LEAVE ENGLAND FOR PARIS—DRUGS AND CLOTHING REQUIRED—A “SLEEBY” GERMAN—TURIN.
I was bound for the Soudan, and had arranged to meet my party at Brindisi on the 21st of November, 1881. I therefore sent on all my heavy baggage by Peninsular and Oriental steamer to Suez; included in this was a good-sized medicine chest, well stocked with drugs for the relief or cure of nearly all the ills that flesh is heir to.
I am an old campaigner, having served as a surgeon-major in the Turkish Army in 1876 and ’77, consequently had a very good idea of what drugs would be most necessary and useful. Knowing also that we were going to a very hot part of the globe, I took as few liquids, such as tinctures, &c., as possible.
Everything that I could have made in the form of[6] pills I got Messrs. Richardson and Co., of Leicester, to do; their coated pills stood the journey splendidly, and could always be depended on.
It will not be necessary to enumerate all the contents of the medicine-chest; but I think it might be useful to those who take a similar journey if I mention a few things that ought certainly to be taken, and they are the following: A good stock of quinine, oil of male-fern, as tape-worm is by no means uncommon; ipecacuanha, for that formidable complaint, dysentery; castor oil, opium, Dover’s powder, iodoform, chlorodyne, calomel, blue pill, and various other mercurial preparations, much required for complaints in the Soudan; iodide of potash, carbonate of soda, powdered alum, sulphate of zinc, sugar of lead, solution of atropine, solution of ammonia, Epsom salts, a large bottle of purgative pills, nitrate of silver (lunar caustic), carbolic acid, lint, a few dozen bandages, and plaster in a tin. Ointments are useless, as they soon become quite liquid in such a hot climate, and run all over the medicine chest, making a great mess.
Clothing.—Of course every gentleman will be provided with the ordinary European clothing for use in civilized parts, but such things as nicely-polished boots, collars, neckties, and so forth, may be easily dispensed with in the Soudan. The most necessary[7] articles are two or three dozen pairs summer socks, half-a-dozen thin flannel shirts, three or four silk shirts, three pairs of brown leather lace-up boots, and a comfortable pair of slippers, three or four suits of thin light clothing, a strong jean coat and trousers, that will not be easily torn by the thorns whilst hunting, and a pith helmet.
Soldiers cannot march without easy boots, and travellers cannot travel with comfort unless they have suitable braces. This may seem a small matter to talk about, but I have often heard strong language poured forth at the secession of a trouser-button; and I know from past experience what a nuisance it is to be obliged to sew on one’s trouser-buttons. A long time is spent in searching for a needle and thread, and a much longer time, by the unpractised one, in sewing on the button. Now, fortunately, these annoyances are things of the past, since the invention of what is known as “the traveller’s patent buttonless brace.”
It is simplicity itself. Instead of buttons on the trousers, there are eyelet holes, through which a little bar attached to the brace—instead of a loop—is slipped, and there is an end for ever of the nuisance of buttons coming off.
A good supply of soap for washing clothes should be taken, also plenty for personal use. Pear’s[8] Soap, I think, is an excellent one in every respect. Some of our party took thick woollen pads with them, which they wore over the spine. I did not, neither do I think them at all necessary.
As I was not due at Brindisi until the 21st November, I decided to have a ramble through parts of Italy which I had not before visited. Accordingly, I left England in the early part of the month.
On my way to Paris I made the acquaintance of a German residing in London. We soon got on conversational terms, and ere long he informed me that he had not been well lately, and was much concerned about himself, that one afternoon, feeling rather tired, he lay down on the sofa, intending to have a nap. He was so unhappy or unwise as to sleep for a whole week without once awaking. To sink into this blissful state of oblivion may have its advantages, also its disadvantages. On another occasion he performed the same feat, but indulged in this lethargic propensity for a much longer period. If I remember rightly, he observed this condition during a fortnight. However, I pointed out to him what an immense advantage this was, as he would not have his mind worried by the Income Tax, Poor Rate, and other objectionable collectors; also what a saving in eating and drinking would be effected[9] by this somnia similima mortis habit of his, and that balmy sleep was kind nature’s sweet restorer. Strange to say, my arguments were ineffective, as he replied that “Sleeb vas all very vell in its way, but I would rater not sleeb so much as dat, as I have my business to attend to, for vich I must be wide-avake.”
We were glad to get off the boat that took us from Dover to Calais, as both of us suffered from that miserable complaint, mal-de-mer, to some extent. We reached la belle Paris in the evening, very glad of a rest. After spending two days very pleasantly and agreeably in Paris, I took train at 9 p.m. from the Gare de Lyon for Turin. Fortunately, a French gentleman and I were the only two occupants of the carriage during the night. We turned up the arm-rests, each occupied a side of the carriage, and slept soundly all night. At Ma?on we had breakfast, wash and brush up, then resumed our journey. Passing through grand mountain scenery, and quite close to the railway, we passed a beautiful lake some miles in extent, the name of which I forget. When we reached Chambery I lost my agreeable French companion. In the afternoon we ran through the Mont Cenis tunnel, the time occupied being just thirty-eight minutes. The gradient became somewhat steep,[10] and the lovely Alpine scenery glorious and lonely, now winding through deep gorges, anon running downwards for miles along the very edge of a fearful precipice.
I reached Turin in the evening succeeding my departure from Paris. The station is situated in the Piazza Carlo Felice, and is a fine, spacious building. When my luggage had been duly inspected by Custom House officials, I was permitted to transport myself and my belongings to an omnibus from the Hotel Trambetta, whither I was driven just in time for table d’h?te. Immediately after leaving the station the driver was stopped by an official, who opened the door, asked if I had any complaint to make, and looked round to see if there were any provisions, as the octroi duties prevail in Italy. I had no complaint; the door was shut, and off we went.
As I did not intend to remain long in Turin, I was up the following morning in good time, determined to see as much of the place as I could in a short time. The streets are clean and well laid out, the houses large and handsome generally, and the town comparatively modern, although it was originally founded by a tribe called the Taurini, was the capital of Piedmont during the 14th century, and the capital of Italy until 1865. The[11] population is about 208,000, and the University perhaps the most important in Italy, there being over 1,500 students.
I should liked to have spent a week in exploring Turin and the neighbourhood, but had to be content with the short time at my disposal. I took a walk down the Via Lagrange, and soon reached the Palazzo Madama (Piazza Castello). This Palace was used for the sittings of the Italian Senate when Turin was the seat of government (1865). In the early part of last century the mother of King Amadeus lived in and embellished it. Opposite this is the Sardinian monument, presented to the city by the Milanese in 1859, just after the war, on which, in relievo, is the figure of Victor Emmanuel—Il re galuntuomo—at the head of his troops. Just beyond the Palazzo Madama is the Palazzo Reale (Royal Palace). The exterior is nothing to look at, being plain and heavy, but the interior is magnificent. From here I extended my walk to the Giardino Reale (Royal Gardens), then the Cathedral of Turin, Santa Giovanni Battista, which was erected in the latter part of the 15th century by Pintelli. In the chapel of St. Sudorio, just behind the high altar, is a small portion of linen cloth in a glass case. This is a valuable relic, for it is said to be a portion of[12] the cloth in which the body of the Saviour was embalmed. This may, or may not, be true; belief in the matter is optional. One really gets so accustomed in Italy to seeing the bones of deceased saints, a bit of the true cross, a nail of it, and so on, that the probability is nine out of ten are sceptical.