Travels Through France And Italy, Tobias Smollett [love novels in english .TXT] 📗

As It Appears In

Several Passages In His Travels And In The Statement Which He

Drew Up For Professor 'F.' At Montpellier.

 

 

 

"Smollett Speaks Of His Pulmonic Disorder, His 'Asthmatical

Disorder,' And Uses Other Expressions Which Show That His Lungs

Were Affected. In His Statement He Mentions That He Has Cough,

Shortness Of Breath, Wasting, A Purulent Expectoration, Loss Of

Appetite At Times, Loss Of Strength, Fever, A Rapid Pulse,

Intervals Of Slight Improvement And Subsequent Exacerbations.

 

 

 

"This Shortness Of Breath, He Says, Has Steadily Increased. This

Group Of Symptoms Makes It Certain That He Had Tuberculosis Of

The Lungs, In Other Words, Was Slowly Progressing In Consumption.

 

 

 

"His Darting Pains In His Side Were Due To The Pleurisy Which

Always Occurs In Such An Illness.

 

 

 

"His Account Shows Also The Absence Of Hopelessness Which Is A

Characteristic State Of Mind In Patients With Pulmonary

Tuberculosis.

 

 

 

"I Do Not Think That The Opinion Of The Montpellier Professor

Deserves Smollett's Condemnation. It Seems To Me Both Careful And

Sensible And Contains All The Knowledge Of Its Time. Smollett,

With An Inconsistency Not Uncommon In Patients Who Feel That They

Have A Serious Disease, Would Not Go In Person To The Professor,

For He Felt That From His Appearance The Professor Would Be Sure

To Tell Him He Had Consumption. He Half Hoped For Some Other View

Of The Written Case In Spite Of Its Explicit Statements, And When

Professor F-- Wrote That The Patient Had Tubercles In His Lungs,

This Was Displeasing To Poor Smollett, Who Had Hoped Against Hope

To Receive--Some Other Opinion Than The Only Possible One, Viz.,

That He Undoubtedly Had A Consumption Certain To Prove Fatal."

 

 

 

Part 5 Pg 25

The Cruel Truth Was Not To Be Evaded. Smollett Had Tuberculosis,

Though Not Probably Of The Most Virulent Kind, As He Managed To

Survive Another Seven Years, And Those For The Most Part Years Of

Unremitting Labour. He Probably Gained Much By Substituting Nice

For Montpellier As A Place To Winter In, For Although The Climate

Of Montpellier Is Clear And Bright In The Highest Degree, The

Cold Is Both Piercing And Treacherous. Days Are Frequent During

The Winter In Which One May Stand Warmly Wrapped In The Brilliant

Sun And Feel The Protection Of A Greatcoat No More Than That Of A

Piece Of Gauze Against The Icy And Penetrating Blast That Comes

From "Tile Roof Of France."

 

 

 

Unable To Take The Direct Route By Arles As At Present, The

Eastward-Bound Traveller From Montpellier In 1764 Had To Make A

Northerly Detour. The First Stone Bridge Up The Rhone Was At

Avignon, But There Was A Bridge Of Boats Connecting Beaucaire

With Tarascon. Thence, In No Very Placable Mood, Smollett Set Out

In Mid-November By Way Of Orgon [Aix], Brignolles And Le Muy,

Striking The Mediterranean At Frejus. En Route He Was Inveigled

Into A Controversy Of Unwonted Bitterness With An Innkeeper At Le

Muy. The Scene Is Conjured Up For Us With An Almost Disconcerting

Actuality; No Single Detail Of The Author's Discomfiture Is

Omitted. The Episode Is Post-Flaubertian In Its Impersonal

Detachment, Or, As Coleridge First Said, "Aloofness." On Crossing

The Var, The Sunny Climate, The Romantic Outline Of The

Esterelles, The Charms Of The "Neat Village" Of Cannes, And The

First Prospect Of Nice Began Gradually And Happily To Effect A

Slight Mitigation In Our Patient's Humour. Smollett Was

Indubitably One Of The Pioneers Of The Promenade Des Anglais.

Long Before The Days Of "Dr. Antonio" Or Lord Brougham, He

Described For His Countrymen The Almost Incredible Dolcezza Of

The Sunlit Coast From Antibes To Lerici. But How Much Better

Than The Barren Triumph Of Being The Unconscious Fugleman Of So

Glittering A Popularity Must Have Been The Sense Of Being One Of

The First That Ever Burst From Our Rude Island Upon That Secluded

Little Piedmontese Town, As It Then Was, Of Not Above Twelve

Thousand Souls, With Its Wonderful Situation, Noble Perspective

And Unparalleled Climate. Well Might Our Travel-Tost Doctor

Exclaim, "When I Stand On The Rampart And Look Around I Can

Scarce Help Thinking Myself Enchanted." It Was Truly A Garden Of

Armida For A Native Of One Of The Dampest Corners Of North

Britain.

 

 

 

"Forty Or Fifty Years Ago, Before The Great Transformation Took

Place On The French Riviera, When Nizza, Villafranca, And Mentone

Were Antique Italian Towns, And When It Was One Of The

Eccentricities Of Lord Brougham, To Like Cannes, All That Sea-Board

Was A Delightful Land. Only A Hundred Years Ago Arthur

Young Had Trouble To Get An Old Woman And A Donkey To Carry His

Portmanteau From Cannes To Antibes. I Can Myself Remember Cannes 

Part 5 Pg 26

Portmanteau From Cannes To Antibes. I Can Myself Remember Cannes

In 1853, A Small Fishing Village With A Quiet Beach, And Mentone,

A Walled Town With Mediaeval Gates And A Castle, A Few Humble

Villas And The Old Posta To Give Supper To Any Passing Traveller.

It Was One Of The Loveliest Bits Of Italy, And The Road From

Nizza To Genoa Was One Long Procession For Four Days Of Glorious

Scenery, Historic Remnants, Italian Colour, And Picturesque

Ports. From The Esterelles To San Remo This Has All Been Ruined

By The Horde Of Northern Barbarians Who Have Made A Sort Of

Trouville, Brighton, Or Biarritz, With American Hotels And

Parisian Boulevards On Every Headland And Bay. First Came The

Half Underground Railway, A Long Tunnel With Lucid Intervals,

Which Destroyed The Road By Blocking Up Its Finest Views And

Making It Practically Useless. Then Miles Of Unsightly

Caravanserais High Walls, Pompous Villas, And Parisian Grandes

Rues Crushed Out Every Trace Of Italy, Of History, And Pictorial

Charm." So Writes Mr. Frederic Harrison Of This Delectable Coast,

[In The Daily Chronicle, 15th March 1898.] As It Was, At A Period

Within His Own Recollection--A Period At Which It Is Hardly

Fanciful To Suppose Men Living Who Might Just Have Remembered

Smollett, As He Was In His Last Days, When He Returned To Die On

The Riviera Di Levante In The Autumn Of 1771. Travel Had Then

Still Some Of The Elements Of Romance. Rapidity Has Changed All

That. The Trouble Is That Although We Can Transport Our Bodies So

Much More Rapidly Than Smollett Could, Our Understanding Travels

At The Same Old Pace As Before. And In The Meantime Railway And

Tourist Agencies Have Made Of Modern Travel A Kind Of Mental

Postcard Album, With Grand Hotels On One Side, Hotel Menus On The

Other, And A Faint Aroma Of Continental Trains Haunting, Between

The Leaves As It Were. Our Real Knowledge Is Still Limited To The

Country We Have Walked Over, And We Must Not Approach The Country

We Would Appreciate Faster Than A Man May Drive A Horse Or Propel

A Bicycle; Or We Shall Lose The All-Important Sense Of Artistic

Approach. Even To Cross The Channel By Time-Table Is Fatal To

That Romantic Spirit (Indispensable To The True Magic Of Travel)

Which A Slow Adjustment Of The Mind To A New Social Atmosphere

And A New Historical Environment Alone Can Induce. Ruskin, The

Last Exponent Of The Grand Tour, Said Truly That The Benefit Of

Travel Varies Inversely In Proportion To Its Speed. The Cheap

Rapidity Which Has Made Our Villes De Plaisir And Cotes D'azur

What They Are, Has Made Unwieldy Boroughs Of Suburban Villages,

And What The Rail Has Done For A Radius Of A Dozen Miles, The

Motor Is Rapidly Doing For One Of A Score. So Are We Sped! But We

Are To Discuss Not The Psychology Of Travel, But The Immediate

Causes And Circumstances Of Smollett's Arrival Upon The Territory

Of Nice.

Part 6 Pg 27

 

Smollett Did Not Interpret The Ground-Plan Of The History Of Nice

Particularly Well. Its Colonisation From Massilia, Its Long

Connection With Provence, Its Occupation By Saracens, Its Stormy

Connection With The House Of Anjou, And Its Close Fidelity To The

House Of Savoy Made No Appeal To His Admiration. The Most

Important Event In Its Recent History, No Doubt, Was The Capture

Of The City By The French Under Catinat In 1706 (Louis Xiv. Being

Especially Exasperated Against What He Regarded As The Treachery

Of Victor Amadeus), And The Razing To The Ground Of Its Famous

Citadel. The City Henceforth Lost A Good Deal Of Its Civic

Dignity, And Its Morale Was Conspicuously Impaired. In The War Of

The Austrian Succession An English Fleet Under Admiral Matthews

Was Told Off To Defend The Territory Of The Nicois Against The

Attentions Of Toulon. This Was The First Close Contact

Experienced Between England And Nice, But The Impressions Formed

Were Mutually Favourable. The Inhabitants Were Enthusiastic About

The Unaccustomed English Plan Of Paying In Full For All Supplies

Demanded. The British Officers Were No Less Delighted With The

Climate Of Nice, The Fame Of Which They Carried To Their Northern

Homes. It Was Both Directly And Indirectly Through One Of These

Officers That The Claims Of Nice As A Sanatorium Came To Be Put

So Plainly Before Smollett. [Losing Its Prestige As A Ville

Forte, Nice Was Henceforth Rapidly To Gain The New Character Of A

Ville De Plaisir. In 1763, Says One Of The City's Historians,

Smollett, The Famous Historian And Novelist, Visited Nice.

"Arriving Here Shattered In Health And Depressed In Spirits,

Under The Genial Influence Of The Climate He Soon Found Himself A

New Man. His Notes On The Country, Its Gardens, Its Orange

Groves, Its Climate Without A Winter, Are Pleasant And Just And

Would Seem To Have Been Written Yesterday Instead Of More Than A

Hundred Years Ago. . . . His Memory Is Preserved In The Street

Nomenclature Of The Place; One Of The Thoroughfares Still Bears

The Appellation Of Rue Smollett." (James Nash, The Guide To Nice,

1884, P. 110.)]

 

 

 

Among Other Celebrated Residents At Nice During The Period Of

Smollett's Visit Were Edward Augustus, Duke Of York, The Brother

Of George Iii., Who Died At Monaco A Few Years Later, And Andre

Massena, A Native Of The City, Then A Lad Of Six.

 

 

 

Before He Left Montpellier Smollett Indulged In Two More

Seemingly Irresistible Tirades Against French Folly: One Against

Their Persistent Hero-Worship Of Such A Stuffed Doll As Louis Le

Grand, And The Second In Ridicule Of The Immemorial French

Panacea, A Bouillon. Now He Gets To Nice He Feels A Return Of The

Craving To Take A Hand's Turn At Depreciatory Satire Upon The

Nation Of Which A Contemporary Hand Was Just Tracing The

Deservedly Better-Known Delineation, Commencing

 

 

 

Gay Sprightly Land Of Mirth And Social Ease,