From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

by Henry M. Field

MILAN AND GENOA.—A RIDE OVER THE CORNICHE ROAD.

Genoa, September 20th.

The new life of Italy is apparent in its cities more than in the country. A change of government does not change the face of nature. The hills that bear the olive and the vine, were as fresh and green under the rule of Austria as they are now under that of Victor Emmanuel. But in the cities and large towns I see a marked change, both in the places themselves, and in the manner and spirit of the people. Then there was an universal lethargy. Everything was fixed in a stagnation, like that of China. There was no improvement, and no attempt at any. The incubus of a foreign yoke weighed like lead on the hearts of the people. Their depression showed itself in their very countenances, which had a hopeless and sullen look. Now this is gone. The Austrians have retired behind the mountains of the Tyrol, and Italy at last is free from the Alps to the Adriatic. The moral effect of such a political change is seen in the rebound from a state of despair to one of animation and hope. When a people are free, they have courage to attempt works of improvement, knowing that what they do is not for the benefit of foreign masters, but for themselves and their children. Hence the new life which I see in the very streets of Milan and Genoa. Everywhere improvements are going on. They are tearing down old houses, and building new ones; opening new streets and squares, and levelling old walls, that wide boulevards may take their place. In Milan I found them clearing away blocks of houses in front of the Duomo, to form an open square, sufficient to give an ample foreground for the Cathedral. And they were just finishing a grand Arcade, with an arched roof of iron and glass, like the Crystal Palace, beneath which are long rows of shops, as well as wide open spaces, where the people may gather in crowds, secure both from heat and cold, protected alike from the rains of summer and the snows of winter. The Emperor of Germany, who is about to pay a visit to Italy, will find in Milan a city not so large indeed, but certainly not less beautiful, than his own northern capital.

One beauty it has which Berlin can never have—its Cathedral. If I had not exhausted my epithets of admiration on the Cathedrals of Strasburg and Cologne, I might attempt a description of that of Milan; but indeed all words seem feeble beside the reality. One contrast to the German Cathedrals is its lighter exterior. It is built of marble, which under an Italian sky has preserved its whiteness, and hence it has not the cold gray of those Northern Minsters blackened by time. Nor has it any such lofty towers soaring into the sky. The impression at first, therefore, is one of beauty rather than of grandeur. In place of one or two such towers, standing solitary and sublime, its buttresses along the sides shoot up into as many separate pinnacles, surmounted by statues, which, as they gleam in the last rays of sunset, or under the full moon, seem like angelic sentinels ranged along the heavenly battlements. These details of the exterior draw away the eye from the vastness of the structure as a whole, which only bursts upon us as we enter within. There we recognize its immensity in the remoteness of objects. A man looks very small at the other end of the church. Service may be going on at half a dozen side chapels without attracting attention, except as we hear chanting in the distance; and the eye swims in looking up at the vaulted roof. Behind the choir, three lofty windows of rich stained glass cast a soft light on the vast interior. If I lived in Milan, I should haunt that Cathedral, since it is a spot where one may always be alone, as if he were in the depths of the forest, and may indulge his meditations undisturbed.

But there is another church, of much more humble proportions, which has a great historical interest, that of St. Ambrose, the author of the Te Deum, through which he has led the worship of all the generations since his day, and whose majestic anthem "We praise Thee, O God, we acknowledge Thee to be the Lord," will continue to resound in the earthly temples till it is caught up by voices around the throne. St. Ambrose gave another immortal gift to the Church in the conversion of St. Augustine, the greatest of the Fathers, whose massive theology has been the study alike of Catholics and Protestants—of Bossuet and Luther and Calvin.

Near the church of St. Ambrose one may still see the mutilated remains of the great work of Leonardo da Vinci—the Last Supper—painted, as everybody knows, on the walls of the refectory of an old monastery, where it has had all sorts of bad usage till it has been battered out of shape, but where still Christ sits in the midst of His disciples, looking with tender and loving eyes around on that circle which He should not meet again till He had passed through His great agony. The mutilation of such a work is a loss to the world, but it is partly repaired by the many excellent copies, and by the admirable engravings, in which it has been reproduced.

From Milan to Genoa is only a ride of five hours, and we are once more by the sea. One must be a dull and emotionless traveller who does not feel a thrill as he emerges from a long tunnel and sees before him the Mediterranean. There it lies—the Mare Magnum of the ancients, which to those who knew not the oceans as we know them, seemed vast and measureless; "the great and wide sea," of which the Psalmist wrote; towards which the prophet looked from Mount Carmel, till he descried rising out of it a cloud like a man's hand; the sea "whose shores are empires," around which the civilization of the world has revolved for thousands of years, passing from Egypt to Greece, to Rome, to France and Spain, but always lingering, whether on the side of Europe or Africa, somewhere along that enchanted coast.

Here is Genoa—Genoa Superba, as they named her centuries ago—and that still sits like a queen upon the waters, as she looks down so proudly from her amphitheatre of hills upon the bay at her feet. Genoa with Venice divided the maritime supremacy of the Middle Ages, when her prows were seen in all parts of the Mediterranean. The glory of those days is departed, but, like Venice, her prosperity is reviving under the influence of liberty. To Americans Genoa will always have a special interest as the city of Christopher Columbus. It was pleasant, in emerging from the station, to see in the very first public square a monument worthy of his great name, to the discoverer of the New World.

Genoa is a convenient point from which to take an excursion over the Corniche road—one of the most famous roads in Europe, running along the Riviera, or the coast of the Mediterranean, as far west as Nice. A railroad now follows the same route, but as it passes through a hundred tunnels, more or less, the traveller is half the time buried in the earth. The only way to see the full beauty of this road is to take a carriage and drive over it, so as to get all the best points of view. The whole excursion would take several days. To economize our time we went by rail from Genoa to San Remo, where the most picturesque part of the road begins, and from there took a basket carriage with two spirited ponies to drive to Nice, a good day's journey over the mountains. The day was fair, not too hot nor too cool. The morning air was exhilarating, as we began our ride along the shore, winding in and out of all the little bays, sweeping around the promontories that jut into the sea, and then climbing high up on the spurs of the mountains, which here slope quite down to the coast, from which they take the name of the Maritime Alps. The special beauty of this Riviera is that it lies between the mountains and the sea. The hills, which rise from the very shore, are covered not with vines but with olives—a tree which with its pale yellow leaves, somewhat like the willow is not very attractive to the eye, especially when, as now withered by the fierce summer's heat, and covered with the summer's dust. There has been no rain for two months, and the whole land is burnt like a furnace. The leaves are scorched as with the breath of a sirocco. But when the autumn rains descend, we can well believe that all this barrenness is turned into beauty, as these slopes are then green, both with olive and with orange groves.

In the recesses of the hills are many sheltered spots, protected from the northern winds, and open to the southern sun, which are the favorite resorts of invalids for the winter, as here sun and sea combine to give a softened air like that of a perpetual spring. When winter rages over the north of Europe, when snow covers the open country, and even drifts in the streets of great capitals, then it seems as if sunshine and summer retreated to the shores of the Mediterranean, and here lingered among the orange gardens that look out from the terraced slopes upon the silver sea. The warm south wind from African deserts tempers the fierceness of the northern blasts. And not only invalids, but people of wealth and fashion, who have the command of all countries and climates, and who have only to choose where to spend the winter with least of discomfort and most of luxury and pleasure, flock to these resorts. Last winter the Empress of Russia took up her quarters at San Remo, to inhale the balmy air—a simple luxury, which she could not find in her palace at St. Petersburg. And Prince Amadeus, son of the king of Italy, who himself wore a crown for a year, occupied a villa near by, and found here a tranquil happiness which he could never find on the troubled throne of Spain. A still greater resort than San Remo is Mentone, which for the winter months is turned into an English colony, with a sprinkling of Americans, who altogether form a society of their own, and thus enjoy, along with this delicious climate, the charms of their English and American life.