MARSEILLES.
At Marseilles we find a quasi tropical aspect—long streets, handsome and well-shaded, tempting shops, luxurious hotels, a motley company, and, above all, a friend, one of our own countrymen, divided between the glitter of the new life and the homesick weaning of the old. Half, he assumes the cicerone, and guides our ignorance about. Half, he sits to learn, and we expound to him what has befallen at home, so far as we are conscious of it. We take half a day for resting, the next day for sight-seeing. On the third, we must sail, for finding that Holy Week is still to be, we determine to make our reluctant sacrifice to the Mediterranean, and to trust our precious comfort and delicate equilibrium to that blue imposture, that sunniest of humbugs.
On the second day, we climb the steep ascent that leads to the chapel of La Bonne Mère de la Garde. This hot and panting ascent is not made by us without many pauses for recovered breath and energy. At every convenient stopping-place in the steep ascent are stationed elderly women presiding over small booths, who urgently invite us to purchase candles to give to the Madonna, medals, rosaries, and photographs, to all of whom we oppose a steadfast resistance. We have twice in our lives brought home from Europe boat-loads of trash, and we think that, as Paul says, the time past of our lives may suffice us. Finally, with a degree of perspiration more than salutary, we reach the top, and enjoy first the view of the Mediterranean, including a bird's-eye prospect of the town, which looks so parched and arid as to make the remembrance of London in the rain soothing and pleasant. A palace is pointed out which was built in the expectation of a night's sojourn of the emperor, but to which, they tell us, he never came. Our point of view is the top of one of the towers of the church. Going inside, we look down upon the aisles and altars from a lofty gallery. The silver robes of the Madonna glisten, reflecting the many wax-lights that devotees have kindled around her. The first sight of these material expressions of devotion is imposing, the second instructive, the third, commonplace and wearisome. We are at the last clause, and gaze at these things with the eyes of people who have seen enough of them.
The remainder of the disposable day we employ in a drive to the Prado, the fashionable region for the display of equipage and toilet. This is not, however, the fashionable day, and we meet only a few grumpy-looking dowagers in all stages of fatitude. The road is planted with double rows of lindens, and is skirted by country residences and villas to let. We stop and alight at the Musée, a spacious and handsome building, erected and owned by a noble of great wealth, long since dead, who committed celibacy, and left no personal heir. It is now the property of the city of Marseilles. The hall is fine. Among the spacious salons, the largest is used as a gallery of pictures, mostly by artists of this neighborhood, and of very humble merit. In another we find a very good collection of Egyptian antiquities, while in yet another the old state furniture is retained, the rich crimson hangings, long divan of gobelin, and chairs covered with fine worsted needle-work. Beyond is a pretty Chinese cabinet, with a full-length squatue of Buddh, gayly gilded and painted. Above stairs, the state bed and hangings are shown, the latter matching a handsome landscape chintz, with which the walls are covered. This museum has in it a good deal of instructive and entertaining matter, and is kept in first-rate order. Returning, we drive around the outer skirts of the town, and see something of the summer bathing hotels, the great storehouses, and the streets frequented by the working and seafaring portion of the community.
In the evening we walk through the streets, which are brilliant with gas, and visit the cafés, where ices, coffee, and lemonade are enjoyed. We finally seat ourselves in a casino, a sort of mixed café and theatre, where the most motley groups of people are coming, going, and sitting. At one end is a small stage, with a curtain, which falls at the end of each separate performance. Here songs and dances succeed each other, only half heeded by the public, who drink, smoke, and chatter without stint. After a hornpipe, a dreadful woman in white, with a blue peplum, hoarsely shouts a song without music, accompanied by drums and barbaric cymbals. She makes at last a vile courtesy, matching the insufficiency of her dress below by its utter absence above the waist, and we take flight. The next morning witnesses our early departure from Marseilles.