Fair Italy, the Riviera and Monte Carlo Comprising a Tour Through North and South Italy and Sicily with a Short Account of Malta — Text and Context

A Traveller's Dual Purpose

Devereux frames his journey as both a pleasure tour and a corrective mission. He dedicates the volume to his wife 'in remembrance of our happy tour,' yet the preface warns that Monte Carlo 'circulates a g[ambling]' poison through the Riviera. This tension—between the delighted sightseer and the moralizing critic—shapes his prose. He praises the Riviera as 'one of the loveliest spots on this fair earth,' a haven for 'sickly invalids' seeking health, but immediately pivots to condemn the casino as a 'deadly evil.' The reader is thus alerted that Devereux will not simply catalogue wonders; he will judge them. His authorial voice oscillates between the effusive and the stern, a pattern that recurs throughout the excerpts.

Diction of a Naval Officer Abroad

Devereux’s vocabulary and sentence rhythms betray his professional background. He notes that Palermo’s tramways are 'better and cheaper than in any other city in Europe,' a practical, comparative assessment typical of a man accustomed to logistics. He describes the Bersaglieri 'posted in the most out-of-the-way places, commanding the various passes'—a military eye for strategic placement. His prose is laced with nautical metaphors: he recalls 'that perfect avalanche of stirring incidents' from 1860, and later promises to 'briefly sketch these thrilling events' with 'particulars ... not publicly known before.' The tone is that of a seasoned observer who values firsthand evidence over received opinion.

Social Observation and Dry Humour

Devereux’s descriptions of Sicilian society are laced with wry, understated humour. He notes that the ladies' studied pallor is 'studiously acquired' and that their 'nocturnal-like existence' would produce the effect 'without any artificial aid.' He observes that military men 'had certainly proved that there was plenty of sturdy pluck about them' but adds, with a hint of irony, that they had 'rather too much of a swagger for soldiers who had seen service.' Such remarks reveal a traveller who is not merely recording but interpreting—and occasionally teasing—the customs he encounters. His aside about the Channel Tunnel ('foolishly supposing it would convert our sullen neighbour into a sincere friend') shows he is equally willing to critique English policy.

Structure and the Promise of Revelation

The excerpts reveal a carefully planned narrative arc. Devereux announces that before leaving Sicily he will 'briefly sketch' the 'thrilling events' of 1860, including 'certain particulars ... which have not been publicly known before.' This promise of insider knowledge—likely drawn from his naval service—creates a suspenseful break in the travelogue. The book thus alternates between descriptive travel writing and historical set-pieces. The reader should expect chapters that pause the scenic tour to deliver focused, dramatic accounts of Garibaldi’s campaigns, complete with the author’s own claims to exclusive detail. This structural choice distinguishes Fair Italy from a simple itinerary.

Devereux’s voice is that of a confident, opinionated guide who expects his reader to share his values—admiration for Italian unity, suspicion of French motives, and a firm moral stance against gambling. His prose is most vivid when he combines sensory detail with a pointed judgment, as when he contrasts Palermo’s healthy reservoirs with the 'dirty, muddy, and polluted streams' of Rome and Florence. Readers will find a travelogue that is as much about the traveller’s character as about the places he visits.

Reading this naval officer’s irritation with Monte Carlo’s glitter reminded me of a rainy afternoon in my grandfather’s study, where I found his old copy of The Bible in Spain, Vol. 1 [of 2] Or, the Journeys, Adventures, and Imprisonments of an Englishman in an Attempt to Circulate the Scriptures in the Peninsula — Story, Setting & Ideas. Both travelers—a century apart—kept wrapping their landscapes in moral weariness, their descriptions always slightly bruised by what they saw in people.