The life of the place is al fresco; everyone seems out of doors. Carts drawn by mules or donkeys, with country produce, bright little carriages to hold two or four persons as the case may be, the English officer on horseback—all these block up the middle of the street; whilst on the narrow sideway you wind your difficult way amongst monks and nuns and dark-eyed Spanish women with the national head-dress, and Moors who shuffle along bare-legged, with slippers to their feet, their whole person enveloped in their ample, hooded brown or blue cloak, while some wear the picturesque turban, and others simply rejoice in the well-known fez. As I contemplate the motley group a black-eyed and black-bearded, aristocratic-looking Moor makes a dart at me with a couple of fowls; but, as I decline to purchase, he manages to ask me for a penny—and, let me add, in vain, for I could not think of insulting such a gentleman by offering him so ridiculously small a sum. But I see no beggars, and if the common people look dirty, at any rate they appear to be well fed. I fancy a good deal of British gold, somehow or other, finds its way into their pockets. There are no ragged scoundrels to be seen, such as infest our London streets and are the terror of suburban residents. As you pass, the shopkeeper stands at his door and bids you look at his miscellaneous wares.
Of British manufactures I see little, except the biscuits of Huntley and Palmer or Peek and Frean. I see no shops with books except the depôt of the British and Foreign Bible Society—but the people manage to live, nevertheless. Meat is but sixpence a pound. You buy beautiful oranges at a shilling a hundred. The only dear thing in the place is house-rent. Not a room is to be had under five shillings a week. Some of my fellow-passengers dined at the leading hotel, and they think, and I agree with them, that the charge was rather high. Only goats’ milk is to be had, but as to cheap wine and low-priced spirits, they are to be procured in abundance, as two of our steerage passengers find out to their cost, as we leave them behind, and some who do manage to return may be termed rather fresh. The one great drawback of Gibraltar, as regards the resident, is the absence of fresh butter. Alas! ‘man never is, but always to be blest.’ Of what avail are cheap cigars and wine and meat without fresh butter? Many have their bread buttered on both sides, and surely the humblest of us have a right to its being buttered on one, at any rate. But I may not linger, as I know the Orizaba will sail at the appointed hour; but we seem long in getting out of the crowd of boats, full of oranges and cigars, the proprietors of which are doing a roaring trade with the steerage passengers, who let down the money from the deck and receive in exchange oranges that will set them up for the rest of their journey, and away we go, leaving the Rock, at the bottom of which nestle the yellow rows of streets and houses, all with green or white lattices, whilst on its lofty head rests a drizzly cloud worthy of Devonshire itself. On the other side of us are the brown African mountains—we steer between them as the day closes in, and early in the morning I open my eyes to see afar on our left, the rocky outline of Spain, and then we lose sight of land, and can see nothing but the Mediterranean till early on Saturday morning we pass the first lighthouse on the coast of Sardinia. We are now coming to ancient history, but for that I refer the reader to Rollin, the terror of British youth in an age of which the present reader, intelligent though he may be in his way, has but a faint idea.
People who believe in Italian skies and summer seas ought not to trust themselves in the Mediterranean in December. We had what the captain calls ‘a very heavy gale of wind,’ after we left the ‘Rock,’ which lasted till we were almost in the Bay of Naples—a gale that sent all the ladies to bed, and damped the spirits of everyone on board. I had the full benefit of all the discomfort, as, instead of choosing a berth for myself, I left it to the officials, believing that in fine weather any berth is pleasant, and in bad weather all are equally disagreeable. But at any rate I should not have chosen the one allotted me, the very last of the berths forward (you are aware that in the boats going through the Red Sea the best berths are all forward, on account of the heat), but in my case, unfortunately, every wave that fell on the deck all night long came with a heavy thump overhead, which did not exactly secure me a good night’s rest. However, all was forgotten as we steamed on Sunday morning past rocky Ischia into the famous Bay of Naples, which is far fairer than that of Swansea—in spite of all that gallant little Wales may say to the contrary. As I write the view is simply charming. All Naples is before me. On my left rises the lofty hill on which stands the Castle of St. Elmo. On my right are two high mountains—one of them, by the cloud of smoke hanging over it, and the flame of fire issuing from it, renders it quite unnecessary that I should ask anyone its name. You can tell Vesuvius at a glance. All the low land gradually rising away from the sea between them forms the site of delightful but dirty Naples.
I land as soon as the necessary formalities have been gone through—for they are very particular at Naples, and our purser and medical officer have first to go ashore in order to satisfy the authorities, a work sometimes extending over two hours. Fortunately, however, in a little while they are back, and we crowd on board the company’s tender, which for half-a-crown conveys the passengers on shore and returns them safe and sound as late as eleven or twelve o’clock at night. Boats of all kinds are around us. One contains a bold swimmer, who performs all sorts of wonderful exploits; others are laden with straw hats and baskets, and vendors of oranges and cheap jewellery and pipes, lava match-boxes, and amber mouthpieces. As I board the tender a pretty, smiling Italian flower-dealer puts a small camellia in my coat, which, however, I am ungallant enough to return. I fear she is like the flower-girls of Paris of whom Tom Moore writes, that they spoil a romance with pecuniary views. In a few minutes I am on shore amid a crowd of dirty black-haired and black-eyed Italians, who offer me carriages and guides with an intensity of verbosity (recalling that of a certain Grand Old Man) sufficient to appal the stoutest heart.
I am rather disappointed at first. Cook’s agents were to come on board, and one of them did put in an appearance, but that was all, which was a pity, as many of us were trusting to Cook as a tower of strength. In one respect I was especially disappointed. Cook was to take us all to Pompeii, give us lunch there, and bring us back for 12s.; but, alas! the King’s uncle had died, and Pompeii was shut up, and so was the Museum. What a misfortune it is that royal personages should trouble us so much! While alive, of course we must do all we can for them; but surely, when dead, when they have fairly passed to where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest, it is hard that they annoy us still. Many of us may never again have a chance of seeing Pompeii. But I steer clear of the guides and start off for a three hours’ prowl. What strikes the stranger is the loftiness of the houses, the narrowness of the streets, and the number of people. Locomotion in some is almost impossible, so dense is the crowd; while it is the same in others in consequence of the number of equipages, chiefly open carriages drawn by black horses quite overdone with heavily-plated harness. To add to the difficulties there has been a slight shower of rain, and as the scavenger seems to be unknown, the streets are very slippery; I saw one little child run over in consequence. Another difficulty of the pedestrian is the number of stalls on each side, for the sale, apparently, of everything that can be brought into the street to tempt the purchaser.
Judging by the number of bookstalls, the Neapolitans must be very great readers, for I never saw so many anywhere else. In many of the streets that run between the leading thoroughfares, the passage is so narrow that it would be almost easy to shake hands across. All the lofty houses are yellow, with green latticed windows and balconies. In many of the churches into which I peeped Mass was in progress, and the attendance was large of men as well as women. In some of the streets the shops were handsome, though quite small, while in the great arches between were caves, as it were, where carriages and horses waited, apparently for hire, while in others the cave had been fitted up as a café. The further one got from the harbour, the finer were the shops and streets. In one I saw a statue of Petrarch, and in another of Dante. The place is like a rabbit warren, and just as populous. Priests and policemen were everywhere. Here and there was a religious painting on the side of a house, before which tapers were burning, and in one street I observed a crucifix, to which the passers-by took off their hats. I went into a café and watched some play at a billiard-table, much smaller and with much bigger balls than those in use among us. Omnibuses and tramcars abounded. Perpetual motion seemed to be the order of the day. Some of my friends patronized the English hotels, where the charges seemed to me dear. One thing, and one thing only, amused me; I stumbled on a kind of eating-house; on the outside was inscribed, Déjeuner à la fourchette, which was Englished underneath as follows: ‘Breakfast to the fork.’ I did not enter. I feared, as the English was so bad, that the cooking might be worse. Altogether, my impression is that Naples looks best at a distance and by moonlight, when a halo of soft light is thrown over bay and street and mountain far away, and the hoarse cry of its thousand street-sellers and cabmen and guides is unheard; when even the distant tinkling of the bells of its many churches no longer reaches the ear; when between you and the crowded city is a world of water calm and still.
At Naples we took up more passengers and more mountains of luggage. Our captain is in despair. That luggage question is the terror of his life. He says that there would be no need of it if the company would but establish a laundry on board; and why should they not? It would be a great convenience to everyone, and save a vast amount of trouble. The cabins are choked up with packages. It would be as pleasant again for the passengers if they could have their clothes washed on board.
I fear I did injustice to a dead royalty. I find, after all, it was simply the fault of the company’s agent at Naples that most of us spent an idle day in that far-famed city. The distinguished representative of the distinguished Cook informed us that the Museum and Pompeii were closed that day, because the agent of the company with whom he came on board informed him such was the case. I find that they were not, and that a small party of our fellow-travellers visited both places; had lunch on shore, returned to the ship to dinner, and paid a visit to the theatre in the evening for a sum under £1 per head. As you may suppose, most of us were highly indignant at the conduct of the company’s agent, and described him in terms that, with the fear of the libel law in view, it may be dangerous for me to report. I mention the fact that travellers may not be deceived by what they hear on board, but go on shore and act for themselves. Many of my fellow-travellers are Scotch. The Scotch, Mr. Charles Reade tells us, are icebergs with volcanoes underneath, and we had quite a volcano on board as we summed up the experiences of the unfortunate day. I own it served me right, for, as a rule, I only believe half that I hear. I ought to have started for Pompeii—by myself, trusting to luck to get into the place. I am glad, however, to be able to do justice to Cook and Sons, the friends of the traveller in every part of the world. It is seldom that they make a blunder, or their agents either.
In another respect I am not disappointed. ‘The grand object of travelling,’ wrote Dr. Johnson, ‘is to see the shores of the Mediterranean. On those shores were the four great empires of the world—the Assyrian, the Persian, the Grecian, and the Roman. All our religion—almost all our laws—almost all our arts—almost all that sets us above savages has come to us from the shores of the Mediterranean.’ To sail down the Mediterranean, past Capri—a sunburnt rock—past Stromboli, through the Straits of Messina, over the far-famed Scylla and Charybdis of the ancients, past Etna, though unfortunately hidden from our vulgar gaze by the clouds of night, is undoubtedly an immense treat. But the rest of the journey is rather monotonous, though we were favoured by fine weather, a fortunate circumstance, as this part of the Mediterranean is particularly liable to sudden storms; and if it were not for sea-quoits, and the still more popular game of dumps, which consists in throwing small flat balls with lead inside on to a white-painted square board, on which numerals from one to ten are inscribed, it would be rather hard work to get through the weary hours. At Naples an agent came on board with the London morning papers four days old, which sold readily at half a franc each, and the perusal of them has helped to kill an idle time, and, besides, afforded topics for general conversation. For pedestrian exercise the Orizaba is admirably adapted, as eleven times round the promenade deck is supposed to be a mile, and at certain hours every one is supposed to be doing his or her ‘constitutional;’ thus, what used to be considered one of the bad effects of life at sea, its confinement, is entirely got rid of. Captain Conlan, our commander-in-chief, when off duty, has a friendly word for us all; but I must say, if tobacco be a slow poison, some of us are in a bad way, for I think without exception all the male passengers smoke; and at Gibraltar, where tobacco and cigars are cheap, most of them replenished their exhausted stores.
The principal event after leaving the Straits of Messina is the appearance of Crete, by the side of which, with her snowy-capped mountains, we steamed for about five hours. From her rocky foreground, resting on the blue waves, rise three mountain ridges, the chief of which ‘is many-founted Ida,’ towering 8,000 feet above the sea. As a caution to travellers, let me assure them how much one of Smith’s dictionaries would be appreciated. Smith, it may be, is correct, but he is pedantic. Lemprière would, perhaps, be better; in the home of legendary lore it is not wise to be over-critical. The Orient Company publishes a guide-book, but it is of little practical use, though it contains an immense amount of information, some excellent maps, and is a marvel of cheapness. You rarely get in such books what you really want to know. We have a professor on board, but professors nowadays are somewhat common. Men who shave and cut corns—men who examine your head, who risk their necks in parachutes, who excel in gymnastics, are called, or call themselves, professors; and I, perhaps because I know no better—probably it is so—may be a little sceptical as to the class. I always think of Barry Cornwall’s lines in which he speaks of