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Transcriber’s Note:
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. A single
instance of superscripted characters is denoted as ‘2^{me}’.
Footnotes have been repositioned to follow the paragraph where they are
referenced.
The only textual issue of note is the repeated appearance of ‘at any
rate’ as ‘at anyrate’.
[Illustration]
WINTERING AT MENTONE
BY
WILLIAM CHAMBERS
[Illustration: UNDER THE OLIVE TREES]
LONDON
W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 PATERNOSTER ROW,
AND HIGH STREET, EDINBURGH
1870
PREFACE.
----------
With health impaired by a strain of three laborious years as LORD
PROVOST of Edinburgh—and more particularly enfeebled by a malarious
fever caught in the course of making explorations with a view to
sanitary improvements in the older part of the city—I sought a
restorative by a visit to Mentone (or Menton, as the French prefer to
call it), in the winter of 1868-69. The object of my visit was gained;
but having been so indiscreet as to enter on a new term of office, in
the hope of helping to carry forward the city improvements, in which I
might be excused for taking some special interest, my health again
unfortunately suffered, for which and other reasons I resigned my post,
and again proceeded to Mentone; this time making a longer sojourn, with
corresponding advantage, in the winter of 1869–70. A result of these
efforts to secure the benefits of sunshine along with perfect
tranquillity on the shores of the Mediterranean, is the present small
work, the preparation of which furnished a degree of amusement when far
from home and accustomed pursuits. If it aid in directing attention to a
subject of importance to many—the hygienic value of passing the winter
in the south of France—I shall be satisfied. The book is of course
non-medical, and will not supersede the necessity of consulting
professional advisers.
W. C.
GLENORMISTON, _May 1870_.
WINTERING AT MENTONE.
CHAPTER I.
When autumn has drawn to a close, and unmistakable symptoms of winter
are making their appearance, the swallows are seen to wing their way
from England, and betake themselves to the sunny regions on the shores
of the Mediterranean; thence returning to their northern haunts when
nature is reviving under the genial influence of spring. The example set
by these sagacious birds is not unworthy of being followed when
circumstances call for and permit an escape from the cold, the fogs, the
rain, and sleety drizzle of a protracted winter.
Without undervaluing the comforts of an English fireside, when frost
dims the window-pane with its beautiful efflorescence, I am on the whole
disposed to think that health is best secured by a reasonable amount of
outdoor exercise in the sunshine; but that enjoyment is unfortunately
denied on anything like a salutary scale to those who are enfeebled by
pulmonary or bronchial affections or by advancing years, in any part of
the British Islands. No doubt, much may be done to avert the evil
influences of winter, by means of warm and well-ventilated rooms, having
windows facing the south, in a sheltered and airy neighbourhood. Various
places can be pointed out in the south of England recommendable as
winter and spring resorts for invalids—none, perhaps, better and more
agreeable than the Undercliff in the Isle of Wight; but there is this to
be said of the whole of them—that they less or more participate in the
humidity and variableness of our British climate. By no contrivance can
we get rid of a certain dampness in the atmosphere. Inside the best
constructed and best warmed dwelling, we still breathe the outer air,
however much it may be qualified; and as regards persons of delicate
constitution, who require a light and dry atmosphere, this may prove a
serious objection. Cold, damp weather is, in short, the great enemy to
health, and when we recollect that in all our large seats of population
the cold and the damp are aggravated by a smokiness in the general
atmosphere—to say nothing of sudden changes of temperature and other
unsanitary conditions—the malignant influences of winter are greatly
intensified.
Invalids who propose wintering abroad will, of course, consult their
medical adviser with a view to selecting a locality suited as far as
possible to their respective cases. With such counsels I do not
interfere. The persons in whom I take a more special interest, or at
least to whom I can speak more freely, are those who, advanced in life,
stand in need of a remission of ordinary pursuits, along with that
salutary re-invigoration of constitution which may be brought about by a
change from a cold and moist to a dry and buoyant atmosphere—from a
peculiarly variable, to a comparatively steady, climate—from a cloudy to
a brilliant sky—from dinginess to sunshine. As to how many are swept
away by refraining from taking a step of this kind, let the
authoritative statistics concerning the mortality of the late severe
winter testify.
When any man on the shady side of middle life has the fortitude to look
around to note the number of his old and valued friends, he is shocked
to find how meagre is the list. One after another has disappeared, from
no other perceptible cause than that their physical powers, originally
vigorous, had succumbed in the feverish, and we might almost say,
insane, battle of life. Too long and too diligently have they stuck to
their professional pursuits, or been fascinated by the allurements of
society, taking relaxation only by fits and starts, and seemingly under
the impression that they have still a long career before them. Having
realised a fair competence, they might very well ask themselves why they
should continue to toil, to speculate, and to rack their brains, when a
life of comparative ease and reflection would in all respects be more
becoming. This is exactly the question, however, which they never put.
The upshot is well known. Through sundry real or imaginary
entanglements, their day of safety is past. A cold, foggy, drizzly
November finishes them; and at about two o’clock on a wintry afternoon,
they are, in all the pomp of hearse and carriages, decorously conducted
to the burying-ground. That is why people advanced in life have so few
old acquaintances about them. They had forgot that Death is always busy
laying about him with his scythe, and that the art of long living
consists pretty much in knowing how to keep out of his way.
A celebrated French writer on hygiene has a theory that dying at
anything under a hundred years of age is all a mistake—that it is
people’s own blame, or the blame of their progenitors, if they die
earlier. Far be it from me to dispute the accuracy of this very cheering
though somewhat irreverent theory. I would allow a handsome discount of
ten per cent., and take ninety as a fair age to attain to. The method of
living till ninety, however, is either not understood or very slightly
acted on. Lord Brougham was acquainted with it. He saw there was a knack
in giving fair-play to the system by means of an annual restorative.
Every year he went off at the right time to Cannes; cheating alike the
winter and the grave-digger as long as flesh and blood could do so.
Other individuals, making the necessary sacrifices, now adopt a similar
policy. They leave and return to England with the swallows; by which not
unpleasant contrivance they spin out their lives, if not to ninety,
still to something considerably beyond what, to all appearance, was to
be their allotted span.
In contemplating a residence abroad for four or five months, it is, as
just hinted, all important to go to an appropriate place. Besides
consulting medical advisers, it might be well to peruse the well-known
work on _Climate_ by Sir James Clark, and also the singularly
comprehensive and entertaining work of Dr J. Henry Bennet, entitled a
_Winter and Spring on the Shores of the Mediterranean_. In his own
person, this ingenious author exemplifies the benefit of stopping in
time, and taking a long annual relaxation in a genial climate. He tells
us that five-and-twenty years devoted to a laborious profession, and the
harassing cares which pursue a hard-worked London physician, broke down
his vital powers. In 1859, he became consumptive, and strove in vain to
arrest the progress of disease. The choice was either retirement, with
the faint hope of restoration to health, or within twelve months Kensal
Green Cemetery. He chose wisely to relinquish a large and lucrative
practice, and to take the chance of benefiting by a residence in a
climate suited to his special condition. His book may be described as an
exhaustive research in quest of such southern climates as may be best
adapted to the assuagement of certain bodily complaints, including
general debility. He describes his visits to various parts of France,
Italy, and Spain, bordering on the Mediterranean, to Corsica, Sicily,
and also to Algeria; his narrative being everywhere interspersed with
such a variety of anecdote and adventure, as well as of remarks on the
vegetation, natural history, and geography of the countries visited, as
gives it an interest to the general reader.
Summing up, he says, the health regions may be divided into three
sections. First, the mild and dry, in which are comprehended the Western
Riviera, and the east and south-east coasts of Spain; second, the mild
and moist, to which belong Corsica, Sicily, and Algeria; and third, the
west coast of Italy, which appears to occupy, meteorologically as well
as geologically, an intermediate position. It may be safely concluded
that no person from Great Britain who seeks merely for an agreeable
winter resort, would from choice go to a place reputably moist. We have
plenty moisture at home, and do not need to search for it abroad. What
we want is, a mild dry atmosphere, with as much sunshine and scope for
outdoor exercise, without recourse to greatcoats, as can possibly be
procured within a reasonable distance, and which abounds in the
attributes of civilisation. As may be learned from Dr Bennet, latitude
is not all in all. This original inquirer says very candidly that ‘five
degrees of south latitude do not make up in climate-questions for want
of protection from north winds.’ It might be added that, besides
protection from cold winds, we also need good house accommodation; for
without that, the best climate in the world can be of no use to
visitors. There is another important circumstance, and that is, the
discomfort of a voyage on a sea so capricious in its moods as the
Mediterranean; for which reason alone, we may leave Algiers out of
present consideration.
The doctor has evidently a high notion of Corsica as a health-resort;
but there again is the drawback of a sea-voyage. Coming to the mainland,
he speaks approvingly of San Remo, which lies about twenty miles to the
eastward of Mentone. There, I can say something from experience. On
visiting it in January 1869, I found it a dirty, old-fashioned Italian
town, which had not even got the length of gas-lighting, though some
improvements were going on. Further, it had no public promenade along
the beach, and that I hold to be indispensable in any health-resort of
the English. Nice has a long and handsome promenade of this description.
Cannes has likewise high claims on account of its amenities—so high that
it is entitled to be spoken of as by far the most aristocratic and
expensive of the continental winter resorts.
From the configuration of the coast, Hyères, Cannes, and Nice lie
farther south than Mentone, but that advantage is more than
counterbalanced by the superior shelter from cold winds enjoyed by
Mentone; for, as has been observed, a full exposure to the south, along
with shelter on the north, is worth several degrees of latitude. After
all, Mentone can modestly boast of being situated in latitude 43° 45´
N., or upwards of twelve degrees south of Edinburgh. It may be deemed a
conclusive proof of Dr Bennet’s appreciation of Mentone, when we know
that among all the Mediterranean health-resorts he has chosen it for his
habitual winter residence; and that, after ten years, he has to outward
appearance overcome the malady which drove him abruptly to this species
of exile. My own experiences, poor in comparison, point to Mentone as a
place, all things considered, where any one not encumbered with
expectations as to social intercourse, and not fastidious on a few
points which will be particularised, may advantageously pass the more
dreary months of winter. It is, however, not what this or that one says
of a place, but the unerring testimony of Nature, as demonstrated in the
contour and vegetation of the district, which decides its character. So
far, as will be shewn, Mentone is highly favoured, and Art, under
considerate direction, is alone needed to complete its recommendations.
Unfortunately, the journey thither will to many be a serious objection
as regards not only distance but expense. The easiest way it can be
performed may prove too fatiguing for some invalids, but taken
leisurely, there is nothing in it to deter persons who are able to bear
railway travelling.
There were times, not long ago, when travelling through France was
tedious and painful. Those were the days of diligences and passports,
and many other things that were very disagreeable. In the present day,
such has been the material and social progress of the country, that
travellers will find matters not greatly different from what prevails in
England. There are railways in all directions; the hotels are frequently
on a scale of great splendour; at very nearly the whole of them on the
main routes English is spoken; and everywhere visitors are treated with
marked civility. We all know what Paris has latterly become--the finest
town in the world, an attraction to strangers from all parts of the
earth. So lately as twelve years since, the railway from Paris was not
pushed beyond Marseilles. There it long remained, and to those who
wanted to get on farther, there was no help for it but to take the
diligence, or hire a carriage specially for the purpose. I can remember
hiring a _voiture_ with a pair of horses to go on to Nice, and of being
nearly three days on the journey, including stoppages of two nights, one
of those nights being spent at Frejus, in one of the worst and dearest
hotels I ever set foot in. Now all this is changed; there is a railway
from Marseilles by way of Toulon, Cannes, Nice, and Monaco to
Mentone—the trains going several times night and day to suit the
convenience of travellers. There are likewise telegraphic wires the
whole way, by which messages can be sent in advance to bespeak
accommodation at hotels along the line of route.
In making their way southwards, there are many who drive on hurriedly,
never stopping night or day, as if under a vow to get to their journey’s
end in the least possible time. My plan is to stop a night, or, it may
be, two nights and a day, here and there, for which there are several
good opportunities—as, for example, at Paris, Dijon, Lyons, Avignon,
Marseilles, and Nice. The only drawback on these stoppages is the
annoyance experienced at the stations as concerns luggage. After getting
your ticket, you have to see your luggage weighed, paying for the same a
small sum; and then on arrival at your destination, some time has to be
spent in a cold _salle_ until the whole of the luggage has been
arranged, and you can claim your own. The way to avoid these wearisome
detentions is to get your luggage registered and sent on by the _grande
vîtesse_, or quick goods-train, to your final destination, be it Nice or
Mentone, where it can be reclaimed. Sending it by the _petite vîtesse_
is cheaper, but as it may not get to the end of its journey by this slow
train for several weeks, the _grande vîtesse_ should by all means be
adopted as preferable. Following this plan, a traveller may take along
with him into the train a portmanteau or carpet-bag sufficiently small
to be accommodated under the seat, also any small bundle to be placed in
the rack overhead. The torment of waiting for luggage is, I observe,
driving the French into the practice of taking cumbersome articles with
them into the trains; and on several occasions I have experienced
personal inconvenience from their expedients. Professedly, dogs are not
permitted to be taken into the carriages; but the rule on this point is
not on all occasions strictly adhered to. Ladies may be seen with
favourite lap-dogs, either carrying them openly, or in small baskets,
without challenge. For such indulgence, much depends on the complaisance
of the guard.
The preferable route from London is by Folkestone and Boulogne, and it
will save trouble if tickets are taken at Charing-Cross station direct
for Paris, getting luggage ticketed accordingly. The steam-boats between
Folkestone and Boulogne, though well managed, are certainly poor in
comparison to what they might and ought to be; but there is nothing
superior in the Channel service, and all we can do in the meantime is to
make the best of them. At the railway terminus at Boulogne there is an
excellent restaurant, where travellers have a choice of refreshments,
tastefully served, and with a composure which pleasantly contrasts with
the hurry and confusion which prevail on the English side of the
Channel. Any one, going or coming, who has occasion to stop for a night
at Boulogne, may be safely recommended to the Hôtel Christol, a
comfortable and well-conducted establishment not far from the railway
terminus. On each of my recent trips, I spent two nights in Paris at the
Grand Hôtel du Louvre; a night at Lyons in the Hôtel de l’Univers (good,
and near the station); and two nights at Marseilles in the Grand Hôtel
du Louvre et de la Paix. The reason why I remained more than a single
night in Marseilles was to note the extraordinary improvements which
have taken place within the last few years. If we except Paris, no city
in France has been so much changed for the better as Marseilles. Its new
streets and boulevards are a sight worth seeing, and so is its new port
of Joliette, constructed at a great cost with much engineering skill.
The most surprising novelty, however, is the system of water-supply,
effected by bringing the waters of the river Durance a distance of sixty
miles by means of tunnels and aqueducts, at an expense of fifty-two
millions of francs. One of the aqueducts, that of Roquefavour, measures
as much as four hundred mètres in length by eighty-two in height—a
gigantic work, creditable to French engineering, which may compare
favourably with some of the grandest of recent undertakings in Great
Britain.
Quitting England towards the end of October, and pursuing the journey
across France to the shores of the Mediterranean, a visible change of
climate usually occurs about half-way between Lyons and Marseilles. We
leave the cloudy northern skies, and get gradually into the serene
sunshine of the south. The sensation of warmth increases during the day,
and at night a lustrous planet shines almost like a moon in the
star-spangled heavens. The vegetable world assumes new forms. The
mulberry-groves remind us of silk-worms and the tasteful industries of
Lyons and St Etienne. Approaching Marseilles, tracts are covered with
almond-trees, which, on our return journey in spring, are seen to clothe
the country with a mantle of delicate purple blossom. Passing onward,
the aloe and prickly pear grow by the wayside, and are planted as
hedges; and we observe that in the fields the small tufted plant
producing the yellow _Immortelles_ (a species of _Helichrysum_) is
cultivated as a branch of husbandry. The railway from Marseilles, though
only a single line, has been a costly and remarkable undertaking, for it
is carried through numerous tunnels and along heavy embankments near the
sea-shore. No doubt, we lose the picturesque scenery of the Estrelles by
this modern method of transit; but yet we are afforded glimpses of many
beautiful valleys and rocky mounts, garnished with fig and orange trees,
these last coming prominently into notice on crossing the Var and
getting into the vicinity of Nice. The olive, first seen as a shrub in
Provence, now attains to the dimensions of a tree, which, planted
profusely on hill-sides, imparts a greenness to the landscape even in
winter.
Nice, ‘the Queen of the Mediterranean,’ has suddenly risen into beauty
and importance. Facing the south, close on the sea-shore, with a fringe
of verdant hills on the north, its situation has raised it to a high
rank as a winter health-resort, and its reputation in this respect has
been augmented by vigorous efforts, public and private, to render it
attractive to strangers. Formerly, visiting the town while it belonged
to Italy, there appeared to be a general stagnation. Great endeavours
had stopped short, and there was obviously much half-done work. In the
hands of the French, a new spirit has been infused into the place.
Streets just begun have been completed, and handsome quays with
boulevards stretch along both sides of the Paillon, over which several
new bridges have been thrown. One of these deserves to be styled
something more than a bridge. It is so broad as to afford space for a
public garden, in the centre of which is erected a statue of Masséna, a
native of whom, as of Garibaldi, the Nizzards are justly proud.
Nominally, the Paillon is a torrent, but it usually is little else than
a bed of dry gravel; the only water in it being a few puddles, in which
numbers of women are seen washing clothes in the ordinary continental
style. The Paillon offers a fair specimen of one of those numerous
torrents in the Riviera that are flooded only on the occasion of snows
melting, or heavy rains falling in the mountains, when, rushing
impetuously down, the tumultuous waters bear all before them.
[Illustration: Promenade des Anglais, looking westward; Jardin Public on
right.]
Looking to its crowds of fashionable loungers, who come to it
professedly for health, but seemingly as much for amusement, Nice may be
styled the continental Brighton. One thing, as at Brighton, has greatly
added to its fascinations. This is the Promenade des Anglais, stretching
a mile along the shore, and forming from morning to night the place of
concourse for throngs of idlers. The spacious promenade for pedestrians
is divided by a row of sub-tropical plants, including specimens of the
pepper-tree and date-palm, from a broad drive, where ladies in the
fantastic dresses of the period, with a taste for fast living and public
exhibition, indulge in driving backwards and forwards with a fury not
usual with their sex in our more sober-minded country. To do them
justice, they leave the lashing of the ponies to the driver, who sits
behind them with a long whip, with which he seems to have much pleasure
in inflicting pain on the poor animals. This species of cruelty meets
with no reprobation from the onlookers; and from the immunity shewn to
the practice, I should infer that in France there is no law repressive
of cruelty to animals. I regretted to observe that these fast young
ladies were generally English. With its promenades, drives, balls,
cercle, Jardin Public, musical band, theatres, shops of various kinds
where every luxury may be obtained, and abundance of street carriages,
Nice offers a choice of attractions, independently of its fine air and
sunshine. Besides the cathedral and numerous other Roman Catholic
churches, the town now possesses an English and a Scotch church, both
handsome new buildings. At kiosks on the Quai Masséna, several Paris
daily newspapers may be purchased. Letters and papers from England are
delivered twice a day, Sunday included. For persons studiously inclined,
there is a large public Bibliothèque supported by the commune, where
books (of course in French literature) may be freely consulted or read
by strangers as well as natives. There are likewise two good circulating
libraries with English books—that of Visconti a really excellent
collection, associated with a capital reading-room. To accommodate the
numerous fashionable visitors, as also the more steady order of winter
sojourners, there are now divers hotels of huge dimensions, and every
succeeding year seems to increase the number. They are for the greater
part situated on the quays overlooking the Paillon, also in the Jardin
Public, and in the terrace-like line of street along the Promenade des
Anglais. The house which after sundry trials I found preferable was the
Hôtel d’Angleterre, in the Jardin Public, kept by M. Steinbrück, who
speaks English and is married to an Englishwoman; both are most vigilant
in attending to the comfort of their guests. All the hotels have
omnibuses which wait the arrival and attend the departure of the trains.
Although Nice is now a French town, the humbler classes remain
essentially Italian of the old Savoy type. The dresses of the women are
picturesque, and their favourite mode of carrying things is to poise
them on the top of the head. The peculiar costumes of the district are
well represented in the wooden mosaics which form a remarkable local
manufacture. I have never returned home from Nice without purchasing
specimens of these beautiful _mosaïques en bois_, at the shop of the
brothers Mignon, in the Rue Paradis. On the last occasion, I received an
interesting account of how they were prepared. The pictorial effects
are, it is said, wholly a result of the varying tints of different kinds
of wood grown in the neighbourhood; all being ingeniously shaped and put
together without any aid from artificial colouring. As the intrinsic
value of the small pieces of wood employed must be insignificant—a
pennyworth probably being wrought up in a mosaic which will sell for a
couple of napoleons—we have here a striking instance of how national
wealth may be increased by exerting artistic ability on materials which
are, of themselves, worthless.
Considering its extent, its numerous attractions, its choice of society,
and its abundance of hotels, _pensions_, and villas and floors to be let
for hire, Nice, as a place of agreeable resort, has a prodigious
advantage over Mentone, which is in a comparatively primitive condition,
with much to be done to bring it up to the Nicean finish. To all its
recommendable qualities, Nice has further added a supply of pure water
led on in pipes from the hilly ground behind; and this is a thing of
first importance. If the public authorities would be but a little more
liberal in their supply of scavengers to scrape and sweep the streets
and by-ways, and to prevent the accumulation of nauseous rubbish on the
shore side of the Promenade, they would merit a tribute of thanks from
every one who makes a sojourn in the town. Granting all that can be said
in admiration of the Queen of the Mediterranean, the question remains as
to its availableness in a matter where health is so intimately
concerned. In its very imposing size and stylish way of living there is,
I fear, something objectionable. Health-seekers ought not as a rule to
care for balls, theatrical representations, or the lavish exhibition of
finery. What they generally want is the re-invigoration of an enfeebled
constitution, through simple and natural agencies. Wherefore, the
sea-side, the rural hamlet, or any other place where, by abandoning
artificialities, Nature has fair-play to strengthen the animal system,
is what is sought after. On this account, as well as on its higher
claims in point of shelter and climate, there is no room to hesitate.
Pleasure-seekers, or those to whom a town-life is indispensable, will
stop at Nice; the less sophisticated will go twenty miles farther, and,
with all its deficiencies, bask in the very garden of the Riviera.
The time of transit from Nice to Mentone by railway is an hour and six
minutes, including stoppages at Villafranca, Monaco, and other places.
It is a cheap, easy journey; but the line is carried through a number of
dark tunnels, and to those who have sufficient time at command, and do
not mind the cost of a carriage and pair of horses, the road forming the
first stage in the Corniche will be preferred. On last, as well as
previous occasion, selecting this famous highway across the
mountains—the Alpes Maritimes, from which is derived the name of the
department—I hired a carriage for the journey. The route is the
commencement of the famous Corniche, which most tourists endeavour to
see at least once in their lives. Until 1806, when it was partially
completed, by order of Bonaparte, there was no other road along this
part of the coast of Italy than the very insufficient pathway, fit only
for mules, which had originally been made by the Romans on subduing the
Ligurians. Snatches of this old Roman road are still in use by the
country-people. It was only the pressing emergencies of the
Revolutionary army under the conqueror of Italy, at the beginning of the
present century, that led to the engineering of the Corniche—a name
significant of a pathway winding its way along a natural precipitous
cornice. On quitting Nice, the road rises along a mountain-side which
commands a magnificent prospect over the valley of the Paillon, dotted
with villas and orange-gardens. By and by, on attaining a great height,
it gets behind the hills, and we lose sight of the sea. In this respect,
the road was devised under the temporary but awkward necessity of
avoiding a cannonade from British ships of war. Now that there are no
longer any fears on this score, a new Corniche as far as Monaco is
partly constructed, and will be a great improvement on the old one;
though it will fail to afford such magnificent views as we now have of
mountain scenery, and will prevent travellers passing through and seeing
the ancient village of Turbia.
On both occasions on which I have passed this way, the weather happened
to be of exceptional brilliance. The season was winter, and the height
attained was two thousand feet, yet the air was mild and balmy, and in
the open carriage, the only shelter required was an umbrella, to avert
the dazzling rays of the sun. On the left were the rugged Alpine peaks
stretching far away in the distance, while on the right we looked down
the precipitous banks, laid out in terraces for vines and
orange-gardens, to the picturesquely peninsulated shores of the
Mediterranean. Midway, on our right, we come in sight of the ancient
town of Eza, perched most picturesquely on the summit of a conical
mount, and which figures in the early history of this singularly
irregular line of coast. A more difficult piece of country for military
manœuvres can scarcely be imagined, for there hardly appears a level
spot in the whole territory; hence we have a pretty good idea of why the
Ligurians so long defied their enemies, and also why the district, in
its quality of Principality of Monaco, should have for such a length of
time maintained an isolated existence. Of the final success of the Roman
invaders we have an interesting memorial at the decayed village of
Turbia, through which the road passes. It consists of the shattered
remains of a colossal monument, erected in honour of Augustus Cæsar.
Occupying a prominent rocky knoll, it is visible from a great distance
at sea. Reaching it by an irregular path through the old village, we
find the ruin surrounded by a wall, to prevent further dilapidation.
What was the original form of the monument is nowhere mentioned. It was
certainly a tall ornamental structure, bearing a gigantic statue of
Augustus in white marble, of which fragments have been discovered. In
the middle ages, the building was altered and enlarged to form a species
of fortress, and thus it remained until it was destroyed by Marshal
Villars, during the wars of Louis XIV. (1705). The present name of the
village is said to be a corruption of Trophæa (_Trophæa Augusti_), but
this is mere conjecture. A few minutes bestowed in a visit to this noted
historical ruin, and in enjoying the outlook seaward, will not be
misspent.
[Illustration: Ruin of Monument at Turbia, viewed from the south.]
At Turbia, we come full in sight of the town of Monaco, perched on a
rocky peninsula jutting into the sea, and still walled all around as it
was in the days when it required to hold out against foreign enemies.
Divided from it on the east by a small port, rises Monte Carlo, a
plateau now noted for its gaming establishment, the only authorised
resort of the kind in the south of Europe. The only other place on the
route calling for a word of observation is Roccabruna, a cluster of
antique buildings, the capital of a commune, jumbled up in a strange
manner with huge brown rocks, that look as if they had been suddenly
arrested on tumbling down the lofty hill behind them. From this we have
a continued descent to Mentone. As we advance, the scene opens, and
turning a corner of the road, we see the place of our destination
stretching along the curve of a beautiful bay, backed by low hills,
covered with evergreens, while behind these rises a semicircular range
of arid mountains, towering several thousand feet high, and forming the
screen from the north, that, constituting Mentone an Undercliff, gives
it that peculiar mildness and dryness of climate for which it has
attained celebrity. A drive for a mile along an avenue of plane-trees,
environed with olive-grounds and villas, brings us to the spot where we
are to spend the winter.