Chapter XVIII: Part 18

Among the characteristics of the climate, he mentions that while more rain falls in Pau than in London and some other situations in England, yet from the absorbent nature of the soil, and from some peculiar electric state of the atmosphere, there is an absence of ‘free communicable humidity;’ and that while 27 inches of rain fall annually in London, and from 40 to 50 inches in Pau, the number of rainy days is only 109 against 178 in London. Further, a very important advantage possessed by Pau is its distinguishing freedom from wind from apparently any quarter, while the malevolent circius, bise, and the mistral are never felt there. Dr. Taylor contrasts in tables the difference of temperature between Greenwich and Pau—as, for example, in the mean temperature of each for the months between October and May, showing them to vary, according to the month, from 3 to 7 degrees in favour of Pau. The mean moisture of the air is also shown to be generally about one–twelfth less at Pau; while a further circumstance is that there is more sunshine at Pau, imparting greater cheerfulness to the winter climate. A very curious additional fact is thus stated (p. 80):—

‘From an examination of the mean distribution of the winds, according to the cardinal points of the compass, indicated by carefully–kept registers for a considerable series of years, we find that they show northerly winds prevailed in summer, southerly in winter, easterly in autumn and winter, and westerly in spring and early summer; and when we recall to the reader what has before been said with regard to the usual want of force of the winds at all times at Pau, he can easily figure to himself how the heats of summer being modified by the northerly wind, the cold of winter shorn of its intensity by the southerly, and the usual biting keenness of spring softened by the prevalence of westerly winds, the climate should act beneficially on the irritable air passages and on the lungs of invalids either predisposed to active disease or which are already a prey to it.’

At another place Dr. Taylor gives a table of death–rates, from which Pau would seem to be at the top of the list for least mortality—as, for example, while in Pau 1 in 45 died annually, in London it was 1 in 40, in Nice 1 in 31, Rome 1 in 25, Vienna 1 in 22½, etc.; and he adds this important statement (p. 94):—

‘In the department of the Basses Pyrénées, in a period of seventeen years, 1777 persons died from 90 to 95, 649 from 95 to 100, and 168 above 100 years of age. In Pau itself, during a period of twenty years, 390 persons died from 80 to 85, 161 from 85 to 90, and 103 from 90 to 100 and upwards. By the last census, there were in Pau several persons ranging from 100 to 104 years of age, and in the department also several _centenaires_ who are described as being still very healthy.’

But I must refer to Dr. Taylor’s work for more information on this and other matters relating to Pau. Besides containing general information relative to the town itself, it deals in its last half with the climate of other places, and particularly affords information relative to the different places of resort in the Pyrenees.

Another book (already referred to, p. 53), by Dr. Frederick H. Johnson, entitled, _A Winter’s Sketches in the South of France and the Pyrenees_, is similarly devoted to Pau and the Pyrenees, and is written in an interesting, graphic manner.

Mr. C. Home Douglas, in his little work called _Searches for Summer_, takes a rather different view of the climate of Pau from Dr. Taylor, although opening his observations by saying:

‘Passing from Biarritz to Pau, as we did in the beginning of May, seemed almost like returning to the still sunny climate of the south of Spain. The fresh strong Atlantic breeze—invigorating, doubtless, to many constitutions—gave place to such gentle and balmy air as we used to open our windows to at Malaga.’

Mr. Douglas, not confining comparison to London, compares the temperature of Pau with that also of other places in Great Britain, showing that the sunny temperature of Pau is 4°·1 below that of Helstone in Cornwall, and is under that of Torquay in Devonshire and Valentia in Ireland during the same winter months, and quotes Dr. Otley to the effect that there is greater daily range of temperature at Pau than in England, adding that the nights must be colder at Pau than in the west coasts of Britain, and expresses the opinion that ‘no one who cannot stand severe cold ought to think of going to Pau for the winter; better go to Easdale in Argyllshire. No one so constituted should think of going till March at soonest; April, in my opinion, is early enough.’

Mr. Douglas writes as a meteorologist, and his little volume is a valuable contribution to the consideration of the temperature of the various places of health resort therein mentioned; but the facts stated by Dr. Taylor, even though one is inclined to look with suspicion on medical advocates of special places, show that the value of a place for an invalid may not wholly depend on the records of the thermometer.

* * * * *

We made Pau only a halting–place for nine days, _en route_ for the Riviera, and to form some opinion as to its suitability for a longer stay at another time. Coming from the ever–changing ocean, and from Biarritz, which had so captivated our fancy, perhaps we did not take so kindly to Pau, a large inland rural town, as we might otherwise have done; while, in consequence of the season not having fairly commenced, the strangers encountered in the streets were few, and the town consequently was more dull than it would have been later on. The weather also was such that we had not much opportunity of seeing the environs.

* * * * *

Before 1840, Pau apparently was a place of no repute. I presume Dr. Taylor’s recommendation gave it its great stimulus. But in twenty years after 1840 it had largely increased, evidences of which were, that the octroi duty had in 1860 realized nearly double, that the British visitors had amounted to 1000 in number in the year, and that its population had augmented to 21,000. It has gone on increasing since, and is now so well frequented as to require no less than three English churches and one Scotch church, with resident ministers, while the population is reckoned to amount to 30,000.

The town itself is regularly built, with good leading streets, and possesses a large market–place, where goods of all kinds, even broadcloths, are sold in open stalls; and as Pau is the centre of a very large rural population, it is on market days a busy place; but there are many good shops in some of the best streets, and the wares are, I think, cheaper than in Nice and elsewhere in the Riviera. The two town churches, St. Martin’s and St. Jacques, are new and of white stone, and with their fine tapering spires are externally handsome, but internally, except for their stained–glass windows, want the richness of ornamentation we had seen in so many other Roman Catholic churches abroad.

* * * * *

The grand sight at Pau is the chain of the Pyrenees. We had only to go a short way along the country road, in which the Pension Colbert is, to see them. But a more uninterrupted prospect is had from the Boulevard du Midi, or terrace of the Place Royale, in front of the prominent buildings I have already mentioned. Leaning upon the parapet wall of this fine terrace, and looking almost straight down upon the valley below, one sees beyond the road and a small outlying portion of the town and the railway station, the river Gave flowing sluggishly along, crossed by a handsome low stone bridge of, I think, five arches, and lined on both sides by rows of tall poplar and other trees, and bordered by straggling houses, which give some character to the scene. Then, on the other side, there rises a range of well–wooded knolls and hills, called the Côteaux of Juraçon and Gelos, the highest about 300 feet in height, and dotted over among the trees by mansions; and then apparently the ground dips behind them, and in the distance (the nearest being twenty miles off) the long range of the Pyrenees stretches out in a continuous line eastward and westward as far as the eye can see, and forming the natural boundary and barrier between the two great countries France and Spain. Rising abruptly and prominently out of the range like two great tusks, are the Pic de Midi d’Ossau, to appearance nearly opposite Pau, and the grandest of the Pyrenees; and away to the eastward, the Pic de Gers; while still farther to the east, but eclipsed by intervening heights scarcely visible from Pau, the Pic du Midi de Bigorre, each of them, or at least the first and last mentioned, from 10,000 to 11,000 feet high. From the upper windows of the hotels on this Boulevard the view must be magnificent. It was very fine from the windows of the Chateau, but they are of a low elevation. This view, perhaps the finest in France, is really the great attraction to the hotels in this quarter, for nowhere else does it seem possible to obtain the prospect from so high a position, and so free from intervening obstructions. When we were at Pau, there was no snow upon the Pyrenees, so that we failed to see them in their best. Even, however, when snow–covered, they cannot bear comparison with the Alps as seen from Turin. But the view may be finer when the mountains are snow–covered and there is a grand sunset, for which Pau is famed. The mountains in the ruddy glow may then resemble the Bernese Alps, as seen from Berne in a brilliant sunset. At Turin, as the mountains lie to the west of the town, the sunset effect must be greatly lost.

* * * * *

The Chateau, which was the residence of the Princes of Bearne in former times, and where Henry IV. of France was born in 1553, is well worthy of inspection, and, of course, any stranger coming to Pau pays it a visit. Three bridges connect it with the town, and at one time it was doubtless a place of strength. Entering on one side through what appears to be a modern screen of three open slender arches embellished by carved work (seemingly rather too delicate for a warlike place), and passing the sentinel, the visitor is at once in the court–yard, the remaining three sides of the nearly square yard forming the castle, pierced by decorated windows. The walls are of great thickness, giving the idea of massive strength and solidity. In some of the rooms the walls are covered with tapestry, and in parts the tapestry is a close imitation in worsted of paintings in oil—a mistake in art, I think. The ceilings are bold in design, without being either fine or remarkable. The old beds are curious high boxes of carved oak, requiring steps to enable the occupants to get up into them. A lower modern carved bed in one of the rooms, devoid of the canopy of the old ones, seemed vastly preferable. One of the bedrooms was hung with silk of the time of Madame de Maintenon, and, as we understood, manufactured under her superintendence. The most interesting object in the castle was the cradle of Henry IV., made of a large tortoise shell. There is a statue of the great monarch in the grounds, and in the country round about places exist with which he was associated; and, indeed, Pau and its neighbourhood is a place of great historical interest.

A public park closely adjoins the Chateau. It is filled with lofty trees, and continues for a long stretch by the banks of the Gave on a rising ground, through which and under the trees walks have been formed and seats placed, whence charming views of the river and mountains are had. The band plays during the season sometimes in the park and at other times in the Place Royale.

* * * * *

The environs of Pau are said to be beautiful, but we had not much opportunity of exploring them. Mr. Inglis (the traveller), in a passage quoted by Dr. Taylor, says:—

‘The Gave serpentines through the charming undulating country that surrounds the town. Grain, meadows, and vines diversify the scenery, and innumerable country–houses are everywhere scattered around. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the promenades in the neighbourhood of Pau. Some lie alongside the Gave, others along the banks of the smaller river.’

The road to Bordeaux and the other roads out of Pau seem to be all lined with regimental rows of poplars, shady perhaps in sunshine, but stiff. Some neat villas in nicely–planted gardens in the outskirts of the town—delightful retreats—are let furnished. I had the pleasure of meeting a very old Scotch friend, who, after having tried many places, has found the climate of Pau to be most suitable, and has accordingly built just out of town an elegant villa for permanent residence.

There are, I believe, many excellent excursions from Pau, such as a drive to Lourdes, 25 miles distant—a long day’s work for the horses there and back, but, I was told and can readily believe, most enjoyable. In the summer–time, everybody who can, escapes to the mountains, where so many charming spots, including Eaux–Chaudes and Eaux–Bonnes, are to be found.

We paid a visit to the cemetery, which lies back from the Place d’Armes, and quite out of town, the Protestant ground being, as customary, separate from the Roman Catholic. There are throughout many monuments, including one to Marshal Bosquet, whose name is familiar to us in connection with the Crimean War. After the war he spent his last years in Pau, his native place. One monument to the memory of a Russian lady, representing her in the act of kneeling and praying, in very rich attire, is of white marble, and has no doubt been executed in Italy.

* * * * *

During our stay in Pau, the French General Election took place, and according to French practice was on a Sunday (14th October 1877). Everything was quiet, quieter even than it would have been at home, notwithstanding it was politically a time of great anxiety. Although there were some small crowds of people hanging about the streets on the day of election, and on the following day the newspaper shops at the time of publishing were besieged, all was quite orderly. We had it, of course, for the comfort of the old ladies, that all the Protestants were in bodily fear; and perhaps in former times there might have been some risk, for in some parts of France it was an inconvenient custom, occasionally exercised on a sumptuous scale, to burn, shoot, and otherwise destroy Protestants and other obnoxious heretics. In the present day, however, it would no doubt be considered an economic mistake to slay, or to drive away to other lands, the birds which beneficently lay, in hotels, pensions, furnished villas, shops, and other places, their heart–winning, hate–dissipating golden eggs; and instead of a display of unpleasant engines of extirpation, there is great kindliness of feeling towards Protestants, and every provision is made for alluring strangers to Pau, and detaining them there by means of cricket and golf grounds, skating–rinks, fox–hunting, lawn tennis, libraries, museums, and the like active and passive means of enjoyment.

XX.

_SECOND WINTER IN THE RIVIERA._

WE left Pau for Toulouse on 23d October 1877. The journey occupied upwards of eight hours, or two hours longer than the same journey from Toulouse. At every little station there is a stoppage for an apparently endless length of time, although I suppose the delay is partly attributable to the necessities of the careful system of registration of luggage. One tunnel was shored up, and we went slowly through it and over the ground before and after. When we approached Toulouse, and had to cross the rivers, the train proceeded with the utmost caution. The bridges had evidently been washed away, and what we passed over seemed either unfinished or temporary. It was here, it may be recollected, that in the year 1875 such disastrous floods took place. But whether the condition of the bridges in 1877 was attributable to this or to a more recent flooding, we could not tell. The journey, though long, was agreeable, the rivers resembling our own Scotch rivers, and the Pyrenees clear and crisp, with a slight sprinkling or dusting of snow upon them, though not enough to give them the aspect of snowy mountains. The trees were clothed in their autumn tints of yellow, brown, and red, and the sun was shining. We were accommodated with the rooms we had formerly occupied in the Hotel Sacaron—clean, tidy, but carpetless; the mosquitoes, however, were gone. A good many persons appeared in the _salle à manger_, but there was no common _table–d’hôte_ dinner. Each party dined separately at 5 francs per head. I had, before leaving Pau, calculated on getting a good hour before dinner for a drive through the town; but a change had been recently made,—I suppose about the 16th October, the usual commencement of winter hours,—by which our train, probably to dispense with another, became a slow one, stopping at all stations, and taking two hours longer than before; so that, arriving at six o’clock, there was no time for a drive in daylight. In the evening I had a stroll through a small part of the town, which contains some good wide shop streets. The Church of St. Servan is the finest, and, according to representations, peculiarly constructed, but in the dark I had no opportunity of seeing it. Nor did we see the bridges and other neighbouring public parts. Had we not been anxious to push on towards Marseilles, we might have stopped a day to see a city which has a name, but is a good deal out of the ordinary path of travellers. We also missed seeing the view from it of the Pyrenees, which is said to be there extensive, being about the centre of the chain. It rained through the night, and was damp in the morning; and as our train left at ten o’clock, we could not obtain an hour before leaving for Montpellier.

The scenery between Toulouse and Cette, great part of which we had missed on our former journey in the dark or twilight, was not equal to that of the previous day. We passed field after field of vineyards, where they were lading large carts with the grapes. About Biarritz and other places in the south–west of France, the carts are generally drawn by oxen. In Italy, the equally patient buffalo, with its meek eyes, is used. Here the carts seen from the railway were drawn by two horses. Grapes were charged at the railway station of Narbonne, in the centre of this vine district, 5d. per lb. We had paid elsewhere from 1½d. (15 centimes) to 3d. (30 centimes) per lb., but at railway stations prices are usually increased. For oranges at railway stations, 20 centimes apiece were sometimes demanded. The sun went down as we got into Cette, but not before gaining, as we approached that port, a glimpse now and then of our old friend the Mediterranean. A cup of coffee at the station was refreshing, but the waiter, who calculated in sous, was very confused in his reckoning. We arrived at Montpellier in the dark at 6.44, and found the omnibus of the Hotel Nevet waiting; but it would not start till all luggage was got out, so that we might as well have taken our luggage with us instead of leaving it, as we usually did on such journeys, for the night at the station. This hotel, recommended as the best, is rather old–fashioned both in accommodation and furnishing, giving an idea of the comforts enjoyed there in former times when Montpellier was in vogue, and its name was a synonym for any place where the air was peculiarly pure and salubrious. Now I suspect it has lost favour, and more modern localities, such as Cannes and Mentone, have supplanted it, as railways have brought their previously–hidden virtues to light, and rendered them more easy of access, probably to yield in turn to others better spoken of. Dr. Taylor (p. 7) thus adverts to its climate:—

‘The climate of the south–east of France, of which Montpellier may be considered as the centre, is, on the contrary’ (to Pau), ‘highly electric and dry, subject, particularly during the spring, to severe cutting and irritating winds, loaded with impalpable dust, exciting in its qualities, and productive of inflammatory diseases of an acute character. To prove these latter assertions, we shall produce the following unbiased evidence. We find in a work on the medical topography of Montpellier, the following statistical results of diseases treated during a year in the public hospital of that town. The number of patients admitted in one year was 2756; the proportion of deaths was 154; and of that number, 53—that is, more than a third—were caused by diseases of the chest. Again, we find the following opinion from a work full of valuable observations on the effect of the winds of the south–east of France: “One ought to have a chest sound and well constituted to resist such impressions.” Matthews also, in his _Diary of an Invalid_, says “that every mouthful of the air irritates weak lungs and sets them coughing.”’

After a late dinner, I walked out, but could see little. The town seemed full of cafés. In the morning, before the train started, we had an hour to look about. It would be unfair to judge of any place with such slender opportunities, but it did not appear to offer great attractions. In the centre of the town, surrounded by lofty buildings, there is a large open place, adorned by a handsome fountain. Out of this place a Boulevard runs, leading to the Place d’Armes, where people walk and drive, and it is said there are fine views of the Pyrenees and Alps to be had; but the morning was hazy, and any prospect was hid. It was also cold, and wraps became advisable.

We had to change carriages twice between Montpellier and Marseilles—viz., at Tarascon, and again, in little more than an hour, at Arles. The second change was aggravating, because we could not see why the carriages might not have gone on to Marseilles; while those into which, after some detention and trouble, we were shifted, were antiquated, narrow, and confined. Fortunately no rain fell during the change, for Arles station is not under cover.

* * * * *

I have already, in mentioning our first visit to the Riviera, taken note of Marseilles. We were glad to meet some old Scotch friends unexpectedly at the Hotel Noailles. The weather was cold, which of itself would have rendered it advisable to push on; so, after a drive through the town next day, we left for Hyères, about fifty miles distant, by the 1.20 train, but found by another of those changes made just a few days previously, we could only book to Toulon, the train in connection from Toulon to Hyères by a branch line having been discontinued, although the Hyères season was just commencing—a rather odd way of accommodating the coming visitors. On arrival at Toulon, we had accordingly upwards of three hours before a train would start for Hyères, and we availed ourselves of the time to explore a little about this noted naval station.

The town of Toulon itself is uninteresting; its streets are dirty and narrow, the houses high. Near the railway station the ground is more open and the houses more modern. Passing them, we soon came upon the fortifications which surround the town, but retracing our steps, walked down to the docks and along the public quay. There are two large docks communicating with each other—the Port Marchand and the Port Militaire. The latter is one of the great arsenals of France; but we could not see it, an order of admission being required, only procurable in the morning. It extends to 35 acres and is said to be capable of receiving 200 ships of the line. The other dock is probably of about the same extent. Both docks are highly fortified. On looking from the quay, we saw many of the old men–of–war laid up like invalids, dismasted and dismantled and put under cover, apparently as hospital ships. At one time convicts were kept in some of them. A little beyond, some serviceable men–of–war lay, and the quays were crowded with boats which, with men and officers, were passing to and fro, making it a lively, gay scene. Some civilians were evidently going out in the boats to see the ships or their friends on board. A bronze statue has been erected upon the public quay, to the memory of the many eminent men who have been connected by birth or otherwise with Toulon and its history, and whose names are engraved on the sides. After our stroll, we were glad to return and have, in the railway station refreshment room, dinner (supplied at 3½ francs a head, the usual station tariff), and at 6.50 left in the dark for Hyères, arriving at eight o’clock. Nine omnibuses in a semicircle were waiting the arrival of the train, but we were the only passengers requiring conveyance. We took that of the Hotel d’Orient, recommended in Bradshaw and also by Murray for its beautiful situation. It is a comfortable hotel, the hotelkeeper is attentive, and the situation is more sheltered from the mistral than others; but it seems a mistake to speak of it as ‘beautiful,’ as any view it may have commanded at one time is shut out by the trees of the garden on the opposite side of the road. The Hotel des Îles d’Or is the principal hotel in Hyères. It commands a fine view, but has a west or south–west exposure. The Hesperides Hotel is near to it. This and the Hotel des Ambassadeurs, in the centre of the small town, are considered comfortable and more moderate.

* * * * *

Hyères is considered less costly than any of the other important places in the Riviera, regarding it as within the Riviera, which perhaps, strictly speaking, it is not. I believe it may be considered to be about 2 francs per day less than Mentone for corresponding accommodation and pension, and in all probability the reason for this is that it is not usually thought so attractive. The town itself is most uninviting. The original and older part of it, lying upon the hill slope, is so very dirty that I could not bring myself to visit it a second time. The drains there run down the middle of the streets, and no regard seems to be paid to cleanliness. It speaks well, doubtless, for its healthiness, that the inhabitants can survive its pestilential odours. The newer part of the town consists mainly of a long street, in which most of the hotels are, and a few poor shops, some of which were not, at this early period of the winter, opened. The Rue des Palmiers, in which the English church is situated, is the best street. It is flanked by gardens attached to the houses, and by a row of palm trees on each side, which grow better in Hyères than they do in some other parts where they are more exposed to dust and sea air. This Rue has quite the look of a retired row in the suburbs of a large city. Outside the town, which is altogether very small, there are a number of pretty villas. Behind the town a hill rises steeply to a height of 650 feet, whereon the château, an old castle, stands. The view from this hill is very fine, looking down upon the plains below, and the surrounding mountains, and the Mediterranean three miles off—the long, low, but picturesque islands of Hyères, called the Îles d’Or, the nearest being to appearance about two to three miles from the shore, or six miles off, but as distance on water is deceptive, probably rather more. These islands, formerly productive, now barren, but said to be salubrious, are four in number, the largest being four miles long by two miles broad, and (speaking from distant recollection of a visit to Ireland) slightly resembling from Hyères, though larger, Spike Island at Queenstown, Cork.

* * * * *

There are a number of very nice walks at Hyères. About a mile out of town, a piece of ground has been recently laid out as a Jardin d’Acclimation; but as yet it is mainly occupied by an immense number of ducks of all kinds. The great drawback to Hyères is, that it is not sufficiently sheltered from the mistral, which blows during spring from the west and unprotected side. It is also far from the sea–shore, and is therefore deprived of the life and interest always found at the sea–side. Its climate, though warm, is, I believe, changeable. On the 1st November it was as hot there as it is any day in July in London; but it may suit some invalids who require to be at a distance from the sea. We did not like it, but were perhaps spoiled for fully appreciating it by having been previously at other and, as we thought, more attractive places. This, however, has to be said, that our visit to Hyères took place before the season had fairly commenced, and to be in a season place out of season is always dreary. We were very nearly the only persons in our hotel. There was one family there, whom we met in very painful circumstances. They had brought with them a daughter who had been given up in London by her physicians, who said her only chance of life was going to the south of France. With great difficulty she was brought so far. She survived about five or six weeks from the time of leaving home, but died a few days after reaching Hyères. We attended her funeral, conducted by the English clergyman, and it was gratifying to see that it created an apparent sympathy among the native population, who assembled in considerable numbers in the burying–ground.

* * * * *

Hyères is no doubt interesting to other persons; indeed, we have met with those who have spoken very highly of it. La Plage, the nearest point on the coast, is about three miles distant, and the railway has been extended to it and to the salines beyond. We took the train to it one day, and found a few villas had been built in the hope of making it a seaside town; but at the time of our visit, at least, the speculation did not seem to look hopeful. There is nothing attractive either about the beach or about the neighbourhood, except a forest of umbrella pines, affording the only shelter it possesses against the winds, which must often blow violently at this part, and were blowing so keenly at the time that we were glad to walk home and not wait three hours for a train.

* * * * *

We were a good deal annoyed by mosquitoes while at Hyères, necessitating recourse to burning pastilles at night, and waging a war of extermination in the morning.

* * * * *

After being eight days at Hyères, we were by no means sorry to leave it for Cannes by the little branch line to Toulon, where we were doomed to wait two hours—one in consequence of the trains not fitting in, and another because the train we were to join (a first–class express from Paris) was an hour behind time. French trains are generally very punctual, but on these long journeys are, especially at the commencement of a season, often late. The engine was, in consequence, urged on at an unusual speed after leaving Toulon, and we had made up a good part of the lost time when we were stopped at Fréjus by a goods train having by some accident got in the way. After all, we were not more than half an hour late at Cannes. We again had much difficulty in getting seat–room, guards affording no manner of assistance; the carriages also were filled with people who had travelled all night from Paris, and perhaps were selfishly unwilling to be disturbed by intruders. On this our second journey to Cannes, the blinds on _both_ sides of the carriage were ruthlessly closed by the ‘foreigners’ sitting next them, so that we had no chance of seeing the lovely views to be had from the windows.

We went to our old quarters at Cannes, where, in spite of mosquitoes and flies, we were, as before, very comfortable. The weather was partly sunny and partly wet during the ten days we sojourned there. On one of the bright days our quondam invalid walked to the top of the Croix de Garde, which she could not attempt on our visit the previous year. It showed how well she then was, and how much cause for thankfulness we then had.

* * * * *

We reached Mentone on 12th November 1877, unfortunately in heavy rain, and, having some time previously secured them, obtained possession of the same bright rooms we had occupied the year before, and there we remained till the end of March.

The weather at Mentone during December and January was unusually cold—such a coldness as had not been experienced for many years. It was penetrating, and hard to withstand, at least during the hours of darkness. When the sun was out, the air was warm; but mornings and evenings were cold, and it was difficult to avoid encountering cold blasts and drafts, especially in passing from hot rooms through cold corridors chilled by open doors, and we did find this year servants very tiresome in leaving doors open which communicated with the outer air. I believe, though not conscious of it at the time, that this cold weather and the cold drafts had reproduced, though it might have then been in a very elementary way, the seeds of disease which we fondly thought had been altogether eradicated.

* * * * *

We found the municipal authorities busy making a continuation of the promenade along the shore for a full additional half–mile or more westward towards Cape Martin,—an addition which has ere this proved a great accession to the place, and will be complete when carried as far as Cape Martin itself, which, with its forest of trees, is one of the most charming haunts about Mentone; but the access to it has hitherto been either by the dusty high road or by the rough stony beach. Builders had also been busy with new houses, but the speculation, I doubt, had not proved profitable, as, owing to the dulness of trade and to the war in the East, many of the villas remained empty, while even the hotels did not fill so rapidly as they had done the previous year. However, when we left in the spring, the builders had not seemed deterred by the want of demand, for building operations were still progressing, and I fear much that in a few years Mentone, if not overbuilt for the number of visitors, will lose a great deal of its charm as a rural town. In other respects it was the same as ever, bright and pleasant; and helping to make it so, we had friends in many of the other hotels, besides meeting old friends in our own.

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During the first part of our stay, people were kept in great anxiety about the course of events in France, and we never could tell but that any day a revolution might break out: one result apparently was that newspapers were occasionally stopped, or at least some did not reach us. _Punch_ had in one number a certain distinguished gentleman floundering in the mud. This number did not reach us through the usual channels, but the cartoon nevertheless came to the hotel enclosed in a letter to one of the visitors from a friend in Germany. Perhaps the French are a people too easily excited to make it safe to allow such things to be circulated, but it seems strange to our ideas of free discussion.

When these difficulties were overcome, the British portion of the population at least were disquieted by the attitude taken by England in regard to affairs in the East. Before we left home in 1876, Turkish misrule and oppression of the provinces had awakened the attention of the European powers, and a movement for reform was made. The Turkish atrocities in Bulgaria had also come to light, and Mr. Gladstone, with all the fervour of his noble heart, had come to the front, and forced the facts into lively attention, and not without effect. But the firm word from us to the Turk, which would have prevented war, was not spoken, and Russia found herself compelled, single–handed, to have recourse to arms to terminate oppression. Russia did not declare war till April 1877. When she became successful, there was considerable excitement in the south of England, and it seemed as if many good people were not careful of what they fed upon, and for a long time nightly dreamt that the Czar, with one foot on Russia, was putting another on Constantinople, and, like a gigantic Gulliver, was just about to haul India off to St. Petersburg. Into the political causes and consequences of this excitement it would be out of place to enter here. Suffice it to say that they made us uneasy during several months; and had it not been for the extreme moderation and coolness throughout regulating the counsels of Russia (which was no doubt thinking as much of taking Jupiter or Georgium Sidus as of taking India, or even Constantinople, and was perhaps amused, though displeased, at our fright), joined to the restraining good sense of the country at home generally, we should have been involved in war, all Europe would have been ablaze, and—selfish thought—what would those have had to do who found a foreign residence necessary?

Among other delicious canards to which we were treated from time to time during the war in the little French newspapers, was the astounding information that our beloved Queen had resolved to resign.

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Two important events, however, did happen during our stay at Mentone—first, the somewhat sudden or unlooked–for death of Victor Emmanuel in January 1878; and, within a month afterwards, the long–expected death of Pope Pius IX. On both these occasions a special service was held in the Cathedral of Mentone, and I suppose 2000 persons must have been crammed into its body and recesses. Although the church is a pretty large one, the odour with which it was filled was by no means that of sanctity, and it was a relief, when the service was over, in little more than an hour, to get out to the fresh air. Besides black drapery hung throughout the church, a grand catafalque was in each case erected in the centre of the cathedral, in front of which a space was reserved and seated for the grandees of Mentone. The altar at the back was denuded, perhaps to afford space, and the singers and players on instruments were placed between it and the catafalque, out of sight of the audience. The harsh sounds of the brass instruments as they blew their trumpet–blasts thus in our ears seemed vastly inappropriate. The singing had quite a provincial mediocrity; but on the whole, for a small country town, I believe it may be said the arrangements, according to Romanist notions of how such things should be conducted, were fairly good.

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The death of the Pope, while it prevented the celebration of the Carnival in Rome, had no influence in preventing its observance in Mentone and Nice, and scenes similar to those of last year were enacted, with a difference—not to the better—in the pageant. At Nice the Carnival was, I believe, grander than ever, and many of the Mentone visitors made a day of it there. The Carnival time brought with it rather appropriately, though probably accidentally, some fancy balls in Mentone, for which gay and elaborate costumes were, I believe, procured at Nice. We were kindly invited to one of these entertainments, but for reasons declined.

The tendency towards such gaieties seemed this winter rather on the increase. They suit some, but to those desirous of quiet evenings it is disturbing to have frequent routs, and concerts, and other diversions in the drawing–rooms of the hotels.

We were treated, however, to a different description of pleasure, in the shape of an exhibition at New Year’s time of a large collection of water–colour paintings of views in Mentone, Cannes, Corsica, etc., by Mr. Van der Weldt, a skilful artist. The pictures were for sale, but the admission money went to the funds of Helvetia.

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The orange and lemon trees this winter bore scantily, and we could not help feeling regret to see how few and far between were the bunches of golden fruit. To what cause this failure of the crop was to be attributed I do not know, but I believe that the trees do not bear largely for two successive years.

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We again, on leaving Mentone, took a carriage to San Remo, and fortunately had a quiet and warm sunny day for the drive. The dust lay thick on the road, but there was no wind to raise it. The loveliness of the ride was the one atoning circumstance to put against all the pain of parting with friends, and leaving a place with which so many happy recollections were associated. We little thought we were bearing away from it one—then in apparent good health, and, fond of travel, thoroughly appreciating all that she saw—who would never see it again; for the regret of leaving was tempered with the hope that it might be our privilege, though it might not be absolutely needful, to return in a future year to this bright land of the olive and fig tree, the lemon and orange—this land of cloudless sky and cheering sun.

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After leaving Ventimiglia, we looked out for the Roman amphitheatre which had been discovered and was being excavated, but could not find the place, and our driver was unable to render us any information or assistance. We were now in the heart of the scenery forming the _locale_ of that deeply–interesting story, _Dr. Antonio_; and on the previous occasion our driver, I believe, pointed out to us the veritable house in which Sir John Davenne and his heavenly daughter had their abode. After paying a passing visit to friends in Bordighera, we soon afterwards were again in San Remo.

We remained three weeks at San Remo, and during our stay had a good deal of wind blowing from the west, and cold air with heavy rain, and consoled ourselves by thinking that the wind being in that direction, was probably more felt at Mentone. On leaving, we proceeded by train to Alassio, about twenty–eight miles along the coast eastward. We had heard Alassio a good deal spoken of, and wished to see it. It is as yet only visited by casual travellers, and it has not become a place of common winter resort for invalids. Had we not written for rooms, we might not have found any carriage waiting to take us to the Hotel de Rome, which was at the time the only hotel, I believe, to which English people could go. It was a drive of about a mile from the station (principally through the long narrow streets of the town) to the hotel, which fronts the beach, just out of and to the west of the town. It is a comparatively new house, and the accommodation is fairly good and clean. Another hotel, ‘The Grand,’ on a much larger scale, has been built, also fronting the sea, but about the middle of the town. It was not, however, then opened, and the situation did not seem so desirable, though nearer the station.

We found Alassio to be one of those little Italian coast towns in the Riviera which are by no means attractive in themselves. The population is said to be 5500, so that it is of some extent. It is dirty and disagreeable, and unfortunately, like some others, is not shelved away upon an avoidable eminence, but is stuck down upon the very best part of the shore. The towers of the cathedral and other churches, and the structure of the houses, combine to give it, at a little distance, a picturesque appearance. A sandy beach forms the shore, on which, opposite the town, many fishing boats lay. The sands, of a pale yellow or white, though they may afford good bathing, are not interesting, shells and sea–weed being scarce. The town lies at the head or in the centre of a bay formed by two projecting capes or protecting arms, the Capo della Melle on the west and the Capo S. Croce on the east. Between these two points the distance may, I suppose, be about three miles. A semicircular cordon of hills runs back from their termini, and with an inner circle surrounds and hems in Alassio lying in the basin below. The slopes of most of the hills, at least of the inner circle, are covered with olive, carroube, and other trees, giving them a richly–wooded aspect; but the hills themselves do not rise to any great altitude. They are sufficiently high and close upon the town to give much—perhaps, in summer, too much—shelter to Alassio, and to afford room for supposing that it might become, on a smaller scale, another Mentone for winter residence. Possibly if no old Italian town had existed there, and everything could be laid out anew, Alassio might be made a good place and suitable for strangers; but the great drawbacks to it for residence, and not regarding it from a medical point of view, are the existence of this old dirty town, which usurps nearly the whole of the shore space, and is far from attractive, and the confined or limited situation. I believe that many fine walks may be found about it, but the mountains lack the height and picturesque grandeur of those of Mentone, and there seem to be no valleys and rivers to offer variety. Some English families, however, have been so pleased with it as to have built houses there, for permanent occupation, on the slopes of the hills. One of these we visited—that of Mr. Gibb, a Scotch gentleman. Its position is commanding, and derives shelter from the hills behind; and from the terraces overlooking the town, the views were fine. The ground was laid out in the style of hanging gardens, full of orange trees. At leaving, Mr. Gibb kindly caused a basketful of oranges to be plucked and given to us, and they were of the most delicious flavour; indeed, I believe the Alassio oranges are noted for their excellent quality. Although a little society is to be found at Alassio, it struck me as a dull place of residence except to those who are fond of retirement. A great improvement to the town would be the formation of a promenade along the shore, as at Mentone, Cannes, and Nice. Were this done, it would help to draw strangers, and if strangers came, other improvements would follow.

* * * * *

On the first afternoon, we had, after arrival, time to take a walk westward along the beach for about a mile to a small village Laigueglia, which, as usual, possesses a church with a campanile; other large buildings like granaries fronted the sea. We took, the following day, a much more interesting walk up the height of Santa Croce to the eastward, encountering unexpectedly by the way a smart shower, from which some protection was afforded by the trees. Upon leaving the town, a paved donkey–path leads up the hillside, skirted by woods (the carroube trees here growing luxuriantly), to the ruins of an old chapel, whence an extensive panorama spreads out on one side, back over the hills behind the town, and down on the town and ocean below; while eastward the rockbound coast stretches away, visible as far, I believe, on a clear day, as Genoa and beyond it. But the day was not sufficiently clear to see so far.

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Dr. Giuseppe Schneer has published a pamphlet of about eighty pages on Alassio, titled, _Alassio ed il suo clima confrontato con quello di S. Remo, Mentone, Nizza, e Cannes_. It is in Italian, unfortunately, and consists of three parts. The first and largest part contains medical advice, leading up, of course, to approval of Alassio. The second part gives some information about the town, its population, schools, hotels, etc.; and in reference to its healthiness, adduces a table of mortality from which it would appear that during nine years the average was about 100 deaths per annum in a population assumed to be now and throughout 5500, or 1 in 55, which would certainly be extraordinarily low. Another table is given to show the duration of life, evidencing considerable longevity. The third part deals with the meteorology of Alassio, and contains some tables, from which it would appear, if the observations be correctly taken, Alassio stands well, and, on the whole, obtains a higher temperature than places on the Riviera with which it is compared—a result which may be accounted for by its being more shut in. I take the liberty of quoting an excerpt from one of these tables (p. 74):—

_Media della Temperatura delle Singole Stazioni della Riviera._

+---------+-------+-------+------+------+--------+--------+-----------+ | | | | | | | | Media | |Stazioni.|Gennaio|Febraio|Marzo |Aprile|Novembre|Decembre| de 5 Mesi,| | | | | | | | |piu freddi.| |---------+-------+-------+------+------+--------+--------+-----------* | | | | | | | | | |Alassio, | 9·18 | 10· |13·45 |14·05 | 11·86 | 10·80 | 11·05 | | | | | | | | | | |San Remo,| 8·97 | 11·44 |11·22 |13·83 | 12·41 | 10·43 | 10·25 | | | | | | | | | | |Mentone, | 9·3 | 9·5 |11·6 |14·6 | 12·2 | 9·5 | 10·04 | | | | | | | | | | |Nizza, | 8·1 | 9·5 |11·2 |14·5 | 12·6 | 9·2 | 9·83 | | | | | | | | | | |Cannes, | 8·6 | 9·8 |13·4 |17·3 | 13·5 | 9·9 | 10·45 | | | | | | | | | | +---------+-------+-------+------+------+--------+--------+-----------+

Dr. Schneer also states that in the five months from November to March there are 79 days all bright, 37·5 half so, 36 cloudy, and 20 bad.

It may be, therefore, that the climate of Alassio is one suitable for invalids, and living is moderate, as pension can be had at the Hotel de Rome for 7 and 8 francs per day _tout compris_.

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