This carriage trip over the mountain we arranged for at the hotel in Turin, with Joseph Borgo, the somewhat celebrated proprietor, who stipulated to have a first-cla.s.s carriage for four persons, to convey us over the mountain to San Michel, to provide four horses, change a certain number of times, and occupy certain hours in the transit--all of which was duly filled out in writing, and for which we paid two hundred and fifty-five francs (fifty-one dollars), which included all expenses except our own personal hotel bills. The carriage was promised to meet us at the station in Susa.

A railway ride of thirty-three miles brought us to Susa; and there, with the driver harnessing up four splendid dapple grays, stood an establishment in which one would not have been ashamed to have made his appearance on the drive at Central Park, New York,--bright, new, and modern built, and very like a modern American barouche, save that the seat usually occupied by the driver was a trifle higher, shielded by a chaise-top, and reserved for two outside pa.s.sengers, the driver's seat being below it, nearer the horses.

We were wondering as to the whereabouts of our own carriage, and what grand duke was to take this handsome equipage, while the common people were entering diligences and the usual dust-covered, creaking, and rickety coaches one becomes so accustomed to in Italy, when we observed our own luggage being carefully bestowed upon the rack behind, and we were approached by Borgo's agent, who inquired if we had a "billet" for the "voiture;" and upon producing our lithographed and signed ticket, the carriage was brought up to where our group of a lady and three gentlemen stood, with the usual Italian whip-cracking.

The agent threw open the door with a flourish, and, "_Entrez_, monsieur; we _is_ ready."

Two seated themselves upon the box-seat, two upon the back seat of the open barouche; the door was closed with a bang, the polite agent raised his hat.

"_Bon voyage_"; and the driver, firing a volley of whip-cracks, the four grays started off with a clatter of silver-mounted harness, on a smart trot, as we rode away in the best appointed equipage it had been our fortune to enjoy in our whole European tour.

This fact contributed to mitigate the conviction that fifty-one dollars in gold was a pretty high price, as it was, for a fourteen hour's ride, compared with that paid for carriages in other parts of Italy for similar journeys. Borgo, however, had a monopoly of the best carriages, and was always sure of English tourists, who would take none other, and really performs his service thoroughly and well, without any attendant vexations, delays, humbugs, or swindles--a great consideration to the tourist.

The Mont Cenis Pa.s.s, it will be remembered, was built by order of Napoleon I., by engineer Fabbroni, and the culminating point of it reaches an elevation of sixty-seven hundred and seventy-five feet above the level of the sea. The original cost of the road was three hundred thousand pounds, although a large additional amount has since been expended upon it. It is the safest and most frequented route between France and Italy, and it was by this road the French troops entered Italy in 1859.

The beautiful mountain views of this grand ride, if described, would be to the reader almost a repet.i.tion of others given in these pages. The great sweeps of scenery from the zigzags of the road, the old Hospice of the monks that we halt at, the boundary line between France and Italy, all claim attention as we roll along upon our journey, and feel in the atmosphere that we are leaving Italy's penetrating heat, and, let us hope, also its flies and filthiness, behind us. Italy was left behind; houses of refuge on the mountain road had been pa.s.sed, grand scenery viewed, great curves and wondrous windings been marvelled at, and our aching bones confessed that even in the best-appointed vehicles, fatigue is not a stranger; so we were not sorry at night to reach the dirty little Hotel de la Poste, in the muddy little village of San Michel, in French dominions--Savoy.

Next forenoon we bade adieu to post travelling, taking train at two P.

M. for Macon, on the Saone River, about forty miles north of the city of Lyons, where we saw a pretty quay along the river, and a bridge over it, and learned that the city was chiefly dependent on its wine trade for business. The same chain of hills that protect the vineyards of that noted wine-growing department of France known as Cote d'Or, extends through the department of Saone et Loire, of which Macon is the capital; but from some causes the wines are not so fine as those of that celebrated district: however, Macon wines, which are set down on most of the hotel bills of fare in Europe and our own country, are served here in their original purity and excellence, which cannot always be said of them in America. Coming here, we pa.s.sed Lake Bourget, which Lamartine mentions in his poetry as "_the_ lake;" it looked very grandly under the influence of a violent September gale, which was raising its waves like a miniature ocean, at Culoz, where we dined.

Pa.s.sing the night at Macon, we left next day for Paris, reaching the city at seven o'clock P. M. Here once more we experienced some of the excellent arrangements characterizing great cities in foreign countries.

Not a pa.s.senger was permitted to enter that portion of the great station till the baggage was all unloaded and sorted, which was done with marvellous celerity and skill, each foreign party's pieces being selected by some clews they had, and piled together.

This being done, we were permitted to enter; and a customs officer, as we designated our trunks, inquired if they contained eau de cologne, fire-arms, and various other things, in a sort of formula that he repeated. We had nothing "to declare" for Paris, as we a.s.sured this functionary our luggage was packed for America; in fact, some of it was a sort of heterogeneous puzzle of shirts, Swiss carved work, coats, stockings, stereoscopic views, boots, Genoese jewelry, handkerchiefs, Vienna leather, guide-books, and photographs, such as all tourists become acquainted with, more, or less, upon their first experience on the "grand tour." With a polite wave of the hand, the officer summoned another, who also spoke English, and whose duty it was to despatch foreigners to their several destinations in the city: this person, in his turn, after learning the quarter of the city we wished to reach, calling two railway porters, transferred our luggage to a carriage in waiting, told the driver in French where to carry us, and ourselves in English what we were to pay for the service, and, bowing politely, turned on his heel, and we were once more rattling over the smooth asphalt pave of Paris, the streets and cafes of which were ablaze with gas, the windows gay with brilliant display of goods, and the broad Boulevards thronged with crowds of pedestrians.

Having experienced the swindles and inconveniences of the Grand Hotel and Hotel de l'Athenee, we were more than grateful to find an excellent American boarding-house upon the Boulevard Haussman, fronting the Rue Trouchet, commanding an extended view of the Boulevard and the Madeleine, and kept by Miss Emily Herring, a New York lady, where excellent accommodations, prompt service, and good _cuisine_ were had, and no vexatious swindling "extras" or "bougies" put in the bill, French fashion, which is so exasperating to the English and American tourists.

Having sight-seen Paris so much at a former visit, one might imagine but little remained to be done; but such is not the case in this great capital, though now, with our faces set, as it were, homewards, there was but little time remaining for that purpose. A visit to the sewers was an excursion that we desired to make, especially with the remembrance of Jean Valjean's experiences, in Victor Hugo's story, Les Miserables, fresh in mind. Having obtained a permit from the proper authorities, we found, on arriving at the point designated, that we were one of a party of a dozen ladies and gentlemen. We looked somewhat askant at the silk and muslin dresses of the former, as being hardly the costume one would select for going down into a drain with, and wondered whether the olfactories of the wearers would be proof against what might a.s.sail them during their visit. But our doubts, as will be seen, were soon removed on this point.

Descending through a large iron trap-door in the sidewalk, near the Church of the Madeleine, by a stone staircase, we found ourselves in a handsome, vaulted, stone tunnel, twenty feet high, with granite sidewalks on each side, between which, in a s.p.a.ce perhaps ten feet wide and five deep, ran the sewage. By some admirable system of ventilation, these sewers are kept so clean and sweet that no more offence is done to the olfactories than in a wash-room. Overhead run great iron pipes, by which the city is supplied with pure water; also telegraph wires, enclosed in lead pipes, by which communication is had with the police and official stations in different parts of the city. But we were to make a trip through the sewers. Two or three open cars, with cushioned seats, holding twelve persons, and lighted by a brilliant carcel lamp in front, were in readiness, and into these the ladies and gentlemen of the party were bestowed. The car runs on a track placed on the edge of the flowing sewage, and is propelled by men who run on a narrow stone pathway, and push it.

Away we went, through the great arched tunnel, now and then hearing the faint rumble of vehicles sound above, as we pa.s.s beneath some great thoroughfare. We know exactly what quarter of the city we are beneath by the little blue china signs, bearing the names of the streets, which are posted at intervals along the walls, and every now and then pa.s.s intersecting sewers discharging their floods into the main artery. We ride smoothly along for a mile or two, are switched off into side pa.s.sages, back into the main one, ride perhaps a mile or so more, then come to a stop, and ascend into a square of the city far distant from where we started, convinced that this is the most admirable system of sewage that could possibly be devised, and that for sanitary purposes nothing could be better. Not only, let it be borne in mind, is the sewage carried off beneath the ground, but even the very sewers themselves kept so clean and neat, and withal so perfectly ventilated, that ladies and gentlemen may pa.s.s through them without soiling their clothing or offence to the senses.

We were told that, when completed, there would be nearly four hundred miles of these sewers, and that not only could they be made use of for conveying the waste drainage of the city away, but could be used for the purpose of underground communication of troops from one point of the city to another, in case of revolutionary riots, when pa.s.sage above ground might be disputed for four times the number.

CHAPTER XV.

And now we were once more to cross that narrow strip of troubled water which separates Gallic sh.o.r.es from _perfide Albion_, and whose horrors doubtless have much to do with the dread that so many travelled Englishmen have of crossing the Atlantic. But as has often been remarked, one may cross the Atlantic with scarce a qualm, and yet be utterly prostrated, for the time being, on the vile little tubs of pa.s.senger boats in crossing the English Channel--a trip which the tourist inwardly, with what inwards are left of him, thanks Providence is made in less than two hours. The good fortune of a comparatively smooth sea, quiet, bright day, and pa.s.sage made without a single case of seasickness, which was vouchsafed us when coming over, did not attend us on our return trip, which was made from Boulogne to Folkestone.

On arrival at the French pier, a good stiff breeze in our faces, and ominous white caps to the waves outside, indicated to us what we were to expect. We sought the captain, an Englishman. "Was there no other accommodation than the deck," with its suggestive pile of wash-bowls?

The close little cabin was already fully occupied.

"No, sir; better keep on deck--shall be over in little more than an hour."

We remembered the captain's nationality, and the weakness of his countrymen, and determined to make the usual trial.

"Captain, isn't there a private state-room? (looking him fixedly in the eye, and jingling some coin musically in one of my pockets).

"There isn't a nook in the ship (?), sir, that isn't chock up, full, but my own state-room, and I sometimes--if a suvren's to be made--don't mind--"

A gold coin bearing the effigy of Napoleon was in his hand before he could speak another word.

"This way, sir. You and madam will find a couple of nice bunks there; it'll be a head wind and rough pa.s.sage; keep on your back, sir, and you're all right. Tom, mind yer eye, and look out for the lady 'n'

gen'leman."

The captain's comfortable state-room was worth the "tip," for in three minutes after leaving the pier a dozen were sick, and in a quarter of an hour so were seven eighths of all on board; and here we had the satisfaction of being wretched in private, and served by Tom, a brisk boy, with an eye to a shilling in prospective, instead of grovelling in abject misery on deck, in company with fifty or sixty other pitiable objects, and served by two gruff old he chambermaids, who perambulated back and forth with mops, swabs, and wash-bowls.

Arrived at Folkestone, which is a place of fashionable resort, we found, on stepping ash.o.r.e, drawn up in two parallel lines extending front the landing stage up for twenty rods or more towards the train that was in waiting, a large deputation of fashionably-dressed men and women, besides curious idlers in waiting to inspect and stare at the victims of Neptune's punishment. There stood these English people, who, probably, pa.s.sed in their circles among their countrymen for ladies and gentlemen, sticklers for laws of etiquette and politeness, no doubt,--in two long parallel lines, like a regiment on dress parade; and between these lines the pa.s.sengers, all bedraggled, pale, and limey with seasickness, and hampered with the paraphernalia of travel, were obliged to pa.s.s, subjected to the stare of vapid swells with straw-colored side whiskers and eye-gla.s.ses, and young women with sea-side hats and parasols, who looked each pa.s.ser by up and down and all over with the critical eye of a recruiting officer, making those of their own s.e.x more mortified at their dishabille, and the other indignant at this insulting stare. But the familiar sound of the English tongue on every side was music to our ears; the railway porters and guards of the train in waiting all spoke English when they asked us where we wished to go.

About seventy miles' railroad ride and we were at London; and notwithstanding the advantages of comparison we had enjoyed in the seeing of Paris, Vienna, and other European capitals, we could not help feeling again, as on our first visit, impressed with the vastness of this great city. Mile after mile of street after street, and still we went past miles of stores and miles of houses, streets of shops, streets of dwellings, squares; a cross street, and presto! out again into another apparently endless street of great retail stores, with gayly-dressed shop windows, and crowds of vehicles and pedestrians; through another street, past a grand park, with its green gra.s.s and broad acres, and stately dwellings about it; on amid the never-ending roar, and clatter, and hum, and rush of cabs, great omnibuses, drays, wagons, gay equipages, and n.o.bby dog carts--a never-ending, never-ceasing, constantly changing, moving panorama of novel sights and scenes.

LONDON. It _is_, indeed, a great capital; only think of a city covering an area of one hundred and twenty-five square miles, and containing three millions of inhabitants; where more than eighteen hundred children are born every week, and over twelve hundred deaths per week are recorded. London, which was a British settlement before the Romans came to England; which was burned and ravaged by the Danish robbers of 851, and a city which King Alfred rebuilt and Canute lived in; London, a great city of over one hundred and forty thousand inhabitants in Queen Elizabeth's time; London, that figures in Shakespeare, and Byron, and d.i.c.kens, and that we have read of in romances and novels, and studied about in histories and geographies, from childhood up.

There is enough for the sight-seer, the student, the antiquarian, or the tourist to enjoy in this wondrous old city if he stays in it a year. I have really been amused to hear some of our American tourists, who visit Europe for the usual tour, reply, on being asked if they had seen London, "O, yes, we saw everything; staid there a whole week."

This is about the amount of time bestowed on the rare old city by the many fashionable American tourists, who are in haste to get into the glare and glitter of Paris, and who manage by brisk labor to skim over the princ.i.p.al sights, such as racing through Westminster Abbey, running about St. Paul's, giving a few hours to the British Museum, skurrying through the Tower and the Houses of Parliament, and devoting a few evening hours to Madame Tussaud's and some of the theatres. Then there are those who go over and make no stop at London at first, reserving it to visit on their homeward trip from the continent, and find all too late that they have used up too much time in other places, and have not reserved a t.i.the of what they ought, to see it, ere they must prepare for the homeward-bound steamer.

A great deal, I grant, may be seen of London in a fortnight's time, if the tourist works industriously, and buckles to the task early and late; but the real lover of travel will six weeks to be none too long, and may find abundance of that which is novel, interesting, and instructive fully to occupy his attention that length of time. I cannot but think that early spring--say the last of April and first of May--is the very best time to visit England; the season seems a month in advance of ours in New England, and the tourist sees how much more sensible "crowning a May Queen," "going a Maying," and dancing round a May-pole, are there the first of May, where the flowers are springing and the air is balmy, than in our New England, where chilly east winds seem like the parting breath of winter, and only snowdrops and crocuses dare to put forth an appearance on the south, sunny sides of banks or protecting walls.

After shopping abroad, the good, square, solid honesty of the London shopmen is more fully appreciated, and especially do Americans see here that there is an effort by the tradesman who has gained any celebrity for a specialty--the tailor, boot maker, the umbrella maker, or even a mutton pie vender, to keep his articles up to the original standard, that they may be always reliable, and become a proverb among purchasers.

This is in contrast with many of our American dealers, who, after "getting a run" on goods, endeavor to realize a larger and more immediate profit by adroitly lowering the standard of quality, or by skilful adulteration.

But we must pack our trunks for the homeward voyage. A very large portion of this preparation I had done in Paris by a professional packer, styled an _emballeur_, an individual so skilled in folding ladies' voluminous dresses and gentlemen's coats, that they come forth without a wrinkle, and who stows away in one of your trunks almost double the amount that you think it could possibly be made to contain--a service, the expense of which is trifling, but which saves the tourist a vast amount of-time, as well as vexatious and tedious labor.

More than six months of "living in a trunk," and a constant succession of novelty, and continuous travel from one point to another, living at hotels, "grand" good, indifferent, and bad, naturally incline one to long for rest and quiet; and, pa.s.sionately fond of travel as one may be, there are but few I have ever encountered, who devoted half a year constantly and faithfully to it, but were willing to acknowledge sight-seeing to be some of the hardest labor they ever performed.

There is one thing that also tends to give the student or lover of travel something of an unsatisfied feeling, as his journey draws near its close, especially if he has been limited as to time; and that is, the thought of how much there is in Europe to study and to see, and how little, comparatively, he has accomplished. Yet, even with this feeling, the author could not help hugging to his heart the real, solid enjoyment that had been experienced in visiting those scenes hallowed in dreams of youthful imagination, in realizing the hopes--and antic.i.p.ations of years, and also the thought of what a pleasure the memory of these sights and scenes in foreign lands would be, in years to come, as they were recalled to mind.

"But the ship it is ready, And the wind it is fair,"

and O, how far our home does seem from us over the ocean, now that we have had practical experience upon its broad billows. But this thought is lost in the antic.i.p.ation of meeting friends and loved ones whom we have not looked upon for six long months, and a return to familiar scenes of home, for which the heart yearns, notwithstanding the attractions by which we may be surrounded.

A last shopping in London for English umbrellas, ladies' water-proofs, French dog-skin gloves (made in England), English walking shoes, Cartwright & Warner's under clothing, sole leather trunks, furs, which you can buy so very much cheaper than in America; books, such as you think you can get through the custom-house; a few comforts for the voyage, which former experience has taught you that you will require, and you are ready.

Down to the office of the Cunard steamers, in London, we went, to learn at what hour the ship would leave Liverpool, and other particulars. This office we found to be in one of those buildings which your genuine Londoner so delights in for a place of business. The greater the magnitude of a merchant's or banker's business, and the wealthier he is, the more dingy, contracted, dark, and inconvenient he seems to like to have his counting-house or business quarters. There is nothing the old-fashioned London millionnaire seems to have such a horror of, as a bright, fresh office, with plate gla.s.s, oak or marble counters, plenty of light, broad mahogany desks, and s.p.a.cious counting-house. He seems to delight in a dingy old building, down in the depths of the city, with walls thick enough for a fortification; built, perhaps, in Queen Elizabeth's time, and so smoke-begrimed that you can't tell the original color of the stones. A narrow, squat doorway, over which an almost obliterated sign-board bears the name of the firm,--the original members of which have been dead a century, and not one of the present members bears it,--is an indication of the Englishman's substantial character, and how averse he is to change,--knowing that with his countrymen, the knowledge that the firm of "Fogy Brothers" has been known all over the world for a century as responsible merchants, is capital in itself, and one worth having.

In America, from the nature of things and our manner of doing business, we are apt to infer, and often correctly, such a concern is "slow,"

infected with "dry rot," does not "keep up with the times," or is "rusting out," while the younger blood of Wider Wake & Co., with their vigor and progressive spirit, so infects all about them with their enterprise as to command success, and even attract from the older concern a portion of that which cannot brook the tedious circ.u.mlocution of those who are tardy in availing themselves of the real improvements of the age.

I have been into the counting-rooms of men worth millions, in London, which, in convenience and appliances for clerical labor, were not equal to those of a Boston retail coal-seller, or haberdasher, and others whose warehouses would give the uninitiated American an impression that they were old junk stores, instead of the headquarters of a firm whose name was known, and whose bills were honored, in almost every capital in Europe. A mousing visit among some of these old places in the city is very interesting, and has been made more so by some of the inimitable descriptions of d.i.c.kens. In fact, on my return to London, I could not help longing for an opportunity to spend some weeks here, and, in company with some old resident, to explore the curious old nooks and corners of the city, which contain so much that is noted in history, exhibit so many different phases of life, and hold so much that, described, would be as novel to half of London itself, as photographs of the depths of an African forest.

The steamship office was down in an old building which had once been a dwelling-house, and there was the old front door, small old bal.u.s.ter and stair rail, and rooms almost the same as they had been left years ago, when a family dwelt there. Your Londoner always uses these old places just as long as he can possibly make them pay without putting a shilling's worth of expense upon them. So we stumbled up the dark staircase, and tumbled into the low-studded room that might once have been the family parlor, where the requisite information was obtained of the clerks in attendance.

When about to return home by steamer, telegraph to the Adelphi, or the hotel you intend to stop at in Liverpool, the day before you take pa.s.sage in advance, or you may not have a desirable room for your last night's sleep on sh.o.r.e, for these Liverpool hotels are all full, at the arrival and departure of the steamers, of pa.s.sengers who are arriving and departing.