would need to be taken as it stands. There would be, however, no need
for adding to the morning or evening service the communion service—that
might be reserved for those who desired to remain one Sunday in the
month for the Episcopal communion, the Presbyterians taking another
Sunday in the month for their communion. Nor need the Litany be always
used. Then, with regard to the remainder of the service, why not have
a Presbyterian minister, when he could be got (and sometimes there
are even men of eminence going about), to take it alternately, or
otherwise, with the Episcopalian, by giving a short suitable extempore
prayer before sermon, and then preaching a sermon according to his own
usage—in other words, adopting the mode of service practised in the
Rev. Newman Hall’s church, London.

Besides other and higher good, this alternate preaching might benefit
even the ministers themselves of both communions. The great fault
among Episcopalian clergymen is that, in the generality of cases,
what they read has no pretence or aim at preaching, but consists
rather of a string of meagre platitudes, of sentiments which nobody
would controvert, a dry homily read without feeling or animation, and
having no intention of reaching the soul or heart of the hearers. The
ministers of the other communions have, as a rule, a higher estimate
of the duty of the preacher; but they do not always have the power or
the perception of the means of carrying it out successfully. Among
men of mediocrity, the idea seems to be to occupy a long statutory
three–quarters of an hour in a stiff, formal, methodical fashion
of dividing and exhausting the subject, and an equally formal and
unskilful, and therefore ineffective, application and address. While
added to ignorance of the arts of arresting and maintaining attention
and of persuading an audience, Presbyterian divines too often do not
choose the most suitable subjects of discourse. Might not even the
spirit of emulation evoke better things?

It is too much the custom in churches in Scotland, after sermon,
to close with a hymn, a prayer, and an anthem. After an impressive
sermon, it seems only calculated to drive out the impression to have,
immediately after, the same subject and the same thoughts droned out by
the congregation in a melancholy paraphrase to a doleful tune, followed
up by the blare and fanfare of an elaborate high–sounding anthem
performed by the choir according to book. The English method, where all
this would be more appropriate, is to close quietly. But sometimes the
minister stops suddenly short, and with startling rapidity utters, ‘Now
to God the Father,’ etc. However, the rule is, whether with or without
this invocation, to close with either benediction, or a short prayer
and benediction. We did not often go to the west church at Mentone,
though near to us, because the flavour of the service inclined to be
‘high’; but the closing there was always pleasing. After the minister
had pronounced the benediction, and before the congregation rose from
their knees, the choir (composed principally of young ladies with good
and trained voices), to the accompaniment of the organ, in subdued
tones, so suitable to parting with reverent step and slow, sung to a
soft sweet tune the following simple, perhaps child–like verse:—

‘Lord, keep us safe this night, Secure from all we fear; May angels
guard us while we sleep, Till morning light appear.’

FIRST WINTER IN THE RIVIERA.

VI.

_LONDON TO SOUTH OF FRANCE._

SELECTING the route to Paris by Folkestone, we left London on the
afternoon of 1st November 1876, and slept at Folkestone. The steamboat
was to sail the following morning at 9.15, and to have proceeded direct
would have involved leaving London at the inconveniently early hour
of 7.10 A.M. The train by Dover and Calais departs fixedly at 7.40
A.M., so that one is not much better off by taking that route. But on
proceeding by Boulogne, there is a chance that the state of the tide
may throw the time of sailing to a later hour; only when this is the
case, it involves arriving at the journey’s end late in the evening.
The train in connection with the boat by which we were to sail, was due
in Paris at 4.40 afternoon—a nice time at which to arrive.

One does not get a chance of observing whether there be any attractions
about Folkestone by just sleeping a night there. It may be a very
Paradise upon earth; and, from its facilities for popping over to
France, to its residents it probably is. One cannot say, but it does
not look like it. Possibly the quarter to which summer visitors resort
may be more inviting than the portion disclosed at the harbour. Anyhow,
it seems a less dreary, out–of–the–world place than Newhaven. But
Britannia rebels a little at her children quitting their native land to
get enamoured with strange countries, and frowns upon their departure;
for these nights before crossing are by no means pleasurable. One is
brought into rather close proximity to the dreaded passage; and if
the wind should howl or be even but moderately fresh, or if the sea,
unwitting of its gigantean power, be only sporting in joyous freedom,
the prospect for the morrow is far from assuring. Then it is a busy,
bustling, uncomfortable scene at the hotel. Piles of luggage strew
the hall. Apprehensive passengers are arriving by successive trains,
and others in a woe–begone condition, and in all sorts and manners of
wraps and disguises, by the boats. They are dining, teaing, suppering
in a confused disagreeable way in the coffee–room. Anxious waiters and
active chamber–maids are hurrying about. Porters meet you in narrow
corners laden with luggage. There is nothing to invite you to remain
in the public room. There is nothing to induce you to venture long
out of doors. People depart early to bed. But the search for petty
utilities by the feeble light of candle, the cramped bedroom, the
cheerless difference from home, produce a feeling of discomfort which,
combined with the early retirement, the noise and tramping about the
corridors, the creaking of ships’ gearing dimly heard, and the thoughts
arising,—which have little in them of the land of promise and more of
the morn,—all keep the pilgrim long restless upon bed; and, after an
unrefreshing night of broken sleep, he is glad to get up betimes for an
early breakfast, call, with twenty others simultaneously, for the bill,
settle it up quick if correct, and, after an impatient waiting for his
goods, which seem never likely to make their appearance, and seeing
that every little thing is brought along, to be off to the steamboat;
for nobody stays, unless in exceptional circumstances, such as pending
a storm, more than a night. After a little, the train arrives, and an
endless procession of unassorted passengers moves slowly on board;
the luggage and merchandise brought by it tediously follow. At last
the gangway is dragged ashore, the vessel is released, and, after the
usual backings and easings and tender movements, it tardily steams
out of harbour, increases its speed, and we sit looking on the land,
the return to which may be in the far future; and, thinking much of
dear friends from whom we have parted, we gradually, as the distance
widens, lose sight of Old England, and passing here and there a gallant
ship, with its snowy sails catching, fortunately for us, but a gentle
balmy breeze, we near the other—once hostile, now friendly—shore, and
landing find ourselves among a foreign race, and gazing upon foreign
habitations, and soon encountering foreign customs and institutions.

We made the mistake of registering our luggage at London when we left
London, instead of taking it on with us to Folkestone and registering
it there for Paris. The consequence was that, on arrival of the train
at Paris, we were compelled to wait nearly an hour at the station,
which was cold, dark, and drafty, until all the luggage which had come
by the train by which we had arrived had been arranged, examined by
the _douaniers_, and delivered to their owners. We disconsolately saw
our luggage standing within a barred enclosure, but the men would on
no account touch it till then, and no doubt where thieves abound some
precaution of this kind is needful.

We had repeatedly visited Paris before, but in one respect it was new
to us—to see it in its wintry aspect. On former occasions, we had
visited it in the sunshine of summer. But how changed did it look
now! The trees were yellow with the tints of autumn, and were nearly
stripped of their foliage. The air was cold and frosty, and Paris
looked bleak and miserable. We spent one or two days in it; and one of
the places to which we paid a visit was beyond the range of ordinary
sight–seeing. The daughters of some Edinburgh friends were at a large
boarding–school in Paris, in the Faubourg d’Auteuil. We drove there
to see them, and after some search discovered the establishment, the
name of which, ‘Une Institution des Demoiselles,’ was painted up in
letters a yard high. It had quite a conventual aspect. The house was
entered through a narrow little door, hinged on a panel of a large
one (just like what one sees in the large door of a prison), which,
upon ringing the bell, was opened by a pull from the opposite side of
the court–yard, around which the buildings of the school were placed.
Crossing to the dwelling–house, we were shown into a parlour, where
our young friends shortly came to us. They were all habited in black,
with a red leather belt, being the uniform compulsory on all the pupils
while in school. They informed us there were 150 boarders, of whom only
17 were English. Having introduced us to one of the governesses, this
lady very kindly showed us all over the place. Ranges of large rooms
were occupied as bedrooms, containing a separate bed for each of the
young ladies—all kept in the highest order, and in white, spotless
purity. Separate adjoining rooms were fitted up as lavatories. Other
rooms were schoolrooms; others, dining–rooms, or _salles à manger_,
where the young people were then at lunch or early dinner, and
evidently enjoying a hearty meal. A separate building was kept as an
infirmary for the sick—a very prudent arrangement, where so many young
persons were brought together. For those who were in good health, there
was a large garden and playground attached to the house.

On Monday, 6th November, having taken Gaze’s tickets from London to
Nice, we left Paris by the Lyons Railway, registering our heavy luggage
for Cannes; and we were free to travel to any station on the line to
Cannes, at which our tickets permitted us to stop, only taking with us
what we would require for a week by the way. Some people prefer making
the journey from Paris to Cannes, Nice, or Mentone without break,
and say there is less fatigue in doing so; but it is a long journey,
occupying from Paris to Mentone—journeying by the express leaving at
11.20 A.M.—twenty–eight hours, arriving at Mentone at 3.24 next day.
For invalids in a feeble condition, it is in some respects preferable.
It is only one fatigue to be overcome, and it avoids the risk of
exposure to damp or rain. In cold, winter weather at Paris, the one
journey is certainly preferable, and at the end of it people arrive in
what is by contrast a genial summer. So proceeding, passengers have,
besides other shorter stoppages, an interval of half an hour at Dijon,
at 5.45 P.M., to dine; 25 minutes at Lyons, at 10.18 P.M.; and the
following morning, at 6.30 A.M., 1 hour 25 minutes at Marseilles to
wash and breakfast.

We desired to take the journey leisurely, and to see a little by
the way. After the usual difficulty on French railways of getting
accommodation in the train, we proceeded as far as Dijon. There is
little to interest one by the route. Fontainebleau, at which the
express trains do not stop, is passed soon after leaving Paris, but
is nearly two miles from the station. Its palace with its gardens is
really the only thing worth seeing, but to see them involves spending a
day at the town. If not pushed for time, they are, however, well worthy
of a visit. We stopped a night on our way home to see them. The palace
is extensive, consisting of four distinct but united chateaux, erected
at different times, with splendid suites of rooms full of historical
interest. The forest, which covers 25,000 acres, is disappointing. The
charges at the hotel to which we went, were as high as those of any in
Paris.

We rested the first night at Dijon, a convenient halting–place. The
Hotel du Jura is near to the railway station, and is most comfortable.
The landlord of it is attentive, and his charges moderate. Dijon was
the former residence of the Dukes of Burgundy, and is a curious old
place, well worthy of a visit for a day or two days. People often break
their journey at Dijon merely to sleep there, but, arriving at night
and departing next morning, do not always visit the town. A forenoon
may be very profitably spent in walking about its promenades and its
streets, with houses adorned by quaint carvings and architecture, and
seeing its large, massively–built churches, particularly St. Michael
and St. Benigne, and its interesting old public buildings. On the card
of the hotel there is a little plan of the town, in which the Place
Grande is shown about its centre. Here there is a large edifice which
was formerly the palace of the Dukes of Burgundy, now the Hotel de
Ville, one part of which has been converted into a museum and picture
gallery, the most interesting portion being the old banqueting hall of
the dukes, with its colossal chimney–piece and its monuments, carrying
one away back to the times of boisterous mirth and probably lawless
deeds.

Dijon stands high, and the weather being cold on our journey south, we
were glad of fires. We considered we had made a mistake in travelling
so late in the season. Had we started about the middle of October, it
would have been better. The fact is, the larger part of the people
going for health to the Riviera make the grievous mistake of delaying
their departure till winter has commenced. Many, indeed, do not come
to the Riviera till the month of January, in order to enjoy the
gratification—dearly purchased, in some cases—of a Christmas at home.
By doing so, they are obliged to travel through France during a season
when the weather is often piercingly chill, while they are exposed in
crossing the Channel to the risk of encountering winter storms.

We proceeded next day to Lyons, passing through a rich wine country,
in the midst of which Macon lies, where, at the station, on high
days and holidays, the women may be seen wearing a witch–like hat of
peculiar build. The cycle of fashion will no doubt in due course make
the whole world acquainted with it, till which time the world may wait
and wonder. It may require some fortitude to don this sweet marvel of
a bonnet for the first time. But what observation will not the ladies
brave to follow their leader in fashion!

At Lyons it was keenly cold. There is not much to be seen at the
ancient city, situated on the banks of the Rhone and Saone, which
effect their junction just below it. The railway journey from Dijon
occupies five or six hours, according to the trains. We arrived in the
dark, and drove to the Hotel Collet, one of the best in the place. It
is situated in the main street, which may be said to be the only good
street of shops, formerly called the Rue Napoleon, and now since the
Republic, which changes even the names of streets, the Rue Nationale.
On entering the large hall, round which were distributed palm trees and
other tropical plants in tubs and pots, we had the first suggestion of
approaching a southern clime.

Lyons is populous without being lively, and stately without being
imposing. We took a close carriage next morning, and drove about for
nearly four hours to see what could be seen—almost the whole of which
time was occupied in visiting the junction of the rivers and ascending
Fourvières, a steep hill on the right bank of the Saone, from which
an extensive panoramic view is in clear weather obtained, and Mont
Blanc, about 130 miles distant, is sometimes seen—its visibility being
a circumstance symptomatic of approaching wet weather, as we found
did happen on a subsequent occasion, when the white mountain was
seen as we were nearing Lyons from Geneva. Lyons at this season was
looking very dreary, and the cold necessitated our burning fires in
the bedrooms. On a former visit, in summer, the heat had been almost
unendurable. In the evening of the second day, we found the large
central hall of the hotel—which was lighted from the roof, and afforded
access by encircling corridors and concealed stairs to the different
floors—was covered in by an awning, and the _salle à manger_ was laid
for a magnificent dinner. It turned out that the principal rooms were
engaged for a wedding party (_noces_), the ordinary guests being
conducted to other rooms. It was, however, a very quiet, solemn–looking
affair; although the number assembled was large, they made no noisy
demonstrations. At breakfast–time next morning the waiters seemed but
half aroused.

We left Lyons by train at 11 o’clock forenoon. Our through tickets
required to be _vise’d_ at the booking–office before they would admit
us to the _salle–d’attente_. The route from Lyons southward is very
interesting. The railway skirts the Rhone nearly the whole way. The
river has been said to vary in width from a quarter of a mile to two
miles, although from the railway it does not appear to be so wide. In
the sunshine everything looked beautiful. The farther south we got,
the foliage became fresher, and it was very charming to see the river
rolling softly on, fringed by trees, and through valleys, from which
rise the vine–clad hills. We passed the Côtes d’Or, and other regions,
where the famous Burgundy wines are grown. Some of the mountain ranges
are lofty. We thought how much more beautiful would the river appear
during summer months, and our wish as regards time was actually
fulfilled the following September; but, alas! it was then obscured by
clouds and rain.

The railway to Marseilles passes several interesting places, and among
others, the towns of Orange, Avignon, and Arles, which all contain
relics of Roman occupation. On occasion of our going south in September
1877, we stopped at Avignon, which is 230 kilometres, or about 140
miles, from Lyons,[16] the train taking about six hours. When one can
manage it, Avignon is a place well worth stopping to see. Leaving the
station, we drove through some narrow dirty streets till we reached the
Hotel de l’Europe, the situation of which is not at first inviting; but
it is considered the best hotel, and our rooms were very comfortable.
It was kept by a young landlady, who spoke English, and was very
attentive. On the following morning we took a cab to drive about and
see the town, and, _inter alia_, saw the Calvi Museum, which contains
many paintings, some of which are good, and a large collection of coins
and books. Then we went to the cathedral, which is well worth a visit.
Here are the tombs of several popes. The construction of the gallery of
the church is peculiar. I desired to have a photograph of the interior
at a shop, but they had it not. Photographs, however, were sold outside
the cathedral, and possibly I might have procured it there; but we had
so often found photographs sold at the show places themselves so dear,
that I had not asked for them at the cathedral door. It does, however,
sometimes happen, as probably it did here, that they can only be had at
the place itself; and when time is limited, it is better to secure what
may be wanted, especially interiors, at once. The pope’s old palace
adjoins the cathedral. This is a large building with very massive
walls 100 feet high. It is now occupied as a caserne or barrack for
French soldiers. The lofty rooms, for greater accommodation, have had a
floor interposed. The rooms, fitted up with beds and filled with the
soldiery, are in a very different condition from what they must at one
time have been when this was the papal residence. One of the rooms into
which we were shown, was the upper interposed half of what had formerly
been the chamber of torture of the Inquisition. There was nothing very
special now to be seen in this dismal unoccupied apartment, which at
one time echoed with the groans and cries of the tortured.

In the Place de l’Hotel de Ville, in the centre of the town, are a
handsome–looking theatre and other public buildings; but one of the
most interesting objects in Avignon is the old Roman bridge across
the river. Avignon was a fortified city, and is still surrounded by
walls having many gates, and in our drive we passed outside the walls
till we reached the Roman bridge. Only part of it is now standing, the
remainder having, I presume, been swept away by floods. The river is
now crossed by a good modern bridge, not far from the site of the old
one, and conducts to a town upon the other bank of the river which
forms a suburb to Avignon.

We did not, in November 1876, stop at Avignon; but being then desirous
of seeing the old Roman city of Nismes, we procured through the guard,
when stopping at the station of Valence, supplementary tickets enabling
us to change at Tarascon, which we reached in the dusk about five
o’clock. Here we had to change carriages, and cross the platform,
and enter a dingy station or _salle–d’attente_, and to wait wearily
for nearly an hour till the train proceeded to Nismes. It was cold,
and we had, as usual, no assistance from porters with our _petits
bagages_. Nismes is about an hour’s journey by rail from Tarascon.
The mistral was blowing, and it was bitterly cold. The coldness of
this wind is, I believe, greatly produced by the cutting down of the
trees on the mountains in the south of France; and if so, the sooner
they are replanted the better. It is piercingly felt all over the
south of France, even Mentone, at its extreme east point, not being
wholly sheltered from its influence. I fancy that in the Roman times,
when such places as Nismes, Avignon, and Arles were selected for
habitation, the mistral was not felt, at least to the extent it is now.
It prevented our invalid from leaving the house while at Nismes on this
occasion.

Nismes, as a capital city of a department of France, is a town
of importance. It is the seat of the departmental courts, and it
possesses various educational establishments as well as a variety of
manufactures. It is beautifully situated in a fertile district. The
town itself is attractive. The principal streets are wide and clean,
and the Boulevards are pleasant; but it is as an ancient city, full of
vestiges of old Roman occupation, that it possesses charms to attract
the stranger.

The most famous of these Roman remains is the Arena, and attention is
naturally drawn to it from being situated fronting a large open space
in the heart of the town, called the Esplanade. It was the first of the
Roman amphitheatres we had at that time seen. Exposed to the mistral,
it was then intensely cold; and one could hardly suppose that it would
have been built on that site if it had not been at the time a place to
which the people could go without fear of colds (for, odd though it
may sound, I fancy the grand old Roman nose did suffer occasionally
from colds). However, an arena seems to have been then as necessary
an appendage to a Roman town as a church is to an English village.
The building is oval in shape, and is 412 feet long by 306 feet in
breadth, and rises in upwards of 30 massive tiers from the centre to
the circumference, resting on strong stone arches, and containing
perfect means of ingress and egress—every separate external arch having
been, no doubt, a separate vomitory. The building is computed to have
accommodated 32,000 persons. The arena, though in part ruinous, is
still in a very fair state of preservation, but is undergoing a process
of restoration by the insertion of new stones in place of the old ones,
to strengthen the structure, which, as the old stone is grey with age
and the new stone is a beautiful pearly white, looks most incongruous.
One could almost wish that the building were let alone, although it is
to be hoped that in the course of years the new stone will assume a
colour in keeping with the rest. Perhaps it might be stained to bring
it into harmony. Of this same kind of stone, two beautiful churches
have recently been built: one of them, St. Perpetué, is completed and
in use; the other, a very large one,—I presume to be occupied as a
cathedral, with a double spire far in advance when we saw it first,—was
in the following year not yet finished. The designs of these churches,
particularly in their spires, are remarkably graceful. There is another
very elegant modern building adjoining the Arena, the Courts of
Justice, which also fronts the Esplanade, in the centre of which open
space has been erected a very handsome modern marble fountain at a cost
of £10,000.

Leaving the Arena and passing up the Boulevard St. Antoine, we arrive
at the _Maison Carrée_, or the Square House—a small but beautiful
temple, with a peristyle of the Corinthian order, in admirable
preservation. It is situated in a space enclosed by railings, and is
occupied as a museum and picture gallery, for which it affords but
limited room. From the Maison Carrée the visitor proceeds through
public gardens to the Roman Baths, which are in wonderful condition,
although the marble statues have nearly all lost their noses, the
common fate of all marble statues long exposed to the weather. These
baths are very elegant enclosures of water, now looking very stagnant
and green. Upon the west side are the ruins of what has been termed a
temple of Diana, in which are preserved many of the antiquities found
in the vicinity of it. To the south issues, through an elegant iron
rail and gateway, a very long wide avenue or boulevard called _Cours
Neuf_, on a straight line, flanked by trees which, when completed,
will extend, I think, a full mile in length. The north extremity is
terminated by a hill, reached by magnificent stairs, and commanding a
fine view of the Baths or fountains, of the long wide avenue beyond and
the surrounding country. This hill is surmounted by the _Tour Magne_,
the ruin of a building the object of which has not been definitely
ascertained.

Nismes in summer in fine weather is very hot, but is a charming
residence for a few days. We stayed two nights on this occasion at
the Hotel Luxembourg, which is recommended to English travellers. The
men–servants here, who are also the _femmes–de–chambres_, had quite an
Italian look and cut, and were in their morning attire very comically
dressed in a short jacket, somewhat like those schoolboys used to wear.

We returned _en route_ for Marseilles by Tarascon, passing by the
way several stone quarries and fields in which olive trees had been
planted by way of experiment. These were the first olive trees we had
seen. They were young and short, and were disappointing, as in fact
are all olive trees, however large or old they be, to those who, like
ourselves, having read of sitting under the olive tree as a species of
luxurious enjoyment, found them very different from our expectations,
being in leaf like the willow. But their existence indicated approach
to a warmer climate.

The old Roman town of Arles lies between Tarascon and Marseilles, and
is said to be, though I doubt it, as much worth seeing as Nismes; but,
owing to the difficulty of finding trains to fit in to meet our time,
we have not in passing visited it.

It rained heavily all the way from Tarascon to Marseilles, when it
fortunately cleared up. Part of the way is flanked by what appears to
be barren desert land, possibly occasioned by the ground being high and
level, so that it is not watered by rivers.

At Marseilles, we found the _commissionaire_ of the Hotel du Louvre et
de la Paix, to which we had written for rooms, waiting. Owing to some
odd arrangement then prevailing, all carriages were kept out of sight
till the luggage was sorted, so that we were fortunate to get him to
send for one. The hotel we found to be a large many–storeyed one, but
it had a lift. There is another large hotel at Marseilles, to which we
went on the next occasion. It is hard to say which is the better. The
Noailles has a large and beautiful _salle à manger_, and a good–sized
drawing–room. Both are expensive. We found at Marseilles, as at Dijon,
Lyons, Avignon, Nismes, and afterwards at Hyères, that the charge for
_table–d’hôte_ dinner included _vin ordinaire_. We had an agreeable
surprise at dinner in meeting two families—old friends—from Bristol.

Marseilles is seldom visited, except as a place of halt for further
travel. After staying one or two nights, those arriving depart either
landward by railway or seaward by steamboat to other parts. But it
is well worth at least one day’s visit to see it thoroughly. It is a
very ancient city, being upwards of 2500 years old, and the population
is above 300,000. In contrast to Lyons, it has all the appearance of
a busy place. The principal streets are always crowded, the port is
the largest in the Mediterranean, and may be considered the Liverpool
of France, though the docks are not so extensive. On occasion of our
first visit, the weather was cold and wet, and we had only a Sunday
there, so that we did not see much; but when we paid it a second visit
in October 1877, we had a little more time, and drove round the town
and docks. The ancient port is a large natural harbour filled with
good–sized vessels, while additional docks of large extent stretch
away to the westward. Outside them, a breakwater has been built, which
extends about two miles in length. Bædeker says that, on an average,
nearly 20,000 vessels, of an aggregate burden of 2,000,000 tons, enter
and quit Marseilles annually. Our driver pointed out as we passed, in
one of the docks (the Basin de la Joillette), a P. & O. steamer; and
it would have been interesting to have visited it, but we were afraid
we should not have had time. A large cathedral was being built facing
the docks, and will be a very prominent object to those arriving at
Marseilles by sea. Another very prominent and striking object, and from
which a fine view of the town, harbour, and district is to be had, is
an eminence to the south–east, crowned by the Church of Notre Dame
de la Garde. Leaving the docks, we proceeded round the town to the
Palais de Longchamps, which stands on a height. It is a large, elegant
columnar structure, with spacious staircases leading up to and through
it to the gardens beyond. The palace contains two museums. A fine view
is obtained from the top.

Marseilles is a busy commercial and manufacturing place. The central
streets are always bustling—teeming with life. An interesting part of
it is the flower market, where the women are to be seen perched up
on tables or platforms tying up their pretty bouquets of flowers and
selling them to purchasers. The heights to the north of the town are
bare, but, together with the islands which stud the sea outside the
harbour, give picturesqueness to the view. But although it stands as
far south as Mentone and San Remo, or rather farther south, it wants
the shelter of the health resorts on the Riviera, and suffers severely
from exposure to the mistral.

On leaving Marseilles for Cannes, we had not gone far by railway before
we obtained a complete change of temperature. It was like passing from
winter into summer, and from dreary stony mountain ranges to verdant
slopes covered with mature olive trees, and with orange and lemon
trees—all indicative of a warmer climate. We did not on this first
occasion stop at any place between Marseilles and Cannes, but on the
following year visited Hyères, and it will therefore be adverted to in
the sequel.

On this first occasion, we left by an early train on the Monday morning
with our friends. We had much difficulty in getting seat–room, with
no assistance from guards. The carriages were filled with people who
had travelled all night from Paris. In the compartment which fell
to our lot, the remainder of the seats were all filled by French
gentlemen who were or had been smoking, and were begrimed with dust,
and looked like very ogres. The morning was splendid, the sun, pouring
out his beams in rich effulgence, gave gladness to the bright scene,
which we especially felt after the cold weather to which we had, ever
since our arrival in France, been exposed. After leaving Toulon, the
railway goes inland and does not again touch the coast till it reaches
Frejus, 91 kilometres, or above 50 miles on; but the country is very
beautiful. This route, between Marseilles and Genoa, and on to Pisa,
passes through constantly–occurring tunnels. It is said that between
Marseilles and Genoa alone there are no less than 200, and it certainly
looks like it. The train is for ever rushing into and darting out
of tunnels; and as French people never think of closing windows in
tunnels, and always put and keep down the glass, the transit through
them is very cold and trying, particularly to invalids or to those who
may be afflicted with a cold in the head. After leaving Frejus, the
railway skirts the coast, and as the train emerges from a tunnel, the
passengers have the opportunity of seeing the most lovely bays formed
by the jutting promontories and the blue Mediterranean. In saying they
have the opportunity, however, this is a chance depending upon whether
there are no foreigners at the windows. If there be, most mercilessly,
and without leave asked, much less obtained, down go the blue blinds
on both sides of the carriage. Fortunately, on this first occasion (I
was not so lucky on the second), I got seated near the south or sea
window, and managed to get one of the three curtains kept up; but just
as we approached within sight of Cannes, where the view was becoming
exquisitely beautiful, a little of the bright sun darted in: the
intruder was expelled in double haste, and the blind most uncourteously
and ruthlessly pulled down. It saved some sunburnt ogre from being, if
possible, a little more browned or reddened, and it signified not that
his fellow–passengers were deprived of an enjoyment into which he could
not enter.

VII.

_CANNES._

WHEN we arrived at Cannes, we could see by an occasional glimpse
through a chink in the obstructive blinds, that everything was bright
and beautiful and gay in the sunshine. It was quite a new scene to us,
and gave a charming idea of Riviera life.

Waiting the arrival of the Paris train at Cannes, there are often,
besides the usual very long row of omnibuses, many private carriages
and always carriages for hire. Relatives had preceded us by about
eight or ten days, and we desired, if possible, to join them. Just
outside the station, looking for one of them, I was at once besieged
by porters wanting to take our _petits bagages_. I asked one by whom
I was importuned, how much he demanded to carry them to our friends’
quarters, little more than half a mile off. ‘Five francs.’ I doubt
if I thanked him sufficiently; and we drove off in one of the little
carriages which were there waiting employment, the fare for which was
1 franc 50 centimes. The house in which our friends were was full, and
we found accommodation in the neighbouring Hotel du Pavillon. This
is a large, good, first–class hotel, frequented by English people,
and is situated on the west bay, with a garden, such as most of the
hotels at Cannes have, in which were palm and orange trees, the latter
bearing their golden fruit. They sent for our heavy luggage, which
had been lying for a week at the station, suffering no loss save that
of a new rope which had been tied round one of the boxes, and which
was feloniously stolen and theftuously away taken, as in Scotland Her
Majesty’s advocate for Her Majesty’s interest would have charged the
culprits if he had only known who they were.

Cannes is very picturesquely situated. The old town, which is not
savoury, fortunately rests out of sight upon an elevation or ridge
which is crowned by the cathedral church and two old towers, which give
a distinctive mark to the place, and are seen in most representations
of Cannes. From this height, and still better from greater heights
behind the town, an admirable view is obtained all round. But taking
our position on the ridge, we find the hill slopes down from it
away to the south, and reaching the road below, extends seaward by
a short projection, partly natural and partly artificial, forming
a breakwater on one side, and pier on the other, terminated by a
lighthouse. The ridge and this projection divide the waters into two
distinct portions, constituting the east and west bays. About two to
three miles to the southward, Les Isles de Lerins, two long strips of
islands—Ste. Marguerite, with its fortifications fronting the town,
and St. Honorat—lie stretched along, giving a natural shelter on the
south to the little port of Cannes, and, except in the neighbourhood
of the fort, both covered with tall pine trees. The harbour or port,
surrounded on two sides by lofty houses, warehouses, and public
buildings or hotels, is right under us, on the east side of the ridge,
and does not aspire to receiving more than a few sloops or vessels
of small burden and a large number of boats, apparently intended
principally for pleasure sailing—although, if this be their purpose,
the number seemed out of all proportion to the slender demand. On the
north side of this bay, the new town—the business part of Cannes—has
been built. The main street, long, and lined with numerous shops, runs
through the centre of it, with streets branching off right and left.
It is the highway to Nice, and forms part of the famous Corniche road,
which proceeds from Marseilles to Genoa along the coast. Immediately
behind the town, the ground rises, and at one part becomes a low hill
crowned by a few straggling houses and solitary trees. A handsome
promenade has been constructed along the beach, upon which a few of the
best hotels and some magnificent villas, with their large interposing
gardens full of exotic trees and plants, are situated, imparting a
bright and gay look to the walk. About a mile and a half or two miles
to the eastward of our point of view, we see a range of hills, the
shoulder of which is called California. This range, covered with pine
trees, affords shelter to Cannes from the east wind; and from its
extremity at California, the hill slopes sharply down, and then the
ground runs far out into the water, forming a projecting arm. The last
portion, of level ground, called the Croisette, reaches to a point
not far from the island of St. Marguerite, and constitutes a natural
breakwater to the bay and harbour on the east side. Some miles farther
to the eastward, the long, low, hilly, narrow, projecting promontory
called the Antibes protrudes still more into the sea, and affords
additional protection, while it creates another fine bay, greater in
extent, in which a fleet of French men–of–war is often seen lying at
anchor or at exercise.

[Illustration: THE ESTRELLES FROM S^[T] HONORAT, CANNES.]

On the west side of the old ridge, the sea retreats in a large,
beautiful bay, called the Gulf of Napoule,—or more commonly, the west
bay,—the west boundary of which, several miles distant across the
sea, is formed by the glorious range of mountains called the Estérels
or Estrelles. These stretch out a long way seaward, and are always a
picturesque feature in views of Cannes. They are covered principally
with a rich dark green, which, I suppose, is due to the existence
of pine forests; but in some parts, especially towards the ocean,
they are bare, steep, and rocky. Irregular, and in some places even
ragged–looking in outline, and varying in height, some of them are
said to be as high as 4000 feet. Though much less extensive, they are
to Cannes very much what the mountains of Mull are to Oban. Only they
have not the constantly–changing aspect which confers so great a charm
upon the Scottish hills. This is partly owing to the greater serenity
of the atmosphere, three–fourths of the days being clear and sunny,
without a cloud; but chiefly because the sun gets so soon round upon
the mountains that they are early in the forenoon thrown into shade,
giving no doubt a murkier and grander aspect, but making the separate
markings less distinctly visible. The Estrelles have been photographed
as in moonlight, in which they are very beautiful, but the moonlight
effect so shown is a mere trick of the photographer.

To the north of Cannes, and about three or four miles inland, the
village of Cannet lies upon rising ground; and, I presume, from being
away from the sea, it is preferred by some invalids to Cannes. Farther
off, and distant about nine or ten miles from Cannes, the town of
Grasse, famous for its manufacture of perfumes, is built among gardens
devoted to the culture, for their essences, of roses, orange trees,
heliotropes, and other odoriferous plants. Indeed, Cannes itself
manufactures perfumes, and around are some gardens filled with a short
or stunted species of acacia, growing to about the size of a large
gooseberry bush, and bearing globular yellow flowers from which perfume
is extracted. Beyond Grasse, the landward panorama is bounded on the
north by distant mountain chains.

It is at all times difficult to realize a place from description,
even with the aid of the pictorial art; but perhaps from this short
delineation it may be perceived that there is a marked character about
the site, locality, and features of Cannes. But when to the natural
formation the glorious colouring is added which it derives from the
brilliant blue of the ocean and the scarcely less brilliant blue of the
sky in the bright sunny days which usually mark the weather; the rich
varied greens of the abounding foliage; the tropical character of the
gardens; and the enlivening effect produced by the often fanciful forms
of the houses, painted in luminous whites and yellows picked out upon
their jalousies with green and other contrasting tints, and glowing in
their red–tiled roofs, it will at once be seen that there must be a
signal beauty and picturesqueness about the landscape which cannot fail
to arrest the eyes of those to whom this phase of scenery is new.

But Cannes was never a town of any importance until Lord Brougham took
up his residence there. It happened in the year 1831 that his lordship
was detained at Cannes by the prevalence somewhere of a pestilence.
He was so much struck with the natural features of the landscape and
the suitability of the place for winter residence, and so impressed,
that he soon thereafter acquired ground on the west bay, where he
built a house, to which he used regularly every winter to resort, and
where, on 7th May 1868, he died. His example brought many English
people to the locality, and Cannes is now in the winter season such
a place of fashionable resort for English and Scotch families, that
it may be regarded as completely an English colony, there being but
a sprinkling of other nationalities. It is accordingly in both bays
studded with villas, and filled with numerous large hotels, the latter
said to number upwards of fifty. There are no less than three English
(Episcopal) churches, and in the west bay, near the town (the handsome
gift of Sir John M’Neill, who has a residence in the suburbs), a Scotch
Presbyterian church. There are also both French and German churches.
The population of Cannes has increased wonderfully since Lord Brougham
led the fashion to it, and it is now, I believe, considerably over
10,000. A monument has been erected to his lordship in the cemetery
where he is buried, and a marble bust of him has, on a long square
pillar pedestal, been placed in the public gardens of the west bay.
When we were last at Cannes (November 1877), it was proposed by the
municipal authorities to hold a centenary celebration of the birth of
Lord Brougham as the virtual founder of the town; and this festival has
since (April 1879) been held, lasting four days. Nor is it any wonder
that the Cannais should feel themselves under a debt of gratitude to
the great English, or rather Scottish, lord. The following paragraph
from an account of the fête, contained in the _Scotsman_ of 4th April
1879, speaks for itself:—

‘It is a matter of unquestionable fact, that, since the days of Lord
Brougham’s example to his countrymen, prosperity has flowed steadily
in upon the fortunate people of Cannes. Those of them who were lucky
enough to possess land, have had golden opportunities, and must have
made ample fortunes out of the weak–chested but strong–pursed stranger
to whom this winter climate is simply a necessity of life. The price
of ground here, fit to build upon, is almost fabulous. Eight to ten
thousand pounds an acre is a common rate for small lots near the town,
and a site was quite recently sold, in the principal boulevard, at
the enormous rate of £19,200 per acre. Even in the remotest suburbs,
outside the cab radius, nothing available for building can be had under
10 francs a metre, or £1600 an acre.’

The Corniche road runs westward through, for upwards of two miles, a
nearly continuous line of charming villas, and thence on to Napoule,
upon the west of the bay of that name. Upon the right or east side of
this road, about half a mile from the old town ridge, which may be
said to bound on the west the town proper, the villa of Lord Brougham
may be seen standing at the top of a gentle slope, where it commands a
beautiful view of the bay and the Estrelles, though exposed to the west
winds. It is of good size, but nothing remarkable. We did not, however,
see the interior, nor does it seem to be shown to strangers. In being
enclosed by an iron railing towards the road, it offers an exemplary
exception to the rule, as nearly all the villas in that direction are
enclosed by high walls which shut out the sight of the grounds within,
and make the road for a long stretch dull walking. Nor is there a
footpath except for a short way, although one was, when we were last
there, in progress of formation, and very needful too, as after rain
the road is particularly muddy, so that walking in that direction is
not always inviting. But generally on an afternoon, when the occupants
of the villas are out driving, their gateways are left open, and
passers–by get glimpses into fascinating gardens exuberant with palm
and other tropical trees, which, freed from their unsightly enclosing
walls, would so enliven the way without the privacy of the inhabitants
being really disturbed.

One of the most delightful residences in this neighbourhood is the
chateau of the Duke of Vallombrosa. This Italian nobleman asked,
as the sole recompense of services rendered to the King of Italy,
the title which he now bears. His villa is in the castellated
style, and stands upon an eminence—a very picturesque object in the
landscape, and seen from all parts round. The grounds attached to the
house—extending, I suppose, to at least eight or ten acres, and the
oldest about Cannes—are, in the duke’s absence, open to visitors. To
those who have not previously seen any gardens of the kind, it appears
a sort of fairy–land, if such a term can be applied to a place where
much of the timber is gigantic. The vegetation is rich, luxuriant,
tropical, and the place looks delicious on a sunny day, under the
cool shelter afforded by the trees from the rays of the sun, while
here and there a fountain sends up its refreshing stream of water.
Below the battlemented castle terrace, a shady grotto has been built—a
cool retreat in hot weather, perhaps too cool to be safe. This garden
contains many lofty specimens of a tree recently introduced into the
Riviera, and everywhere to be seen there, called the Eucalyptus. A
relic of the Eocene period,[17] when everything was on a huge scale,
it shoots up with amazing rapidity, apparently something like ten
feet in a year, and I believe ultimately reaches sometimes a height
of nearly 500 feet. I have seen it stated in a colonial paper that
the largest known, grown in (I think, speaking from recollection)
New Zealand, has reached the height of 480 feet, and is claimed to
be the highest tree in the world. Probably it is not of great age,
as the growth of the Eucalyptus is much more rapid than that of the
Californian trees. As it matures, it changes the form of its leaf from
what it was when young, and sheds its bark. It possesses some very
health–bringing properties, or is an antidote to what is insalubrious,
and bears a beautiful white flower. In the duke’s gardens some of
these trees are very lofty. They were, I presume, planted about twelve
or fifteen years previous to our visit, and appeared to be then
considerably over 100 feet.

A hill called the Croix de Garde slopes up behind the Villa
Vallombrosa, or rather to the northward. It is several hundred feet
high, and its summit, crowned with pine trees, commands an extensive
prospect, and forms a delightful walk to those who are able to make
the ascent. The view comprises the bays and all that I have already
described. A little iron cross, inserted in a stone upon the top, to
which no doubt some legend attaches, gives its name to the height.

The Corniche road below, running between the lines of villas,
conducts to a little village called Verviers, about three miles from
town. Here there is a large forest of umbrella pines bordering the
coast, furnishing opportunities of study to the artist and to the
photographer, and where one can enjoy a forenoon’s rambling about. The
railway cuts the forest off from the shore, and flanks the beach all
the way till it arrives close upon Cannes, and must therefore operate
injuriously to the amenity. So far as the villas are concerned, they
have, by means of bridges or otherwise, communication with the sea.
Fortunately, however, for Cannes, the railway leaves the coast about
half a mile from town, and passing through a tunnel proceeds by the
back of the town, where the station is.

From near the point where the railway diverges from the shore, the
public promenade on the west bay commences. This is lined by palm
trees, but the dust and the sea air together seem inimical to their
development. The main promenade is that which, commencing with the
harbour, runs eastward to the point of Croisette, a distance of from
two to three miles. It is a great resort of visitors both on foot and
in carriages. A band of music plays alternate days on the east and
west bays. In each of these bays there are bathing establishments of a
construction peculiar to the Riviera, being somewhat of the nature of
the Lacustrian dwellings. They are simply wooden sheds for undressing
and dressing in, resting upon poles stuck firmly into the beach, with
depending ladders to enable the bathers to descend to the water. As
the beach shelves very rapidly down, I presume that bathers who cannot
swim must always be in charge of an attendant or be tied by a rope;
but whether it was that the bathing may have taken place at an early
hour, I have hardly ever seen any person indulging in a bath at Cannes
during our brief visits, although the temperature is seldom such
throughout the winter as to forbid the exercise to persons in good
health either at this or at other parts of the province. I have seen
at Nice (a colder place than Cannes) people bathing towards the end of
November. By a strange fatality, for one can hardly suppose it to be
the result of deliberate arrangement, we observed that close by each of
the bathing establishments a drain has been run into the sea, the same
practice occurring also at Biarritz. These drains are so odoriferously
disagreeable as to make it unpleasant to walk along the promenade,
while one would think that some parts of Cannes ought in consequence
to be unhealthy. At all events, they must to a certain extent nullify
the good got from residence at this otherwise agreeable and fashionable
watering–place.

Near the point of Croisette, there is a large orange garden which
has been dignified with the name of the garden of the Hesperides.
The oranges are cultivated for sale, and the trees are covered with
the yellow fruit. In all the private gardens orange trees grow, and
sometimes, though rarely, lemons, which I understand do not flourish
at Cannes so well as elsewhere in the Riviera—a symptomatic sign
indicative of a colder climate; for the lemon is a very delicate tree,
requiring warmth and shelter, and being injured or killed by frost.
There are also many arbutus trees in the gardens, bearing rich red soft
berries nearly an inch in diameter, which are edible, and become ripe
about November or December, and are sometimes, I have been informed,
put down as dessert at hotel tables. The oranges do not ripen till
February, although the fruit is on the trees all the year round.

At Croisette there is a depôt for the sale of the earthenware, tinted
with a peculiar blue or with a livid green, of which many fancy
articles are made in the neighbouring town of Vallauris; but the stuff
is brittle, and it is not advisable to purchase for bringing home any
articles with slender handles—they break so easily off, while they can
be bought at home in china shops.

One of the favourite drives is to California, upon the slope of which
some new large hotels have been built, from which the views must be
fine; but the situation, though healthy, is rather inconveniently
distant from the town, and involves a pull up hill, which perhaps puts
walking up beyond the power of invalids. We drove there on the 18th
November. The sun had risen gloriously in the morning. There was not
a speck of cloud on the sky. The day was broiling hot, and it was
difficult to realize that we were no longer in July, but in a time of
year when at home we should have had cold wintry weather. So warm,
indeed, had we felt it at Cannes, that we were under the necessity of
throwing off the extra clothing we had donned at Paris and Lyons. The
road is steep, and the ascent fatiguing to horse and man, to the point
where the reservoir, which supplies Cannes with water, is placed. Here
we left the carriage and climbed to the top of the hill over above, the
view from which amply repaid the exertion. Had we gone to a farther
height, we should have seen the Alpes Maritimes; but from the height
at which we arrived, the view was magnificent, the Estrelles lying
straight out to the west, Antibes to the east, and the Lerins lying,
to appearance, almost below us to the south. In a glowing sunshine
such as we then had, the Mediterranean is always of a brilliant deep
blue, while the sky is also of a rich blue of a lighter shade. One can
hardly realize the beauty of the scenery beheld on such a day without
having previously witnessed another like it. Such days would live in
our recollection even more than they do, were they not, during several
months’ residence in the Riviera, of so frequent occurrence.

During the winter season, there is, for the accommodation of visitors,
a tiny steamer, perhaps about the magnitude of Fulton’s first
steamboat, mayhap the identical one, which, for a fare of 2 francs
(return ticket), crosses to the islands of Ste. Marguerite and St.
Honorat. We resolved to spend a forenoon on Ste. Marguerite, and, with
about twenty or thirty passengers on board, crossed, leaving at eleven
o’clock and returning at four. The boat stopped at a little quay below
the high walls of Fort Monterey. Here we got out, and the whole party
landing, went up to see the fort, which is doubly famous as the place
where Bazaine was confined and from which he escaped, and where ‘the
man in the iron mask’ was so long imprisoned. Like some other French
forts, it is not at present occupied by soldiers, though a regular
fortification in masonry, and capable of affording protection against
vessels seeking to attack Cannes. A man placed as resident in the fort
accompanied us to the rooms which had been occupied by Bazaine. The
suite of apartments was extensive, and bore anything but the appearance
of a prison–house. Except for the involuntary confinement, one might
regard it as a charming residence; and in its recent occupation was
a public remonstrance against the barbarity of laws which imprison
convicted persons who have hitherto enjoyed a good social position in
the same cells as ordinary criminals, to whom such cells are in truth
more comfortable than their own miserable dirty homes. We were then
taken to the spot where it is said that Bazaine escaped by descending
the wall and rock. The height is not great, and a descent in the
daylight would be no great achievement. It would no doubt be more
difficult and perhaps dangerous in the dark, and it is even alleged
that the Marshal was allowed to walk out by the gate. There is no great
improbability in this story, seeing that the French had gained all they
wanted by a condemnation of this officer as a scapegoat for their want
of success. The room in which the ‘man in the iron mask’ was confined,
was much more like a prison—a cell with massive thick walls. We saw
the hole through which he is said to have dropped the billet which was
picked up by a fisherman.

There has been placed in this fort one of those semaphores which are
studded along the coast of France, by which signals are or used to be
made, and which, before the introduction of the electric telegraph,
were no doubt useful. From the battlements we had a clear view of the
magnificent landscape before us, which embraced on the extreme right
distance the snowy peaks of the Maritime Alps. We left the fort, and
wandered over the island and through the trees, with which the greater
part of it is covered, lunched _al fresco_, and enjoyed our forenoon
very much. It is an island we could have wished transported, with all
its surroundings and its sunshine, to our own shores.

We spent fifteen days on this occasion at Cannes. It is a nice place
for winter residence for those who are in good health; but I doubt
whether, notwithstanding the records of the thermometer, it be
sufficiently warm—at least, whether it affords sufficient shelter—for
delicate invalids, being apparently a good deal more open to north and
west winds than some other places in the Riviera. Before we arrived,
there had been not a little rain, and the roads were very dirty. While
we remained, we had still more; but the usual weather all along the
Riviera is dry and fair, and it is of dust one has most to complain.
There is no river meriting the name debouching within the limits of the
town, although their insignificant beds are speedily filled when heavy
rain falls.

Like most places on the Riviera, there is abundance of marble used
in the houses and hotels. It is not altogether without its drawbacks
and its dangers. Stair steps are of marble, and it is requisite to be
careful in descending. On one occasion I slipped upon a marble step
and fell on my back, and might, had the fall been more direct, have
received permanent injury; but in the winter time carpets are usually
laid on the stairs.

It is said that there are snakes and venomous green lizards. We never
saw any snakes, and though there are plenty of lizards running nimbly
about and up the walls, diving out of sight into hiding holes, yet
sometimes leaving a little of their long tails sticking out, I cannot
vouch for these being either venomous or innocuous. They look pretty
gentle creatures, and one is rather savage to see men and boys throwing
stones at them.

A real pest, however, to which all are exposed at Cannes and kindred
places, is the plague of the mosquitoes, which abound in hot weather.
We were told they were off by the 1st of November, but we found upon
arrival at Cannes, and throughout our stay there, that this insect
plague was in full force. It is a small gnat, with long legs and
yellowish–brown wing. The first thing that we did was to kill as many
as we could see resting on ceiling, walls, or bed, and this is best
effected by coming quickly down upon them with a damp towel; but they
are very agile, and unless the arm be vigorous and prompt, they escape
the swish. They are also remarkably knowing and cunning, and soon
discover when an enemy is bent on their destruction, when they manage
unaccountably to disappear. Nay, even without attack made, they will
hide themselves during the day, conscious that they will get a good
feed during the night. Every now and then they came buzzing about you
with a peculiar hum, which becomes more loud just when the insect is
about to strike. This it does by driving its proboscis like a lancet
into the skin, extracting a drop of blood, and leaving behind, I fancy,
a minute drop of poison or other cause of irritation, producing a small
red mark. Most people do not suffer inconvenience from the bite itself
beyond the mark it leaves, and with which the brow, a favourite point
of attack, soon gets dotted over. One lady at Cannes was so severely
bitten that she could hardly see, her eyes being nearly closed by
the effects of the bites, so much so as to prevent her coming to the
table. Another lady was so affected by the bites that the parts bitten
rose in large swellings, requiring her to consult a doctor, by whom
they were lanced; and the cure was tedious, leaving long after marks
on the skin. But the great annoyance which they occasion is their
tormenting vicious hum, revealing their presence, and showing that at
any moment they may be down upon you. If you wake through the night
and hear this hum, it is impossible to get any further sleep. If
there be anything worse than a mosquito humming about you, it is to
have two of them; but one is enough to keep you lively, and furnish
you with incessant employment; and where one is, there are generally
plenty more. Apparently the mosquito, like the king, never dies, for
as fast as one is slain another reigns in his stead. All sorts of
remedies for the bite are prescribed, but we found that prevention is
better than cure; and the most effectual prevention, besides taking
care to close windows early and not to light a candle before closing,
was to burn a pastille, specially prepared for the purpose, by placing
it on an iron shovel, and just before bed–time carrying it burning
round the room and holding it within the bed curtains. The smoke of it
appears to stupefy the insect, although it does not kill it; and in the
morning the mosquitoes, evidently wanting to get out to breathe the
fresh air and take their revenge at night, fly in a sickly condition
to the windows, where, or elsewhere about the room, they are easily
killed. When killed, a bloody streak is left, indicating they have
been fed somewhere. One extraordinary circumstance is that, although
the fecundity of this creature is enormous,[18] yet those which find
their way into rooms are comparatively few, and it puzzles one to know
where the rest go to. I believe the insect’s existence is not so much
due to great heat as to bad drainage. We found Cannes to be worse than
Mentone, and Hyères worse than Cannes; but by Christmas–time, when
cold weather has set in, they nearly vanish, although, when a fire is
lighted, sometimes they are either attracted or revived, but are then
in a weakly condition.

VIII.

_NICE._

WE were due at Mentone on Wednesday the 29th November, and intended to
have spent two nights at Nice by the way; but the Monday was so very
wet at Cannes that we delayed leaving till the Tuesday morning, and by
so doing obtained a brilliant day for the short but delightful railway
ride. Passing the Croisette, we first skirted the Bay of Antibes, where
the French squadron was then lying at anchor, and in which is the spot,
denoted by a commemorative monument, where Napoleon Bonaparte landed
from Elba. A little farther, the distant snowy Maritime Alps came into
view. Here, as elsewhere in the Riviera, curious villages, looking
very dead–alive under their rotten brown roofs, are seen upon the tops
of hills. These villages were so built in the olden times, with the
view of securing some protection from the Moors, who, crossing the
Mediterranean from Algeria to capture the inhabitants for slaves, kept
them in terror when they landed. We passed over the wide course of the
Var, and in about an hour from departure arrived in the gay town of
Nice.

Nice is a large town in the province of Nice, formerly part of the
Sardinian kingdom, when the boundary line between France and Italy lay
about four miles to the westward of the town. Ceded to France, it is
now the capital of the French department of the Alpes Maritimes. The
population, which forty years ago was 34,000, is now stated by Bædeker
to be 50,000; but as the town has been from year to year rapidly
extending under the influence of the railway facilities, and now covers
a large area, it is probable that this estimate is much under the mark,
and that it numbers greatly more. Arriving by the railway, the station
is left, and the town entered by a wide handsome street or boulevard
called the Avenue de Longchamps. This leads straight down to the Place
Massena and the Pont Neuf, where are the public gardens, the Promenade
des Anglais, the Boulevard du Midi, and other noted parts. The river
Paillon passes through Nice, and is crossed near its mouth by the Pont
Neuf.

Nice is a very lively place, and in some respects is attractive.
The town is well laid out, and it has many good shops, though none
of them large. It is a commercial town, but does not possess many
notable public buildings. The cathedral lies in a quarter I never
visited; but a handsome Roman Catholic church, externally large, but
internally contracted, has been recently built of a fine white stone,
and forms a feature in the avenue. The streets, houses, and hotels
are imposing. The Promenade des Anglais is a long wide roadway along
the beach, extending westward between one and two miles; and upon its
landward side, many of the largest and best hotels, a theatre, and
other buildings have been erected. This promenade is the great resort,
particularly on a Sunday, of the inhabitants and visitors, and it has
certainly a magnificent aspect. A handsome iron bridge of three arches
over the Paillon connects it with the Boulevard du Midi, which forms a
continuation eastward towards the harbour.

Nice was, and I suppose still is, a free port, and therefore possesses
some advantages. Its harbour affords accommodation for many large
ships. Before reaching it, however, and to the south–east of the town,
a hill interposes, rising abruptly above 300 feet high, popularly
called the Chateau, of which castle, however, nothing is now left but
its ruins. The slopes of the hill are covered with trees, many of them
exotics, through which the road winds gently to the top. We drove up
this winding road to the harsh music of innumerable French drummers and
trumpeters (one would have thought the tyros of all France were here
assembled) practising upon their respective instruments all sorts of
disagreeable rat–tats and military signals of contradictory import in
dinning, hoarse, distracting, discordant, ear–cracking immaturity—a
very Babel of uncertain sounds, tending to realize, perhaps faintly,
the Highlander’s dream of heaven,—that delectable thought of ‘four and
twenty bagpipers all in one room, and all pleyin’ different chunes.’
Nevertheless, every visitor desirous of obtaining the best view of
Nice and its environs should make the ascent, previously bribing the
concierge to ascertain if possible at what hour the unhappy musicians
dine or otherwise disappear. On the top of the hill there is a
platform, from which is obtained a most striking panoramic view. Below,
on one side, lie the harbour, and the hills beyond to the eastward,
over which the Corniche road proceeds to Mentone and Genoa; then on
the south, the beautiful Mediterranean Sea, hemmed in by promontories,
and basking and glittering in the sun; westward, the promenades; and
thence northwards and eastwards, the city, bounded in the distance by
mountains. But what arrested our attention most was the extraordinary
torrent bed of the river Paillon. Crossing the Var, we had seen a
similar bed, and much wider. In a railway train, however, one has
little opportunity of catching more than a passing glimpse of things,
especially when the railway line is nearly on the same level. But
from the platform of the chateau we were looking down upon the bed
of the Paillon from a considerable elevation, which enabled us to
see up the course of the river for some miles away to the mountains,
where it became lost to view. As the torrent beds are a remarkably
characteristic feature of the Riviera, I may just describe their
appearance. The bed or channel of the river consists of a broad stony
course, through which usually a streamlet trickles; the bed being out
of all proportion to the size of the stream as usually seen. It is,
however, stony, and no grass grows in it; and sometimes, after heavy
rains or from snowy meltings, the water comes down from the mountains
in torrents, and more or less covers the channel from side to side,
even occasionally, when the rains are more than ordinarily protracted,
flooding it considerably—a fact which I believe the contractors in
forming the railway found to their cost. But although we have seen
heavy rains lasting for days together, I do not think that, with
one exception, we ever witnessed such a flow of water in any of the
river beds as completely to cover it. The strange aspect of the river
course, however, is produced by men continually digging into it when
and where dry, and riddling out the fine limy earth which has been
borne down from the uplands, and carting it away for building and
other purposes; by doing whereof they leave behind them all over it
large holes and little heaps of riddled–out stones, imparting a very
mottled and singular appearance to the channel. The river Paillon,
therefore, extending for miles in this condition, had a most novel and
extraordinary aspect from the chateau. Although there had been heavy
rain the day before, the stream was very diminutive.

We stayed but one night at Nice, although we went several times
afterwards from Mentone to spend the day there. I do not therefore
pretend to know it well. It is the most expensive town in the Riviera,
but is alluring to those who go in good health for pure enjoyment.
For promotion of enjoyment and gaiety, it is, I presume, everything
that can be desired; but although the climate is better than that
of some other places, being, it is said, equal or similar to the
climate of Florence, it wants the shelter which is so necessary to
invalids. The mountains are not near enough to afford protection, and
cold winds, keen and piercing, blow down the streets, very trying to
delicate constitutions, especially to those suffering from pulmonary
complaints. In fact, it would seem to be the battle–ground of all the
villainous winds which afflict the south. The _bise_, the _marin_, the
_tramontane_, the _mistral_, the _sirocco_, are in continual conflict
for the ascendency; and sometimes the one and sometimes the other
has it, and enjoys its triumph for a few days in dealing misery on
the inhabitants. To many the sea–breeze is most trying. I met on one
occasion, on the railway, a gentleman in bad health returning from
Nice to Rome because he could not stand its sea–breeze. But given good
strong health and a relish for the kind of life, and Nice is charming.

The hotels and pensions are legion in number; but those considered good
by English people, it is well to know, are costly.

Theatres, skating rinks, bathing, exhibitions of paintings and
sculpture, each in turn claims patronage, while delightful excursions
by carriage can be made to places of interest in the neighbourhood.
There is a constant stir of life in Nice, aided not a little by
military promenades and military music, a band playing each afternoon
in the public gardens.

But we were impatient to be off to Mentone, which, from all we could
learn before leaving home, was thought to be the most desirable of all
the health resorts in the Riviera for winter residence. Our friends had
preceded us from Cannes, and secured quarters for us in the same hotel
with themselves.

The carriage road from Nice to Mentone, about 24 miles, is one of
the most charming parts of the Corniche drive, and, if weather be not
cold and expense be no obstacle, it ought, unless the traveller be an
invalid, to be preferred to the railway, which, although it skirts
the Mediterranean just at a sufficient elevation to give a charm to
the view of its lovely waters, suffers the great drawback of passing
through numerous tunnels, some of them long. On the other hand, the
drive by road, for which 40 and even 50 francs are asked (though less
will be taken), rises at one part to a great height, overlooking the
ocean, and being there on the top of the hills, is without protection
from the cutting north wind.

It was not warm enough to warrant our venturing to drive, and we
decided to go by rail. Soon after leaving the station at Nice, we
crossed the torrent bed of the river Paillon, but were still in the
town or suburbs of Nice, and in the midst of orange gardens, the
fruit shining, like everything else, in the brilliant sun. At the
other end of a long tunnel we reached Villefranche, where the gulf
of that name presents a large natural harbour, in which one or more
men–of–war are sometimes to be seen. From this point the railway hugs
the coast, passing under or through the hills by tunnels, whereby
many fine points of view are missed, and particularly the sight of
Eza, a curious town perched on a precipitous rock, formerly a Saracen
free–booter’s stronghold. The Corniche road is more inland, and
commands the whole prospect uninterruptedly. As the train emerged
from these tunnels successively, bay after bay, filled with the
beautiful blue Mediterranean water, hemmed in by rocky promontories,
upon which lonely trees sometimes grow, met our sight, but, most
tantalizingly, immediately after disappeared from view, eclipsed by
the next tunnel. At last, after rather more than half way to Mentone,
the bold, peculiar rocky promontory of Monaco, for which we had been
watching, appeared, stretching out like a tongue of land, or rather a
long steep rock, into the ocean. The view of Monaco either from west
or from east is very striking. The rock is from 200 to 300 feet high,
and dips perpendicularly into the ocean, crowned by the town, the
handsome palace of the Prince of Monaco, and by fortifications. It is
inaccessible on three sides, and can only be reached by a fortified
road upon the east side sloping up the side of the rock. Upon the north
end, which is also steep and inaccessible, it is connected at the
bottom by a low narrow belt of land. I shall, however, recur to Monaco
in describing a visit to Monte Carlo, which lies about half a mile to
the eastward. After leaving Monaco station, the passenger, looking
down, sees on the ground below, and leading up to Monte Carlo, a
number of villas, pure and bright in their colouring, looking so clean
and tidy in the sunshine with which on this occasion we were again
favoured. Monte Carlo is not well seen from the railway, as the line
and station lie below and even in part under it. All trains stop both
at Monaco and Monte Carlo, and at the latter place they generally set
down and take up a considerable number of people, who resort either to
the gaming tables, or to the delightful gardens which surround them, or
to the music room of the Casino. Leaving Monte Carlo, we came in sight
of another long projecting though not precipitous point of land, or
rising hill ground, covered with trees, principally dark pines. This,
the promontory of Cape Martin, is the west boundary and termination of
the western protecting arm of Mentone. It necessitates another long
tunnel, escaping from which, and passing extensive terraces or forests
of old olive trees, and crossing two river courses, we at last arrived
at our long anticipated destination, the subject of many thoughts
during past months—Mentone.

IX.

_MENTONE._

THE union of bold grandeur with soft loveliness in the Mentone
landscape, arrest and powerfully strike the eye upon arrival.
Familiarity with its scenery, after a residence of months, scarcely
dims the first impression. We had heard much in a general way regarding
it even before leaving home, but every expectation was at once far
exceeded by the reality. We had just left Cannes and Nice, and
witnessed them both in their brightest aspects; but Mentone in its
natural features, and seeing it, as we did, for the first time, in
glorious sunshine, threw them both into the shade. It was an agreeable
surprise, and made us instantly feel that a more beautiful spot for
winter residence could not have been chosen.

Originally the town of Mentone consisted simply of a collection of high
old houses, rising ridge upon ridge like so many terraces resting upon
the steep slope of a hill, the crest of which was at one time crowned
by a castle or palace of the old feudal lords, now converted into a
picturesquely–situated cemetery. This hill or ridge, with its curious
old houses,—among or above which the cathedral and other churches
stand, from which there rise two elegant minaret–like spires, one
taller than the other, conspicuous from every quarter round,—forms
a very striking object, especially when seen from the east, and from
that side may be said in miniature to resemble a little, though of a
different character, the old town of Edinburgh, which, however, is
far more lofty and extends at least ten times farther. The harbour or
port of Mentone lies at the bottom of the seaward end of this ridge.
Curious old high houses, resting upon odd long–shaped water–worn rocks,
the terminals of the hill, abut and hem in the harbour on the north
or land side; while on the south side, a long breakwater is in course
of formation for protection from the ocean waves, which, coursing
over the whole width of the Mediterranean Sea without interruption,
occasionally, under the pressure of a south–west wind, dash up and
over with great vigour. An old building, at one time a small castle,
standing at the end of the original pier, makes an object in the
landscape, and perhaps could tell some tales. The water in the port is
extremely shallow, so that the anchorage is only adapted for vessels of
a small size, of which there are always a few moored to the quays. The
hill ridge, with the projecting pier, form, similarly to Cannes, the
dividing line between what are termed the east and west bays.

The books which have been recently written on Mentone, particularly
those of Dr. Bennett and of Mr. William Chambers, but more than any
book, the good reports of visitors, have induced such an influx of
winter dwellers from distant lands as to have created a new town in
both bays. Rather, it may be said that the hotels extend in both
directions, for in reality the newer parts of Mentone are made up
chiefly of lines of large hotels, the street or shop part of the town
being only a necessary sequence. From the ridge eastward to the gaping
gorge of St. Louis, which is now the boundary line between France and
Italy, the distance by road is about two miles. Hotels line upon one
side nearly the first mile, the other side being open to the sea, and
villas dot the remainder of the way. From the gorge, south or seaward,
a mountain called Belinda (1702 feet) springs up, and from its shoulder
a promontory juts out to the sea and forms the termination of the east
projecting arm of the bays. From the north side of the gorge a mountain
range rises more loftily into the majestic Berceau and Grande Montagne,
and, stretching away to the north and north–west, form the great shield
to Mentone from the east and north–east winds. These mountains attain
an elevation of about (more or less) 4000 feet,—the Grande Montagne
being stated by one authority to be 4525 feet,—and show themselves
boldly and almost perpendicularly in some parts like enormous colossal
walls of bare rock. Due north from Mentone, and from two to three miles
distant from it, another chain of mountains lies almost at right angles
right across from east to west—St. Agnes in the centre, and behind it
the high and sharply–pointed Aigle (4232 feet high)—affording shelter
from the north winds; while the Agel (3730 feet high), and some other
lesser mountains, terminated by the long promontory of Cape Martin, all
lying from north to south, afford shelter from the west and north–west
winds, and particularly the cold mistral. Within these greater mountain
chains, a series of high ridges or hills standing in front, or issuing
out of them like huge tumuli, all covered with olives in terraces,
afford additional shelter; so that were it possible for the wind to
blow down the outer rampart, it would be withstood by this inner wall
or circle of lesser heights, some of which are 1000 feet high. In the
distance on the other side of the great mountains, but invisible from
Mentone, the Maritime Alps rise to a height of from 5000 to 9000 feet.
It will thus be seen that the configuration of the mountains is that
of a great semicircle, and that on every side save the south or sunny
side, open to the sea, Mentone has protection from the cold winds
which in reality blow over the tops of these great walls and strike
at some distance away,—the north or prevailing winter wind reaching
the sea some miles out. It cannot be said that the cold of the winds
is not felt, but it is so greatly averted or modified that Mentone
is practically sheltered; and hence it is that, coupled with the
long continuance during the winter of dry open sunny weather and the
absorption and radiation of the sun’s heat in and from the limestone
rocks, it becomes so admirable a place for the invalid.

Our quarters were in the west bay, considered to be more bracing and
less relaxing than the other, which is said to be three degrees warmer,
and, from being so, and more enclosed and protected, better suited to
the extremely delicate. The hotels and houses in the west bay—in which
is also situated the new or shop portion of the town—extend, though
not continuously, about a mile; and there has been formed in front, by
the border of the sea, a roadway called the Promenade du Midi,—a good
and fairly–wide pleasant road for foot–passengers and carriages,—which
is, in the early part of the forenoon, the great resort of invalids
and other strangers, who here meet their friends, and can view the sea
uninterruptedly in their walks, or enjoy a book or a newspaper on one
of the many seats provided for the weary or lazy. A low stone–built
bulwark protects the promenade from being washed away by the sea, which
sometimes, though very rarely, sweeps up forcibly in heavy waves, and
even occasionally in a storm, so as to dash over the road. But when
the wind is from the north, the sea retires under its pressure 60 to
100 feet from the bulwark, and there is scarcely a ripple upon the
water, which then looks like one sheet of blue glass. And this is its
predominating or normal condition during the winter. When the waves
come, they trundle over monotonously, without gaining or losing a step.
It is the great drawback of the Mediterranean that it has no tide, or
a tide that is all but imperceptible. The difference between high and
low water at Mentone is only from two to three feet. The consequence
is, that the sea does not carry away sufficiently the impurities which
are conveyed to it; and there is wanting that interesting feature
of a tidal beach, the change from hour to hour of the appearance
of the shore. It is only right, however, to add, that Mentone
enjoys comparative immunity from the noisome influence of exposed
drainage. Small drains only empty into the west bay; and they are not
particularly offensive, though they might be improved by carrying pipes
down into the water,—only the likelihood is, that the first storm would
sweep them away. Another empties in the east bay, at the corner formed
by the junction of the old town at its north end with the shore. This
is at all times disagreeable to passers–by, and must be insalubrious
to those residing in its neighbourhood. But it seems difficult to
understand how Mentone is drained, unless the east pipe conveys the
great bulk of the sewerage to the sea; although, so far as the old town
is concerned, it has been explained that the natives collect all manure
to carry it off to the country, thus combining thrift with cleanliness.
That the town is not as yet so disagreeable as Cannes, may arise from
the population being greatly smaller. When Mentone increases much, as
it is threatening to do, it may be quite as discernible.

I have never seen any place so strikingly enclosed as Mentone is by its
semicircle of mountains and the minor hill ridges. The higher parts
of the mountains are steep, rocky, and bare; but all over the ridges,
and far up away into the mountains, the olive tree is cultivated
in terraces built for their reception. The orange and lemon trees
mingle with the olives at a lower elevation, and in some, especially
the higher parts, pine trees furnish a deep green covering. But all
combined add a rich beauty to the imposing grandeur of the scene. Some
of the buildings also contribute materially to the effect. On the
summit of a lofty ridge, between the Carrei and Boirigo valleys, a
monastery conspicuously rears its head. On the other heights there are
houses of peculiar construction, curiously painted; and the whole place
is dotted over with bright–coloured villas, of all tints and shades
of white and yellow, relieved by the almost invariable roofing of red
tiles, and the usual gay greens of the outside venetian jalousies. But
next to the mountain heights, the most marked lineaments of the Mentone
scenery are its valley depths or ravines between the various ridges,
and in which rivers find their beds, although in the dry weather which
generally prevails they are but trickling streams, and in some cases
usually almost dry. The greater valleys are three—or rather, it may
be said, four—in number, consisting of two larger, with their torrent
beds, the Carrei and Boirigo; a third, containing a smaller river
course, the Gorbio; and a fourth, the Mentone valley and streamlet, the
smallest of all, but obtaining its name from, or giving it to, the old
town, at the bottom of which, or underneath the streets, the rivulet
passes. The valleys, three of them of considerable width, in which
these rivers run, form beautiful adjuncts to the town; and the torrent
beds, which are not so long or so wide as those at Nice, are striking
without being distasteful to the eye.

Such are the general outlines of the landscape. I shall have to recur
to some of them hereafter. To those who can appreciate scenery, the
_tout ensemble_ cannot fail to produce a feeling of intense admiration;
but added to all, there is that which lends its peculiar charm to
Mentone. This is its rurality. While it contains many large hotels,
which do not contribute much to the adornment of the scene,—though
year by year becoming more essential to meet the demands for
accommodation,—none of the buildings in Mentone possess the palatial
appearance of those at Nice, neither in the large hotels nor in the
street buildings. Indeed, with regard to the latter, there is only one
street proper in Mentone, not half a mile long. On issuing from the
railway station, which stands on high ground, the town is, or was, hid
from view by a curtain of trees, which afford a beautiful fringe to the
ocean, seen lying placidly beyond. The road to town is along an avenue
of tall plane trees by the bank of the Carrei, one of the torrent beds.
The road on the other side of the Carrei is also flanked by trees, as
yet young. On arriving at the main road, which crosses the river bed
by a wooden suspension bridge, there is a piece of ground, not large,
on either side, laid out as a public garden. From this point, the road
each way, east and west, continues to be lined with plane trees. The
villas passed on the way are built in gardens, wherein orange, lemon,
pepper, and palm trees grow; and so it is everywhere, except in the
heart of the town. I fear much that, from year to year, as people
continue to flock to Mentone, and more lodging–room becomes requisite
(for in sixteen or eighteen years Mentone has risen from being, so
far as strangers are concerned, a mere wayside stopping–place to its
present ample dimensions, embracing a native population of above 5000,
besides a stranger population of probably 3000 more), and as land
becomes in consequence more valuable, this peculiar charm of rurality
will disappear; and though, mainly from the impossibility of its
becoming a great seaport, it will never be a large commercial town like
Nice; and although it will always continue to possess natural features
which no buildings can obliterate, and which neither Nice nor any other
town wanting them can secure, yet it may in time rival in towny aspect
such a place as Cannes, which is at present very considerably larger.

As the first duty of the visitor is to see to his quarters, it is only
right here to make some observations relative to the hotels such as
they were during our stay. They were then reckoned, in 1877, to amount
to forty–four in number; but the number is year by year increasing, and
at least one large hotel (the National) has been built since we left,
although the advertisements do not disclose its whereabouts. The hotels
are found either fronting the sea or back from it, and either in the
west or the east bay; and as the question of locale is not unimportant,
invalids should endeavour in this respect to suit their particular
case, noting, too, that, like every other place, some hotels are more
expensive than others.

It is not unusual for those who have not been previously in Mentone, or
who have not secured apartments before arriving, to take rooms for a
night in the Hotel Mediterranée or the Hotel Royal, or some other hotel
in the town (of which there are several), and then look about. At the
beginning of the season there is abundance of choice; but if the visit
be delayed, as so often is the case, till after Christmas, it is not
unlikely to be discovered that the best rooms have, for the most part,
been taken; and it is much more difficult to secure what is suitable,
and especially good south or sun–visited rooms. When such delay is
unavoidable, the better course is, if possible, to write to a friend in
Mentone previously to make inquiries and engage rooms. In the spring,
many migrate from Cannes and Nice on to Mentone, _en route_ a little
later for Italy. As proximity to the sea air, or to be within hearing
of the monotonous noise of the waves, does not suit some persons, while
the proximity may benefit others, and as the temperature of the east
and west bays differs considerably, it is not inadvisable for those
in delicate health to consult a medical man, who should decide which
part of Mentone is best suited to the particular case. There are about
twenty doctors practising in Mentone. Of these, the English doctors
are, I believe, the following:—In the west bay, Drs. Siordet, Marriott,
Gent, and Sparks; and in the east bay, Dr. Bennett. It is also well
to know that the fees of the resident English medical men are high,
and are paid at each visit. If the visit be to two persons of the same
party, two fees, I have been told, are charged or expected. The fees
of the French medical men are greatly less. It would seem, on some
points, the doctors of the two countries differ,—as, for example,
English doctors advocate sitting in the sun, and foreign doctors,
sitting in the shade; and knowing how foreigners abhor their friend the
sun, I can well believe they do.

In viewing the hotels in order to make a selection, it will be observed
that some are more sheltered than others, and a certain preference
may be given to those which seem to be the better protected from the
north wind, which in winter months, especially during December and
January, prevails and blows sometimes with a piercing cold during night
and in the morning. I am afraid this is a circumstance but seldom
studied by the builders of the hotels, for I suspect there are few
houses—particularly on the Promenade du Midi—which are not exposed to
cold in consequence of having doors opening to the north side. This
of itself is not desirable, and perhaps in most cases is unavoidable;
but the evil is increased when such door is in direct communication
with the staircase without outer porch and lobby, or if a corridor
connect it with an entrance on the other or south side. Considering,
also, how important it is for invalids that the temperature in–doors
should be maintained throughout the house at a proper degree, I have
been surprised to find that means are not universally taken to heat
the staircases and lobbies, delicate people being very apt to suffer
great harm by passing out of heated rooms into cold corridors. So far
as I am aware, there is but one hotel in Mentone which fully attends to
this important particular—the Hotel des Îles Britanniques. Possibly,
however, there may be others. If not, this may be taken as a valuable
hint.[19]

The rate of pension varies according to the hotel and to the floor,
and runs from 8 to 16 francs per day, exclusive of wine, candles, and
firewood.

To those who prefer taking either a furnished house or rooms in a
lodging–house, choice of villas or rooms can be had in abundance at
very varying rates, but generally, like the hotels, high. The number of
villas is constantly on the increase. When last in Mentone, there were
no fewer than about 250. During a bad season, many remain unlet. Lists
of houses can be had from the house–agents, of whom the principal
apparently was M. Amarante, Avenue Victor Emanuele.

An institution maintained by subscription, and called Helvetia,
provides at a small rate of board (£1 per week), a home for, I believe,
fifteen invalid ladies, who are not in circumstances to incur the much
heavier expense of boarding at a hotel.

Six Roman Catholic churches supply the wants of the Roman worshippers
in Mentone.

There are two English Episcopal churches. One, in the west bay,
succeeds in obtaining good music and good congregations. The chaplain
of this church was till recently the Rev. W. Barber, who, after
officiating for many years, died on 24th February 1878, and was
succeeded by his assistant, the Rev. Henry Sidebottom. One of Mr.
Barber’s sons was the able organist and choirmaster. The other and
earlier church in the east bay, built in 1863, is more simple in its
services, and, I fear, was therefore not so much in favour as the more
fashionable chapel in the west bay, to which, notwithstanding the
distance, many of the east bay visitors resorted. The regular minister
was Mr. Morant Brock. But last winter (1877–78) his place was supplied
by Mr. Boudillon, the author of some books, and a good old man.

The Free Church of Scotland has Presbyterian service in a room of a
villa in the east bay; but, whether owing to the distant and elevated
situation, or to not having a church building, or to the paucity of
Scotch people, it was generally attended by only a few, though the
small room was filled when the preacher was popular.

There were also a German church and a French Protestant church, the
latter being under the pastoral care of M. Delapierre. The Scotch
church had no afternoon service, while that held in the French church
in the afternoon was usually poorly attended. A good arrangement might
be, were the Scotch to give up their room, for which they pay £30 per
annum, and to have the use of the French church for one service in the
afternoon; and the second French service might, with advantage in that
case, be held in the evening.

Having had occasion to make inquiry for a good school, we found most
highly recommended an excellent French school kept by M. and Mme.
Arnulf in a house adjoining the Hotel Bristol, and which was attended
by young ladies from several of the principal hotels. The teachers are
Roman Catholics; but many of their pupils being Protestants, they made
a point of avoiding any allusion to religion in their classes. The
school was mainly intended for girls, but M. Arnulf had a class for
boys. French, music, and the ordinary elementary branches of education,
including a little English, were taught, the pupils receiving tuition
also in drawing from M. Bouché, who paints pretty little pictures of
Mentone, which are occasionally seen in book–shop windows for sale, and
which are valuable to purchasers as agreeable reminiscences of their
visit. The charge for all branches, music included, for the hours from
9 till 12 (lunch hour), six days per week, was 90 francs per month;
if lunch and additional hour’s tuition were taken, then so much more.
Mme. Arnulf, a most pleasing French lady, had an excellent mode of
retaining the interest of the pupils by giving a donkey excursion party
(which all the young people could attend) about once a month. This was
looked forward to by all the scholars with great glee, and sad was the
disappointment if any unexpected sickness seemed likely to disable one
of them from being of the cavalcade. In their daily walks, the young
people were freely allowed to play after getting out of town, showing
a great amount of good sense in the management of children, of which
in other parts of France, I have seen it stated, teachers are in this
respect innocent.

Young ladies and others can likewise obtain lessons in Italian, music,
and other branches from resident masters and governesses. Young men who
are not invalids are scarce in Mentone, and I doubt whether, in the
midst of so much else to attract, their ardour for study is intense.

A botany class was successfully formed during the winter of 1877–78 by
Mr. Henry Robertson, a visitor. The study of botany is very suitable
for the Riviera.

Pianofortes can be hired for the season, though not by the month; but
the charge made is usually high—from 150 to 300 francs.

There is, besides a public library, a small museum of natural history,
etc., in the Hotel de Ville, consisting principally of flint implements
found in the caves of the Rochers Rouges, and of specimens of snakes,
fishes, and other animals caught in the neighbourhood.

A theatre exists, but the performances seem to be rare. I never was in
it.

In an open place or square, there is what is called the Cercle
Philharmonique, or Club, admission to which is by ballot and
subscription (annual, monthly, or by the season). Here are held
concerts, dances, and occasional dramatic entertainments, while
newspapers lie in the reading–room.

Two newspapers are published in Mentone—the _Avenir_ and _Le
Mentonnais_; but newspapers from Marseilles, Nice, and other places
are brought by train daily, and are procurable at the railway station,
shops, and a kiosk, or covered round stall in the middle of the Place
Nationale.

Having given this general description of Mentone, and noted some of the
institutions which are of the nature of essentials to the visitor’s
comfort, and being now settled down in the place for the winter, the
natural wish is to know what is to be seen which will help to make
residence agreeable.

There are various guide–books[20] which may be bought and consulted
for this purpose, and it is no part of my plan in these pages to take
their place or to describe after their manner. One of them, titled,
_The Splendide Hotel Handbook to Mentone and its Environs_, would be
more useful were it less of a puff of the Splendide Hotel, which really
does not require any puffing. This book, in tagging and dragging the
unhappy hotel into almost every paragraph, reminds one of De Foe’s puff
of _Drelincourt on Death_, which he brought or endeavoured to bring
into notice by repeated mention of it in his remarkable _Vision of Mrs.
Veal_. The author of the guide—(who doubtless laughs in his own sleeve
and not that of De Foe)—mentions that there are fifty–nine excursions
from Mentone, all of which he describes shortly, and I would refer to
the book for its recital. Fifty–nine is a tolerably large number, and
will, in any view, afford constant employment to those who are of an
exploring disposition. However, people cannot always be on the trot,
more especially if they be not in strong, good health. Much less will
suffice for ordinary existence, and if all be accomplished in three or
four winters, these winters will not have witnessed inactive lives. The
number, however, is an odd one; and to make it even, I must add one
which the writer fails to describe. It fell to my lot the very first
night.

I was impatient to look about me, and on the evening of my first day
took, with a young Scotch gentleman residing in the hotel, a walk as
far as the gorge of St. Louis. It is the evening aspect of Mentone
which I regard as my first and the additional excursion, and it is
one of, if it be not, the most lovely. The moon was full and shining
brightly. Now, the moonlight at Mentone is so clear and strong that
everything comes out sharply, and all objects on which it rests are
seen with almost the same distinctness as in daylight. Even quarter
moon illuminates surprisingly. The great orb of night sheds her
effulgence upon the grand, steep, abrupt mountains, upon the rugged
rocks, upon the glittering trees, upon the hill–tops, upon the white
houses, upon all I have already attempted to depict as contributing to
the magnificence of the landscape. Bold and varied as everything looks,
as usually seen when the sun is in the heavens, the soft, wondrous
silvering on the parts which are moonlit, set in contrast against the
deep, sombre, unrelieved blackness of the parts which are cast into
shade, developes the features of the panorama, with an impressive
_chiaro oscuro_ effect which can never be observed or attained in
the broad light of day; while, turning round and looking upon the
ocean below, we see the waves roll softly ashore in lambent lines of
dazzling light, and the yielding water is dancing and glancing with
the restrained restlessness of girlish glee, and tossing up little
flickering tongues of fire, which cover the sea in the moonlight gleam
as with thousands of short–lived electric sparks, darting up to snatch
a kiss from their pale but glorious mother, and expiring in the vain
and feeble effort. We had not far to go for this lovely tableau, which,
when beheld for the first time, produces the sensation of being in the
presence of a scene of enchantment.

But the scene is scarcely less beautiful, though different, when,
the sky being clear, and especially on those evenings which are
slightly touched by frost, the moon averts her face; for then the
stars assemble with a twofold brilliancy, sparkling with a lustre
which is unknown in our dull and foggy northern clime. Venus first of
all appears like a great lamp in the west. We have had simultaneously
other planets shining brightly, and particularly Jupiter, Saturn,
and Mars, the last two having been in the winter of 1877–78 in close
conjunction, but ruddy Mars not being so full as we had at Interlachen
seen it some months before, when it was nearer the earth. The sky
glows with constellations, chief among which stands prominently out
Orion, which rises from the sea in the south–east, and passes slowly
and majestically over the firmament to the north–west, every star
in it, with generous but governed emulation, stinting not its oil
and burning with redoubled energy. Then, almost right below Orion’s
belt, Sirius, the largest and most beautiful star visible from earth,
radiates in full intensity, shining and scintillating with a luminous
green splendour which has emanated from that grand orb twenty–two years
previously—a light so strong that it casts a streak or tail across
the Mediterranean like that of the moon, though fainter and less.
Then overhead are galaxies of glory, in the midst of which the Milky
Way, the nearest of the nebulæ (for it is that to which we ourselves
belong), stretches over the great expanse its belt of pearly sheen, the
dwelling–place of countless myriads of starry habitants whose light as
now seen dates back to a period anterior to the creation of man—all
of them far too distant to be discernible by the unassisted eye. Cold
though the evenings sometimes were, I was often tempted to turn out and
see the matchless sight. The promenade was close by, and there all was
open to the view.

Visitors, however, are no sooner settled in a place than, according to
immemorial usage, it seems to be their paramount duty to escape out
of it and see its environs, and perhaps I shall best illustrate the
locality by describing some of our excursions.

Besides the main road which leads in one direction to Monaco and
Nice, and in the other to San Remo and Genoa, and another road up
the Carrei valley to Turin, and roads which go a short way up the
Boirigo and Gorbio valleys, there is not much opportunity for varied
driving; but the mountains which connect themselves by their ridgy
tentacula with the very coast, afford innumerable excursions on foot
and on donkeys, and parties, often large in number, are daily in
good weather to be seen starting on such expeditions. The donkeys
are patient, sure–footed, know every inch of the way, and require
little encouragement by means of the whip. There are many roads or
paths constructed expressly for them up and over the ridges, although
rather intended for the rural traffic than for excursionizing. The
animals are let out for hire at 5 francs per day, or 2½ francs for
the half day, the day being considered divided by the lunch or
dinner hour of twelve, and detention of half an hour beyond twelve
reckoned as a whole day. Girls or boys, sometimes women or even men,
attend the donkeys and act as guides, expecting a trifle of a fee to
themselves—generally half a franc per donkey per day, and half that for
half a day. There are plenty of carriages of all kinds, but principally
light basket–carriages with one or more horses. The only other mode of
conveyance is the railway. Steamboats do not touch at the port, and
boating is not much indulged in, the open sea not being particularly
safe, although near shore usually placid, and offering imposing views
towards the land.

A few days after our arrival, we joined a party of friends for
Castellar, which is about three miles distant. We started after
lunch, about half–past one, having six donkeys for those who rode.
It was the 2d of December, and the day was overpoweringly hot. The
ascent commences at once from the town, and the mounting was almost
continuous, diversified, however, by stretches of level path. For
protection of the road, which would otherwise be soon worn away, it
is, like most other donkey paths, in its steeper parts paved sometimes
with the small round stones commonly called petrified kidneys, which
are very trying to the feet of the walkers, at least till they get
accustomed to them. After we had gone up a short way, we obtained the
shelter of trees, which lessened the fatigue. It was a lovely walk the
whole way, the views at every turn being so fine; the sky overhead,
bright, clear, blue, against which the bold outlines of the adjacent
mountains broke in most picturesque lines; while, whether we looked
down the thickly–covered slopes below or across the ravines to the
wooded slopes of the Berceau above, or to the hill ridges fringed with
trees or capped by picturesque buildings, it was a scene of grandeur
and beauty blended; while the silver–lined blue–green of the olive
leaf, mingling with the dark green of the pines, and the grass and the
wild shrubbery, combined with the bright glitter of the sun through
the branches to make it fairy–land. Notwithstanding the shade afforded
by the trees, I felt the ascent very hot work, and perspired at every
pore. At last, in about an hour and a half, we reached Castellar,
perched upon the summit of the rock or acclivity, which is 1200 feet
above the level of the sea. We found it a very curious old Italian
village—a type, however, of others which we subsequently saw. It
consists of two long narrow streets, and of three ranges of miserable
old houses, offering wretched uncomfortable holes for the inhabitants,
the wretchedness being probably to some extent redeemed by the natural
purity of the air. On the outside walls, the windows, where they
exist, stand high, and are small (in many places merely loopholes for
guns), the town being so built as to afford some protection against
the roving expeditions of the Moors. Poor and miserable as the place
looks, it has, like all such villages, a grand church—that is, grand
in comparison with the dwellings and with the apparent poverty of the
people. The church is adorned by the usual spire, which forms a feature
of the little town or village, which, though picturesque at a short
distance, does not afford as much scope for the pencil of the artist
as some other similar villages. From the platform on which the town
stands, we obtained a splendid view of the mountains of Mentone and of
the bay below. After halting a very brief time, the party descended,
to be back before sunset—a precaution essentially needful to be
attended to by those who are subject to any weakness in the chest, and
by no means to be neglected even by those in robust health, as just
before sunset, and for an hour afterwards, a cold clammy air descends
or envelopes these regions. Going and returning occupied altogether
about three hours. We returned highly satisfied with this our first
expedition. On the way down, the graceful towers of the churches at
several points came prominently into view.

After this hot day, we had two continuously wet days. The rain poured
heavily, the wind blew violently from the south–west, and the torrent
beds of the rivers were filled to an extent I never saw subsequently.
The rain was no doubt very beneficial to a country which gets so
little, while the flood must have proved useful in clearing out the
bed of the river, with all its accumulations of dirt, soapy washings,
and olive refuse. As the stream in flood brings down with it soil from
the mountains, on this and on other similar occasions, the rivers,
by carrying out what they hold in solution to the sea, discolour
the water, and the sea was a deeply–marked brown for a considerable
distance on and along the coast. The waves were high, and dashed
grandly on the shore, and broke beautifully over the pier. Only on one
occasion during this winter were they so violent as to dash over the
promenade. We were informed it was a good sign that the winter should
commence, as it had done, with heavy rain, as it generally ensured a
long continuance of fine weather further on in the season. There were a
few wet days in November and December, and all January and February we
had it, nearly continuously, fine, dry, and open. The clearness of the
atmosphere of Mentone is one of its great recommendations. There are
no fogs such as we have at home, though what seemed to be the mistral
produces an approach to them; but there are occasional cloudy days, and
when the sun gets behind a cloud, the air is cold, sometimes keenly so.
Wet days, however, are exceedingly useful to the visitor for keeping up
correspondence, which the attractions out of doors tempt him to neglect
in fine weather.

During one of the days of the week upon which it did not rain, I took a
walk with a friend to the gorge of St. Louis. The road was very muddy,
in consequence of the rain which had fallen; indeed, it is very seldom
this road is in an agreeable condition. It is laid with soft limestone,
which is ground down by heavy carts laden with enormous stones which
are being conveyed from the rocks from which they are blasted to the
breakwater. The dust so formed lies about three inches deep upon the
road. Every horse, carriage, and cart which passes raises a cloud; but
when the wind blows, it becomes insufferable, and there is hardly any
possibility of brushing the dust out of one’s clothes. Rain converts
the dust into mud, and when the mud has obtained a consistency by being
baked in the sun, it forms into hard ruts trying to the pedestrian.

The gorge was fully two miles distant from our hotel, and was a
frequent point to which we subsequently walked or drove. To reach it
from the west end we may pass through the Avenue Victor Emanuele, where
the shops are, and its continuation, the Rue St. Michael. The road
then skirts the water by the Quai Bonaparte (so called after Napoleon
I., who constructed the Corniche road, of which this is a part), and
looking up, we saw the old town with its ridge upon ridge of high old
dingy houses, like so many terraces one over the other—a very hanging
garden (though garden is anything but the suitable word) of old roofs
and chimney–tops; while, looking over the parapet wall, the water lying
15 or 20 feet below, a fine view of the bay and little harbour is had.
But this part of the road is always under shade after twelve o’clock,
and is exceedingly trying to invalids. I have often thought that the
municipal authorities might effect a vast improvement if they would
construct a diagonal road across from its commencement at the well to
the Hotel de la Paix. The water is very shallow, apparently only a few
feet deep; and though it would be a work of time and would require
much material, it would really be of vast importance to Mentone, as
then the invalid could walk or drive either to or from the east bay
at any time of day without danger. The space intervening between the
embankment so to be formed and the Quai Bonaparte, might afterwards
be filled up and converted into a large public garden. The operation,
however, would be costly, although the stone for forming it is at
hand. But taking things as they are, the road continues in front of
the various hotels I have already mentioned. Whether it was that the
air here is more confined than in the west bay, I know not, but we
never could walk along this long dusty stretch without a feeling of
languor such as was not experienced in other and much longer walks,
so that we were always ready to take rest on one of the seats placed
by the roadside. After proceeding a good way, the road at the east
bend of the bay divides, and one fork winds up to the gorge and on to
Italy. The other fork turns aside into a promenade (now in course of
formation), as yet short, by the margin of the sea and along the rocks
of the coast, which will, when completed, become, as even now to some
extent it is, a very agreeable accession to the amenity of the east
bay, where there are not so many nice walks as are in the neighbourhood
of the west bay. Reaching the gorge, which forms a dividing ravine
between the mountains of the Berceau and Belinda, and is crossed by a
bridge, conspicuous from most parts of Mentone, standing about 200 feet
above the stream below, and a good deal more below the rocks towering
above, we can at the north end of the bridge place one foot in France
and the other in Italy. The Italian _douaniers_ have a station–house
a little beyond, perched prominently on the summit of the rock. The
French _douaniers_ have theirs on the road near to the junction of the
above–mentioned two roads, the two houses being stationed considerably
apart, as if to prevent the possibility of quarrel.

The view from the bridge is remarkably fine, and should be seen in
the morning, as when the sun gets round to the west or south–west, it
throws much of the scene into the shade, and is, besides, too dazzling
to behold. The harbour lies under us, a good mile off, with its few
ships and boats, and the picturesque old town; beyond it, the west
bay, Cape Martin, and all the panorama of mountains which stretch to
the north and north–west of Mentone, the aspect of whose outlines and
rugged tops, being so near, changes at every different point of view.

In the afternoon of the same day, we took a walk up one of the valleys.
These valleys are all favourite walks to those residing in the west
bay. The views from the bridges which span them at the mouths of
the river or rivers, supposed to run below them, are each different
from the other, and are exceedingly picturesque. The one next to us
was the Carrei or Turin valley. The torrent bed of this river course
is confined from its mouth, where it is narrowed (speaking from
recollection) to about 60 or 80 feet, and for a considerable way up and
beyond the railway viaduct, by sloping bulwarks of masonry. After this
the bed, no longer so confined, widens very considerably, and about a
mile from the mouth gets broad and bare; farther up still, it narrows
again, and becomes the rocky bed of what sometimes may be called a
river, but usually is nothing but a small stream. Within Mentone the
bed is crossed by two wooden foot bridges, one wooden suspension bridge
for carriages and foot passengers, and a railway viaduct. Looking up
and northward from the wooden foot bridge which spans the river course
at its mouth, and placed for the purpose of connecting two portions
of the promenade, one of the grandest views in Mentone is had.[21] On
either side of the spectator the Eucalyptus and Spanish fig trees,
the flowering aloes and other trees of the public gardens, offer a
leafy inclosure; and carrying the eye along upon the left side up
the right bank of the Carrei to the railway viaduct, and beyond it,
we observe the tall plane trees of the avenue leading to the railway
station casting their shadows over the road, and in the afternoon over
the river course, giving the aspect of agreeable shelter from the
sun. On the right side, like theatrical side scenes run in one behind
the other, bright–looking villas with their coloured jalousies and
red–tiled roofs, diversified by an occasional one in blue lead and
French roof, project out of gardens,—the Hotel du Louvre and the Hotel
des Îles Britanniques, in the rear of all, being by a bend of the river
scarcely visible from this bridge. Then a mountain ridge within half a
mile from the bridge crosses the view above 1000 feet high, and crowned
by a monastery (St. Annunciata), and with slopes here concealed by
olive, lemon, and orange trees, in regular terraces, and there broken
and exposed by rock and steep earthy–looking sides, as if washed away,
and dotted elsewhere by coloured houses, and with straggling pine trees
bristling up from the immediate background; while behind all this, as
a grand back scene, rising boldly out of rounded, verdant, or stony
slopes, mingled and varying in aspect each hour with the course of the
sun, which throws the shadows in the morning westward and the afternoon
eastward, and sometimes bathes them in light, and sometimes veils them
in shade, the rocky, rugged heights of the mountains (seen here in part
only), some of them only two to three miles distant, tower up, thrown,
in lines clear and strong, upon the limpid blue sky tying cloudless and
serene above. The subject is one which frequently engages the pencil or
the brush of the amateur; but the situation is public, and one cannot
attempt a sketch without inviting inquisitive looks by crowds of those
who are too polite to stop and hang over one’s head in heaps, like
the wondering and intently watchful, concerned, and admiring _gamins_
of the street, but who are rude enough sometimes to pass repeatedly
back and forward, shaking the bridge with every footfall, and jostling
each other and the artist for a look over the shoulder as they pass.
The scene is one which I never could tire of beholding. It has been
photographed, but photographs never give a mountain view with the
clearness and effect of a good drawing.

But leaving the bridge and proceeding to the Avenue de la Gare, we
find on inquiry that this is the commencement of the road to Turin,
which is nearly 100 miles off, although about half way it is met by a
railway from Cuneo to Turin, and is now all but superseded for traffic
by the coast railway towards Genoa, the direct line to Turin branching
off at Savona, making a distance by rail of about, according to my
calculation, 183 miles. This road is the only one up the valleys which
can be traversed for any distance. A strong current of air frequently
blows down the valley and renders it occasionally in its shady parts
a cold walk for the invalid, who must in winter months carry wraps
for use when either he gets out of sunshine or the sun retires behind
a cloud. This current is, I presume, the cause of the west bay being
cooler than the east. It is, however, a charming walk up the road,
level for nearly two miles, and the greater part of the way—indeed,
almost the whole of it—being fringed with trees. For a little distance
after passing under the railway viaduct, pretty houses, in gardens
full of orange and lemon trees covered with fruit, are seen on both
sides of the river; and in spring, women are constantly met bearing on
their heads to town immense basketfuls of lemons and oranges. Farther
on, and on emerging from the shade of the monastery hill, a curious
range of oil–mills has been placed like steps one over the other on
the slope of the hill, driven each by a separate water wheel of large
diameter—the same water, apparently, by an economical arrangement,
driving the wheels successively as it falls. Some way beyond these
mills, the road begins to ascend and to wind, and, as the valley closes
in, thickly planted with trees on both sides, seems to become more
and more inviting; while peeps are had of Castellar, high overhead,
on the right, embosomed among olive groves. Rocky mountains, bold and
bluff, oppose themselves nearer and nearer to the spectator; the small
village of Monti and its white church and long spire is attained, and
after some miles by a zig–zag road, the summit, upwards of 2000 feet
high, and three miles from the sea, is won. An excellent excursion by
carriage along this road is to the picturesque village of Sospello,
22 kilometres, or about 14 miles distant from Mentone, passing and
visiting by the way the curious old town of Castiglione, which lies
perched up among the mountains (inaccessible by carriage) at a height,
it is said, of over 2500 feet above the sea.[22]

[Illustration: OIL MILLS CARREI VALLEY, MENTONE.]

The valley of Carrei, partly from its proximity to our hotel, was with
us a favourite walk, and could be visited also by a more sunny road for
a short way on the east bank of the river course. Here, as elsewhere,
the municipality have placed wooden seats, which are very acceptable
to pedestrians. Sometimes a whiff of cold air blowing down the valley
proves too trying to allow of sitting long; but one scarcely tires of
the bright glad sun, or the view of the hill slopes and verdure with
which they are covered all the year through, or of the bold mountains,
on the foremost central one of which may be discovered—particularly
with the aid of a glass, for it is at first hardly distinguishable by
the eye from the rocks on which it rests—the ruined castle of Ste.
Agnese, elevated like an eagle’s eyrie high up on the apparently
inaccessible summit.

A trip to Ste. Agnese is generally taken by all who are not infirm.
Though not so arduous as the ascent of the Berceau, of the Grand
Mont, or of Mont Agel, which all command extensive views, but can
only be undertaken by the able–bodied, it is a somewhat fatiguing
excursion, and most people perform the ascent on donkey back. On the
13th December, the morning and day being fine, we started, a party of
twelve, with eight donkeys and two donkey–drivers. To reach the point
from which the ascent begins, we proceeded along the Nice road westward
to the Boirigo valley. The view from the bridge across this valley
was then (even still is, notwithstanding the erection of buildings
on each side, some of them lofty and uninteresting, has somewhat
contracted the view) much more open and extensive than that from the
Carrei bridge. It took in west, north, and east, the whole panorama of
mountain, twenty–eight peaks and pinnacles, enumerated in Giordan’s
little _Mentone Guide_ (1877), being counted from the bridge. A road
runs up each side of the river course, which is hemmed in like the
Carrei by bulwarks of masonry. The road upon the left bank does not
proceed above a mile, when—at a picturesquely–situated olive–oil mill,
embosomed among olive and lemon trees, and bordered by a pretty stretch
of the channel of the river, lying at the bottom of a dell closed
in by wooded hills on both sides—it is shut in and becomes a donkey
path buried among the trees of the valley, the river in the ravine
below meantime narrowing correspondingly. The walk by this delightful
path through the woods arrives at an old stone bridge leading to the
village of Cabriole, whence by a steep ascent Ste. Agnese may be taken.
The road upon the right bank terminates more speedily, entering at a
large pottery upon ‘the primrose valley,’ the river course of which,
delightfully shut in by high banks, is usually all but dry. Up both
valleys we have had many pleasant strolls. On the present occasion,
proceeding only a short way beyond the railway viaduct, we left the
last–mentioned road, and, ascending by a steep donkey path, gradually
gained the top of a ridge, along which, at a gradient gently inclining
upward, a walk lies, protected, like that to Castellar, by trees, and
looking down on the Gorbio valley—on the one side, its great plain
thickly planted with olive trees, and terminated at its north end by
the town of Gorbio, as if resting on an island peak; and on the other,
on the Boirigo valley and the monastery heights. It took us some time
to reach the base of the mountains, when the path became rough with
loose stones, and steep and toilsome. Nearly three hours elapsed from
the time of our leaving the hotel till we reached one of the mountain
roadside chapels, with which the country abounds, constructed not
only to point religious feelings, but as covered places of refuge
from a storm. As usual, a cross stood by it, bent to the north–east,
indicating that south–west were the violent and prevailing winds.
This chapel, which could easily have held all our party and more in
a storm, was a short way below the town of Ste. Agnese, and afforded
a convenient resting–place ere proceeding farther. We had from it a
good view of Ste. Agnese, which, being placed back on the north side
of the mountain, is not visible from Mentone. It stands about 2100
or 2200 feet above the level of the sea. The castle, now in ruins,
on the summit, is above 300 feet higher. As a stronghold it was no
doubt almost unassailable; for on one side the rock may be said to be
perpendicular, and the other sides are, as I learnt from the ascent,
very steep. The town of Ste. Agnese, which we had yet a good pull to
arrive at, is another of those curious villages which are seen in
the Riviera. From a little distance it has a deserted, ruinous look,
and the place does not improve upon nearer acquaintance. Of course,
notwithstanding the apparent poverty of the inhabitants, it has a grand
church with a spire to it, and we had chanced to light upon a fête
day; for, as we were sitting on the rocks beyond it at lunch (brought
with us as usual on such excursions, and forming no unacceptable