ribera; but in this picture there is more
than gloom or death — there is life. It is a triumph.
The subject is the descent from the cross ; and it is so
painted that, as you glance at it, your heart beats
with sympathy for the being who has just given up
his life. It is death — death after j ain — and the pain
still seems to linger in the lifeless form, though
the drooping head tells you that all is over. I looked
at it long ; and then went out into the sacristy, going
back to look again. Then, after a walk round the
church, I paid it a third visit. The effect, when catch-
ing sight of it, was always the same, a start at the
realism of those dead limbs and that dead look of
pain.
As I remarked above, it is the lightness and airiness
of this church combined with its splendors of marble
and precious stones, that fascinate the visitor. The
court is full of curios, the bare enumeration of which
would fill pages. The cloisters are beautiful and full
of individuality, the halls spacious, suggestive of the
old days of ecclesiastical dominion and power, when
the church was wealthy and the religious orders lived
in affluence and grandeur. But it is to the Belvedere
that the foot of the tourist hurries at "^an Martino ;
for there, spread out at your feet looking from the
window, is the whole grand panorama, Naples and the
Bay, Posilipo, Pizzofal one, Santa Lucia, the ports, the
castles, the corso, with far beyond the blue islands sleep-
ing in the dreamy noon ; and at the left the broadside
254 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
of the mountain with its column of smoke rising far
into the heavens.
It is truly a very grand view ; but after all, a view
from a window is the least satisfying of views. To
see anything aright, one should be able to see it all
around, turning the head as far as possible and receiv-
ing no shock. To glance from Capri, lying dim and
mysterious in the blue distance across the sunny
waves, to the wooden ledge of a window, is not so
pleasing as to skim it in a fleeting vision of land and
sea, when jutting promontories with green foliage and
old palace walls half hide the bay, and old-time tene-
ment houses with colored rags hanging out of the
windows come into the range of sight as the head
turns quickly. One might almost as well look at a
picture as look out of a window ; and it is to dispense
with the picture that one travels. A walk along the
Corso Vittorii) Evimanuele or the Vomer o or on the
long winding road to Posilipo, is, more than any buona
vista seen from San Martino can possibly be, a revela-
tion of the city to the inner sense. Yet to the end I
maintained that the road along the shore in front of
the Villa Nazionale, up towards Posilipo and down
past Santa Lucia and the ports, was the first and last
place to see Naples — where the city lies on the one
side and the bay on the other, where Pizzofalcone
with its crumbling houses shuts out the heights of
Capo di Monte, and the quaint old Castell del Ovo
rises in a mass of golden brown out of the blue water
on the right. Walk along there to view Naples from
without, being yet within ; and then, turning up to
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 255
the busy Piazza dei Martiri, follow the crowded Strada
di Chiaja to the Piazza di San Ferdinando where the
Via Roma begins, and you see Naples again, inside.
They .say Italy is poor and Naples miserably poor ;
and this is true. Nevertheless they have built the
Galleria Umberto since 1870, at a cost of over twenty
nnllions of francs. One stands in the Piazza di San
Ferdinando and looks at it, wondering why they did
it Of all places surely Naples least needs these
tremendous covered arcades full of shops and cafeB,
the walls and the floor all white with marble, the
roof stately domes, rich with statuary. I suppose it
was to symbolize the new era, that of government of
Italy by the popular will, that this folly arose. It is
magnificent in its way, and cpiite dwarfs the old
palace below and the grand old opera house of San
Carlo that faces it, a little down. But they have got
it — a mass of white marble and glittering glass, with
a spacious music hall underground wherein the enter-
tainment was a reflex of the spirit that reigned
overhead — and much good may it do them ! Elec-
tric dances, a glare of colored light in quick succeed-
ing flashes, women kicking with blue feet one moment
and pink the next, lost in darkness then illumined
like fireflies, covered with clouds and then bursting
into colored flames — this was the attraction of the
Salone Margherita during the time of my visit to
Naples; and a fitting one. In one sense it was a
triumph of modern enterprise ; but viewed as a
spectacle, nothing could be more lamentable. It
was a display of petty fireworks on the bodies of
256 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
dancing women. The women themselves were in-
visible, except that you knew when a small rocket
went up a female foot went with it ; they might as
well have been machines. All beauty of nature or
art was alike lost ; if there was any, it was unseen.
But the spirit that lavished twenty millions on the
galleria sat under the floor of it and gazed in rapture
on an electric tarantella — a nightmare — Bella Napoli,
invisible in the hell-glare of modern invention, danc-
ing like one of the fiery devils in FaUvSt, to the old
tunes of the sunny south.
Dow^n below San Ferdinando is the great Piazza
del Plebiscito, with the fa9ade of the splendid
Palazzo Reale running along one side. Here the
mob congregates on grand occasions. I was in
Naples when the news came of the terrible disaster
in Abyssinia ; and in spite of foreign newspapers,
I will go so far as to say that at no time, ancient or
modern, did a nation ever conduct itself better under
such circumstances than the Italians at this trying
period. Englishmen and Americans v/ould have " de-
monstrated " without tears, but not without more
damage to life and property. As for Paris — well the
Piazza del Plebiscito the next morning, was very un-
like what the Place de la Concorde would have been
had the calamity befallen a French army. Crowds
stood around silent, or speaking in whispers — many
silently crying, some stolid and stupefied — but not an
angry voice was to be heard, much less a demagogue
haranguing the multitude. And the police were invis-
ible. 1 could not help at last realizing that even the
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 2b*J
Neapolitans belong to the great Italian race, so well did
they bear the blow. At the first shock there were
signs of tumult and trouble, which were greatly
magnified, let me add, by the foreign press. But all
soon calmed down, though the blow to the national
pride was hard to bear, the harder from the unpopu-
larity of the war. I saw men sitting down to their
coifee and unable to drink it, men taking up their
newspapers and unable to read, tears flowing from
the poor creatures' eyes. They are a warm-hearted
and poetic people, a race of manly men and womanly
women, in intelligence far above the nations of the
north ; but give free play to their feelings when we
would bear all and show nothing, and, in moments of
passion, free rein to their tongues when quiet reser-
vation would seem the better way. Poor souls — one's
heart went out to them ; and, like the cold-blooded
northerner that I was, 1 felt tliat if no one else did
it, I myself would take a stiletto and give old Crispi
his Gitup de grace.
They were very quiet, the people. I saw them
standing in front of the Pdl 'zzo Rade after the king
came down, waiting for any n ws that might pass
around, and yet conscious that no news of any im-
portance could come. When the first regiment bound
for Africa came on to sail from Na[iles, the king
stood in the square and addressed the troops, bid-
ding them good-bye. There was no shouting, no
enthusiasm, nor yet any disorder; a heavy weight
seemed to be hanging over the king and people,
no one knowing how it would all end. But
258 IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN.
I thought the people conducted themselves right
nobly, remaining so quiet ; would an English crowd,
I asked myself, not have broken out into denuncia-
tions of the minister who had been to blame ? Yet
not a word was heard. As for il re Umberto, what
his thoughts and feelings were who knows ? At the
best of times he looks like a man who has been
straining his eyes all his life to see something, and
failed — though the eyes have still, from long habit,
their fixed, searching expression. Doubtless he was
in touch with Crispi's ambitious policy and full of
Crispi's projects, thinking more of alliances with
Kaisers and colonial extension in Africa than of
lightening the heavy burdens of his overtaxed sub-
jects. Yet he is not unpopular ; his father's son
could hardly be ; when you have said Vittorio Em-
manuele to an Italian, you have said the last word —
there is no higher name in heaven or on earth. And
to them the House of Savoy is still Vittorio Emman-
uele; though they would doubtless like it better if
their rulers would let Africa and the Germ.ms alone.
Poor king — whatever his thoughts, the disaster must
have come as a greater blow to him than to any of his
subjects.
The transports all sailed from Naples: and sol-
diers were arriving and sailing for Africa every
day. They usually had a few hours, sometimes a day
or two, to spend in the city before embarking ; and
would employ their time seeing the town. I used to
follow them round like a street boy, watching their
eager faces as they cast their eyes on the magnificent
IN THE LAND OF THE MANDOLIN. 259
panorama of the city and the bay, breaking forth
into questions or cries of admiration. Poor fellows ;
to many it was their first sight of Naples, to all their
last view of Italy. They were going away to the
hot suns of Africa to endure untold privation, per-
haps to be shot down in this stupid warfare for
possession of a country about which no one in Italy
cared a jot — going at least to endure toil and pri-
vation in a conflict wherein their country could gain
no more glory, and whose highest hope was that she
should reap no more shame. Fine manly fellows
they were, one and all, these Italian soldiers ; and, as
I looked at them and thought of the errand on which
they were bent and of the men whose folly was send-
ing them thither, I felt the pity of it—" the pity of
it ! " Each day brought its soldiers, each day saw its
soldiers depart ; the streets were filled with sorrowful
men and women, and the faces of even the frivolous
Neapolitans looked for once like other men's. And,
in those sweet spring evenings, Addio mia bella
Napoli was sung at last with reason ; and the eternal
tears that accompany the rendering of this song
flowed again with real force and fervor, as the news
went round that another convoy, with its burden of
the sons of Italy, was steaming out of the beautiful
bay, carrying them to the land of death and disaster
in the far-off south.
17
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
I.
" Better be out of the world than out of the
fashion."
This is the principle on which many people live
their lives As you approach the western Riviera
your thoughts turn to the " great world." You see it
there. The incomparable natural beauty of that long
strip of land lying between the mountains and the
sea, has made it the holiday resort of " Society spelt
with a big S." Mountains covered with the olive
standing out against the bluest of skies, vallies bright
w4th lemon groves and the richer golden hues of the
orange, villas and towns and cities, all dazzling white,
that sparkle in the sunlight, dotting the hillsides or
nestling under shadow of the mountain by the shore
of the blue tideless sea — such is Fashion's play-
ground.
All the inhabitants of tlie Riviera are not fashion-
able—here, as elsewhere, " the many still must labor
for the one." The peasant on the hillside gathers his
olives day by day, picks his ripe lemons, toils in his
garden or his olive-mill, endures and is patient ; the
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 261
" man of affairs " slaves at his desk through the long
hours of the bright afternoon, and finds no time for a
siesta, business being as " brisk " at Monte Carlo as
in New York ; the chambermaid rushes about with
broom and dust-pan, scolded and rated if she snatches
a moment to look at a pass? -^g potentate ; hotel-
keepers, porters, cabbies and railway- men live in a
perpetual hurry-scurry — the busiest people in the
world are to be found in the land of rest and play.
But there society recuperates. Queens and em-
perors, premiers and chancellors, come and go, year
after year, snatching in a few weeks of " happy-do-
nothing" a respite from the care of governing (or
misgoverning) the world. Dukes and duchesses,
earls and countesses, people who know everybody on
earth worth knowing, come and sit down beside the
newly- made millionaire who knows nobody, and
whose highest aim in life it is to sit just so. Both
are happy, each having need of the other — for no-
where is money of so much accoui o as in this smil-
ing land. Here the student of human nature has
but to open his eyes ; all sorts and conditions of
men, the good, the bad, the indifferent, the very best
and the very worst of every nation, are close at
hand. Here the novelist finds a happy hunting-
ground ; a different type of villain turns up at every
corner, the incidents of the morning at the hotel may
be expanded into half a volume. For these people
it is, indeed, a land full of promise.
But to the " man with a mission," the moralist, the
teacher or preacher who strives to live up to his text,
262 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
to the philosopher whose life is a long study of the
deeper problems of humanity, this lovely land is an
uncongenial clime. Nowhere, indeed, is there more
wickedness, nowhere so many people needing to be
reformed ; but nowhere, on the other hand, is it so
hopeless to make the effort. In a savage country
where murder is regarded as a fine art and social
eminence depends on the number of scalps worn, the
best of us would feel a life-preservation society to be
out of place ; in a land where both church and state,
governors and governed, subsist on the proceeds of
the gaming-table, it were idle work to teach the in-
fant mind the folly of tossing half-pence. Though
the permanent residents of Monaco are not allowed
admittance to the casino, yet it is because of the
casino the town exists ; and all that is said and done
therein has a closer or more remote connection with
the gaming-table. Picking of pockets is in the air ;
you cannot escape from it.
Such is Monaco — no place for the moralist or the
philosopher, the preacher of new or old doctrine, the
inculcator of ancient or modern precept — a barren
field for men of thought. But society stops little to
think anywhere — at Monte Carlo it forgets even its
own prejudices. The beggar rubs shoulders with the
man of millions, the robber hob-nobs with the robbed,
the beauty of the Imperial court and the beauty of
the tap-room exchange remarks. And why not ?
On the morrow they may all change places. This
is one of the great attractions of society's playground,
the chance it offers you to lose whatsoever you are
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 263
lawfully possessed of, or to win whatsoever another
possesses, the possession of which you covet.
" But," says somebody or other, " Monaco is not
the Riviera, the principality is a very small part
thereof/' True, O friend, Monaco is not the Riviera.
The Riviera extends all the w^ay around the Gulf of
Genoa. East of Genoa it is called the Riviera di
Levante or Eastern Riviera ; west of Genoa it is
called the Riviera di Ponente or Western Riviera.
But of the Western Riviera, that portion which con-
tains the villas and hotels and is consecrated to the
invalid and the man of fashion, is a small part. And
this part is more or less pervaded by the spirit of
Monaco. The old American gentleman who took me
aside to ask if I thought five hundred pounds would
keep him going at Monte Carlo for three weeks, was
living with his friends at Mentone ; and at the hotel
in San Remo people went " over to the tables " twice
a week if the first visit was profitable, but only the
once if luck was against them the first time. Nice
and Beaulieu are but a few miles distant ; and from
any one of the fashionable resorts you can reach
Monte Carlo by train in less than an hour.
This dissertation upon people of fashion need not
imply that I am one — still less that I went to Nice
to view the carnival in such character. Far from it ;
I went to Nice disguised as a beggar, carrying my
brushes and a few pieces of linen in a bundle, travel-
ling on foot. This mode of travelling has its advan-
tages and disadvantages : they are glad to see you at
the hotels, because you may be a prince incog:, but
264 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
they give you very poor accommodation, because
anything is fit for a beggar ; and finally, they
charge you just the same, whether you pose as a
prince or a pf.uper. Tlie city was crowded, and I
sought refuge in a small hotel in the Avenue
Durante, opposite the railway station. The hotel
was full ; nevertheless there was a small room to be
had in a sort of outhouse across the garden, in which
I could be lodged like a prince — so they told me. I
was led through the garden, a small place full of
stunted orange trees with bright but sour oranges
hanging on the branches, and a small door gave
access to a low room in which there was a bed. The
dampness and the smell of this chamber were rather
distressing ; still, as there was a fireplace, I took it.
I ordered them to bring as much wood as they could
lay their hands on, and soon had a roaring blaze.
Under the influence of the fire the room became
habitable; and I was dble to contemplate sleeping
there.
But it was not a desirable place to stop. The
common idea that a second-class hotel is preferable
for economical reasons is a mistake. They take
advantage of one's being a foreigner to ask first-class
prices ; and if you beat them down in one thing they
make it up in another. When in a large city it is econ-
omy always to go to a large hotel ; the proprietor has
many guests, and will not think it worth his while
to impose upon one individual — unless he sees you
are a fool ; and if you are foolish enough to allow it,
you will be robbed anywhere and everywhere. If
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 265
you wish to economize, go into the country and lodge
at a village inn ; there you will live cheaply and be
happy.
I dined with a number of fat and greasy provincial
people in a small and overcrowded room that smelt
of garlic. All were in holiday attire, and all chatter-
ing and joking in the vulgar fashion of the lower
middle class when out for amusement. The food was
ill-cooked, the attendance bad ; but to all remon-
strances the same answer was returned, " What would
you have ? — it is the Carnival ! "
My bed was uncomfortable, and the place I slept in a
sort of lumber-room which did duty as a bed-chamber
at a pinch. When the fire went ouf;, it became very
cold, and I was glad enough when morning broke.
A bath was not to be had for love or money ; I was
told that the other guests did not want one — why
should I ? I breakfasted in the garden among the
oranges ; a bright sun was shining out of a cloudless
sky, and life seemed, under its influence, to be better
worth the living. As soon as breakfast was over, I
started to look for a new hotel.
They seemed to be all full. I wandered up and
down the Promenade des Anglais from or>rl to end,
round the Place Massena and along the Boulevards ;
but found no vacant rooms. At last, out of sheer
bravado, I went to the Grand.
I was doubtful whether they would let me into this
magnificent caravansarai of six hundred palatial rooms,
and walked up to the door with latent misgivings.
My clothes, having seen some years' service in the
^66 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
offices of the Canadian Government, had experienced
much wear and tear in riding on males over the
mountains, and bore also many stains, mementos of
travel in coasting steamers. In short I not only was
a tramp, but I looked a tramp. However it is now
the fashion for the wealthy to disguise themselves in
rags and go prowling around the country like beggars
— the richer you are the more ragged you are privi-
leged to be. No one but a prince or a millionaire
would have dared to present himself at those portals
in such a garb — so I think they must have reasoned ;
for everyone bowed low, from the elegant and per-
fumed gentleman who opened the door to the boy
who brought in the bath ; and in a few minutes of
my arrival, I was installed in a sumptuous apartment
with many servants at my beck and call. And what
was much more to the point, the prices were exactly
the same as at the miserable place I had left. Secure
of a comfortable lodging at last, I gave myself up to
the follies of the hour.
The Battle of Flowers is a sight one might see
anywhere — if one could get the flowers. In the
north it would be possible to have one only in sum-
mer, and not in the month of February; but any-
where in the world, where the flowers are blooming
and the weather is warm, this stage of the carnival
might be reproduced with as perfect success as in the
sunny south. The long line of carriages covered with
flowers, some decked out with exquisite taste and
fancy, some lumbering along with a few unsightly
bouquets stuck here, there and everywhere without
A nEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 267
regard to effect, passes up and down among the dense
throngs that fill the Promenade des Anglais, the
people in carriages pelting the people on foot, the
people on foot pelting the people in the carriages
with sweet-scented blossoms. All the carriages carry
baskets full of flowers ; and when the battle com-
mences a perfect shower of them comes rattling
about one's ears. A carriage draws up full of laugh-
ing girls, and you are pelted with a will, the sweet
buds striking you in the face, half a dozen at a time.
You stoop to pick them up, and, rushing forward,
fling them back again, while somebody else attacks
you behind. Sometimes you see a lovely sight, as
where a youn^^r woman drives along in a pony-carriage,
woman, pony and carriage almost smothered in yel-
low mimosa, the girl, half-hidden by the golden
sprays, throwing out a flower this side and another
that with a graceful curve of one arm, while with
the other she holds the reins and guides her pony
through the surging crowd. The crowd rushes after
her, gazing admiringly, every man anxious to be the
aim of so lovely a combatant. Then up comes a big
band-waggon, possibly built to figure in the fray, a
mass of green foliage full of laughing girls, gay with
bright carnations and sweet roses, flinging their
flowers at each upturned face as they go. And
now comes a woman, driven along in state, with an
eager, expectant look on her face, poising her arm
gracefully and searching the crowd with her eyes to
find the friend (or enemy) whom she has come out on
purpose to strike. Then we see a waggonette full of
2G8 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
boys ; tliey have come out to fi^ht an<l are fit^liting —
happy is it for the onlookers that flowers do not Imrt,
for this family party is well provided with baskets
full of blossoms, and the boys are missing no oppor-
tunity " to give him one in the eye." The fashionable
gentleman with the eyeglass, driving a tandem, who
throws a forget-me-not in the faces of the handsome
women whom he recognizes, stands rather in awe of
these boys, whence it presently becomes their chief
object in life to displace the eyeglass through which
he surveys them with an air of aristocratic languor
and disapproval. And so it goes on.
After a while the flowers become more and more
bruised and broken, sweet stalks flung back and forth,
picked up on the ground and flung again, are getting
dust}'' and limp, their perfume almost gone. And
when the afternoon is over, and those in the carriages
and pedestrians have taken themselves alike away to
dinner, the Promenade des Anglais looks melancholy
enough. The booths are deserted, the railings broken ;
and thousands of crushed and faded flowers lie on the
ground trampled almost to pieces, their life of beauty
over, their sweetness vanished, their glory wasted in
an afternoon of play. One feels, as one wanders over
the scene lately so animated, that after all battles
should be fought with anything but flowers.
But if this Battle of Flowers could be fought any-
where where there was a will to have it during the
summer season, the glories of Mardi-gras or the con-
fetti day belong to the south alone. Little balls of
confetti could, indeed, be manufactured in any land ;
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 269
and whole cities in .sullen-.skied Kn^land and sad-faccMl
America could dresH theinHelve.s up in bright cottons
and wear masks ; but the air of joyousness and free-
dom, the hilarity and self-abandoinncnt to the fancies
of the hour, is possible only in the sunny south.
Nice on " confetti day " is a giddy spot. It is not
the procession, though that is giddy enough; it is the
people who are looking on. Contrast the scene with
a winter carnival in an American or Canadian city —
the silent, waiting crowd, sober men, sober women,
sober cliildren all in their "Sunday best" huddled
up together, hugging their overcoats and employing
the weary time of waiting by talking about the
weather and the revival of trade, sad and sour faces
peering out from under hat and bonnet, women fear-
ing they are going to damage their new clothes, men
muttering that " it takes a deuce of a time to come ''
— and then think of that giddy populace, clad in every
color of the rainbow, giving itself up to wild merri-
ment, everyone in an ecstasy of joy. What chatter,
what laughter, what movement — the very air is
sparkling with the glow of their irrepressible spirits.
Comes along a band, and the whole street instinctively
begins to sing and dance. The band goes on — there
are a hundred couples waltzing down behind it ; and
the people on the pavement beside you are humming
the tune and keeping time with their feet. The pro-
cession is not yet coming, but it is all carnival just the
same ; and when it does come, it is a question which
is spectator and which performer. While you are
waiting for it you find your mask irritating and take
270 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
it off for a inomont ; a couple of protty f^irl.s in pink
(loiniiio.-t creep up to you Hoftly and wluHpcjr, " Bon
jour, MoiiHieur ! " Who are they ? You turn to see,
and the confetti is flung into your eyes ; they are
running away with Hcreanm of hiugliter. You turn
aside to rub it off your face and to replace the mask ;
a roguish -looking fellow is watching you and makes
a sign to attract your attention. But you are not to
be caught thus; you rephice the mask. Hark, there
is the band again, hundreds of feet are keeping time ;
in a moment the pavement is covered with dancers.
The crowd standing at the corner breaks up, a shower
of confetti falls, some run this way some that, others
pursuing ; the confetti is returned with spirit. I'hose
English or American tourists who have come out
" just to see it, you know," disdaining mask and
domino and wearing their ordinary gaib, are rusliing
pell-mell into the side streets, a delightful sight to the
native who amuses himself pelting with confetti the
silk hat that has fallen into the gutter. The owner
comes back gingerly with a handkerchief over liis
eyes to rescue the missing article ; he becomes a target,
and, seizing it, flies in despair, he and his hat as white
as a miller. And on plays the band and on go the
dancers — such vim, such spirit as they put into it — the
whole scjuare is alive, brilliant colors moving to the
sound of musiC; showers of confetti, peals of laughter,
— King Carnival reigns.
And then the procession begins. It takes a long
time to pass, and you wonder wliether there are as
many of the inhabitants out of it as there are in it.
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 271
Tliorc arc barulH, carriages, C(3Mvoyances aft(3r tho .style
of Noah's ark, coinj)anieH of horseinen and foot, men,
women, children, animals and monsters of all con-
ceivable kinds, all enjoying it in a hearty sort of a
way that makes one's k'>u1 glad. Everybody pelts
everybody else with confetti, and the world .seems
altogether to have g(me crazy. Shrieks of laughter
fill the air wlien any particular group of characters
tickles the fancy of the multitude. Often these can
not be ap})reciated by the foreigner ; for southern
humor is peculiar, and freipiently the cause for merri-
ment escapes observation. The " new woman," how-
ever, was api)reciated by all who saw her ; she was
thirty feet high, arraycjd in bloomers of the latest
Parisian cut, and carried her husband up her sleeve.
But she was not so ridiculous i >r .so awful as the
reality, .seen in the Bois de Boulogne — nothing could
be. In fact the new woman has one advantage over
other innovators ; she is safe from caricature. All
distortions of her must necessarily tend toward the
normal.
The hilarity was contagious; and had it not been
that I began to feel the pangs of hunger, I should
never have known how much time liad elap.sed when
the last show was pa.ssing out of sight, the other side
of the Place Mas.sena. The people, not yet thinking of
food and drink, hud taken to dancing again ; and tho
buzz of voices almost drowned the band. It was
delightful wandering in and out am(mg the crowd
— there were so many out, and so few not dressed up
in ma.sk and domino that the brilliancy of the scene
272 A LEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
was really dazzling. Here and there were groups of
tourists in ordinary clothes, huddled together like
frightened sheep, holding handkerchiefs before their
faces for fear of getting the confetti in their eyes-
But these were comparatively few ; it was all one
blaze of color like a kaleidoscope, ever changing and
forii ing new combinations ; and the bright sunshine
fell on the red and white and blue, and made a pic-
ture which no painter could hope to rival.
I could not dine at the Grand Hotel, having no
clothes. The prince and the millionaire discard their
rags at eventide, and descend to dinner in the garb
of civilization. As 1 had nothing but my rags, 1 was
forced to leave the hotel and dine without. As I
slunk like a criminal through the corridors, I could
perceive that now, when the hour for dinner was
come. King Carnival was shut out. I elbowed num-
bers of fashionably dressed men and women, and
could perceive that the upper class was dining with
the same graceful composure as if it had been an
ordinary day. But not so in the huml)le cafe wherein
I took my evening meal ; there King Carnival held
high festival. The waiters and the waited-upon were,
one and all, full of the spirit of the thing ; not a mug
of beer was filled, not a penny rung on the counter,
but suggested the abandonment of supreme joy.
People were singing, playing, dancing, ju.st the
same. While I was sipping my wine, a party of
eight maskers came in. They carried musical in-
struments of different kinds and were playing ; they
rvero also dancing — a species of jig it seemed, though
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 273
the dance may have some poetic name, if one knew.
These people called for wine, got it and drank it —
but the jig never stopped. They danced as they
drank, they danced as they paid — and when they
had danced themselves out, I saw them through the
windows dancing down the street.
The evening of Mardi-gras is naturally the climax
of the carnival. People are somewhat tired it is
true, after such a day of merry-making ; neverthe-
less, as on the morrow all must sit down and mourn
for their sins in sackcloth and ashes with a prospect
of forty days of penance and fish-dinners to follow,
every moment of time during which one can con-
scientiously laugh and grow fat is precious. They
stop throwing confetti in the evening ; you can take
off your mask and fling it to the nearest buffoon to
play with, in the happy consciousness that you will
want it no more. Then you can lounge around lazily,
watching the pranks of the crowd and the fireworks
that shoot up in all directions, making the night like
one vast stage scene from the last act of a ballet.
Indeed the S(|uareH on that night resembled on a
larger scale an open-air ballet at the Crystal Palace,
with houses for a background and fireworks going up
around.
A very vague recollection of that evening remained
afterwards. There was such a glare of lights, so maiiy
rockets, so many people moving about, such a buzz of
voices, so many musical and unmusical sounds, that it
was hard to remember just where I luid been and
what I had been doing there. To get into such a de-
274 A BEGGAR A T MONTE CARLO,
lijjfhtful hilarious state is tlio prerogative of the south-
erner alone. The people of the north can do it and
do do it by the absorption of much strong drink ; but
the happier children of southern climes taste all the
bliss of intoxication without the after-bitterness of
the morning, the remorse of conscience and the re-
proach of shame-stricken friends. In all that dense
throng of people 1 saw not one who was making a
beast of himself, nor indulging in aught save inno-
cent play. They are not a sober people, heaven
knows — nor particularly virtuous nor exemplary in
their lives ; but the coarseness and brutality of our
northern merriment is foreign to their light-hearted
raptures. I have recollections of a man in a tiger
skin, so perfectly made up that, even walking on
his hind legs, he looked "every inch a man-eater ; "
had he not wished me " good evening " in French, I
think I should have run away from him. A little
later, three masked individuals surrounded me, join-
ing hands; first one sang, then another, then the
third. What the song was about I had no idea ; it
was in the dialect of the country, a language in which
French and Italian words are mixed up in a free and
easy manner with endings of their own. When
these people had finished their songs, they danced
off like wild Indians, I called out and thanked them
in English, which delighted them ; they had taken
me for a Russian, and now, hearing the language,
had their suspicions confirmed. We parted, shouting
" Vive la France " and " Vive la Russie;" and the dual
alliance was yet more firmly cemented. Once only did
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 275
I flee. A fat youth in cap and bells was (lancing a sort
of perpetual pirouette, spinning round like a top and
coming to a standstill at intervals when his power of
revolving gave out for tlie time. Whoever happened
to be facing him at the moment of his stoppage he
kissed, first on one cheek then on the other. I stood
watching him for some minutes, and at last he came
to a standstill just in my face. It was Mardi-gras
and I was doing in the south as the southerners do,
but old prejudices are not to be con(iuere(l in a few
hours ; in the impulse of the moment I turned and
fled away.
During the carnival season at Nice one sees only
the carnival ; wiien the carnival is over one can see
Nice. Just as a house and family are best studied
after an important event such as a wedding has
taken place, and everyone is going about uncon-
sciously forgetful of effect, thinking and acting as
his or her character impels, so a city is best seen after
a great celebration, when the wearied inhabitants are
forgetful of ceremony and restraint, going each about
his daily business in plain clothes and unmindful of
the visitor.
Nice strikes one as a city that has seen, if not its
best days, at least its most brilliant. It is like a
belle of many seasons, who, though she be more beau-
tiful than ever and has yet the certainty of man^
triumphs ahead, somehow gives one the consciousness
that a few years ago sh«! must have created a still
gYQBinY furore. Tlie city is one of the beautifulest :
and the beauty is of a kind that can never fade.
18 —
270 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
There, behind her, are the eternal blue hills, above her
smiles the sunniest of skies, at her feet sleeps in un-
dying beauty the blue, tideless sea ; she is the queen
city of a land in which the summer sleeps but never
dies. A thousand hotels and villas reflect the sun-
shine from their white walls ; the Promenade des
Anglais, the Place Massdna, the Boulevard Victor
Hugo are gay with smiling crowds ; the populace has
frolicked and danced in wildest glee during these last
days of the carnival — but yet there is the sense of
fading glory. It is in the air.
Despite the crowded hotels, the number of visitors
cannot now be what it once was. People still flock
thither for the carnival ; but, the carnival over, they
run away again to other places of resort in the
Riviera ; Nice has rivals. In no city in the world
did I ever see so many villas " to let." At the upper
end of the Promenade des Anglais there were whole
blocks of them. This tells its own tale. Fashion is
forsaking Nice, as it has forsaken so many other
places in turn — with the great world this lovely city
has had its day ; people must needs no longer go there
as a matter of course. Ouida, if she were beginning
to write now, would no longer paint a drive in the
Promenade des Anglais with English horses and
Russian furs supplied by the wicked husband of the
pure and long-suffering wife, as the end and aim of
the infamous woman whose vagaries lend such a
charm to her many tales. Even Marie Bashkirtseff",
were she alive now, might be found sitting at the
window of a villa in Beaulieu or walking along the
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 277
shore at Mentone, waiting for the ideal love and
dreaming of deathless fame while she waited. Nice,
however, has always been a favorite resort of the
Russians ; and I found a shop the windows of which
were full of memories of Marie. I would have liked
to buy them all, being an admirer of Mademoiselle
Bashkirtseff; but contented myself with looking in at
the window, remembering that I was a beggar. She
came often into my mind as I rambled through the
streets after the carnival ; and I lived some time in
company with her ghost. There was, perhaps, never
so strange an instance of an absorbing ambition to be
talked about so completely gratified — after the poor,
passionate heart had ceased to beat. The silly women
of both hemispheres cried themselves to sleep over
her journal ; Russian and Frank, Northerner and
Southerner, criticised, condemned and admired ; par-
sons in the country parts of Canada preached about
her from the pulpit ; Mr. Gladstone forsook Homer
and Horace and forgot for a moment the wrongs of
Ireland, to moralize over her mournful tale. She
filled the world — dead and gone, with every hope
crushed and broken, she reigned at last. If fame be
as the poet says " a fancied life in others' breath,"
the word she wrote in her diary on the stroke of mid-
night, as one year died away and another came into
being, was not written in vain.
278 ^ A HEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
II.
Everyoru! IniH hoard of the " Va)Y\\\vm " who has not
(h'iveii in person aIon<; tliat f'aniou.s road. Tin; ^uidc-
hook tells you to l)o carcfnl to chooHc; tlio n|)p(;r road,
and warriH you tliat tlio cabby will start alon<jj the
lower if he can, as the lesser clind) will save his horses.
Hut no one is ad viscid to take the lower road — fi^ht
hard with cabby rather — the view I'roin the upi)er
bein^ so much finer.
It is true the view from the; upper road is incom-
parably finer and grander ; but I do not blame the
cabbies for cheatinj^ the tourists — it is a stiff climb.
As I was footinj^ it, 1 had no opportunity for a (piarrel
with a cabl)y, nor any pretext for one with the guide-
book. If, however, you wish to see and to study the
villages and towns aion^ the coast between Nice and
Monte Carlo, take the lower road. All these places
are more or less famous, Monte Carlo, itself, being
both famous and infamous. It lacks the sublime view
to be had of the snowy mountain peaks and the
extent of sea and coast line ; but it is richer in human
interest, more various and pictures(iue. There are
those who say that the Cornice surpasses anything in
the south; with them I wholly disagree; but it is
inferior only to the drives and walks around the Bays
of Naples and Salerno.
With my bundle slung over my back, I started
from Nice to return to Italy via the Cornice. I
climbed many steep paths, intending, like the tourist,
to take the upper road to La Turbie. After a long
/I liEaCAR A T MONTE CARLO, 279
cliinl) I cIihii<^(m1 my iniiid, and docidcd to ^o huck to
Nice and jjfo round b}' VilliilVaticlK; and rjcfaulicm in
d(iKanc(! ol' tlu', ^Miidc-book. A Ix^^j^ar, liko a lady,
can chan^(! his mind— at hiast lu; nued consult only
his lo;(H. So \ mad*; my way back to the city and
then out of it a;^ain, kcopin;^ msar tlu^ h(mi; for that
part of a city which lies n<!xt the sea— if it })e a Hiia-
port — has for me a charm. 'I'he HUKillH, the tar, tlu^
odd Mights, th(! old nhopH, the fiHhin<^ and H(!afarit)^
population, th(^ <^roupH of old Hailors, the humors of
the crowd, have an indi^scrihahh; fascination about
them ; ev(!n in this last di^cade of the nineteenth cen-
tury the taint of vulgarity has not ifnpnjssed itscslf
upon anything coniK^cted with the sea.
When T I'eached the Chateau Montboron I sat down
to rest and (lat some fruit which I carricid in my
bundle. While I was sitting then; enjoying the mag-
nificent view of Nice, the white liouses gleaming in
the briglit suidight, the sparkling water sleeping
peacefully at the sid(i of the gay I*romenade des
Anglais, the })lue mountains rising })ehind against a
cloudh^ss sky — the Fre'nch Ihust steamed out of the
harbor of Vilhifranche the other side of the hill on
whose summit I was resting. I had asple-ndid view of
it — thirteen men-of-war in all, moving majestically
along over the blue water one behin<l the other, form-
ing an immense half-circle. They were probably
bound for nowhen; in particular. I n^gretted for
once not having nwl the morning paper; war might
have been declared, and they might be going forth to
the conquest of England, or at least the demolition of
280 A IIECGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
Gibraltar arid Malta or the; taklii;^ of K^ypt — any
ono of tho many ol)j(!ctH vvhi(!li (candid Am(;ri(*an
cousIdh prodictiMl as likcily to 1x5 atlainiMl in the
near future. Hut 1 fancy it was only to niano'uvre,
or wo Hhouid have; known HootuaMjr later; at any rate
I went on eating oran^i^H and smoked a pii)e peacM;-
fully, con.sciouH that I could do nothing not even
^ive tiie alarm, whatever nii.schief ini^ht he in the
air.
Many tourists drove alon^ while 1 wns sitting on
the hillside by Uk; chateau ; and tlujy looked at nie
suspiciously, as if half afraid 1 would pursue them
with re(iuests for money. But I hit tliem i)ass, though
a little tempted to earn an lionest j)enny, se<}in(^ that
the allurements of Monte Carlo W(!re ahead, and that
any triflin|^ alms mi^ht, judiciously staked, there
nniltiply a tliousand-fold. Beggars also trudged
along ; but they, too, ignored my existence or re-
garded me with suspicion, sliowing that contempt
of tlie professional for the amateur whicli is uni-
versal in all trades. Neither man, woman or dog
came out from the castle grounds to warn ine off, as
has often happened in Italy ; I was left severely
alone, to onjoy the view of the city, sea, mountain
and fleet in perfect peace. From an architectural
point of view Montboron is probably the most con-
temptible chateau in the world ; nothing could be
more revolting than those dj^signs in colored bricks
that cover it, reminding one of the filigree work on
an old-fashioned valentine. But even the Chateau
Montboron could not spoil the prospect. .
A /{/'UiCAN A J' MON'J'JC CARLO. 281
Tho roa*! rroin V^illcrniiiche to M<)nt(! Carlo is lull
of twi.stH and turriH. It run.s alon^ tin; nlion; hoiih5
(listaiK'o ahovo the water; and ()ft(;n, lookin;^ down
whuro tho mountain rtaHts a .shadow on tins Hca, one
HtHiH tho lovolio.st of all .sluuieH of l)lu<!, that d<'«;p
Hhado which is nJiuo.st l)lack and y(!t l)lu<!Ht oC hluo.
This {)art of tho Rivi(!i-a is now tin; niont fashion-
al)lo. Hoauliou is oH[)ocialIy favonMl. It is ditlioult
to chooHo ono .spot and .say it is nioro (;harniin^ than
the othor.s. There are everywher(; the .same lovcdy
colons in tho water at your feet, tlu; .same olive-
covered liills behind, the .same vi.sta of hlue mountain
and Huow-clad mountain-p(!ak, tho .same win<lin^
roads, <(rove.s of himons, and villas .set on tin; hill-
.side.s. At Hoauliou Lord Sali.shury's villa is tho most
conspicuous object, botJi from its si/(; and situation —
of its beauty let nothing be; said , few habitations of
men can Ixmst of less. It is as though tlie l)uildor,
havinf( ^azijd too loug (jn tho Chateau Montboron, had
desired to e.scape as far as possible; from the influence
of this vuljxar and monstricious aire and wandered to
the opposite extreme. Tlie villa, if its illustrious
owner .sliould ever become w^illing to part with it,
will make an admirable prison, or in the event of a
war between Franco and Italy serve as a fortress. I
did not stop lon^ at 13eauliou ; it is a fit place only
for beggars who b(!g; one wlio merely apes th(;ir
method of travel for economy's sake had bettor pass
it by ; the reputation of the place in the world of
fashion has raised prices exceedingly.
The gem of the Riviera is, beyond all (piestion,
282 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
Monaco. Surely no site on earth can be finer than
that of this old town on the little peninsula jutting
out into the sea. The new and fashionable suburb of
Monte Carlo, with its far-famed Casino and hundred
hotels, has usurped its right and almost taken away
its name ; but yet there are some who still speak of
Monaco, and find the glories of Monte Carlo not too
luring to reserve a kind word for the old town of
which it is the offshoot. There are people so blind —
millions of them — that they cannot dissociate either
name from the thought of gambling hells and sui-
cides' graves ; there are others — and they, too, are in
number legion — v;ho see nothing at Monte Carlo but
a series of halls wherein one can play in comfort
without the unpleasantness of breaking any law,
except the old one of right and wrong, which is a
trifle. Both are right in their way ; and at the same
time both are mistaken ; Monaco is an earthly para-
dise. I rambled round the old town, much regretting
that the prince was at home : if the inside of the
palace be as attractive as the outside, it is a place
wherein one would wish to linger long. It is a
solemn old pile that reminds one of the middle ages ;
and ought to be the abode of a family with a turn
for brigandage and superstition, not of a prince who
makes millions out of other men's folly. I visited the
church which is being restored and decorated anew,
the funds being supplied out of the revenues derived
from the Casino. This shocks some sober-minded
people; but if newspapers are to be believed, the
Prince of Monaco's method of raising funds for
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 283
church repairs it not more open to question than
those of some congregations in good America.
I lunched at a cafe in the long, winding road that
runs round the beach up the hill to Monte Carlo.
The scum of all nations was sunning itself in this
interesting locality. Not the disreputables of the
upper world ; they sit on the terraces above and look
down on the scene below with disgust — but the
decayed dandy, the played-out sharper, the super-
annuated pickpocket, the broken-down scoundrel,
and such. The man who kept the cafe was quite
in keeping with the class for which he catered, as I
found out before I left. Monte Carlo is a den of
thieves, and makes no bones about it. The hotel
windows are barred to keep out the burglar ; the
winner at the Casino walks to and fro with a police-
man at either elbow^ ; pickpockets in all guises way-
lay you at every turn. A nice-looking fellow asks
you for a light — beware ! A sober-looking woman
sits beside you at table d'hote, and commences the
conversation by saying she feels rather ashamed of
herself for being in so naughty a place (though of
course she has not been to the tables) — look out ! her
hands may be in your pockets while you are gazing
at the whites of her eyes. Everywhere, even at the
hotels, they pass bad money ; it is necessary to look
carefelly at every penny. In my cafe' I sat among
the vicious, and kept watch over my neighbors ; when
it came time to pay and the waiter brought me change,
I discovered that every piece was bad. I made no
demonstration, but merely walked up to the counter
284 - A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
and said — " Strange ! — one piece Russian — bad ! — one
piece English — bad ' — two pieces Greek — bad ! " — and
so on until it was all laid out before the eyes of the
proprietor. The latter turned a livid green and his
hand seemed almost palsied with anger. He did,
indeed, echo my remark, the word " strange " strug-
gling in his throat; but it was no use to mince
matters. He took them all up hurriedly, counted
out French money and requested me to go. I bowed
— he bowed — we both looked curiously at the dis-
reputables who were still eating and whose time for
paying was not yet come — and I made my way out.
Fairer spot than Monte Carlo man never looked
upon. As you sit on the terraces under the palms,
the odor of sweet flowers filling the air, the sound of
music floating on the breeze, the vision of the little
city-crowned peninsula of Monaco on your right and
the long sweep of the curving shore dotted with
white villas and towns to the left, fading at last
into a vision of blue mountains beyond the Italian
line, you get into a dream ^'^ state and fancy yourself
in a paradise of the gods They are not exactly gods,
however, the people who are moving about in tens
and hundreds, above, beyond, below— far from it —
mortals, of the earth earthiest, the most of them. The
hum of their voices mingles with the sound of the
music, and fashionable garments at odd moments
obscure the vision of the sparkling sea — but still you
dream and rightly ; whatever they be, it is a paradise
they have come to dwell in.
They were there literally in thousands, for Lent
A BF.GGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 285
was come ; ar d it is th(3 season of self denial and
penitence that the witch of Monte Carlo claims as
especially her own. The new way of sitting in sack-
cloth and ashes has its bitter moments sometimes as
the old ; but like other innovations it has its merits
— it is not so dull. Princes, poets, singers, statesmen,
warriors, women of fashion, pickpockets, all the
rtionde and the ilemi-monde were there, taking the
air on the hill ; and when I had had my fill of para-
dise and began to pine for earth, I amused myself
watching them. The descensus averni was very easy ;
I had not to change my posture nor wink an eye. A
single moment of thought, and paradise was filled
with the naughty sons of Adam and daughters of
Eve. They stood in groups, women making eyes at
men, men with eyeglasses looking critically at women,
soured men, scornful men, successful men, some pacing
up and down regardless of spectators, some cowering
in corners under a friendly palm, some gnawing their
lips in mute jealousy or fruitless remorse, some bois-
terous and exultant, the air ringing with their coarse
laughter. Zola's sensualists were there, standing, all
unconscious of the witchery in earth and sky, suck-
ing their fat lips, thinking how best to squeeze a
little more' money with which to feed their baser
passions, from out their brothers' pockets. Ouida's
creatures were there — fresh young En'^lishmen with
bright faces and blue eyes sauntering along, hand in
pocket, talking in rich accents full of youth and free-
dom — keen- eyed Jews, sleek, well-brushed Parisians,
intelligent and unkempt Germans, Americans asking
286 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
questions of anybody and everybody as they hurried
along to miss nothing. The little woman who was the
cause of several stalwart young Englishmen commit-
ting suicide, watches, new victims of the same kind as
they approach, scanning them critically through her
glass. She still looks up smilingly into her parasol
when people speak vaguely of sin and crime ; and
shudders with genuine horror as the skirts of the
courtesan brush against her own while the crowd is
passing up and down the steps. There they go, to
and fro under the palms, sittir-g on the benches,
rushing nervously up the steps of the Casino, loiter-
ing in the loveliest of lovely gardens. A row of
sweet violets ran quite around the long oval in front
of the Casino, and I stood still for some time admir-
ing them and sniffing their fragrance. " Tut — a sham
just like everything else here ; they are all in pots,"
said a blase English youth, a chance acquaintance on
whose face an infinite world -weariness was the pre-
dominant feature ; " the violets are reared in a hot-
house ; and when they begin to fade, they will take
them away and put some other showy thing in their
place." And he passed on to gaze vacantly at the
wrecks of womanhood who were sunning themselves
on the terrace, and the worn out men of the world
who stood blinking in the sunshine with an expres-
sion akin to his own.
He thought he had destroyed one more illusion;
but he had not. Why should anyone disdain a flower
because it is grown in a hothouse ? A sweet violet
is not the less a sweet violet because it is growing in
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 287
a pot. It is all very well to find them growing in the
woods amid the fresh unsullied verdure of the forest ;
but they are lovel}'' anywhere. I enjoyed them — but
then to me Monte Carlo was a happy place. Carlyle
with all his greatness undervalued happiness — that
sigh of regret because the day is so short, that unex-
pressed desire, as the head is laid upon the pillow,
that to-morrow shall be as to-day, is worth more
than the consciousness of having written Sartor
Resartus. I had come to Monte Carlo to enjoy
myself, looking at the people; the place was inter-
esting to a degree; it was a pleasure to exist — if
only to be a beggar.
But this latter fact I had quite forgotten; and I was
mixing with the well-dressed people on the terrace,
regardless of appearances. It had been very difficult
to secure a room, the town was so full ; I had tried
six hotels, and was about deciding to climb the hills
to La Turbie when I bethought me of going to the
seventh. Here I was more fortunate. One of the
guests had left unexpectedly — whether by suicide or
rail I was not told — and his room was engaged by a
gentleman from England who would not arrive for
forty-eight hours ; in the meantime I could occupy it.
I had wandered around and sat on the terrace,
sauntered in the garden and watched the people, quite
too happy to wish to play ; but all of a sudden the
fit seized me. I jingled the coins in my pocket like a
schoolboy ; they were few ; why not multiply them
and make them many ? The hard-featured woman at
the hotel had looked at me with suspicion, and de-
288 A BEGGAR A T MONTE CARLO.
tected the hole in my sleeve ; what would she say
when I returned escorted l>y two policemen, staggering
under a weight of gold ? I saw two hawk-like indi-
viduals marching up the steps of the Casino, and fol-
lowed in careless unconsciousness. But not inside the
portals — no. As my feet touched the threshold, I felt
a strong grip on either arm and an impulse to turn
right-about-face — while a stern voice exclaimed, as if
addressing the entire multitude, " You are the third
Englishman within two weeks who has attempted to
set our rules at defiance — look at your clothes ! "
I looked down — they were ragged, and I was wear-
ing " knickers " — I blushed with shame. I was
speechless. I knew very well — or would have known
if I had taken time to think about it — that entrance
to the Casino must be denied to me in such apparel
— for the rules and regulations at Monte Carlo as to
the outer man are very strict. He pointed down the
steps ; and down the steps I walked in mute anguish
of soul. A famous beauty was standing there, and
I saw her raise her glass. A group of men stood
around her. Her lips curled just the very least little
bit, hardly a smile, and I doubt if she said a word
about it to her admirers — but the fleeting look went
through me like a knife, and I hurried away as fast
as my legs would carry me.
I passed through the crowd with burning cheeks.
I am sure no one saw me, knew me or cared in the
least about the matter ; but the rebuff had come sud-
denly, and the humiliation was very great. I could
have wished that the other offenders, the two English-
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 289
men in two weeks who had also tried to set the
law at defiance, had been by my side ; to find some-
body else in the ditcli is so consoling. But I saw no
one, absolutely no one, who was not faultlessly
attired in higli collar, black coat and trousers.
The failure to effect an entrance to the tables had
increased the desire to play a thousand- fold ; it had
become a consuming passion. To wait and telegraph
to Italy for clothes was not to be thought of ; while
I waited my lucky hour might pass forever, never to
return. I was possessed with one idea — to get clothes.
I would beg them, borrow them, if necessary steal
them — the spirit jf the place was on me, and I com-
menced to plan a theft. In a town where all the in-
habitants are thieves honesty becomes ridiculous.
Full of these thoughts I hurried through the streets
and lanes up to the hotel. I rushed breathlessly in ;
the hall was empty, but the office door was open.
In the office was a square table at which sat a square
woman. She was making out bills.
She was tall, stiff, angular — and no longer young ;
her glance was penetrating and her voice cutting. I
had discovered before, when bargaining for my room,
that she was an Englishwoman. I forgot about her,
however, in the excitement of the moment, and stood
before her breathless.
" Can you lend me a pair of trousers ? "
"Sir?"
" Clothes — there must be — anybody could lend me
what I want — if you have a pair of trousers — it
doesn't matter about the fit — if you have them and
will lend them to me — "
290 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
''Sir?"
"I am shut out of the Casino — of course you can
see why — so I have come back to you. Can you lend
me a pair of trousers ? "
The woman rose bodily and in spirit and surveyed
me. She spoke. -
" / certainly can not."
There was time to count three or four between
each word. She repeated the words, if possible with
still greater emphasis — " / — certainly — can — not ! "
" No — not your own of course — that is I mean —
I beg your pardon, madam — but a pair of — "
A wave of the hand silenced me. She pointed to
the door. "If you will be so kind as to retire to
your room, sir, I will send the head waiter upstairs.
You can discuss the matter with him, and borrow
from him the clothes you require — that is if he has
them to lend."
I bowed and, turning round, rushed upstairs. In
a few minutes the head waiter appeared, and I ex-
plained the plight I was in. Either he was so for-
tunate as to have an extensive wardrobe or they keep
a supply of clothes at the hotels for such contingen-
cies, for he went away and came back with a whole
armful of garments. Needless to say none fitted ;
but I was obliged to make a selection from what I
had before me, and, in a few moments, stood arrayed
in borrowed plumes. They were the waiter's own, he
said; and he was a much shorter and stouter man
than I. The masquerade at Nice had been nothing
to it; I was ashamed to go out. The old question
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 291
" is it better to be a greater fool than you look or to
look a greater fool than you are ?" came into my head
as I surveyed myself in the glass. I asked the waiter.
The waiter was a serious man ; and, suiting the answer
to the occasion, thought it better to look a greater
fool than you are. He was very reassuring, said not
to be afraid, people would guess why it was, nobody
would take them for my own, I looked much above
them ; and, like a true Southerner, added a compli-
ment which modesty forbids my repeating. They
were as far from being comfortable as becoming ; the
nether garments were made after the Italian fashion,
without buttons, to be tied on round the waist with
a handkerchief. I had always admired the taste of
Italian men in dispensing with such troublesome and
irritating things as buttons ; but in order to appre-
ciate the Italian method of fastening, one should have
one's clothes made to fit.
It was hard work to start. The waiter, however,
suggested it might be my lucky day, and that I had
better venture. I promised him a handful of gold if
my expectations were realized ; and we parted on the
best of terms. Alas for the vanity of human wishes
— when I returned I had lost to such an extent that
nothing was left even for a tip ; and to this day I owe
him clothes-rent.
I hurried downstairs and out into the streets. The
street gamins let me pass unnoticed, so I knew I was
safe ; if you can pass with a street boy you can pass
anywhere. I made my way for a second time up the
steps of the Casino, mingling with the crowd. The
19
292 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
officials smiled an almost imperceptible smile as they
^(lanced at my new apparel, but made no objections
to my getting a pass. Once inside, the clothes ques-
tion worried me no more.
The crowd of visitors at Monte Carlo was so great,
those days, that people stood around the tables three
and four deep. It is always a place of interest the
Casino ; even if your own money is gone, you can
stand around for hours, watching other people losing
theirs, without wearying. In those brilliantly-lighted
halls flit about hundreds, the gayest of the gay chil-
dren of this world, like moths around a flame, full of
life, intoxicated with the excitement of play. Stand
also near the table next you, and you can read a line
or two of the world's tragedy. There, sitting at the
corners, are the old professional gamblers. You can
examine them at your leisure, staring them full in the
face until your eyes become dim — they never see you.
Their gaze is vacant, blank, a staring into nothing ;
they see but the game. They look at you, into you,
through you — and see nothing. An old woman with
grey hair drawn down the side of her face, and eyes
of a steel blue, mechanically puts forth a wrinkled
hand containing a piece of gold — "faites le jeu,
Messieurs, faites le jeu " — the voice of the croupier
rings in all ears ; the little ball spins round and round
swiftly, slower, slower still — falls — " dix-huit, rouge,"
the voice rings again — the old woman's gold piece is
swept away. There is no sign of disappointment or
surprise, no twitching of the thin lips. The wrinkled
hand takes up a pencil, makes a note on a piece of
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 293
paper and puts the pencil down again. Then patiently
she waits, her steel-blue eyes staring into vacancy,
until it is time for her to venture again. Then comes
forth another piece of gold, the voice of the croupier
rings again, the little ball spins round once more, and
away goes the gold a second time. Another note on
the paper, another stare into vacancy, another wait —
the old lady is patient. There she sits, staring at
nothing day after day, waiting for the turn of For-
tune's wheel ; this is her life. Perhaps there comes a
time when all her gold is gone, and she can play no
more ; she must then stop and look about her, seeing
people and things with those steel-blue eyes, and find
some method of replenishing the empty purse. But
whatever she scrapes together will come here, she is
an old gambler ; only in a world wherein roulette is
known no more will she stop playing. One looks at
her and moralizes, wonders who she is, where she was
born, and what the circumstances were that killed
every other passion in the woman's heart save this, to
play. It is clear that all other desires and passions
are dead within her and that she lives but for this, to
sit day after day at a game of chance, playing against
odds so tremendous, playing with nerves of steel, and
living but to play.
Then comes up a young Englishman in a light
brown tweed and hands a gold piece to the croupier
to be changed into silver. The silver he scatters over
the numbers. In spite of himself his eyes fix them-
selves keenly on the croupier, and his breath catches
just the least bit as the winning number is called.
294 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
His silver is all raked away. He puts his hands in
his pockets, quite too careless in his manner, and
saunters off, going from table to table " looking on."
If you watch him clc ely, however, ^u will see him
glance back from time to time to the ^^e at which
he has lost ; it is the table he has resoi . 1 to play
at, and he will stake his money at no other. At last
like the moth he saunters back, pulls out another
piece of gold, changes it again and tries the numbers
once more. Again luck is against him ; it is the
same story, all is raked away. Others are winning ;
the man down at the corner has doubled four times
and won. But it is not his lucky day. Again he
goes round, looking on at other tables, only to come
back again and tempt fortune anew. He lost four
times in succession, this young man, and then went
about downcast — no old gamester he. The fussy
woman behind the croupier has both lost and won ;
she is excited, and wonders how it will all end. She
began by talking rapidly ; but, hearing no other voice
than her own, stopped suddenly, frightened, and
stepped back a little. Still when she won and again
when she lost, she could not help talking about it,
even though no one listened ; she cannot help herself,
it is all so new and so exciting. Meanwhile the sharp-
featured American gentleman at the corner has been
playing with marked success. He has a system and
a good one, as anybody can see who watches. Six
times he doubles and wins — the system. I say to
myself " why have / not a system ? " The seventh
time he doubles again on rouge ; alas, noir is called,
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 295
he loses all his winnings — system at fault — or was
it that he made a mistake ? He steps aside to study
his note- book and find out.
I had no system ; which I much regretted then and
regret now — for no ono ever lost more completely on
the most infallible system in the world. To be sure
I had little to lose ; but it was not the less dishearten-
ing, so much money around waiting to be won and
not a penny to win it with. Nothing was left but a
twenty- franc piece which I hugged in an inside
pocket ; I kept it for the s |uare woman at the hotel,
and was too much afraid of her to run the risk of
losing it. Yet I felt sure that if I had had another
five francs tc play with, the tide of fortune would
have turned in my favor. As it was, I stood there
" dead broke." While I was gazing wistfully at the
table, the blase young Englishman who had looked
with so melancholy an eye on the violets, sauntered
up to me and suggested that we go out and look for
the suicides' graves. He was, to do him justice, un-
aware that I had just lost my all ; and when made
acquainted with the sad fact, expressed much sym-
pathy — though a chance remark let fall indicated a
certain contempt for people who vv^ere foolish enough
to play. He renewed the suggestion about visiting
the graves of the suicides, which I thought rather
cruel, if not pointed. I said so. But he only smiled
his weary smile, and said if one could judge from
appearances, no one ever looked less likely to lie
there than I.
I thanked him, but did not go. To him life was
296 A BEGGAR A T MONTE CARLO.
one long suicide, existence in any shape or form a
bore. Between us there was no bond of sympathy ;
for, though " broke " I was enjoying every minute ;
while he went around, begrudging everyone a moment
of unweariness. He went alone. Of the crowd one
could never tire ; so many kinds, so many types, so
many faces to study — all sorts and conditions of men,
the true Democracy Monte Carlo, as Ouida somewhere
remarks. And if there were broken hearts there,
victims of the passion for play, people who had
ruined themselves at these tables, they concealed
their anguish under smiling faces ; there was nothing
to mar the brilliancy of the scene. People do not
as some solemn stayers-at-home suppose, cry out in
agony " all is lost ; " and then, staggering along under
the dazzling lights, pull out a revolver and end their
wretched lives by falling on the floor in a heap of
dead flesh, to be carried away in silence, a little
pool of blood testifying to the incident when all
is over c-nd done. Nothing of the kind ; it is as
cheerful as a church festival ; nor are the faces of the
losers half so dismal as those of some of the good
people who shake their heads and groan over them.
The great thing in life, as a celebrated writer says,
" is to do without opium." But the greatest and the
meanest, the strongest and the weakest of mankind
take their opium still. One takes it in one way,
another in another ; some things wherein mankind
delights are unquestionably wrong ; some undoubtedly
innocent ; in the gi-eat " betwixt and between " there
are as many opinions as to which is which as there
are minds.
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 297
Few differ in opinion as to Monte Carlo; its name
has become a byevvord throughout the civilized world
Anywhere else if a man has beggared himself and
his family through high play, a linger is pointed at
him ; he is a person of note — in his own line — for hap-
pily the thing is not an every-day occurrence. At
Monaco people are pointed out who have ruined
themselves over and over again ; and if you express
surprise, you are told of this one and that one and
another until the list becomes wearying. Gambling
has been called by English writers the besetting sin
of the Latin races ; but the most " terrible examples "
in everybody's mouth at the time when I happened
to be in Monaco were English. This may be accounted
for in several ways. The English have, as a rule,
more money than the continental people ; and the
man who loses a thousand is an object of greater
interest than the man who has only a hundred to
lose. Then two of the terrible examples were peer-
esses ; and an English peeress is a person of greater
importance than her continental sister. There is
another reason besides ; the English are regarded as
a nation of hypocrites ; and there is a keener satis-
faction in unmasking the hypocrite than in con-
demning the man who has never professed to be
virtuous.
It is certain that we must all play ; and it is as
certain that we will not all be content to play at
tiddly winks. Something more exciting is necessary,
even for the average man. When to draw the line
and where, is the question. With some it is a matter
298 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
of principle, with others of expediency. Gambling
is admittedly, a vice ; but there are many who apply
to it the principles of the nursery with regard to
theft :
*' It is a sin to steal a pin,
It is a greater to steal a tater,"
— and such would exclaim at hearing their snug little
rooms classed with the gilded halls of Monaco. This
is a descriptive sketch and not an essay on morality :
so we will leave the matter, and glance from the play
again to the players.
One must be just to Monaco — or rather to
the people there. Very few of those whom we
are looking at are imbued with the gambling
spirit. The most desperate gamesters in the world
are under the roof with you ; but they form a small
minority of the dense crowds that throng on the
hillside and in at the doors. The merest novice can
at once pick out the old habitue, whether he be at
the tables or enjoying a cigar under the palms outside.
The majority of those who are pressing eagerly around
the roulette-tables are strangers to the place and to
play, come from curiosity and risking a five-franc piece
or not according as the impulse of the moment impels.
Very few will become professional gamblers ; the
professional gambler learns his trade long ere he has
seen the palms of Monaco ; he comes thither only for
a wider field. Seen elsewhere, the majority of these
people will pass as above suspicion. We have seen
them before in church ; and, as in church, they are all
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 299
wearing their best clothes. They have come hither
from curiosity, and Monaco in their lives is but an
episode. Many do not play ; and some, who do not
object to roulette on principle, have a superstitious
fear of staking a single coin. Yet they flutter around
like moths, showing the intensest interest in the game.
It is a gay scene. Those young English girls with
papa and mamma beside them, have " h'^ard tell " of
Monte Carlo all their lives, and listened with bated
breath to a tale of its horrors. Now they see it, and
are enjoying it with all their might. It would be a
hard moralist indeed who would condemn them to an
eventual change of all those frills and furbelows for
the leaden cloaks and hoods which, according to
Dante, will be, in the next world, the uncomfortable
garb of the hypocritical.
Whatever be their latter end, at Monaco they make
the most of the passing moment. Beside the tables,
there is nothing in the way of innocent or guilty
amusement that is not to be found. Patti sings, and
the masterpieces of German composers are rendered
by a superb orchestra. If your taste be low, you
hav^e only to go out of the Casino and down the street ;
the lowest songs of a decadent age and a shameless
people are to be heard for a few pence. Yet, withal,
there is nothing original to be heard or seen there ;
one modern city is exactly like another, as far as its
entertainments go ; those of Monte Carlo are no worse
than you find anywhere else — only there is an appal-
ling amount of bad money ever trying to find its way
into your hands and pockets, against the intrusion
of which you must persistently guard.
300 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
And there are more villains who look the villain
at Monte Carlo, perhaps, than anywhere else in the
world — more rascals, more rogues, more scoundrels,
more cheats and thieves ; and they all carry their
character in their countenances. I did not suffer, no
one offered to rob or murder me ; but I encountered
men at every turn whose villany was so stamped
upon their features that I felt impelled perforce to
stop and cry out for handcuffs. Yet even here Monte
Carlo is maligned. I read, the other day, a descrip-
tion of the place by a famous, and justly famous,
writer ; and he described the croupiers in the Casino
as a class of men whose debasing calling was evident
in every look and gesture, as being men of revolting
appearance. It is marvellous how people's precon-
ceived opinion of a place can color their actual view
of it. One expects it in a flighty woman, but not in
a great scholar, such as this man was. The croupiers,
taking them all in all, are a fine body of men, cour-
teous, dexterous, and trustworthy in the management
of the business confided to their charge. They ought
to be so, for they are carefully chosen, and long train-
ing has taught them to be proficient. As to their
calling, any suspicion of double-dealing on the part
of any one of them would lead to instant dismissal
and disgrace. In fact nothing in connection with the
Casino offends — except some of the guests. Even
they are, as a body, not so objectionable as the people
one meets elsewhere ; for the most tiresome of all
tourists, the dull man who carries his solid reading
under his arm and pesters everybody with questions
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 301
about matters in which nobody is interested but him-
self, passes Monaco by as being unworthy oi his
presence.
In the morning I went out for a walk up the hill,
and encountered a lady whom I shall call Mrs. Cosmos
— masmuch as the universe and its destiny weighed
heavily upon her mind. She was an amiable woman,
and, as a woman, highly to be esteemed. But she
was more than a woman, she was a philosopher ;
and in the latter capacity a blind guide — for she
was going about the world looking for a new religion,
and a nev/ prophet to expound the same ; and to
anyone desirous of sitting (metaphorically) at her
feet, there was in prospect a long and weary search
and sliglxt hope of success. She sat on the hillside
with a book open in her lap, her large eyes gazing
wistfully over the tranquil sea. I sat down beside
her ; and, after a few words on the charming weather
that we were having, asked the meaning of the far-
away look that I observed in her eyes.
" I am always looking for a new religion," said Mrs.
Cosmos. " I should die happy if I found it. If one
could only find something to believe ! "
Mrs. Cosmos w^as the type of a class almost unknown
in Canada. This is not the place nor am I the person
to venture on so vast and dangerous a subject as the
"higher education of women." But I have met at
least two to whom a study of German philosophy had
not been an unmixed benefit. Mrs. C. was one of the
two.
" Well I am not the prophet," I remarked somewhat
302 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
superfluously ; " I have no new religion to produce,
and you have done with the old."
" I have," vshe said ; " but I do not cease to hope.
Will the world never again have a prophet ? "
" I have met many prophets," said I. " If I were
looking for another I should not come here."
" I am not so foolish as to come to Monte Carlo in
search of a religion," said Mrs. Cosmos. " I came
here simply to forget about it."
"You are right, Mrs. Cosmos; there is no place
where religion and prophets are less likely to con-
front one than here."
She looked down on the Casino with an eye full of
disdain. " I cannot stand it," she said ; " I come up
here to read, where I am away from them all."
I glanced at the book. It was the memoirs of ,
a w^ell-known writer recently deceased — also a philo-
sopher. We talked about him. She had not known
him when living, neither had I; but I had friends
who knew him, and was able to supplement the
memoirs with a few interesting details not to be
found therein. His opinions on religion and science
were duly set forth in the book ; but she found them
only half satisfactory. ** He tells one nothing new,"
she complained, " nothing that one did not know
before."
" He had nothing new to tell," I suggested ; " none
of us have."
" You have not," said Mrs. Cosmos ; " it does not
follow that nobody has. The world is waiting for a
new prophet ; and one must come, sooner or later."
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 303
This, begging their pardon, is the mistake made by
female pliilosophers. They turn their backs on all
the old religions and beliefs, and go out, expecting to
meet another Athanasius, with a new creed to take
the place of the ones discarded, coming up the street.
Then we discussed the intellectual condition of
America, of which she had a very low opinion. I
spoke of Canada, but forbear to repeat what was
said. Mrs. C had been reading about the country;
but the only impression the book had left upon her
mind was that it was a land wherein people became
insane because of the bad cookery. Needless to say,
from such a country she expected no prophet.
We parted, she to continue her search after light
and truth, I to glory in the life of the mole— to live
contentedly on an atom of this miserable little uni-
verse, happy to find myself for the time being on that
narrow strip of land between mountain and sea that
they call the Riviera di Ponente. It was a glorious
day on the hills ; there was a cool breeze blowing,
but the sunlight was strong, and the smell of spring
was in the air, I lounged about among the olives,
watching the men and women going and coming
from their work, old sunbrowned women with hand-
kerchiefs over their heads picking up the olives and
throwing them in a heap on a piece of canvas brought
for the purpose, lusty youths in ragged clothes but
with a cheerful look of southern joy-in-life on their
smiling faces, toiling up the steep path to the moun-
tain-top, donkeys with the inevitable woman behind
beating them with the inevitable stick, trotting gaily
304 A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO.
along — begging children whom one would love to
kiss were it not for their dirty mouths — all was in
keeping. New religions and new prophets passed
out of my mind ; old Mother Earth with her old
sons and daughters, and her old tale of childhood and
youth and age, was soul-sufRcing. I found an olive
mill in a delightful little valley, the approach to
which was all but dangerous, and wherein there was
an old crone who told a long story about a daughter
and her husband, loss of money and rival mill-
owners, that sounded strange after the conversatiop
of the morning. Of the two I think the old woman's
life had been the better. As for her religion, she had
not to go far to look for it ; a dilapidated shrine, a
Virgin with a broken nose and a child off of which
the wind and rain of many seasons had washed
the paint, represented to her the solution of life's
mystery.
Monaco and Monte Carlo lay far below bathed in
the sunlight ; and to the left I could see, looking down,
the long stretch of shore, studded with its little
towns, its lemon gardens and villas, all lying in
dream-like beauty at the edge of the blue Mediter-
ranean. As I wended my way homeward, the sea lay
like a sheet of glass, deep purple in the afternoon
shadows of the mountain. And the shadows of the
olive trees lengthened and spread until the whole
hillside was grey ; the sun had dropped behind the
hills. Then little lights began to gleam here and
there along the shore ; one after another they started
up until a thousand tiny stars twinkled below,
A BEGGAR AT MONTE CARLO. 306
Sounds of music came floating on the night air,
melodies of an earthly paradise at whose gates I
stood. Then I meet two dismal tourists who were
trudging up the mountain, talking to each other.
Their theme was the vulgarity and iniquity of the
place. They looked around on the enchanting scene,
and cursed it in the twang of the west. The curse
irritated me. Like other people they had played and
lost; and now that they were suffering from the
consequences of their own folly, they were repenting.
It was natural enough that they should curse the
place ; but up there, far removed from the environs
of the Casino, the vision was too perfect to be thus
profaned. It looked a paradise— type of many other
places in this world of ours. If you wish to cherish
the illusion, it is very often safest to stay upon the
hill.