starting for Naples was Tuesday morning, but some of us preferred to go Monday night, among whom were Carrie and myself. We found Naples a respectable place. That is, I did. The rest did not like it very well by reason of the fleas, mosquitoes and heat, I believe. The first two did not disturb me, and the last was mitigated by a cool sea breeze, and compensated for by the swimming and delightful view of the bay and Vesuvius. We had a very good time at Naples, only we loafed too much, our getting lazy being due in part, I suppose, to the climate. I found many resemblances in Naples to the Islands, and liked it better therefore.
To-morrow at noon we leave for Pisa, and I am glad. Naples, you may notice, is the end or limit of our European tour. We are now homeward bound; but it is quite a journey homeward. I long to get out of hot Italy into cool, beautiful Switzerland; Italy is so dry and dusty. I don’t see how any nation could ever have arisen to the greatness of the Romans in it. But quite likely they were preserved from invasion for a long time by the fear of the heat which it seems to me all reasonable barbarians must have experienced. Last Monday we visited the most interesting sights in Rome. The Roman Forum, with all the interesting buildings in and around it, among which is the Temple of Castor and Pollux. At the battle of Lake Regillus these kind gentlemen assisted the Romans materially. They then trotted into the city, announced the result of the battle, and washed their horses in a spring in the Forum, the site of which was shown us. In commemoration of the event, this temple was erected. We were to have our pictures taken here, but the light was too bright, and our faces all came out black. I think the reason was that they were dirty, but the first-mentioned cause is given by those in authority. In any case the result was disastrous and sad, for I was ensconced in a most romantic situation leaning against a pillar, and of course I felt sad at the result. But such is life. Give Lucius my love, and French also, if you see him; bestow my benediction upon him, please, and tell him to write.
With much love,
HENRY.
My staying is about given up. My certificate stating that I wish to return Sept. 4th is signed, and will be given in I suppose. So, comfort your soul, my Mother. H. N. C.
ON THE WAY FROM GENOA TO MILAN,
August 13, 1879.
MY DEAR MOTHER,
Just now killing time is the chief duty of man; and you can easily judge what an imperative duty it must be when its performance induces one to write on the cars, an act of all in the world the most painful. However, if you can stand it I can. The only way to get any just conception of the size of Italy is to travel over it by rail, then one gets a very definite idea of very disagreeable immensity. I believe myself that Italy is nearer Tartarus (a polite and eminently classical name for hell) than any country I ever was in before or ever want to be in again.
Tourists are the most afflicted, abused, long-suffering people I ever saw. They are put through a course of sprouts (sight-seeing) terrible to think upon, and they stand it with commendable patience. The capacity to endure, I think Miss Muloch says somewhere, is the greatest of the human soul, and travelling affords one the best opportunity for developing it. But it is a trial as by fire. If you can stand it—if there is gold in you, you will come out refined, but otherwise nothing but dross, and you will develop instead a most terrible ability to cus. That’s my case. The literal fire has burned everything away but the dross, and my morals are irretrievably ruined. Since I wrote you last we have made our start north and “done,” perpetrated, waded through, oh, so painfully, Pisa and Genoa, or rather the railroad ride from Rome to Genoa. These rides, as well as their old palaces all over Europe, are chopped off by the thousand like the brown stone fronts in New York and sold by the yard. When you have experienced one you have been through them all. The programme is heat, dust, and a crawling pace, varied occasionally by a tunnel or a villainous old castle on some height. An exception is found here and there to this programme, only to prove the rule. The ride from Rome to Pisa was not one of the exceptions. CHAMONIX, Sunday 17.—1 have just found this letter, and so I think I will finish it. We arrived in the diligence here to-night, after a ride of about nine or ten hours through the Tête Noire Pass. The scenery was very fine, though, on the whole, inferior to the Simplon. The reason we travelled Sunday was this. The diligence from Domo Dossola to Brieg was late, and lost the train by which we were intending to proceed to Vernayaz. We were therefore compelled to remain at Brieg over night. In the morning Mr Gray announced that it would be too long a ride to Chamonix, so we would go to Vernayaz only that day, and to Chamonix the next—Sunday. However, I have spent a good Sunday, notwithstanding. We walked a long way up the Pass and I was completely alone, with not a person in sight, for some time. The scenery, the view, both up and down, was beautiful; and with the noise of flowing water in my ears, and breathing the fresh mountain air, I sat down on a fence and read my Testament —heard the “Written Word interpreted by Nature.” I also indulged in performances not so creditable perhaps. For instance, plundering the cherry trees along the route. (They were public property.) My conscience does not reproach me for that, however. But I felt disappointed to lose my quiet Sunday at Chamonix; I had looked forward to it so much. But here we are at last in full view of Mont Blanc, of which we have a fine view from our window, as also one of the Mer de Glace. I stopped to write this letter, or the last part of it and my other to you, and will now go to bed. Love to all the folks.
HENRY.
CHAMONIX, Aug. 17, ’79.
MY DEAR MOTHER,
I commenced a letter to you on the war-path from Pisa to Genoa, or Genoa to Milan, I forget which, but the thing has disappeared somewhere or other. If I find it I will send it on. In any case you will not lose much. Since my last to you, written from Rome a week ago to-day, the grandest act of all our travels has been ushered in—I mean that we have left Italy and are in cool, beautiful Switzerland at last. Yes, Mother, we have crossed the Alps; the grandest scenery I ever saw or ever expect to see has been traversed, and here we are in the “Vale of Chamonix.” To-day, yesterday, the day before, and the day before that, by which circumlocution I mean four days, have been, I may say, among the most wonderful of my life. We arrived at Milan Wednesday night, Aug. 13th, the day after Father’s birthday. The next morning we visited the Milan Cathedral, of course, and ascended the tower for a view of the roof of the Cathedral, wonderful, you know, for its extraordinary elaborateness of adornment, and also the plains of Lombardy, neither being worth seeing (?) We—that is, Carrie and I, with most of the section—started for Lake Maggiore at 11 A.M. Jim, Helen, and Miss White did not go. We had a most magnificent sail on the Lake, recalling in beauty Loch Lomond. Leaving the steamer at Stresa, after a two-hours’ sail, we were served a good dinner, after which interesting episode, we took a boat and had a sail out to an island, about fifteen minutes’ row. This island was beautiful in the extreme. It was all terraced, and laid out into magnificent gardens. There was a palace on the island, the first we had seen! (??), and we surveyed it with much interest, as usual.. But the garden got ahead of all. We spent about an hour and a quarter here, and then returned singing “Home, Sweet Home,” and other tunes on the way. They chimed in well with the scenery. Immediately upon returning, about half-past seven P.M., several of us took a splendid swim in the lake, the most delightful I have had since leaving the islands. We started about 11 P.M. in the diligences for the passage of the Alps by the Simplon Pass. Riding all night, sleeping a little and seeing a little, we arrived at Domo Dossola early in the morning, where we breakfasted in the court-yard of the hotel, with no roof above us but the blue sky. We were supposed to have an hour and a half here for breakfast, resting and a general good time, but lo and behold, before I had my coffee poured, Mr Gray announced that it had dwindled to fifteen minutes. I ate all I had time for, and jammed the rest in my pocket—legitimate? We now came very soon into grand scenery that altogether beggars description. I extemporized a seat on the top, and got Carrie up there, and we had a general good time. Jim and the rest caught up with us in a few hours, which added of course to the enjoyment. The Alps abound with water—delicious cold streams in which many times I washed and drank that day and laved my burning brow. It is late, and I must go to bed, as a slight
