I had seen Constantinople, Madeira, and many other parts of this fair earth of ours, but I do not remember anything that compares with this bit of Italian coast scenery, which I think is surely the loveliest in the world.
Dismissing our carriage, we walked through Monte Carlo to Monaco, and ascended to the palace of the prince. It stands on the summit of a bold headland, surrounded by fortifications, from which we had another splendid view. One can readily see how fair and beautiful a place, full of the sweetest harmonies of nature, and filling the human heart with a grateful sense of God's love, has, by the sordid wickedness of man, been perverted into a paradise of the Prince of Darkness, who, knowing too well the weakness and folly of poor erring humanity, lures by every artificial attraction and fascination even the poor pilgrim invalid, who hopefully journeys here to breathe the pure fresh air and to recover health; and also does his best to complete the moral degradation of the less innocent but infatuated gambler, who stakes his life upon the cast of a die and rushes madly and miserably to unutterable ruin.
I have already mentioned the plantations of olive trees we passed in our drive on the cliffs. Nothing strikes one more singularly, in coming to this part of the world, than the contrast in appearance between the olive tree and the rich, luxuriant foliage of the orange, lemon, myrtle, and other beautiful vegetation so prolific here. Toward evening especially, the gnarled and twisted olive has a strangely sad and sombre effect, with its long, pointed leaves of dull green lined with a chilly pale tint--as it were, a thing of a past period in the earth's existence, ancient and venerable, almost sacred, and little in harmony with the gay, luxuriant vegetable life around. I think nothing describes better its cold sombre aspect than the remark Marianne Hunt made to her husband during their first unfortunate visit to Italy. "They look," she said, "as if they were always standing in the moonlight." And, indeed, this is just the effect they have, as though having been once lighted on by Cynthia's cold, chaste glance, they had ever remained petrified and blanched. Still, there is much grace and beauty in the outlines of olive trees against a sunlit, blue-grey sky, the silver tints of their leaves quivering in the light.