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In the Refectory of the old Dominican Friary attached to the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, we saw Leonardo da Vinci's famous fresco of the Last Supper. It is on the wall of a large, bare, whitewashed room, this celebrated work being almost the only furniture and decoration. Although in a very bad state of decay and dilapidation, it is yet sufficient to draw hither artists from all quarters of the world, who are always busily copying the great work, aspiring to fill up the flaws of decay and age in the best way they can imagine the master's hand had originally painted it. But, in truth, there are few parts that have not been retouched at different times, and sometimes by far from skilful brushes; yet the painting bears, and will bear to the end, the divine and ineffable touch of genius given by the inspired mind which so carefully, lovingly, and thoughtfully designed it. It is very probable that the fame of this unique work will ultimately have to depend upon the fine copy in mosaics at Vienna, executed at Napoleon's command, and supposed to be the largest and finest mosaic in the world. The expression in the faces of the apostles is said to be most admirably preserved.
The painting itself, which took the great Leonardo twelve years to execute, was unfortunately painted in oils, and the plaster of the wall not being properly prepared, the paint flakes off from exposure to the damp. It retains just enough to show the emotions the artist wished to express, and which the best copies fail to produce. The motif of the work is most beautifully and pathetically represented. Amidst the loving peace of that last evening meal, Jesus sorrowfully bows His head, saying, "One of you shall betray Me." Then all are filled with the deepest agitation and dismay. Two of the disciples, Peter and James, I think, reaching behind the dark form of Judas, who clutches the bag, make signs to John to ask the Master who it is. But the silent, downcast attitude of the Saviour, the expression of heavenly resignation, seems but too truly to confirm the mournful words—"One of you shall betray Me."
I must here repeat my lamentation at the unfinished condition of the exterior of many of the cathedrals and churches of Italy, which I consider disgraceful, containing as they do so much that is beautiful in sculpture, painting, and art-treasures beyond value, which can never be replaced, and yet are allowed to gradually sink into oblivion and ruin. Little care is taken to preserve them, or prevent decay: often have I seen the damp saturating the walls on which were the most admired frescoes of the greatest masters, slowly but surely becoming spoiled and effaced. It must be more than the want of funds which prevents the people from properly finishing the buildings they took so much time to construct and decorate—some senseless superstition must attach to it in some way, I should think.
Santa Maria delle Grazie, adjoining the Friary, is an Abbey Church of the fourteenth century, and, with Gothic nave and picturesque cupola added by Bramante, is considered one of the best architectural specimens of its class to be found anywhere.
Passing through the glass-domed arcade by the Cathedral, we find ourselves in the Piazza della Scala, where there is a fine statue of Leonardo da Vinci by Naqui, in Carrara marble. The figure of the great painter, which is larger than life, stands alone on a lofty pedestal, his fine features full of concentrated thought, while below stand four of his pupils, as though in the act of catching a glow of inspiration from their master: the expression on all their faces is excellent, and wonderfully executed. The base of the pedestal is adorned with copies of the great painter's principal works in relief.
Here, too, is the famous Teatro la Scala, next to San Carlo at Naples, the largest in Italy, and capable of holding 3000 spectators. The highest ambition of an Italian artiste is attained when he or she has sung at this theatre, for it is a guarantee of success, and, having gained the suffrages of an audience on the boards of La Scala, they are certain of laurels on any other stage in Europe. This is the principal evening rendezvous of the Milanese, both high and low classes assembling for several hours, paying, however, less attention to the opera than to conversation, flirtation, gambling, and eating ices. The theatre has quite recently been lighted by electricity.
The Arnea, in the Piazza di Arni, built by the French, is dedicated to the populace for their open-air amusements, such as balloon ascents, rope-dancing, fire-works, races, shows, etc.: it contains seats for some 30,000 spectators. The Arc de Triomphe is considered the best of the kind in Europe.
The great picture-gallery at Milan, the Pinacoteca, in the Via di Brene, at the Palazzo delle Scienze e delle Arte, contains some six hundred paintings by celebrated artists, among them Raphael's Sposalizio, said to be the gem of the collection; Guercino's Abraham and Hagar; and a copy of Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper, which, however, is in a very bad condition. The Archilogio and other museums also contain paintings and other objects of interest; but having already traversed so many galleries in Rome, Florence, Naples, etc., we were disinclined to visit many of those at Milan. The Palazzo Reale is principally worth seeing for its fine ball-room, decorated with silk tapestries of the sixteenth century.
We visited the church of St. Ambrogio, in the Piazza of the same name. It was founded by St. Ambrose in the year 387. It was here that he baptized St. Augustine, and burst out with the grand Te Deum Laudamus, ascribed to him. In one of the naves is a gigantic pillar, with a bronze serpent. It is said to be the one put up by Moses in the wilderness, despite the evidence in Scripture of its complete destruction! Among other remarkable things there is an ancient pulpit; a splendid shrine of silver adorned with inscriptions and reliefs in honour of St Augustine's life; the Ambrosian Liturgy in vellum; a curious chapel behind the choir; and many interesting tombs, paintings, and frescoes.
The Ambrosian Library is in the Contrada della Bibliotheca, near the church of St. Sepolcro. It was founded by Cardinal Borromeo, and contains some 60,000 volumes and 15,000 manuscripts. Among the latter are many treasures: a Latin translation of Josephus, by Rufinius, on papyrus, supposed to be eleven centuries old; a copy of the Gospels in Irish, some seven centuries old; Petrarch's copy of Virgil; and autographic letters of Ariosto, Tasso, Galileo, Cavour, Garibaldi, and many others. The place is rich in objects of antiquity and paintings. It contains many of Raphael's cartoons, portraits by Leonardo da Vinci, Correggio's Christ, and the Mater Dolorosa, Raphael's Christ washing the disciples' feet, and others.
The Public Gardens afford a refreshing change from the city. They are not very extensive, and seem mostly monopolized by gaily attired nursemaids, with great spreading silver head-dresses, which give them somewhat of a conceited air. They strut about as if they were nursing the little kings and queens of the future. Around these Gardens is the fashionable drive, which is thronged on Sundays, when the people assemble to criticise the elite in their carriages.
The ladies of Milan are handsome, carry themselves gracefully, and dress remarkably well—no small praise in these days of pinching, deforming, and demoralizing French fashions; but it is strange how many men—young men especially—one sees at Milan, bent, stunted, and weak-kneed.
Milan is surrounded by a delightful country, and is most conveniently situated for excursions to the beautiful Italian lakes.
One morning we took train for Como. It was a most interesting journey, through fertile plains, luxuriantly clad with mulberry plantations for the propagation of silkworms; for silk is one of the principal commodities of Milan, and the plain silks of Lombardy are still considered the best in Europe. Nature is very kind to these rich and beautiful plains; it is still—
"Fruitful Lombardy, The pleasant garden of great Italy."
I should think there are few places where vineyards exist so abundantly, yet wine-making seems an industry little understood in modern Italy; or has the flavour of her grapes undergone a change? Who can forget the famous Falernian, quaffed by the emperors of Rome? At the present day, Italian wines, cheap and abundant as they may be, are certainly poor in quality. One would think wine-making was a lost art—at least, as understood by the ancients.
But to return to the landscape scenery through which we were passing. The plains and valleys are cooled and invigorated by numerous streams and canals. Monza is the first station stopped at, a small town with some 15,000 inhabitants. Its Cathedral is built on the site of a church founded by the Lombard Queen Theodolinda, dedicated to St John the Baptist. Monza has a Town-hall, and a royal summer Palace, both possessing ancient interest. From here there is a line going to Lecco, a point somewhat higher than Como, almost at the extremity of the eastern fork of the lake Como, being situated at the extremity of the larger western fork. The wedge-like point which separates these two branches, called Bellagio, is charmingly situated, commanding the most lovely and extensive scenery; it is, therefore, one of the most frequented spots in the lake district.
After Monza, we pass through more than one tunnel, and several villages and small towns of Roman foundation. Not one of these places seems to have been overlooked by the ancients. They worked hard for the glory of their great empire, and sought these quiet and beautiful spots so favoured by Nature to recruit their strength and energy. But, as at Tivoli near Rome, we see all along the shores, and on the way to these Italian lakes, the proofs of their persevering activity and genius, employed in the adornment of their summer retreats, leaving, after centuries of time, sufficient to excite our wonder and admiration; and to satisfy us that these great men of old knew both how to work and how to enjoy themselves.
Como is quite an ideal little town, rich in reminiscences, and full of life and beauty. The Cathedral is, next to that at Milan, the finest in Northern Italy. It is severely Gothic; indeed, there is a certain severity in most of the architecture of the town. There are some fine paintings, chiefly by Guido and B. Quini. On either side of the porch are the figures of the two Plinys, who used often to make the Villa Pliniana their residence, writing many of their celebrated works there. In the gardens of the villa is a fountain of which Pliny the younger made frequent mention in his letters.
The Villa d'Este, some three miles from the town—built by Cardinal Pompeo Galleo, who was born near Como and which afterwards became the retreat of poor Queen Caroline of Georgian memory—is now annexed to the well-known inn, the Regina d'Inghilterra. There are numerous other beautiful villas, interesting both on account of their own merit and the famous names associated with them.
The steamer leaves Como three times daily for excursions to various parts of the lake. Carriages are also available to all points of interest, and the rail goes straight to Bellagio. We preferred going by water, and were soon steaming up the lake, crossing occasionally from shore to shore to take in passengers. At first the morning was a little dull and cold, giving a somewhat sombre tone to the scenery; but after a time the sun shone out brightly, chasing away the shadows and lighting up the wondrous beauties of the Alpine landscape, bringing forth glints of coloured light from the dazzling waters, which reflected the blue sky overhead—a charming and fairy-like change, as if the wand of some good genius had been waved around, effecting a complete transformation.
The lake is some thirty miles in length, and its greatest width is about two and a half miles. The depth in some parts is profound—some 1900 feet, and all around are the great lofty mountains. The fact of the two shores being seen so distinctly add, I think, not a little to the impressive grandeur of the scene. The mountain slopes are beautifully wooded. Sometimes a great chasm intervenes; and, nestling picturesquely here and there in bowers of green, or poised gracefully, commanding the finest points and curves of the lake, or again scattered around the shores, are the summer residences of the Milanese aristocracy. Winding in and out, crossing from shore to shore, there is an ever-varying panorama, delightful and unexpected surprises continually opening out to the enraptured gaze. At each little station we come to a boat puts off from the shore, bringing a few fresh passengers, and the mails and parcel traffic of the lake; returning with the same, and such passengers who desire to land.
At last we reach Bellagio, where the lake divides. Here one would fain linger, it is so grand, so beautiful, so still,—the snow-capped mountains rising in sublime majesty from the deep blue lake to the paler blue of the sky, their sternness broken by the forests on their slopes, and the brilliant colouring of the trees,—the tender green of the fresh spring foliage contrasting finely with the grey tints of the sombre olive—the whole, with its moving lights and shadows, mirrored faithfully in the bosom of the lake below.
"Sublime, but neither bleak nor bare, Nor misty are the mountains there— Softly sublime, profusely fair, Up to their summits clothed in green,— And fruitful as the vales between, They lightly rise, And scale the skies, And groves and gardens still abound; For where no shoot Could else take root The peaks are shelved and terraced round."
The only thing that disturbed the dream-like enjoyment of the moment was the presence on board the steamer of three rowdy Americans, who preferred to be "funny," and caricature the sublime splendour around them, rather than enjoy it with grateful admiration. Their foolish conceit prevented them keeping this so-called fun to themselves. Happily, it is not often one travels in such disagreeable company, though one too frequently meets with those whose sole object in coming to these beautiful spots is the ambitious one of being able to say on their return home that they have "done" Italy. I am obliged to admit, however, that these are mostly my own countrymen.
After luncheon at the Grand Hotel at Bellagio, which we enjoyed in the verandah, with a magnificent view of the lake spread before us, we took a stroll on the shore, and looked at the little shops, where we saw in process of manipulation the Italian pillow-lace, of which, as a matter of course, my wife longed to make purchases.
The hotels are charmingly situated about the shores of the lake, commanding the most beautiful views of the grand scenery around; they seem to be comfortable, and are reasonable in their charges. Certainly a more pleasant place for a short stay could not be found; the hill-climbing excursions would be delightful. Towards evening we returned on board the little vessel, and steamed quietly down the lake, calling at the different stations on our way, and thoroughly enjoying the beauty of the evening shadows, the sombre mountains sinking into peaceful repose, and the water no longer mirror-like, but calm and dark.
"All heaven and earth are still—though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most, And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep;— All heaven and earth are still. From the high host Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast, All is concentr'd in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence."
The train from Switzerland was awaiting us on our arrival at Como, and we were soon speeding away to Milan, having greatly enjoyed our trip to this lovely Italian lake.
[H] Thanks to the author of "The Bitter Cry from Outcast London," there is now a noble stream of generous sympathy flowing from West to East—from those in affluence to their fellow-creatures in distress; and the words of the Psalmist are at last being realized, "The poor shall not alway be forgotten."
CHAPTER XXV.
Climate of Milan—Magenta—Arrival in Turin—Palazzo Madama—Chapel of the Holy Napkin—The lottery fever—View from the Alpine Club—Superga —Academia delle Scienze—Departure—Mont Cenis railway—The great tunnel—Modane—Farewell to Italy.
Before leaving Milan, I should like to say a word on its healthfulness. An eminent medical man, recently writing on the subject, says, "On account of the neighbourhood of Milan to the Alps, its climate in winter is cold and damp, and occasionally foggy. The irrigation of the rice-fields, with which Milan abounds, is a fertile source of fevers of all types, which, together with thoracic inflammation, phthisis, rheumatism, and affections of the digestive organs, are the most prevalent diseases." The same authority gives Como a scarcely less baneful character. For my own part, I can only say that, whatever may be the condition of Milan in the winter time, in the month of March, when we were there, the climate was most enjoyable, the air pure and bracing. All the hotels, however, are not equally healthful in their sanitary arrangements, one of my friends having been subjected to a serious illness from this very cause; and the Italian doctor (a Milanese) who attended him did not hesitate to condemn the sanitary condition of the hotel where he was staying at the time of his illness. The hotels in the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele are, I believe, without reproach in this respect.
After leaving Milan, we passed through Magenta, situated amid fertile corn-fields and plantations of mulberry trees. This was the scene of one of the greatest battles in the war which gained Italy her freedom from the hated rule of Austria. Close to the railway station is a huge pyramidal monument, indicating the spot where the brunt of the battle was borne, and erected to the memory of the brave French who fell in the contest. All along the route are mementoes of the late war. Casting our eyes over the level plains, occasionally broken by the river Ticino, and undulating towards the hills, it was interesting, though sad, to imagine the desperate conflicts of which it had so recently been the scene—these now peaceful plains and valleys saturated with the blood of valiant men, whose bones lie beneath the green sod and waving corn! The result, however, was glorious—a People's Freedom! Very different to the selfish ends and aims of the insatiable Napoleon!
Reaching Turin, we found the station, like that at Milan, an imposing structure, standing in a fine open space planted with trees, the Piazza Carlo Felice. This is surrounded by a colonnaded square—from which runs the Via Roma, one of the principal streets—and extends as far as the Piazza Castello. The streets, which are long and straight, like those of an American city, in some cases seem to run right up to the circling foot of the snowy Alps; and, looking up these streets towards the north, one gets most lovely vistas of the grand Alpine range, and feels their majestic presence by the dazzling light reflected from their snowy slopes, and the cold air from their icy peaks, to which the fair blue of the sky above forms a beautiful canopy.
Turin seems to have been badly treated; the removal of the seat of government from her to Milan, Florence, and ultimately to Rome, caused the value in land, etc., to fall considerably. The city was extended, great piazzas and streets lined with handsome shops, tramways laid down in all directions, theatres built on a large scale, and all preparations for making it the capital of Italy; and this expenditure proved, after all, a needless outlay, for soon the city was comparatively deserted, so far as fashion and gaiety are concerned, and these go far to make the vigour and wealth of a rising town. It is, however, busy and industrious in its trade and commerce, and alive with factories; yet recent events have left very distinct traces in Turin, almost more so than in any other Italian city.
Turin, or Torino, was founded by the Taurini, a Ligurian tribe, and was destroyed by Annibal about the year 218 B.C. It was ruled during the Middle Ages by its own dukes. The House of Savoy continued to hold it from the middle of the eleventh century until the late disturbances in Italy. Most of the streets of Turin converge into the Piazza di Castello, in the centre of which stands the Palazzo Madama, a weird-looking, half-ruined building overgrown with ivy, with a gloomy look about its desolate towers. It is a fine and picturesque old place, especially on a moonlight night—a unique relic of the Middle Ages. Near it are the Royal Palace and the Duomo. The former is not unlike a barrack externally; but it contains a noble staircase and fine banqueting and reception rooms, the ceiling and floors being especially worthy of admiration. From the palace chapel, which is entered from the great hall, you can look right down to the Cathedral adjoining. This chapel of the Santo Sadano (or Holy Napkin) was built in 1648, to receive one of the folds of the shroud in which the Saviour was supposed to have been wrapped by Joseph of Arimathaea. This relic is contained in an altar under the cupola. One cannot help feeling anger and amazement at these miserable impostures on the ignorance of credulous devotees. We were actually shown by one of the priests an oblong frame, about thirty inches by twelve, containing a tracing, probably photographed, of this holy napkin, which, having been pressed against the Saviour's face, retained the imprint of His features; and so this piece of old linen was duly worshipped, and has probably brought a comfortable income to the priests from the pockets of the superstitious and easily beguiled multitude. There is no end to the so-called marvels in these Romish churches.
The Cathedral is built on the site of a Lombard church of the seventh century, but does not contain anything of much interest. Indeed, among the hundred churches at Turin, there are really few worth a visit; perhaps the Consolata Church, including a chapel of the tenth century, is the best of these. Canon Wordsworth quotes an incident relative to this church. "A poor man prayed to the Madonna to reveal to him some lucky numbers for the lottery. He had a dream, in which, as he imagined, she suggested a trio of numbers. He made his purchases accordingly, but they turned out blanks. In revenge for this delusion, he attacked the image of the Madonna della Consolazione, when borne in procession through the city to the Superga, and mutilated it with a hatchet. The mob was enraged, and would have torn him in pieces had he not been rescued by the soldiers, and he was conveyed as a madman to a lunatic asylum." These lotteries are a means of ruin and demoralization in every Italian town, the lottery offices, where the winning numbers are displayed, being only less plentiful than the cafes. I believe many of the poorer people invest their savings in these "official" gambling-places, and the majority are much the worse for so doing. But the State evidently profits by this infatuation for gaming, just as the pope and the priests enrich themselves by the blind superstition of the ignorant and foolish. The suppression of these Lotto banks should be among the first reforming acts of Italy: far wiser to substitute a State savings-bank, on the lines of our Post-office system. Bearing to the eastward of the Castello, up the Via di Po, we came to the Ponte di Po, a fine bridge across the river, which greatly resembles the Arno, but is rather cleaner in colour. Crossing the bridge, we mounted the rather steep hill to the Capuchin Church of Del Monti at the top. This hill has been of great military importance in a strategetic point of view, commanding, as it does, the town, river, and valley. A little higher up is a kind of observatory; and on ascending the stairs, we found ourselves in the Alpine Club of North Italy. Here is an interesting little Museum, with a very good and instructive collection of Alpine plants, minerals, maps, etc. From the balcony outside we had a most glorious and impressive view. Immediately below, the river Po, pursuing its rapid course towards the sea, watering the valleys on its way,—rich plains stretching far and wide, and the city of Turin lying in a grand mountain hollow, spread like a map before us; beyond, like an impenetrable barrier, and arranged in a mighty semicircle, towered the great Alpine range. On the left, the Maritime Alps; then the Cottians, with Monte Viso, Mont Cenis, and the Grand Paradis, the Pennines to Monte Rosa, and the Lombard Alps. I looked up at this mighty barrier, its summits deep in misty clouds and vapour, the bright sun glittering on the thick snow, and the blue sky reflecting all manner of lovely hues on the white slopes and beautiful plains beneath:
"Above me are the Alps, The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, And throned Eternity in icy halls Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls The Avalanche—the thunderbolt of snow! All that expands the spirit yet appals, Gather around these summits, as to show How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below."
It was indeed a sublime and impressive sight—one of the grandest views of the Alps to be obtained in Italy. The early forenoon is the time to see it to the best possible advantage, which we were not fortunate enough to do, the heights being frequently enveloped in mist. Away to the south is the great hill called Superga, some 2000 feet above the sea. From thence there is probably a much more extended view from west to east, but the Alps would be seen from above—to my mind a far less majestic and imposing sight; moreover, it occupies some three or four hours to climb the Superga, whilst the observatory of the Capuchins is but half an hour's walk. Yet this hill is decidedly worth a visit if time be no object, not only for the noble extent of landscape surveyed from its heights, its convent, and church, but as the mausoleum of many of the royal family of Italy. The best views are, I believe, to be obtained from the gallery of the college.
The Academia delle Scienze, in the Piazza Carignano, should not be missed, as it contains a very interesting Museum of natural history; Egyptian, Grecian, Etruscan, and Roman antiquities; and a fine gallery of paintings, including some of the best works of Vandyke, Raphael, Paul Veronese, Guido, Titian, Rembrandt, Guercino, Carlo Dolci, and other of the great masters.
Turin appeared to me to be a particularly quiet city, especially after business hours. The evening delights and amusements would seem to consist of the underground concert-rooms, where the long and silent drama is enjoyed over wine and tobacco. A peep into one of these places showed the evident disfavour in which the priesthood is held, a nun and a priest being introduced on the stage for the exposure of the laughter and hisses of the audience.
Although leaving much unseen in Turin, we did not regret our departure, as we were anticipating our journey on the morrow, by the Mont Cenis railway, through the magnificent and sublime scenery of which we had heard so much. It is said—and I can well imagine the truth of it—that, owing to the circle of mountains around it, Turin is exceedingly cold in winter, and very hot in summer, and therefore to be avoided during these seasons. The autumn is considered the pleasantest time for a visit. However, we fortunately found it bright and bracing during our brief stay.
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We left Turin on April 12, by the 8.50 a.m. train.
It was a fine, bright morning, and we had a capital and comprehensive view of the whole of the glorious Alpine range; the peak of Monte Viso towering majestically to the clouds, and in the foreground the deep purple tints of the nearer hills contrasting finely against the white slopes in the distance, the green fields relieving the eye from the dazzling loveliness of the snow. Passing Alpigano, and entering a gap in the line of hills, the train left the plains, and commenced the ascent. San Ambroglio is soon passed, with its octagonal church; in the distance, on the top of Mount Piecheriano, is the old monastery Sagra di Michele. It is said that in the tombs of this Abbey, owing to the peculiar nature of the soil and atmosphere, the dead bodies are preserved perfectly mummified. Crossing the river Dora, and passing Borgone and Bassolemo, we now really commence the Mont Cenis railway. On the left is the old castellated fortress Bruzolo, picturesquely perched on the hilltop, a little village with a large church at its base. Recrossing the Dora, we pass some beautiful chestnut woods, through several tunnels, and thence on to Susa, the valley expanding, cultivated with terraced vineyards and gardens. We now obtain grand retrospective views of the beautiful valley below, with glimpses of ancient Roman ruins and aqueducts; the arch of Augustus peeping out of the magnificent scenery, and reminding one of the great spirits of the Latin race, with their eye ever open to the beautiful and the grand. The old Mont Cenis road winds prettily up the hill; the snow-clad Alps on the right and left, the great Roche Melon and Roche Michel soaring to the clouds. The valley then contracts and winds round a great rocky chasm (the Wild Gorge), where the hills are veritably rent asunder, passing through which one involuntarily shudders, and dreams of being in the land of some Titanic race, whose rocky thunder-bolts are ready to fall upon and crush the small, fragile creatures who have ventured to their mountain fastnesses.
After passing through several tunnels, with occasional glimpses of the scenery between, we at last emerge into the more peaceful plains near Chiomonti, the white-tipped mountains still soaring high above us. Now we once more plunge into the bowels of the earth, fitfully emerging into the bright sunshine, and skimming by splashing mountain streamlets and picturesque waterfalls, now and again gliding between banks of primroses and bluebells. At Saibertrand our two small engines are replaced by one of equal power. Here we have the snow lying in patches on the ground around us, and a fine rushing mountain stream fed by the many springs and rivulets from the mountain slopes, the Alpine range on our left beautifully timbered with fir forests. Now come another series of sparkling streams, flowing through the alluvial deposits carried down from the mountains, and so on to Casa No. 69. Passing a rushing mountain stream, spanned by an iron bridge, we leave the snowy Alps behind us, only one bold peak appearing at the end of the valley—where a little town is nested—almost filling up the gap with its wintry summit, and making a beautiful outline against the blue sky. And now we stop at Onyx, a station of some importance. Here we find the Hotel Gozie, a nice-looking building, close to the great Mont Cenis tunnel, and evidently intended for the convenience of Alpine climbers. Here we are apparently locked in by a little circle of hills, grand Alpine peaks forming a crescent on our left. The atmosphere is now much colder, for we are nearing the snowy hills. Another engine is attached to the train, and we are soon winding round and between the mountain barrier, then through a short tunnel, the fir-clad, rocky hills towering up on our left, great snow-drifts and icicles hanging down the gorges and slopes. One more short tunnel, and we wind round past Stazione 89 and stop at Bardonnecha, the line abruptly ascending. Now a little town appears, and conspicuous in its square is the statue of some eminent citizen, surmounted by an outspread eagle; and then we penetrate the snowy mountains; and at last, when expectation is almost spent, we enter the great Mont Cenis tunnel, at first getting little intermittent flashes of light, and then indeed entombed within the great mountains, like frogs in granite.
Here indeed—minus the dreaded sea above us—was an experience of the horrid discomfort of the insanely wished-for Channel Tunnel, and I heartily prayed the scheme might never be accomplished. We entered the tunnel at about 12.7 p.m., and emerged at about 12.35, having been about half an hour in going through. Yes! we have really pierced the great Groge range of the snowy Alps at a height of some 8000 or 9000 feet, and can form some faint idea of the God-given power of Man over Nature. Hovering on the outskirts of this thought, there comes a far-off glimpse of the infinite greatness and goodness of God; and where indeed could such a reflection more fitly come than here, amid the grandeur and beauty of these mighty, snow-clad hills, rearing their icy summits to the skies; the wild passes, with their solemn rocky chasms and narrow defiles; the rushing torrents and sparkling cascades; the cloudless blue sky; and the innocent bluebells and primroses lying so trustfully at the feet of the great frowning rocks above—all working together like the moving light and shadow in such perfect majestic harmony?
One feels—
In beauteous vale, on Alpine snow-clad heights, In splendours of the days or glories of the nights, In frowning rocks o'erhanging depths below, On mossy banks where sweet flowerets grow, We see God's power and love infinitely wide— "Thy Truth, most mighty Lord, on every side."
As a tunnel, Mont Cenis is of no very extraordinary length; but, being composed of almost solid rock, the boring operation for so great a distance must have proved exceedingly difficult, the width being twenty-six feet, and the height nineteen feet. Some 2000 men were constantly employed at each end for nearly nine years. The steep ascent, of some 8000 feet, is another marvellous feature. The total cost was, I believe, about three millions of pounds sterling. The boring machines were worked by compressed air. The men who accomplished this great work should not be forgotten—their names were Sommellier, Grandis, and Grattoni.
Before leaving the tunnel there was an evident feeling that we were already descending, and when at length we emerged a grand and wonderful panorama burst upon our view, all the more beautiful and refreshing after our late dark imprisonment, which made us dread the very thought of a Channel Tunnel. The great snow-capped mountains were still on our left and behind us; while beneath, almost buried in the valley, lay a little town, Stazione 86. Yet once more we are engulfed in a long tunnel, almost seeming to fly down the rapid descent. We now leave the great Alpine range circling in our rear; and now precipitous mountains tower on our right hand, the fir-tree forests with which they are clothed evidently a source of great profit to the good people here, who are felling, cutting, sawing, and evidently preparing to send the timber away. And now, at 12.45 p.m., we reach Modane, are past the Italian boundary, and once more in la belle France.
Here there is a good buffet, and a French breakfast ready for those who wish it.
* * * * *
And now farewell to fair Italia! Her loveliness of Nature and beautiful works of art; her magnificent Cathedrals and splendid Palaces; her treasure-filled galleries and wonderful museums; her noble monuments and queenly ruins—fit emblems of her glorious past; and to her generous and patriotic men and women a reluctant adieu and tender farewell.
Alas, that there should be any reverse to such a picture! that there should still linger in her churches and religious life the fluttering rays of a blighting superstition! that there should be a want of true modesty and cleanliness in the habits of her people! that an ignoble love of ease should still characterize her upper classes, while the lowest orders generally are steeped in ignorance and importunate mendicancy! and that enervating and dirty habits should be engendered in her people by their inveterate indulgence in the cheap wine and tobacco of the country!—though, in common fairness, I should add that it is as rare to see drunkenness in Italy as, unfortunately, it is common in our own country.
There are things in fair Italy, as doubtless there are in fair England, to which there is no reluctance on our part to bid adieu, and among them, to descend to smaller grievances, are the exorbitant hotel charges; disgusting railway station accommodation; and dirty railway carriages, owing chiefly to the national habit of persistent smoking, and the difficulty of keeping the smokers to their own compartments.
Yet with all these drawbacks, one cannot but feel that Italy is springing into a noble national life. I believe she has a great heart and a great future before her, which will prove worthy of her past nobility and glory, and of the generous sympathy felt for her—perhaps most unselfishly so by England. I think we are justified in feeling a greater sympathy for Italy than for France, for I believe she truly reciprocates it; while the French show towards us a dislike almost verging on jealous antipathy, while in themselves they are entirely given to frivolity and caprice—a hopeless scepticism and impudent immorality: their naturally great powers seem exclusively devoted to selfish objects, and the worship of Fashion and Pleasure!
CHAPTER XXVI.
From Modane to Paris—Lovely scenery—St. Michel—St. Jean de Maurienne —Epierre—Paris—Notre Dame—French immorality—La Manche—"Dear old foggy London"—Reflections and conclusion.
After a thorough examination of our luggage by the French authorities, we leave Modane for Paris, a very powerful engine taking us in tow. At Modane the scenery is very grand: fine waterfalls, rocky mountains with great pine forests, and their slopes sometimes enlivened by the pink blossom of the almond tree—a capital place for Alpine climbers.
In consequence of the immense masses of loose overhanging rock, we had to advance slowly and cautiously, and we frequently looked up with some dread lest they should fall upon and utterly crush us. It was interesting to see the congealed waterfalls among the fir-crowned heights above, and some of the great romantic ravines filled with masses of frost-bound snow; while here and there we came upon small wooden crosses, marking the grave of some too adventurous climber or poor peasant guide. By-and-by we pass through a series of short tunnels, great care being necessary, as works are constantly going on to support the weight of the great mountain boulders and to prevent the tunnels falling in; for the water drainage saturates and loosens the masonry. One now obtains some idea of the enormous expenses of the line, and the difficulties contended with it. Descending, we lose for a time the snow-clad hills, which have been our companions for so long; the rivulets join and increase to a rushing, tumbling stream, following madly after us, until we stop at St. Michel, the first station after leaving Modane. Here a great mountain close to us completely covered with snow rendered the air around intensely cold. Continuing our route down into the valley, still accompanied by the lively, chattering stream, now widening into a roaring river, we have a great mountain range on either side, and pass through a lofty narrow gorge. Looking back, I could scarcely discern the cleft in the rocky barrier through which we had come.
And now we see a pretty homely scene among these snow-clad hills. At St. Jean de Maurienne, close to the railway, was a road leading to the valley down which troops of school-children tripped merrily along, led by Sisters of Mercy in their quaint, white winged caps, the healthy, joyous faces of the little ones evidencing to the kindness and care of these good women. What indeed would the inhabitants of these wintry mountain regions, so far from the civilization of great cities, do without their clergy, and the noble sisterhood who devote themselves to a life of usefulness and charity?
Later on we passed through another rocky defile, where we saw a little octagonal chapel perched upon a hilly promontory, overlooking a bridge across the river. Here the great mountain peaks were quite lost in the clouds, and the ruggedness of the scenery was grand in the extreme. Some of the immense pinnacles and jutting rocks were most fantastically shaped, like the residence of some fabled giant, in contrast to the little ruined castles we frequently saw, adding a touch of old-world romance to the landscape:
"The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been In mockery of man's art."
The valley between the mountains now widens, showing in the distance fertile plains, and now and then a picturesque little village, and other signs of human life and energy. Then again the scenery varies, magnificent snow-clad mountain peaks rising some 7000 or 8000 feet above us. Mont Blanc lies behind this range to the right, but is lost in the clouds—we making our way down to the valley of the Rhone, alone with the rushing stream, nothing else disturbing the silence of the sublime grandeur around.
Almost suddenly we descend to Epierre, where there is a pretty little iron bridge spanning the foaming river. Here the hillsides slope down gradually more and more, and every inch of ground is thriftily cultivated, the industry of the French far exceeding that of the Italians, who are for the most part a careless, easy-going race of beings. At Acquebelle we stopped. The marshes in the neighbourhood render it very unhealthy. At Mont Melian the route lies through fertile plains, the snowy Alps being now almost left behind. The landscape towards Chambery and Viviers is something like the Italian lake district. Passing Aix-les-Bains, we run along the borders of the long narrow lake Bourget, a fine coach road lying between us, affording a very beautiful drive. Aix, the popular watering-place, is celebrated for its sulphurous springs and vestiges of ancient Roman baths there. This was a refreshing change of scenery, but the lake seemed somewhat monotonous after the beauties of Como. At the end of the lake is a small promontory with a castellated building, commanding a fine view of the distant Alps.
The route after Culoz is considerably elevated. We pass several beautiful waterfalls, and at length cross the Rhone, through whose lovely valley we wind with just sufficient daylight to see its beauties.
"All the hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star, Their magical variety diffuse: And now they change: a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day Dies like the Dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till—'tis gone, and all is grey."
Travelling through the night, we reach Paris at early morn (April 13th), and are sharply reminded, by the severe cold, of the difference in temperature we have lately been accustomed to in sunny Italy; the vegetation and all else is covered with silver frost.
Paris—the gay, beautiful, busy Paris—is as brilliant as ever; every one seemingly bent on pleasure, light and volatile as the air they breathe. In this city life hovers April-like between a tear and a smile! Visiting the great Cathedral of Notre Dame, we witnessed an impressive funeral service. The coffin in the centre of the nave, near the transept, was covered with flowers, and lighted candles were placed around it. The friends and relations having assembled, several priests, deacons, and acolytes appeared, and the service commenced. So far as the priests were concerned it was very mechanical, even to the elevation of the Host, and the sprinkling of the coffin and friends of the deceased with holy water; but the dirge-like chanting in and between the service was very beautiful and solemn. Many coffins were brought in and conveyed to the different chapels within the Cathedral during this service. It would appear that the length of the ceremonies depend upon the amount of money paid for them: but, as in the confessional, the priests profit more, I fear, than either the dead or the living.
On another occasion, we were present at a preparation for the Holy Communion in one of the chapels. Some twenty or thirty young girls, robed in white, with long veils, were sitting together, their friends and relatives seated at some little distance on the other side. The priest having read and lectured, some fine chants were sung by the young maidens, and they were dismissed with a blessing.
While in Paris this time, I was struck with the number of indecent photographs by no means to be confounded with works of art, in the windows of shops in the Rue de Rivoli, and indeed almost everywhere; such photographs, as we should never allow to be exhibited in London, yet here nothing was thought of it. Even ladies stopped to examine them without a blush. Indeed, it appeared to me that such is the impudent immorality and impurity now in Paris, that such an expression as an innocent blush would be difficult to detect, more especially as the conscience—that delicate sympathy of the mind which would cause it to shrink from all that was not perfectly pure and beautiful—is made to retire and give place to reason and materialism. The pleasure and satisfaction of the senses seems to be all that they consider worth living for. Pleasure is God, and both the soul and body bow before it. Poor France, after so much suffering and national disgrace, still fondly hugs the filthy rags of Irreligious Reason, which she sadly calls liberte, equalite, and fraternite.
Next morning (April 14th), we crossed the Channel in delightfully smooth water, and arrived in London safely once more. Dear old London, with all thy fogs I love thee still! Every true Englishman, even after travelling in climates more genial than his own, ever feels a tenderness in returning to his own island home once more. Taken as a whole, there is no city like London; no country or even climate like that of England. Although we have no majestic snow-capped Alps around us, nor the eternal blue skies and sunny climate of Italy, nor the classical and ancient mementoes of Rome and Greece,—yet we have wild mountain scenery, beautiful lakes, lovely undulating and richly timbered landscapes, dimpled by happy homesteads where the silver stream flows sweetly by; and there are our magnificent coast headlands and beautiful seaside resorts, great populous cities, with their splendid public buildings and fine parks. And as a rule, I believe, there is no country so healthy, no life so pure as ours, whatever may be said to the contrary.
In the travels of the last few months, we have seen much of the sublime majesty and loveliness of Nature; the wealth of art treasures in painting, sculpture, and architecture that adorns fair Italy; the inspired works of the gifted men of past ages, so eloquently telling their noble thoughts, expressive of reverence and love for the beautiful—proofs indeed of their great and magnificent genius, and that fair things cannot die. We have also seen something of the wondrous yet sad mementoes of the mighty Pagan nations entombed in their once great cities—vast sepulchres of a splendid past; those Titanic minds which governed in their time the whole of the known world; a few beautiful but crumbling columns, all that is now visible of their glory and conquering power. On such ground we tread lightly, reverencing the great and mighty dead. From these we turn to the young and vigorous Christian nations planted in their stead, and in thus contemplating the past and the present, and the wondrous power and goodness of God, one cannot but be struck with the truth and beauty of the ninetieth psalm, and also exclaim, as did the psalmist, "Lord, what is man, that Thou art mindful of him?"
APPENDIX.
NOTE A.
THE LONDON GARIBALDIAN EXCURSION VOLUNTEERS.
The following, printed on Red Cards, was issued throughout London and many of the larger towns:—
"Card of Membership.
"EXCURSION TO SOUTH ITALY.
"A select party of English Excursionists intend to visit South Italy. The Excursionists will be furnished with means of self-defence, and, with a view of recognizing each other, will be attired in a picturesque and uniform costume.
"General Garibaldi has liberally granted the excursionists a free passage to Sicily and Italy, and they will be supplied with rations and clothing suitable for the climate. Information to be obtained at Captain Edward S——'s offices, 8, Salisbury Street, Strand, London, W.C.
"All persons desirous of joining the excursion, or willing to aid the same with their subscriptions, are requested to communicate immediately with the Committee of the Garibaldi Fund, at 8, Salisbury Street, Strand, London."
"Circular issued in reply to Applicants.
"August ——, 1860.
"SIR,
"In reply to your letter of the—inst., I beg to forward you the following particulars:—
"1. You will be provided with a free passage, uniform, accoutrements, and rations, and your pay to commence from the day you land.
"2. You can leave the English Excursionists at any moment; but should you do so before their return to England, you will forfeit all claim to pensions, medals, etc., which you may obtain.
"3. A personal interview is imperative, when you can learn all further particulars.
"The Excursionists expect to leave within a fortnight from this date. Three days' notice will be given to those going.
"Yours faithfully, "EDWARD S——, "Captain Garibaldi's Staff."
NOTE B (p. ix., Preface).
The following is from a Leading Article of the Daily Telegraph, March 10th, 1884:—
"Another suicide, occasioned by losses at the gaming-table, is reported from Monte Carlo, and, commenting upon the sad occurrence, a local newspaper makes the alarming statement that since the 1st of January nineteen similar cases of self-destruction have taken place upon the same spot, the victims having, without exception, been ruined by play. It will be remembered that on the 15th of last month Lord Edmund Fitzmaurice was asked, in the House of Commons, whether the attention of her Majesty's Government had been drawn to the frequent suicides of which the Principality of Monaco had recently been the scene, and whether any remonstrances had been addressed by the Foreign Office to France and Italy, urging those Powers to suppress the last public gaming-tables existing in Europe. The Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs gave the stereotyped answer that no representations had been made by Lord Granville to foreign Powers upon this subject, and there the matter ended. Since the middle of last month the catalogue of suicides at Monaco has been swollen by the addition of five or six further victims to the Moloch of play; nor can it be wondered at if under these circumstances a loud demand that the Casino at Monte Carlo should be forcibly closed has been made, not only by many public writers in France and Italy, but still more by permanent residents upon the Mediterranean Riviera. Thus we read in a powerful article contributed by M. Edmond Planchut to the Revue des Deux Mondes—an abridged translation of which has just appeared in one of our monthly magazines—that the inhabitants of Nice, Mentone, Cannes, Marseilles, and Genoa, and the more respectable members of the foreign colonies scattered along that beautiful coast, are entirely agreed upon two points: First, as to the necessity of protesting without intermission against the immunity conceded to the ever-open gaming-tables at Monte Carlo; and, secondly, as to the expediency of petitioning France and Italy to put a stop to this flagrant scandal. 'It would, indeed, be monstrous,' adds M. Edmond Planchut, 'if it were found impossible to suppress in one of the smallest States of Europe a blighting evil which has been extinguished by the Governments of more important Powers.'
"In April, 1882, many petitions, urging the suppression of the Monte Carlo tables, were presented to the French Chamber, which, in M. Planchut's words, 'passed to the order of the day, after hearing M. de Freycinet's remarks in opposition to the prayer of the memorialists.' A month later the French Senate sent these petitions back to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, with a more or less outspoken endorsement of their prayer. If, indeed, the Governments installed at Paris and at Rome were of one mind upon this subject, there can be little doubt that the fatal Casino at Monte Carlo would not long be permitted to exist. 'And why,' asks M. Planchut, 'should there not be perfect accord between Italy and France on this topic? It is not a question whether France exercises a kind of protectorate over the Principality of Monaco, or whether the House of Savoy still regards the Prince of Monaco as its vassal, despite the circumstance that in 1860 Italy abandoned her rights over his little domain. France and Italy should be animated by one paramount desire—the extinction of these infamous gaming-tables; and, if France believes herself to possess the right of speaking with more respectful firmness than her neighbour to Prince Charles III., it is simply because Monaco is surrounded on all sides by French territory.' The bitter experiences of the season which is now in full swing at Monte Carlo render the present moment peculiarly propitious for demanding the abolition of an establishment which is the head-centre of vice, infamy, and ruin in one of the most exquisitely lovely spots upon the face of the earth. Who that has ever read Lord Brougham's description of what he called 'his discovery of Cannes' can have forgotten his enthusiasm when recounting the myriad charms and attractions of that delicious coast? They had already been recited by Dr. Arnold in a well-known passage from one of his 'Lectures upon Modern History,' which expatiates upon the horrors of the siege of Genoa, and contrasts grim-visaged war with the divine natural beauty of the scene in the midst of which it was carried on by Massena, who was himself a native of Nice. 'Winter,' observes Dr. Arnold, 'had passed away, and spring returned, so early and so beautiful, upon that garden-like coast, sheltered, as it is, from the north winds by its belt of mountains, and open to the full rays of the bountiful southern sun. Spring returned, and clothed the hill-sides within the lines with its fresh verdure. But that verdure was no longer the mere delight of the careless eye of luxury, refreshing the citizens with its liveliness and softness when they repaired thither from the city to enjoy the surpassing beauty of the prospect. The green slopes were now visited for a very different object. Ladies of the highest rank might be seen cutting up every plant which it was possible to turn to food, and bearing home the commonest weeds of the roadside as a precious treasure.' During that memorable blockade, maintained by the Austrians on land and by the British fleet under Lord Keith at sea, Massena and the French troops held on grimly to the besieged city of Genoa, until twenty thousand of its innocent inhabitants had perished by that most awful and lingering of deaths, famine. It would be no extravagant estimate to believe that during the fourscore years and more which have since elapsed, the demon of play, enthroned along the whole of the Riviera, has caused as much misery to its hapless victims as the fatal siege of Genoa, which Dr. Arnold selected as exemplifying the direful horrors of which war was the author in 1800.
"M. Planchut has little difficulty in showing to what an extent the cities and resorts in the neighbourhood of Monte Carlo are suffering from their proximity to that pernicious spot. Of its seductive attractions there is no need to speak in detail. The visitors find at its Casino all the best newspapers and magazines of civilization laid out for their amusement, to which are added an excellent theatre, an unsurpassed orchestra, and—'pour comble de malheur'—open tables at which any stranger can play at roulette, or at trente-et-quarante, upon presentation of a card of address. Mentone, says M. Planchut, which is the nearest resort to Monte Carlo, is neither rich, populous, nor luxurious. 'While there has been a surprising increase in the population of Ems, Wiesbaden, and Hombourg since the abolition of their tables, the population of Mentone has scarcely increased by two thousand souls since its annexation by France. Mentone will not be possible as a winter residence for invalids until the tables have disappeared from the littoral.' Nice also suffers, says this caustic French censor, from its proximity to Monte Carlo. 'Unfortunately, people play at the Massena and Mediterranean clubs in Nice as much as at Monaco. The passion for gambling has permeated all ranks of society at Nice, until it has infected the very tradespeople—has even descended to the humblest poor of its port. Walk round the town on a fete day, and you will see in the old quarters, upon the quays, and in the open air, roulette tables in full swing.' The Massena Club, anxious to detain wealthy strangers at Nice, and to keep them away from Monaco, finds its gambling-rooms too small, and is extending its accommodation. The result is that the owners of the lovely villas, the luxurious hotels, and the abounding apartments at Nice, Cannes, and many other similar resorts are bitterly complaining of a want of tenants and guests. Prudent fathers of families are naturally slow to take young sons to a city where play rules supreme, and from which Monte Carlo is accessible by trains which never cease running. Still less do they care to expose their daughters to mingling with that crowd of questionable females, coming from all parts of the world, and constituting what M. Planchut calls the 'monde interlope,' which assembles every winter at Monte Carlo and Nice. The inevitable consequence is that 'the value of land increases in proportion to its distance from the Principality of Monaco.' M. Planchut does well to base his demand for the suppression of Monte Carlo upon arguments pointing rather to political economy than the public morality. In England, however, we are bound to remember that within fifty hours of our shores an open gambling-house exists, to the destruction of the peace and happiness of many English families. 'Never,' says the writer of an excellent article based upon M. Planchut's contribution to the Revue des Deux Mondes, 'has the French Government more freely sanctioned lotteries, tombolas, and the opening of tripots disguised as artistic and literary clubs than at present; never has it so completely resigned its control over betting, whether in gambling-houses or the racecourse.' To such a Government it is obvious that arguments founded upon the pecuniary advantages rather than the morals of its sons and daughters should be addressed. How many more suicides will have to take place at Monte Carlo before France and Italy will make up their minds to improve its gambling-tables off the face of the earth?"
A LIST OF
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1, Paternoster Square, London.
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PAGE PAGE GENERAL LITERATURE 2 POETRY 30 INTERNATIONAL SCIENTIFIC WORKS OF FICTION 37 SERIES 26 BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG 38 MILITARY WORKS 29
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ADAMSON, H. T., B.D.—The Truth as It Is In Jesus. Crown 8vo, 8s. 6d. The Three Sevens. Crown 8vo, 5s. 6d. The Millennium; or, the Mystery of God Finished. Crown 8vo, 6s.
A. K. H. B.—From a Quiet Place. A New Volume of Sermons. Crown 8vo, 5s.
ALLEN, Rev. R., M.A.—Abraham: his Life, Times, and Travels, 3800 years ago. With Map. Second Edition. Post 8vo, 6s.
ALLIES, T. W., M.A.—Per Crucem ad Lucem. The Result of a Life. 2 vols. Demy 8vo, 25s. A Life's Decision. Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d.
AMOS, Professor Sheldon.—The History and Principles of the Civil Law of Rome. An aid to the Study of Scientific and Comparative Jurisprudence. Demy 8vo, 16s.
ANDERDON, Rev. W. H.—Fasti Apostolici; a Chronology of the Years between the Ascension of our Lord and the Martyrdom of SS. Peter and Paul. Second Edition. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. Evenings with the Saints. Crown 8vo, 5s.
ARMSTRONG, Richard A., B.A.—Latter-Day Teachers. Six Lectures. Small crown 8vo, 2s. 6d.
AUBERTIN, J. J.—A Flight to Mexico. With Seven full-page Illustrations and a Railway Map of Mexico. Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d.
BADGER, George Percy, D.C.L.—An English-Arabic Lexicon. In which the equivalent for English Words and Idiomatic Sentences are rendered into literary and colloquial Arabic. Royal 4to, L9 9s.
BAGEHOT, Walter.—The English Constitution. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d. Lombard Street. A Description of the Money Market. Eighth Edition. Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d. Some Articles on the Depreciation of Silver, and Topics connected with it. Demy 8vo, 5s.
BAGENAL, Philip H.—The American-Irish and their Influence on Irish Politics. Crown 8vo, 5s.
BAGOT, Alan, C.E.—Accidents In Mines: their Causes and Prevention. Crown 8vo, 6s. The Principles of Colliery Ventilation. Second Edition, greatly enlarged. Crown 8vo, 5s.
BAKER, Sir Sherston, Bart.—The Laws relating to Quarantine. Crown 8vo, 12s. 6d.
BALDWIN, Capt. J. H.—The Large and Small Game of Bengal and the North-Western Provinces of India. With 18 Illustrations. New and Cheaper Edition. Small 4to, 10s. 6d.
BALLIN, Ada S. and F. L.—A Hebrew Grammar. With Exercises selected from the Bible. Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d.
BARCLAY, Edgar.—Mountain Life in Algeria. With numerous Illustrations by Photogravure. Crown 4to, 16s.
BARLOW, James H.—The Ultimatum of Pessimism. An Ethical Study Demy 8vo, 6s.
BARNES, William.—Outlines of Redecraft (Logic). With English Wording. Crown 8vo, 3s.
BAUR, Ferdinand, Dr. Ph.—A Philological Introduction to Greek and Latin for Students. Translated and adapted from the German, by C. KEGAN PAUL, M.A., and E. D. STONE, M.A. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, 6s.
BELLARS, Rev. W.—The Testimony of Conscience to the Truth and Divine Origin of the Christian Revelation. Burney Prize Essay. Small crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
BELLINGHAM, Henry, M.P.—Social Aspects of Catholicism and Protestantism in their Civil Bearing upon Nations. Translated and adapted from the French of M. le BARON DE HAULLEVILLE. With a preface by His Eminence CARDINAL MANNING. Second and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
BELLINGHAM H. Belsches Graham.—Ups and Downs of Spanish Travel. Second Edition. Crown 8vo, 5s.
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BLOOMFIELD, The Lady.—Reminiscences of Court and Diplomatic Life. New and Cheaper Edition. With Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, 6s.
BLUNT, The Ven. Archdeacon.—The Divine Patriot, and other Sermons. Preached in Scarborough and in Cannes. New and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo, 4s. 6d.
BLUNT, Wilfred S.—The Future of Islam. Crown 8vo, 6s.
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BOUVERIE-PUSEY, S. E. B.—Permanence and Evolution. An Inquiry into the Supposed Mutability of Animal Types. Crown 8vo, 5s.
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BRIDGETT, Rev. T. E.—History of the Holy Eucharist in Great Britain. 2 vols. Demy 8vo, 18s.
BRODRICK, the Hon. G. C.—Political Studies. Demy 8vo, 14s.
BROOKE, Rev. S. A.—Life and Letters of the Late Rev. F. W. Robertson, M.A. Edited by. I. Uniform with Robertson's Sermons. 2 vols. With Steel Portrait. 7s. 6d. II. Library Edition. With Portrait. 8vo, 12s. III. A Popular Edition. In 1 vol., 8vo, 6s. The Fight of Faith. Sermons preached on various occasions. Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo, 7s. 6d. The Spirit of the Christian Life. New and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo, 5s. Theology In the English Poets.—Cowper, Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Burns. Fifth and Cheaper Edition. Post 8vo, 5s. Christ In Modern Life. Sixteenth and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo, 5s. Sermons. First Series. Thirteenth and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo, 5s. Sermons. Second Series. Sixth and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo, 5s.
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BROWNBILL, John.—Principles of English Canon Law. Part I. General Introduction. Crown 8vo, 6s.
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CHEYNE, Rev. T. K.—The Prophecies of Isaiah. Translated with Critical Notes and Dissertations. 2 vols. Second Edition. Demy 8vo, 25s.
CLAIRAUT.—Elements of Geometry. Translated by Dr. KAINES. With 145 Figures. Crown 8vo, 4s. 6d.
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CLIFFORD, Samuel.—What Think Ye of Christ? Crown 8vo. 6s.
CLODD, Edward, F.R.A.S.—The Childhood of the World: a Simple Account of Man in Early Times. Seventh Edition. Crown 8vo, 3s. A Special Edition for Schools, 1s.
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COLERIDGE, Sara.—Memoir and Letters of Sara Coleridge. Edited by her Daughter. With Index. Cheap Edition. With Portrait. 7s. 6d.
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CONNELL, A. K.—Discontent and Danger in India. Small crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. The Economic Revolution of India. Crown 8vo, 5s.
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