Chapter VII: Part 7

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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