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Lady Duffus Hardy
Down South
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066215866
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I.
Two cities.—Our home upon the waters.—Southward bound.—“Only a brass star.”—At Ford’s hotel.
A dull haze hangs over the city; St. Paul has put on his cap of clouds, and the great dome looms dimly on our sight; the mystery of twilight has taken possession of the city, and shrouds the streets in the open day. The fine old trees in the parks and in the squares are losing their green foliage, and stand half naked, shivering in the damp autumn air, while their yellow shrunken leaves are swept rustling along the ground, moaning their melancholy protest against the wandering wind, and even thus early in the season—for it is only late September—visions of November fogs are looming in the near future. But we turn our backs upon the dreary prospect, and send our thoughts onward towards the City of Rome whither we are fast journeying—not that ancient city which sits upon its seven hills, like a discrowned queen, still ruling the world of Art, swaying the minds of men, and, like a gigantic loadstone, drawing the heart of the world towards herself, grander in her age of ruin than her youthful pride; the glory of her dead days circles her with a halo of poetry and romance which renders her immortal. Her ruined palaces and temples lift their hoary heads and crumbling columns heavenward—impressive, awe-inspiring, and time-defying, showing only the footprints of the ages as they have passed solemnly onwards. The stir and bustle of every-day commonplace life, the cavalcade of nineteenth-century frivolities and fashions, have failed to drive the spirit of antiquity from the place; it still sits brooding in the air, permeating the souls and stirring the hearts of men with a passionate enthusiasm for the days that are gone. There is no coming and going of armies, no heathenish maraudings, no slave-trading, war-waging population nowadays; no centurion guards, no glittering cohorts flashing their arms and tossing their white plumes in the face of the sun; yet they seem to have left their ghostly impression on the air, and in the still evening hours we feel their presence revealed to us through (what we call) our imagination, and the past marches solemnly hand-in-hand with the present before our spirit’s eyes; and while we think we are merely day-dreaming—indulging in pleasant reveries—the subtle essence of ourselves is mingling with an immortal past. But it is not towards this ancient city we are fast hastening; our City of Rome is the creation of to-day, it has nothing to say to the yesterdays; its kingdom belongs to the to-morrows, which are crowded into the years to come. It is not throned like its ancient namesake on seven hills, but rides upon the myriad waves of a limitless ocean, and looks as though it could rule them too—this floating city, which is to carry us three thousand miles across the fascinating, fickle, and inconstant sea. Like a strong young giant our noble vessel lifts its great black bulwarks into the sunlight, and we climb its steep sides in the full confidence that much of the nauseating horrors of a sea voyage will be spared to us. The Atlantic steamers, as everyone knows, are all luxuriously appointed, but this is the most luxurious; our state room has two windows draped with green rep, a cosy sofa, and—luxury of luxuries—a reading lamp; one berth is four feet wide, with a spring mattress, downy pillows, and plenty of them; the upper berth is the usual size.
It takes us some hours to explore the vessel from end to end, as we are kindly permitted to do; occasionally we lose ourselves, and are picked up by a stray hand and set in the right way. We stroll through the grand saloon, where some frantic musician is already evoking solemn sounds from the grand organ, while the passengers are clamouring for seats at special tables, and the bewildered stewards are distracted in their endeavour to oblige everybody. It is a case of bull-baiting—British bull-baiting; the poor bull is on the horns of a dilemma; he manages to extricate himself somehow, and things settle down to general satisfaction. Descending to the engine-room, we seem to have a glimpse of the infernal regions—such a rattle and clatter of machinery, whizzing and whirling amid the blaze of a hundred fires, some lashed to white heat, others blazing with a steady roar, their red flames leaping over their fiery bed, lighting up the swarthy faces of the firemen, who look like dusky gnomes flitting among eternal fires. By the time we reach the upper deck the tender has departed, the anchor is up, and—are we moving? We seem to be still stationary, but the shores of England are receding from us, the long, curving lines of the shore growing dim and more dim, the forest of shipping with its tall masts and fluttering sails fades slowly from our sight, and as the twilight closes in we are almost out of sight of land; it vanishes away till it looks like a bank of low-lying clouds fringing the horizon; now and then a white sail flashes out of the darkness and is gone.
The night is simply superb, and the heavens are ablaze with stars, like a jewelled canopy stretching over us as far as the eye can reach. Such brilliancy above! Such a soft, hazy atmosphere around us! We seem to be floating away into dreamland, as our giant vessel glides like a phantom ship through the drowsy night; but for the phosphorescent waves which run rippling at the side, or swirl in white feathery foam round the bow, we should not know that we are moving—yet we are going at the rapid rate of sixteen knots an hour, so steadily her iron keel treads through the