"To reach America appears to be the desire of many in Italy," remarked another. "In the elevator of one of the hotels in Naples I found the elevator boy studying an English spelling book. He said, 'I am going to America as soon as I have money enough; there is a chance for me to become something if I can get to New York.' A cab driver asked me if I knew his cousin in Chicago. 'My cousin,' said he, 'saved enough money to buy a third-class passage to New York. That was just three years ago. Now he is sending money home to his friends to take them over. He must be doing well. We never have any money to give away.' Money to spare for his friends! That told the cabman the story of a golden land."
On Tuesday, as we sailed northward, we passed the island of Elba, on which the banished Napoleon remained ten months after his abdication. We endeavored to recall the history of the events that preceded the great Emperor's first downfall; the campaign in Russia, the burning of Moscow, the winter retreat, the depletion of the grand army by frost and hunger. But when the little island of Monte Cristo came in sight, memory brought to mind pleasanter recollections,—Dumas' story of the "The Count of Monte Cristo," so wonderful in our youthful days, Edmond Dantes' escape from the dungeon, the cave on the island, and the fabulous wealth concealed therein.
On the day of arrival at Nice, hundreds of owners of automobiles from all parts of Europe were assembled in that city for trials of speed; the morning races had taken place and the dust-covered racers were just coming in from their fast runs. On the way to the hotel we saw an automobile run over one man and knock another down. An excited French woman who was rolled over in the dust but not injured followed the offending car to the garage with tongue, hands, and arms all in rapid motion. She was giving the chauffeur a tongue-lashing and calling his attention to her soiled clothing. Her tirade prompted the chauffeur to draw some coins from his pocket and place them in her hand, and then her hurt feelings apparently were quickly relieved.
Nice has a delightful climate. It is protected from the cold winds of the north by hills and mountains and fanned by the mild breezes of the sea. Royalty, beauty, and wealth make their abode in this favorite resort on the shore of the Mediterranean during the winter season, and English lords, French counts, Russian princes, German barons, and American millionaires sojourn at the magnificent hotels or reside in beautiful villas.
The season of gaiety was just closing when we arrived and the hotels were not crowded, yet there was much to see. It was a pleasure to drive on the clean, well-paved avenues, which are shaded by great trees and lined with handsome homes and white stone hotels, passing lawns and gardens filled with palms, roses, choice flowers, and blooming vines. It was interesting to stroll along the sea front for two or three miles on a stone pavement fifty feet wide, the popular promenade of the city, with the waves of the blue sea rolling almost to your feet on one side and the wide avenue filled with handsome teams and motor-cars of every description on the other. It was entertaining to secure a chair in the park during the afternoon concert, and, comfortably seated, listen to the military band, admire the gowns of the French women, and note the variety of uniforms worn by the French officers. Those afternoons in the park were very restful for there was no hurry nor confusion nor crying of wares for sale, and the balmy sea breeze had a soothing effect on the nerves.
The weather was delightful and the air pure and clear when, on the morning of April fourth, a party of sixteen filled the seats of a four-horse drag for a drive from Nice to Mentone over the famous Corniche road, a round trip of over forty miles, noted as one of the finest drives in Europe. We had decided to go to Mentone over the Upper Corniche road, which winds among the mountains, and return by the Lower Corniche road, which follows the shores of the sea.
Our driver snapped his long-lashed whip and the horses started off as gaily as if they shared our exuberant spirits.
"That is the river Paillon," said the driver, pointing to a diminutive stream in the midst of a wide stony bed. "The river has very little water in it now, but when the snow melts in the mountains it becomes a torrent."
I. WINDS AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.