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.
After passing through the public gardens, and crossing the dock basin in a small ferry-boat, we walked to the church of St. Nazaire, which stands on high ground almost immediately opposite to Notre Dame de la Garde.
It is a finely restored Byzantine church, a copy on a large scale of the little mosque-like temple at its side, which latter was once the Cathedral church of the town. It is built of alternate blocks of black and white marble, and the interior is something after the style of Notre Dame at Paris. Fortunately, we caught the workmen just leaving the building, and so obtained permission to view it.
But the little Moorish temple under its lee, as a sailor would say, interested me far more than its imposing and grand-looking child alongside. It has a low dome, square façade with small cupolas, and circular chancel. We ascended some steps to its low doorway, almost stooping as we entered. It was dimly lit by a few oil-lamps; its quaint arched dome, little galleries, altar, crypts, and organ all within the compact compass of a circle, or rather, as it seemed to me, of a Maltese cross—tiny aisles forming the sides of the cross, where there were shrines and tombs, though scarcely distinguishable in the gloom. The dome and aisles are supported by wonderfully strong Byzantine arches and arcades. It struck me that the Maltese cross may have been the shape of the most ancient Christian temples, the more orthodox Latin cross shape being afterwards developed by the lengthening of the nave. The date of this unique little church is said to be very ancient, and probably stands on the site of the temples of Diana.
Perhaps the place was made even more interesting to me, by the fact of my thoughts being brought back from the dark ages by observing a christening going on in one of the dimly lighted aisles; after which a number of little Sunday school children went through an examination of the catechism.
In the early part of the evening we sallied forth to visit the Exchange and Bourse at the end of the principal street near the harbour, receiving yet another impression as to the commercial greatness of Marseilles by a careful survey of this building, which is well worthy of a great city. I can now better understand why these large towns are so republican, and show so strong a dislike to imperialism. They complain that while they make the money, the imperialists squander it.
We were much amused to see nearly all the merchants on 'Change, wearing white neckties and generally black coats—a very respectable and ancient custom, which has come down from the time when Marseilles was in the zenith of her prosperity. I believe even now these merchants are called "courtiers of merchandize."
The main streets and boulevards are very handsome, with elegant fountains which relieve the somewhat monotonous regularity. Some of the squares are of immense size. There is a very large lazaretto, which is said to be one of the best managed in the world. The cafés are like small palaces, and the shops rival the finest in Paris.
Here, as in most French cities, no expense is spared in making the streets gay and brilliant at night. In some of them the electric light is used.
The French people dearly love their cafés, spending many of their evening hours there instead of chez eux. I am not quite sure whether the Frenchman may honestly be termed a domestic animal; I should rather say he was intensely gregarious. At all events, I do not think he understands the full value of home as we do.
It was Sunday when we were there, and the town teemed with holiday life. Up to noon it was comparatively quiet, with some appearance of sabbath rest, but after that what a change! The whole place was like a great fair, every one bent on fun and pleasure: hucksters' stalls, marionettes, bazaars, rifle-galleries, concerts, theatres, and crowded cafés, the latter resounding with the click of dominoes and billiard balls; the more quiet folk reading their beloved Figaro.
We felt this was indeed very different to our English way of enjoying Sunday. Even our museums, picture galleries, and such-like comparatively quiet and innocent places of recreative amusement are not yet declared open. And thankful we should be that on at least one day in the week there is peace and rest for both man and beast; and that simply in obedience to a natural and Divine law, made by the great Creator who so well knew our human wants and requirements. The more one sees of this sabbath unrest abroad, the more content one feels for the sweet and peaceful Sunday rest at home. I do not really believe in the happiness, health, and prosperity of any people who disregard the sabbath as a holy day, dedicated to God for bodily rest and spiritual refreshment.
"Then I turned away in sadness, from these gay and thoughtless lays,
Longing for my own dear country, and the voice of prayer and praise."
CHAPTER III.ToC
