Cities of the Dawn

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James Ewing Ritchie. Cities of the Dawn

CHAPTER I. A RUN ACROSS FRANCE

CHAPTER II. OFF TO NAPLES

CHAPTER III. NAPLES OF TO-DAY

CHAPTER IV. POMPEII AND VESUVIUS

CHAPTER V. THE ISLES OF THE MEDITERRANEAN

CHAPTER VI. ABOUT ATHENS

CHAPTER VII. CONSTANTINOPLE

CHAPTER VIII. SMYRNA

CHAPTER IX. JAFFA TO JERUSALEM

CHAPTER X. THE HOLY CITY

CHAPTER XI. BETHLEHEM

CHAPTER XII. THE JEW IN JERUSALEM

CHAPTER XIII. ALEXANDRIA

CHAPTER XIV. IN CAIRO

CHAPTER XV. THE PYRAMIDS AND THE SPHINX

CHAPTER XVI. THE RIVER NILE

CHAPTER XVII. THE RETURN TO MARSEILLES

CHAPTER XVIII. AVIGNON

CHAPTER XIX. THE GREAT CITY OF LYONS

CHAPTER XX. DIJON, OR THE WINE COUNTRY

CHAPTER XXI. BOOKS OF REFERENCE

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I left off my last letter opposite Corsica. Since then – and this is the charm of coming to Naples in the Midnight Sun– we have passed quite a cluster of isles more or less renowned in history – such as Caprera, the rocky home of the great Italian, Garibaldi – of which, alas! we see nothing. In old times Caprera derived its name from the wild goats, its original inhabitants. Later on it was colonized by monks. ‘The whole island,’ says a contemporary writer quoted by Gibbon, ‘is filled, or, rather, defiled by men, who fly from the light. They call themselves monks, or solitaries, because they choose to live alone, without any witnesses of their actions. They fear the gifts of fortune from the apprehension of losing them, and, lest they should be miserable, they embrace a life of voluntary wretchedness.’ Elba, however, is visible, which the wiseacres whom Providence, for mysterious reasons of its own, at one time permitted to rule over European affairs, fixed on as the residence of the Corsican adventurer, in the childish belief that he who had aimed almost at universal empire, and had in vain attempted to grapple with and overthrow the pride and power of England, would be content to remain on that puny isle, within a hop, step and jump of France, as it were, and almost within speaking distance of the legions whom he had led to glory. Then we sailed past Monte Cristo, the scene of Dumas’ celebrated romance of that name. Mostly, at a distance, the isles look bare of life and vegetation, rocks rising out of the blue waves; and yet we know it to be otherwise. At best, however, they must be poor places to live in, far from the great battle of life, and out of touch with human progress. We pass Sardinia, but see little of it. This is Sunday, and to-day the Church clergy, who are numerous, seem to have had a good innings. Unfortunately, I came into collision with one of them. As I entered the smoking-room after breakfast, I saw there had been held there an early Communion, and the implements utilized on such occasions were lying about. In a light and flippant tone I asked whether this was High Church or Low Church or Broad Church. A little oily parson, who was apparently guarding the vessels, angrily exclaimed, ‘Sir, it is the Church!’ ‘Thank you,’ I said; ‘I only wanted to know. To me it is a matter of indifference.’ ‘That was very naughty of you,’ said a mild, gentlemanly young man at my side. Let everyone worship God, or what he takes to be God, as best he may. I scorn not the savage who bows down to idols of wood and stone. To him they represent a Divine presence and power. I claim a similar liberty for the High Churchman, who sees sacred emblems in vessels of human device to be bought in the shops, or wrought by devout females; but let him give me the same freedom, and not denounce me as little better than one of the wicked, as void of Christian faith, because I turn from man’s devices to cry out of the aching heart to the living God, if haply I may find Him.

But I am digressing; for the fact is that I always see more of sacerdotalism afloat than I do on land. We are getting on pleasantly as regards social companionship. It was very cold in the train to Dover, and I felt inclined to take rather a gloomy view of the situation. It was worse on board the Dover and Calais packet, where the whole of the deck was set apart for first-class passengers, while we unfortunate second-class men were sent down below to see what we could out of the cabin windows. But once in the French second-class carriages, really much nicer than our own, reserve was broken, the tongue began to wag, and all went merry as a marriage-bell. I was much pleased with my neighbour – a Yorkshireman, I think, who had brought with him a bag of new farthings to be utilized for backsheesh. He offered me some, but I refused. At my time of life I should not like to be caught by a wild Arab of the desert to whom I had offered a new farthing for the familiar sovereign, the use of which is known from China to Peru. The pompous elderly first-class passenger amuses me. He has got his English paper, and he carries it with him everywhere, in spite of the fact that its news is some days old. One of my fellow-passengers had bought himself at Marseilles a small footstool to keep his feet dry – a needless precaution, as all the seats are built with a view to protect the passengers from the damp of the decks, always rather moist after the early morning scrub and scour. The daily bath is in much request. The young Englishman must have his morning bath – a favourable sign, if it be true that cleanliness is next to godliness. We are rather a miscellaneous lot – there are Scotchmen, whose sweet Doric I fail to understand, and Cockneys, who ignore the letter h; but some of the ladies are charming, and that is saying a good deal.

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If you want to visit Vesuvius, apply at Cook’s offices, where you will find everything arranged for you in the most agreeable manner, and no difficulty of any kind. His funicular railway is one of the wonders of the place. The ascent of the cone requires two hours’ hard walking in deep ashes and on hard rubble lava – an undertaking not very pleasant for people affected with delicate hearts and constitutions, or bordering on old age. Get into one of Cook’s railway cars, and you are up in a few minutes. At the lower station there is an excellent restaurant belonging to the wonderful John Cook, whose headquarters are the Piazzi del Martini. I dined once at his restaurant at the foot of the cone, and it is one of the few dinners in my life to which I look back with pleasure. I had a friend with me, of course. It is never pleasant to travel – at any rate, in a foreign country – alone. We had a good rumpsteak and French beans, an omelette, and a bottle of the wine whose praises were sung by Horace when the world was much younger and fresher than it is now. After dinner we sat on the terrace, drinking black coffee and smoking cigars. Of course, as an Englishman, it gave me pleasure to reflect that our beautiful Princess of Wales had been there before me in 1893, with Victoria of Wales, the Duke of York, and a distinguished suite. As I sat smoking, it seemed to me as if I was monarch of all I surveyed. Naples was at my feet, far away behind was the green Campagna, with but here and there a solitary dwelling, and before me, in all its glory, the bay and its islands. If old Sam Rogers had gone up there to write his ‘Italy,’ I think he would have done better than he did – at any rate, I was never so near heaven before; and this reminds me that I have said nothing of the means of grace available to English Protestants when they come to Naples. There is an English Church in the San Pasquale à Chiagia, a Scotch Presbyterian opposite Cook’s offices, and a Methodist.

There are many ways of getting to Naples. I came this time overland by Paris and Marseilles, and thence, as I have said, by the Midnight Sun. If the weather is fine, and the Bay of Biscay in good form, I prefer to come by the Orient steamers right away from London. You have then no trouble till you land in Naples. We leave Black Care behind as we slip out of English fog and cold into the region of cloudless skies and starry nights. We smoke, or read, or feed, or walk the deck, or talk in the pleasantest manner. Perhaps we get a glimpse of Finisterre. Heroic memories come to us as we pass the seas where the Captain was lost – it is to be feared in consequence of defective seamanship. All along the coast and on those faraway hills the noise of battle rolled, and not in vain, for the struggle that ended in Waterloo placed England in the first rank among the nations of the earth.

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