Marseilles is often called the Liverpool of France, but its importance has been somewhat lessened since the opening of the Mont Cenis tunnel. The great docks, wonderfully constructed and sheltered, were much improved and enlarged by Napoleon III.: some of the finest basins are cut out of the solid rock. The harbour is very extensive, and capable of containing over 1700 vessels; but the entrance is very narrow.
Here we stand and view the crowds of shipping, from the magnificent Orient liner, to the saucy, piratical-looking, Sicilian fruit felucca; the latter closely packed, with their sterns to the wharves, their enormous sails and masts telling of many a speedy voyage made, and their swarthy red-capped crews having much the appearance of what we suppose pirates might be, if piracy were now a paying instead of a dangerous game. As it is, their mission is to carry cargoes of oranges and other fruit to the Marseilles market.
We next ascend the Cordière Gardens, commanding beautiful views of the city as we wind round and upwards. The sea, running eastward into the heart of the town, forms the harbour; the older part of the town, with somewhat narrow streets and massive but irregular houses, occupies a triangular point to the north; while the new town—much the largest, consists of wide, handsome streets and many fine public buildings and institutions. It is, I think, an excellent plan, when visiting a place, to ascend some commanding height as soon as possible. You will comprehend much at a glance, and, with the typographical knowledge thus attained can afterwards find your way about much more easily and quickly. The fine harbour and docks, with the shimmering blue sea below, and the grand amphitheatre of sun-bleached hills rearing their rocky summits to the skies as a noble background, form a truly magnificent and impressive bird's-eye view.
On gaining the summit of these windy heights, we stand charmed with the pure beauty of the blue sky and sea. Away some few miles to the southeast are several small islands of a deeper blue than the waters that surround them. On one of these islands is the celebrated Chateau d'If, immortalized by Alexandre Dumas the elder, in his extraordinary romance of "Monte Christo."
After gazing for some time at the lovely view, we turn our attention to the very interesting church of Notre Dame de la Garde. On the highest pinnacle is a colossal gilt figure of the Virgin Mary, looking over the seas, and, as it were, guarding her poor sailor devotees engaged thereon.
This ancient beacon-like church has, I believe, been a votive shrine for sailors for some centuries; and was rebuilt from designs by Espèrandieu. It is prettily decorated inside by delicately stained windows, and has a small but fine organ. It is full of pathetic relics of poor lost mariners, and when the wind is howling on stormy nights, one can realize and understand the sentiments which prompted the building of this votive temple, and the numerous mementoes, literally covering its walls, placed there by loving hands in remembrance of dear ones lost—wrecked perchance in sight of home. Yes, the walls are covered with these tablets and touching mementoes, and with pictures illustrating the many terrible shipwrecks which have occurred.
Below is a crypt where the last offerings and prayers are made by sailors departing on a voyage; and, alas! it is filled with the saddest relics of those who have never returned. Those, however, who reach their homes in safety, make it a religious duty to offer up their grateful thanks.
The purposes of this sea-rock church struck me as a fine and beautiful expression of affection. I fear we lack much of this kind of sentiment in England—daily blessings are taken too much as a matter of course, while reverses are loudly mourned over as afflictions.
Whilst lingering in sympathetic thought, I saw an aged, white-haired woman, who, poor soul! having toiled all the way up these great heights, was now on her knees in sorrowful prayer. I saw also several younger women and maidens in deep mourning, some of them sobbing bitterly over their prayers. Alas! who could rightly enter into the depths of their individual sorrow?—perchance a tender husband, a loving son, or devoted sweetheart, lost in the angry waves below!
On descending, my attention was attracted by a sham military attack made by a regiment or two of French soldiers. It was interesting to see how they attempted to carry these well-defended, Gibraltar-like heights.