thus we arrive at the end of our journey with a sense of bitter wonderment at not having chosen better the stages of it.

Be this as it may, the Sanremo I visited in 1857 had as much improved on that of my boyhood, as the Sanremo of 1864 has improved on that of 1857. Wonderful, is it not, that the little town should have found seven years suffice for a stride forwards, to accomplish the like of which had previously cost her a period equal to that of the wandering of the Jews after their escape from bondage! Surely, to account for this result, there must have been something else at work besides the law of progress, some strong impellent motive. And it was so.

Have you never seen a beauty, strong in her native charms, disdain the aid of all ornaments so long as her heart is yet silent? Well, see that same beauty the moment her heart has spoken, and you will find her abounding in devices for pleasing. This was the case with Sanremo. Her heart, yet mute in 1857, suddenly began to speak in the following year, or thereabouts, and she grew coquettish at once. Yes, Sanremo fell in love with. . . . But I am betraying a secret before the proper time.

Let us return instead to the Sanremo of 1857. The change which struck me most was its new approach. Formerly you entered it by a narrow, irregular road; now it was by what the French would call a broad boulevart, running parallel to the sea, through the whole length of the town. The fashionables of the locality had chosen it, as well they might, for their favourite walk. But even the word boulevart does not give a just idea of its charms.

Who

knows of another boulevart flanked on both sides by such gardens as flourish there!-smiled upon by such a sky and sea as shine and sparkle there!—and which wears in its cap two such fine feathers as the two secular palm-trees waving yonder! Therefore allow me to say that the entrance, or boulevart, of Sanremo is indeed worth looking at.

The other welcome novelty which

street, which, starting at right angles from the Boulevart of the Palms, goes straight towards the sea. The Sanremaschi have called it Via Gioberti-one of those excellent ideas which carry along with them their reward, for by doing honour to the memory of a great Italian they have done honour to themselves. I noticed, too, with pleasure, a good sprinkle of freshly-built houses-I was almost tempted to call them palaces, they were so large and handsome. Some were already finished, some only in course of construction. I remarked one, if not two caffès, of which I had no recollection; they seemed as clean as they were smart. Most of the shops looked as if they had lately adopted the habit of washing their faces some few aimed even at elegance. The town had gained an unknown aspect of cleanliness-relative cleanliness, you understand.

But as to hotels it had remained sadly stationary; which, after all, was quite as it ought to be. At the time of which I am speaking, Sanremo was not yet in love consequently had no desire to please anybody but itself. The improvements which it had realized had had exclusively in view its own comfort and pleasure, and not that of others; now, what could it care about hotels, to which it never went?

So the only hotel of Sanremo continued to be that kept by Signora Angelinin, the hotel "della Palma❞—that very same, with the exception of some few microscopic changes for the better, to which in times of yore I had more than once accompanied my uncle, the canon, not to take up our quarters there, but to pay a visit to the landlady. The most that could be said in behalf of the hotel "della Palma" was, that it was decent. One certainly would not have chosen it as a place of abode for any length of time; but the traveller detained by business or stress of weather might easily have passed a week or so there, without being too much to be pitied. The cooking department of "La Palma " enjoyed a well-deserved renown, and

being very civil and attentive. As for the house itself, nothing could be uglier -outside it was like a barrack, and inside little better than its looks. The distribution of the rooms was inconvenient, and the furniture sparing.

I do not trust for these details to the recollections of my boyhood, but rather to impressions received at a far later date. Between 1847 and the present day I have had frequent opportunities of enjoying the good cheer of the "Palma," though I rarely passed the night there. The hostess had by that time gone to her long rest, and her son and heir reigned over the hotel in her stead. Signor Angelino, some fifteen years ago, was a very handsome young fellow, the very picture of careless content, withal extremely good-natured. He had a passion for fowling, to gratify which he brought up in cages all sorts of small birds, especially blackbirds and nightingales, a task which does not lack its difficulties. Nightingales are queer things to deal with; they rarely survive the loss of their liberty. Busy with his birds, Signor Angelino of course did not work himself to death for the benefit of his customers. Why should he? He had no competition to fear; the hotel was well frequented; the diligences from Nice and from Genoa stopped there daily for dinner; most of the vetturini did the same, and the young landlord's purse filled apace.

For me personally Signor Angelino was always overflowing with attention; and I must do him the justice to say that I invariably found at his house, besides an excellent dinner, an additional dish of buona cera, to use a picturesque Italian expression. With one exception, though; and this was on the occasion of my last visit to Sanremo in 1857. The fare was, as usual, excellent, but mine host's reception left something to be desired. Polite as it was, I was sensible that there was an absence of that hearty cordiality to which he had accustomed me. For instance, instead of bestowing on me the light of his countenance, as had been his habit, during

the dirty little fellow who waited on me, whistling all the while, showed me a clouded visage. It was not his whistling almost into my ear-not an unprecedented process-that gave me umbrage; it was his uncommunicativeness, so contrary to his nature, which struck me as premeditated. However, when I had paid my bill and left the hotel, I forgot these trifling incidents.

On my way to the convent of the Capuchins I stepped into a shop, where I was well known, to buy a cigar. The man behind the counter handed me the cigars in silence, as he would have done to a stranger. I thought he had not recollected me, and I told him so. He said that he remembered me perfectly. I asked about his wife and children. The answer was laconic: "They are well, I thank you." Surely the man was labouring under the same difficulty of speech that afflicted Signor Angelino and the little waiter of "La Palma." A strange coincidence, thought I; perhaps one of those epidemics, like typhus or miliary fever, which suddenly lay hold of a whole town, or even district. benign malady, after all, this, which I was beginning to detect, for is it not written that in the "multitude of words there wanteth no sin"? We'll see, at all events, if Padre Tommaso has caught the infection.

A

I was ringing the bell of the convent door as I thus reflected. Padre Tommaso is a worthy Capuchin friar, and an old friend of mine. I made his acquaintance many, many years ago at Taggia; and, since he has been stationed at Sanremo, I never fail, whenever I go thither, to call on him. Well, was it a delusion on my part, or had Padre Tommaso really caught the infection? He said he was glad to see me, but he did not look as if he were so. He inquired if I intended to stay any time. at Sanremo, and my reply in the negative seemed to relieve him. On former occasions he had always pressed me to stay. There were in his countenance and manner unmistakable signs of embarrassment. He found little to say,

utmost to be talkative; the conversation flagged so pitiably that after a few minutes of mutual discomfort I rose

to go.

"By-the-bye," he said, rising also, speaking in a tone too careless not to be assumed; "by-the-bye, you have written a book; at least so I have been told." "Quite true," I replied. "You have not read it, I see."

"Not I," said the padre; "but I have heard it spoken of by those who have. It appears that you make mention of this place." ·

"True again. I have described it, and many of the beautiful localities of the neighbourhood."

"I hope," continued the padre with more emotion than the occasion seemed to me to warrant, "that you have not treated Sanremo too harshly."

"Treat Sanremo harshly!" cried I astonished; then I added, half laughing, "Had I tried to do so I should have been in the predicament of Balaam, forced to bless in spite of himself."

Padre Tommaso did not look convinced by what I stated, and I frankly told him so.

A slight flush suffused the reverendo's features as he made answer that what I said he was bound to believe; he could not doubt my word; and upon this we separated.

That same evening, as we were taking a cup of tea together in my little den at Taggia, I communicated to my friend and doctor Signor Martini my impressions of the day at Sanremo, among which naturally figured those produced on me by the coldness of mine host of the "Palma" and the tobacconist, and especially by the alteration which I thought I had remarked in Padre Tommaso's manner to me.

Doctor Martini smiled his quiet smile, and said, "Since it has come to this, I may as well tell you all about it. Perhaps I have been stupid to conceal it from you; but the fact is that Sanremo has taken umbrage at a certain passage in Doctor Antonio,' which in their eyes is highly disparaging to their town

(I ought to have said before that an Italian translation of "Doctor Antonio" had appeared towards the end of 1856.)

"A passage disparaging to Sanremo, or any inch of the Riviera !" cried I in amazement. "If you can show me a word anything but laudatory as to all this part of the country, I will go barefoot, a rope round my neck, and perform public penance to Sanremo."

"Give me a copy of 'Doctor Antonio,' said the doctor, "and I will point out to you the paragraph incriminated. Here it is, at page six, first chapter:- "What is the name of this place?" asks Miss Davenne. 'remo," is the answer. Sir John Davenne 'does not approve of the name, at least

-

"San

one may argue as much from his pursed'up lips as he hears it. He looks up 'the street, and down the street, and 'finally draws in his head. Had Sir 'John Davenne kept a note-book, he 'would probably have made an entry of 'this sort: "Sanremo, a queer-looking 'place; narrow, ill-paved streets; high, irregular houses; ragged people; swarms 'of beggars;" and so on for a whole 'page. Fortunately for the public repu'tation of Sanremo, Sir John kept no 'note-book."

"But, my dear friend," said I, "it is as clear as the sun at noonday that the sentiment here expressed is not the author's; it is put in the mouth of a fastidious Englishman, who loathes every thing and every place that is not English. The very exaggeration of the expression 'swarms of beggars,' while there are in reality only two, not to speak of the context and the spirit of the whole sentence, points clearly to its prejudiced source.'

"Just so," said the doctor; "and the trying to render which comprehensible to your critics has nearly given me a pneumonia; but I might as well have saved myself the trouble and risk. Passion is blind, you know; and there remains the passage with its ugly words."

"But there are other passages in the book," said I, taking it up, "which ought to have rectified any false im

this, for instance, at page 202, eleventh chapter-Sir John had ridden over to 'Sanremo to inspect a garden recom'mended to his notice by Dr. Antonio. The owner of the garden had himself shown Sir John over the grounds, and 'placed all the plants at the baronet's 'disposal. "A most gentlemanlike gentlemanlike 'person," Sir John asserted. What 'a pity (says the author), what a pity, Sir John, you do not keep a note-book ' now!' Is not this tantamount to saying in so many words, Your first hasty judgment on Sanremo was the offspring of ignorance and prejudice; better taught by experience, you would do it more justice now?""

The doctor, after musing a little, proposed that I should put in writing what I had just said, and send it to one of the Genoese newspapers popular at Sanremo, adding, "It would be an infinite satisfaction to the town."

I answered that I would think the matter over, and so I did; but before I had made up my mind I was called away from Italy. Other scenes, other occupations, other cares engrossed my attention; and, as time slipped on, so all about this quid pro quo slipped also out of my recollection, to loom on me again only the other day, when, as I have said at the beginning of this paper, happening to be again in the vicinity of Sanremo, my heart prompted me to go and pay it a visit.

PART II.

THERE being only five vehicles for hire at Taggia, to make sure of one, I sent word to Bernardino, the evening previous to my intended trip, to let me know if I could have his carriage for the next day. Bernardino is one of the five Automedons of Taggia. An answer in the affirmative had scarcely arrived when Doctor Martini entered, and exclaimed hurriedly, "I have this minute come from Sanremo, and I am commissioned to entreat you not to go thither to-morrow." The Doctor was heated, and, as it seemed to me, in a state of

to the hasty conclusion that his errand might have some sort of connexion with that absurd story of seven years ago. I said accordingly, half laughing, half provoked, "Why shouldn't I go! Does Sanremo still thirst after my blood? Am I to be hanged or only pelted? Which is it to be?"

"Indeed, I would not guarantee your not being killed with-kindness," said the Doctor, whose elation I had mistaken for exasperation. Doctor Martini has a weakness-that of seeing me not such as I am, but such as the magnifyingglass of his friendship represents me to be; and, whenever he sees what he calls justice done me, he sparkles like a glass of champagne. "Fancy," continued he, "they have planned to send their band to meet you!"

66

Mercy on me!" cried I; "you were indeed quite right to advise me not to go."

"Not on account of the band—for, knowing your horror of anything like fuss, I battled hard against the band, and carried my point. They have another reason for wishing you to delay your visit.

You must know that, as soon as it transpired that you were at Taggia

and the fact was only public yesterday morning-the Town Council met, and named a deputation of three members, the mayor and two councilmen, to wait upon and compliment you. Now, this deputation is to be here to-morrow, and would be plunged in the depths of despair if you were to be beforehand with them."

I was struck dumb-band, deputation, compliments! About what, I should like to know. All that I claimed from Sanremo was that it should be just, and behold! it chose to be generous to the verge of extravagance! There was nothing for it, however, but to take the wind as it blew, and send to Bernardino counter-order for the morrow, and a fresh order for the day after that.

Next day, in fact, about two in the afternoon, a carriage stopped at the door, and three gentlemen alighted-the deputation, of course. I gave orders

"I am no Sindaco," said the gentleman addressed, in the raciest English, "I am Doctor Whitley, an English resident at Sanremo, who . . ."

"Very glad to make your acquaintance; pray be seated," said I, and turning to his next neighbour, I reiterated, "Signor Sindaco."

"I am no Sindaco, but Mr. Congreve, also an English resident at Sanremo."

"Very glad to see you ;" and, pointing to a chair, I turned to the remaining visitor, my last resource, and began once again, "Signor Sindaco," to which the answer this time came in good Italian, "Non sono il Sindaco, sono il Dottor Panizzi."

"Welcome," said I aloud, and thought in petto, "Where can this Sindaco be? What has become of the deputation?"

My fellow-countryman apparently read my perplexity in my face, for he hastened to explain how he and his two companions came to be where they were. But first I must tell the reader that Signor Panizzi is a physician in good practice at Sanremo, who does not give himself out to be the real and genuine Doctor Antonio, as I am told some others do, but rests satisfied with being himself the modest, well-informed, and gentlemanly person that he is. And let me take this opportunity to declare that Doctor Antonio, good, bad, or indifferent as he may be, is an original picture of my own, and nowise a copy, and that consequently nobody sat for it, or could sit for it.

To return to Doctor Panizzi. He explained to me how, at the very moment of starting for Taggia, the mayor had received a telegram from Turin, which necessitated his immediately convoking the Town Council. The telegram concerned the payment in advance of the land-tax for 1865-a measure which, be it said en passant, created that noble race

Peninsula, as to which should be foremost to pay. The mayor had politely expressed the wish that I should be informed of the delay and its cause, as well as of the intention of the deputation to present themselves without fail on the morrow; and Doctor Panizzi had kindly volunteered to bring me the message, upon which the two English gentlemen had proposed to accompany him.

I thanked the ambassador, as I best could, for his kindness, and also his companions, for the honour they had conferred on me by their visit, and then we had a little desultory chat on sundry subjects; and if, on after-thought, my visitors were only half as pleased with me as I was with them, I may thank my lucky stars indeed.

Bernardino, for the second time, received a counter-order for the following day, and a fresh order for the one after, with something else to boot to allay his just impatience.

He

The deputation kept its appointment this time; true to its word, it arrived next morning. The identification of the mayor proved the source of a fresh blunder on my part. The gentleman whom from his expansiveness I singled out as the chief magistrate turned out to be only a common councilman. had been a great friend of my uncle the canon, and had known me as a boy, which accounted for the warmth of his greeting. The other councilman had been a schoolfellow of mine at Genoa. I was really touched and grateful for the pleasure they manifested at meeting me again after the lapse of so many years. The only stranger was the mayor, but in a twinkling we were excellent friends.

Many flattering things were said to me, which I need not repeat-among others, that Sanremo owed me a good deal already, and that it hoped to owe me still more. The good I had done Sanremo, they explained, was the sprinkle of English residents that I had sent thither the good which they expected was the far greater number of British