Travels Through France And Italy by Tobias Smollett (fastest ebook reader .txt) 📕

Water To The Town, I Can Say Very Little, But That It Was Scooped

Through A Mountain: That This Subterranean Passage Was Discovered

Some Years Ago, By Removing The Rubbish Which Choaked It Up: That

The People Penetrating A Considerable Way, By The Help Of Lighted

Torches, Found A Very Plentiful Stream Of Water Flowing In An

Aqueduct, As High As An Ordinary Man, Arched Over Head, And Lined

With A Sort Of Cement. They Could Not, However, Trace This Stream

To Its Source; And It Is Again Stopped Up With Earth And Rubbish.

There Is Not A Soul In This Country, Who Has Either Spirit Or

Understanding To Conduct An Inquiry Of This Kind. Hard By The

Amphitheatre Is A Convent Of Recollets, Built In A Very Romantic

Situation, On The Brink Of A Precipice. On One Side Of Their

Garden, They Ascend To A Kind Of Esplanade, Which They Say Was

Part Of The Citadel Of Cemenelion. They Have Planted It With

Cypress-Trees, And Flowering-Shrubs. One Of The Monks Told Me,

That It Is Vaulted Below, As They Can Plainly Perceive By The 

Sound Of Their Instruments Used In Houghing The Ground. A Very

Small Expence Would Bring The Secrets Of This Cavern To Light.

They Have Nothing To Do, But To Make A Breach In The Wall, Which

Appears Uncovered Towards The Garden.

The City Of Cemenelion Was First Sacked By The Longobards, Who

Made An Irruption Into Provence, Under Their King Alboinus, About

The Middle Of The Sixth Century.

It Was Afterwards Totally Destroyed By The Saracens, Who, At

Different Times, Ravaged This Whole Coast. The Remains Of The

People Are Supposed To Have Changed Their Habitation, And Formed

A Coalition With The Inhabitants Of Nice.

What Further I Have To Say Of Nice, You Shall Know In Good Time;

At Present, I Have Nothing To Add, But What You Very Well Know,

That I Am Always Your Affectionate Humble Servant.

Dear Sir,--Last Sunday I Crossed Montalban On Horseback, With

Some Swiss Officers, On A Visit To Our Consul, Mr. B--D, Who

Lives At Ville Franche, About Half A League From Nice. It Is A

Small Town, Built Upon The Side Of A Rock, At The Bottom Of The

Harbour, Which Is A Fine Basin, Surrounded With Hills On Every

Side, Except To The South, Where It Lies Open To The Sea. If

There Was A Small Island In The Mouth Of It, To Break Off The

Force Of The Waves, When The Wind Is Southerly, It Would Be One

Of The Finest Harbours In The World; For The Ground Is Exceeding

Good For Anchorage: There Is A Sufficient Depth Of Water, And

Room Enough For The Whole Navy Of England. On The Right Hand, As

You Enter The Port, There Is An Elegant Fanal, Or Lighthouse,

Kept In Good Repair: But In All The Charts Of This Coast Which I

Have Seen, This Lanthorn Is Laid Down To The Westward Of The

Harbour; An Error Equally Absurd And Dangerous, As It May Mislead

The Navigator, And Induce Him To Run His Ship Among The Rocks, To

The Eastward Of The Lighthouse, Where It Would Undoubtedly

Perish. Opposite To The Mouth Of The Harbour Is The Fort, Which

Can Be Of No Service, But In Defending The Shipping And The Town

By Sea; For, By Land, It Is Commanded By Montalban, And All The

Hills In The Neighbourhood. In The War Of 1744, It Was Taken And

Retaken. At Present, It Is In Tolerable Good Repair. On The Left

Of The Fort, Is The Basin For The Gallies, With A Kind Of Dock, 

In Which They Are Built, And Occasionally Laid Up To Be Refitted.

This Basin Is Formed By A Pretty Stone Mole; And Here His

Sardinian Majesty's Two Gallies Lie Perfectly Secure, Moored With

Their Sterns Close To The Jette. I Went On Board One Of These

Vessels, And Saw About Two Hundred Miserable Wretches, Chained To

The Banks On Which They Sit And Row, When The Galley Is At Sea.

This Is A Sight Which A British Subject, Sensible Of The Blessing

He Enjoys, Cannot Behold Without Horror And Compassion. Not But

That If We Consider The Nature Of The Case, With Coolness And

Deliberation, We Must Acknowledge The Justice, And Even Sagacity,

Of Employing For The Service Of The Public, Those Malefactors Who

Have Forfeited Their Title To The Privileges Of The Community.

Among The Slaves At Ville Franche Is A Piedmontese Count,

Condemned To The Gallies For Life, In Consequence Of Having Been

Convicted Of Forgery. He Is Permitted To Live On Shore; And Gets

Money By Employing The Other Slaves To Knit Stockings For Sale.

He Appears Always In The Turkish Habit, And Is In A Fair Way Of

Raising A Better Fortune Than That Which He Has Forfeited.

It Is A Great Pity, However, And A Manifest Outrage Against The

Law Of Nations, As Well As Of Humanity, To Mix With Those

Banditti, The Moorish And Turkish Prisoners Who Are Taken In The

Prosecution Of Open War. It Is Certainly No Justification Of This

Barbarous Practice, That The Christian Prisoners Are Treated As

Cruelly At Tunis And Algiers. It Would Be For The Honour Of

Christendom, To Set An Example Of Generosity To The Turks; And,

If They Would Not Follow It, To Join Their Naval Forces, And

Extirpate At Once Those Nests Of Pirates, Who Have So Long

Infested The Mediterranean. Certainly, Nothing Can Be More

Shameful, Than The Treaties Which France And The Maritime Powers

Have Concluded With Those Barbarians. They Supply Them With

Artillery, Arms, And Ammunition, To Disturb Their Neighbours.

They Even Pay Them A Sort Of Tribute, Under The Denomination Of

Presents; And Often Put Up With Insults Tamely, For The Sordid

Consideration Of A Little Gain In The Way Of Commerce. They Know

That Spain, Sardinia, And Almost All The Catholic Powers In The

Mediterranean, Adriatic, And Levant, Are At Perpetual War With

Those Mahometans; That While Algiers, Tunis, And Sallee, Maintain

Armed Cruisers At Sea, Those Christian Powers Will Not Run The

Risque Of Trading In Their Own Bottoms, But Rather Employ As

Carriers The Maritime Nations, Who Are At Peace With The

Infidels. It Is For Our Share Of This Advantage, That We

Cultivate The Piratical States Of Barbary, And Meanly Purchase

Passports Of Them, Thus Acknowledging Them Masters Of The

Mediterranean.

The Sardinian Gallies Are Mounted Each With Five-And-Twenty Oars,

And Six Guns, Six-Pounders, Of A Side, And A Large Piece Of

Artillery Amidships, Pointing Ahead, Which (So Far As I Am Able

To Judge) Can Never Be Used Point-Blank, Without Demolishing The 

Head Or Prow Of The Galley. The Accommodation On Board For The

Officers Is Wretched. There Is A Paltry Cabin In The Poop For The

Commander; But All The Other Officers Lie Below The Slaves, In A

Dungeon, Where They Have Neither Light, Air, Nor Any Degree Of

Quiet; Half Suffocated By The Heat Of The Place; Tormented By

Fleas, Bugs, And Lice; And Disturbed By The Incessant Noise Over

Head. The Slaves Lie Upon The Naked Banks, Without Any Other

Covering Than A Tilt. This, However, Is No Great Hardship, In A

Climate Where There Is Scarce Any Winter. They Are Fed With A

Very Scanty Allowance Of Bread, And About Fourteen Beans A Day

And Twice A Week They Have A Little Rice, Or Cheese, But Most Of

Them, While They Are In Harbour Knit Stockings, Or Do Some Other

Kind Of Work, Which Enables Them To Make Some Addition To This

Wretched Allowance. When They Happen To Be At Sea In Bad Weather,

Their Situation Is Truly Deplorable. Every Wave Breaks Over The

Vessel, And Not Only Keeps Them Continually Wet, But Comes With

Such Force, That They Are Dashed Against The Banks With

Surprising Violence: Sometimes Their Limbs Are Broke, And

Sometimes Their Brains Dashed Out. It Is Impossible (They Say) To

Keep Such A Number Of Desperate People Under Any Regular Command,

Without Exercising Such Severities As Must Shock Humanity. It Is

Almost Equally Impossible To Maintain Any Tolerable Degree Of

Cleanliness, Where Such A Number Of Wretches Are Crouded Together

Without Conveniences, Or Even The Necessaries Of Life. They Are

Ordered Twice A Week To Strip, Clean, And Bathe Themselves In The

Sea: But, Notwithstanding All The Precautions Of Discipline, They

Swarm With Vermin, And The Vessel Smells Like An Hospital, Or

Crouded Jail. They Seem, Nevertheless, Quite Insensible Of Their

Misery, Like So Many Convicts In Newgate: They Laugh And Sing,

And Swear, And Get Drunk When They Can. When You Enter By The

Stern, You Are Welcomed By A Band Of Music Selected From The

Slaves; And These Expect A Gratification. If You Walk Forwards,

You Must Take Care Of Your Pockets. You Will Be Accosted By One

Or Other Of The Slaves, With A Brush And Blacking-Ball For

Cleaning Your Shoes; And If You Undergo This Operation, It Is Ten

To One But Your Pocket Is Picked. If You Decline His Service, And

Keep Aloof, You Will Find It Almost Impossible To Avoid A Colony

Of Vermin, Which These Fellows Have A Very Dexterous Method Of

Conveying To Strangers. Some Of The Turkish Prisoners, Whose

Ransom Or Exchange Is Expected, Are Allowed To Go Ashore, Under

Proper Inspection; And Those Forcats, Who Have Served The Best

Part Of The Time For Which They Were Condemned, Are Employed In

Public Works, Under A Guard Of Soldiers. At The Harbour Of Nice,

They Are Hired By Ship-Masters