CAMPO SANTO, GENOA
We have climbed up and around and over the Alps, following the gorge of the upper Rhone. For nearly a day we threaded the mountains, their tops veiled by the clouds. Scarcely ever were we out of sight of a leaping cascade or a picturesque village perched high above, or far below us, except when rushing in and out of the countless short tunnels. Of only less interest was the crossing of the Apennines from Turin to Genoa.
From Genoa, we have traversed the Riviera by train, tram, carriage and on foot—from the Promenade d'Anglais at Nice to the famous Corniche road between Nice and Monaco.
On a Sunday afternoon at Monte Carlo we had our tea on the terrace of the Casino to the accompaniment of a sacred concert by an exquisite orchestra on the one side, and the sharp click of the croupier's rake in the gambling salle on the other.
Amidst such bewitching surroundings—the balmy air, the profusion of flowers, the towering Maritime Alps, and the blue Mediterranean at the feet—one can easily fancy oneself in an earthly paradise.
You have, of course, read much of the principality of Monaco embracing its eight square miles of territory, with its opéra bouffe government, and how, surrounded by French territory, its independence has been recognized for several centuries. It is needless to tell you, too, of the gambling carried on in its Casino, hedged in by every external element of alluring culture and refinement. But, I dare affirm that, apart from its gambling, Monaco is one of the enchanted spots of earth. The Côte d'Azur, as this coast is affectionately named, haunts me still.
Have I mentioned the masonry of this region? All through the Alps, the Apennines and along the Riviera are massive walls of masonry, supporting a mountain road, forming the graceful arches of some viaduct or holding back the mighty waves of the sea. Much of this work was completed by Napoleon I. Coming, as I do, from a younger civilization, its magnitude appears marvelous to me.
