In a few things the French are a little behind. They have established no
uniform national time. The railways keep Paris time, which may be
learned from a clock exhibited at every station; but provincial towns
have all their own time, and that is somewhat distracting. At Nice, the
hotel and post-office clocks shew both Paris and local time. At Mentone,
time is in a chaotic condition. Some few years ago, according to a
floating tradition, an English clergyman in the town who was punctilious
about time, possessed a watch which was reckoned so great an authority
that people thankfully set their pendules by it. Since this
public-spirited individual quitted the place, time has become
disorganised, and as no one can tell the hour precisely, you may happen
to be too soon or too late at church or at any appointed place of
meeting. No doubt a horologer who deals in jewellery and mosaics has a
clock swinging in his window inviting the confidence of passengers, and
over the entrance of the _Eglise Evangélique_ there is a clock of
respectable appearance, but I never put much faith in their indications.
The want of a good well-accredited town clock is only one of many wants
in Mentone, of which something severe could be said. Let us, however, be
gentle and considerate. It is easy saying ‘they’ should do this, and
‘they’ should do that, but where are ‘they’ to get the money to do all
these fine things? Any one who has been at the helm of civic affairs
knows that scarcely a day passes without the receipt of letters
patriotically pointing out great public works which should be undertaken
for the good of mankind, but never giving the slightest hint where the
money is to come from to execute them. It is an unfortunate thing that
everywhere money is in such urgent requisition, yet so it is. Mentone is
in the position of needing a good deal, in which respect it resembles a
man of small capital newly set up in business with great possibilities
of prosperity. We have seen something of its history. It is an old, very
old town, and should by this time have attained a decent maturity. But
think of what it has come through—held down, starved, taxed, cudgelled,
and brutalised by that ‘noble Genoese’ family which so long maintained
sway over it; think of the difficulty it had to get rid of these rulers;
how sore were its trials until it was taken in hand by the great and
gallant nation with which its fate is now associated; and how short a
time has elapsed since it found itself famous as a winter resort, with
obligations imposed on it which it had no means adequately to discharge.
A consequence of this unforeseen celebrity was that land suddenly rose
to ten or twenty times its former value. Capitalists, local and
cosmopolitan, made a rush to build villas, hotels, pensions, and houses
with shops, without any concerted plan. With the old town clustering on
a height like a bee-hive, nothing could be done. The new edifices spread
themselves westwards, eastwards, anywhere—the only thing that kept them
from falling into utter disorder being the obligation not to encroach on
the great Corniche road, or on the cross-way called the Route de Turin.
In the scramble for sites, all kinds of mean selfishness came
vivaciously into play. Enormous prices were sought for the merest scraps
of ground. The rules of inheritance also stood in the way. In and about
Mentone it is not uncommon for several members of a family to own a
house, a garden, or even a single olive-tree. An inheritance may consist
of but one or two branches. Petty and complicated heritages of this kind
are not easily dealt with. At any offer to purchase, the proverbial
_pretium affectionis_ undergoes a marvellous development. Attempts to
effect improvements on a sweeping scale are everywhere difficult without
the potent statutory spell of ‘compulsory powers;’ here, from the
divisional heritage system, they are scarcely practicable unless central
despotic rule interposes. From one cause or another, the opportunity to
lay out the newer part of Mentone on a symmetrical plan was lost. The
most genial as well as most beautiful spot in the Riviera was
architecturally spoiled. There was no attempt to construct buildings in
harmony with the surrounding scenery—a too common fault everywhere, but
especially to be lamented where Nature has been so prodigal of beauty.
The most conspicuous instance of bad taste has been the setting down of
a square box-like villa, painted a glowing buff colour, on the top of
the pyramidal hill which lies between the valley of the Borigo and
Carei. Go where you will, this eyesore stares you in the face—an
offensive blotch in the midst of a glorious amphitheatre of gray
picturesque mountains. Will the proprietor not take pity on strangers,
and at least tone down the colour of his box? For a tint, he has only to
look behind at the old château which crowns the heights of Ste Agnes.
It will take a week to see Nice. You may walk all over Mentone in a
forenoon, and two or three days will make you fully acquainted with it.
The long main street, named at one end the Rue Victor Emmanuel, and at
the other the Rue St Michel, offers nothing to attract. In winter, the
plane-trees, which line the roadway for a certain distance, are bare. On
our arrival at the beginning of November, the leaves were falling, and
encumbered the thoroughfare, until they were cleared away to be used for
litter to horses and cattle. Some of the houses in the street are of a
huge size; those on the south side throwing those of the north partially
into the shade. The newer parts of the street are provided with side
pavements; in the older parts towards the east, the buildings stand
close to the roadway. Foot-passengers have accordingly to take their
chance of being interrupted by carriages, but no other inconvenience is
experienced, because here the street is laid from side to side with flat
paving-stones, as at Genoa, Naples, and some other Italian cities. In
the eastern or older division, the chief shops and other places of
business, also public offices, are situated. Few of the shops make much
display, and there is little regularity in their appearance; some with
large, others with small windows. It would be unreasonable to expect in
so small a town the variety of Nice. Yet there are evidences of
progress. Those who visited Mentone seven years ago, could have
purchased few of the delicacies which are in constant request by the
English. Now, all that is changed. Wines, biscuits, pickles, sauces,
preserved meats, and other odds and ends, are now supplied as profusely
as at home. There are _tailleurs_ and _tailleuses_ ready for any
equipment. You might be furnished with a Highland kilt if you wanted it.
The town has a carnival in a small way. Previous to the beginning of
Lent, when balls are in the ascendant, there is a glow of ladies’
dresses spangled with gold, fancy costumes, masks, feathers, frippery,
and artificial flowers in the shop-window of the Amarantes, whose
well-known establishment comprehends a store of knick-knacks, where
there is no difficulty in getting rid of money. Speaking of money, there
are two banking-offices in the street, ready at a moment’s notice to
cash your Bank of England or circular notes, at the Paris rate of
exchange.
I should infer there is no police regulation to restrain shop-keepers
from placing goods outside their doors. The side-paths, though often of
scant width, are in sundry places occupied by stalls for the exhibition
of miscellaneous articles—calicoes, fish, poultry, meal, flour, fruit,
and vegetables, with glass cases of combs and cutlery. To all
appearance, any one may set down a stall anywhere, commence to sell
articles by auction, or draw a crowd about him as a tooth-extractor, or
curer of corns. All goes on in public. The pedicurist, a well-dressed
gentlemanly looking personage, takes his stand behind a table and chair.
He lays out his instruments. Harangues the masses as to what he has
done, and what he can do for them. He has cured the most inveterate
corns in all the courts of Europe. He shews a string of eight gold
medals given to him in gratitude by emperors, kings, queens, and
princesses. He has been sent for to Moscow. He has cured corns in the
Kremlin. He points exultingly to a large picture hung on a pole behind
him, representing the members of a royal family, each with a bare foot
on a richly embroidered cushion preparatory to be operated on, and all
of whom he cured one after the other, not a vestige of corn remaining.
And he is prepared this instant to cure the worst possible corn of any
monsieur or mademoiselle present, _sans souffrance_—insists greatly on
that—_oui, messieurs, sans souffrance; certainement sans souffrance_,
for the insignificant charge of _cinquante centimes_! One can scarcely
fail to be diverted with the volubility, the audacity, and the antics of
these wandering charlatans, who remind us of characters inimitably
touched off in the brilliant comedies of Molière.
[Illustration: Promenade du Midi, looking north-eastwards.]
A sea-side health resort without a promenade for loungers along the
beach can expect to do little good. What would Brighton have been
without its Parades? The Promenade des Anglais has in a sense been the
making of Nice. At Mentone, the working out the idea of a promenade was
not thought of till it was too late to do the thing rightly on the
Nicean principle. The villas and houses lining the south side of the
main street were set down in such a way as not to leave a sufficiently
commodious space next the sea, the view from which consists to a great
extent of irregular outs and ins, and backs of dwellings of various
heights. The blunder is irrecoverable. All that has been latterly
effected is a Promenade about forty feet wide, retained by a sloping
sea-wall, extending from the older part of the town on the east to the
Borigo on the west, and forming an unbroken line except at the Carei,
which foot-passengers cross by a wooden bridge. Styled the Promenade du
Midi, because it faces the south, it is on the whole a creditable
effort. It has been strongly represented that ‘they’ should extend the
Promenade to Cap Martin, which is quite practicable, and certainly
desirable, but whether ‘they’—or, to speak more plainly, the
municipality—have means or spirit to undertake so large a public work is
somewhat doubtful. Such as it is, the Promenade is a boon to visitors
who dwell in the West Bay. If the weather be fine, they are out, as has
been said, to enjoy the air and sunshine, also to walk about and
exchange courtesies with acquaintances, to see the fisher-people in
their picturesque costumes drawing their nets ashore, or to lounge on
the seats, and as far as possible think of nothing but the beauty of the
sky, and to be lulled with the ceaseless murmur of the waves.
Walking or driving, visitors prefer the Promenade, so far as it goes,
for a thoroughfare east and west. It is not very well kept, but it is
better than the main street, which one soon gets acquainted with, as it
is the only continuous passage for traffic. At a central part of the
street, where there is a cross entrance to the Promenade du Midi, will
often be seen a mixed throng of loungers of the ouvrier and vetturini
type, through which passengers have to thread their way. This place is
evidently the favourite lounge for town gossip, where there is
frequently something to excite critical remark in connection with the
octroi. At this spot is the receipt of custom for duties on animals
coming into the town for slaughter, and which must go through the
preliminary ceremony of being weighed. One after the other is urged to
walk on to the flat top of a steelyard, level with the ground, and
scarcely distinguishable from the street. What the poor animals cannot
rightly comprehend is the reason for making them stand on a particular
spot and no other. Oxen—great horned beasts of a light dun colour, which
have been driven from distant pasturages—are tolerably docile, and
require little management. They stand stupidly with their heads bowed
down, till the man in the adjoining office records their weight. Pigs—a
dark-skinned race like the Hampshire brocks, but with long legs, and
nearly as nimble as greyhounds—are more difficult to deal with. Disposed
constitutionally to take their own way, they can by no artifice be
persuaded to go or stand quietly on the machine. They move, they
wriggle, they bolt. Then begins the popular merriment. The onlookers
shout with laughter on seeing the abortive manœuvres of the drivers
to bring their charge to a proper sense of obedience. One of the
obstreperous pigs at length darts off in a state of indignation down the
street, with twenty gamins full cry after it—the groups of loungers all
the time frenzied with delight, and one of the _sergents de ville_, a
merry personage who seems to spend his days in chatting and smoking,
evidently relishes the _contre-temps_ with all his accustomed humour.
It may not be thoroughly _comme il faut_ for a visitor to notice such
popular diversions, but then what is he to do? Getting some amusement
from the harangue of a loquacious street charlatan, from the capers of a
long-legged pig scornfully refusing to be weighed, or from the playing
of a monkey on a miniature sham fiddle, seated on the hump of a
peripatetic dromedary—is it not better than having no amusement at all?
Mentone is a dull—a very dull—place. That is its reputation, and I am
not going to deny or qualify the fact. The town has not yet got so far
ahead as to have a regularly constituted system of public
entertainments, such as one has the opportunity to fall back upon for
recreation in Nice, Paris, or London. Nor does private society offer an
equivalent which can with safety be embraced by professed invalids or
the health-seeking sexagenarian. There are few natives with whom
visitors are likely to make an acquaintanceship. Dinner-giving is not
the custom of the place, and if it were, it would perhaps be so much the
worse. We are to keep in mind that it is not very advisable to go out
after sunset, which, in the depth of winter at Mentone, is about
half-past four o’clock. If visitors can make up an agreeable society
among themselves in the house in which they reside, they may be
congratulated. The chances are against their being able to do so, in
consequence of a difference in languages and tastes, as well as from the
peculiarities of hotel usages already referred to. Unless visitors be
specially fortunate, they will have to rely on themselves. The evenings
will probably be dull. You may occupy a neatly-furnished room, provided
with a wood fire, and a lamp on the table—a pair of candles being
useless for reading—and that is what has to be looked forward to. No
callers. The surging of the Mediterranean is heard outside. The moon and
a sparkling planet shine on the waters. It is a beauteous scene, but you
are alone in a strange land. Is it surprising that the heart should
yearn for home, and for the friends whose companionship and sympathy
count for so much in reckoning up the sum of earthly happiness?
Isolation, less or more—a monotony in daily routine—what the world calls
dulness—will have to be submitted to for the recurring hours of
brilliant sunshine, and the possibility of reinvigorating a frame wasted
by functional or organic derangement, or by a too assiduous pursuit of
professional, or it may be needlessly self-imposed duties. What
sacrifices, it has been asked, will not one make for the possibility of
improved health? Curiously enough, many will make no sacrifices
whatever. This I discovered during my last visit, and it is proper to
speak plainly out on the subject. Numbers of people go abroad
professedly for the benefit of their health. They have been advised to
winter in the south of France or Italy, and no doubt they have been
cautioned as to a mode of living suitable for effecting their cure. If
quitting home be a sacrifice, that they make, but it would be hard to
say what other privation they endure. They have probably never been
accustomed to restrain their inclinations, and have lived in a perpetual
holiday humour. Possibly, they are under the strange hallucination that
mere climate is to do everything—that no care on their own part is
necessary. Such is the most charitable view that can be taken of conduct
that could be more frequently explained by a deficiency in self-control,
and a heedless recklessness of consequences. They like gaiety, and will
have it at all hazards. The pleasures of dressing, dancing, and evening
amusements are what they alone greatly care for. Ladies bringing
enormous boxfuls of fashionable attire, wish to shew it off somehow.
Favoured with good looks, liveliness of manners, and a fair stock of
jewellery, it may be possible to become that most envied of women, ‘the
belle of the ball.’ Young gentlemen, however (and some not young), have
also their aptitudes for amusements, which involve a necessity for going
out in the evening.
Parties of twos and threes of this indiscreet order of invalids come to
Mentone. Fun must be had, though the forfeiture of health, and even of
existence, should be the penalty. Here arise some strange reflections as
to wintering in Mentone. Several English medical practitioners reside in
the town during the winter, among whom Dr J. Henry Bennet acts as
consulting physician. It is customary for invalids on arrival to ask
advice regarding their respective complaints from one or other of these
professional gentlemen; but frequently the advice is not strictly
followed, and fatal consequences ensue. The sunshine and azure skies
tempt to take unjustifiable liberties. The more staid order of visitors
of course remain in their hotels in the evening, there finding such
slender means of amusement as these houses afford. Others, indifferent
to what may ensue, and unable to resist temptations, accept invitations
to dancing-parties, although perhaps aware that one of their lungs is
already gone, and that the other is in process of decay. They have come
to Mentone to have that one lung healed, and with care the object might
be accomplished; but how is it possible to resist going to that
delightful party! As well, they say, go into an infirmary at once! These
perverse indiscretions cause the death of several visitors every year.
Such conduct gives fair-play neither to the climate nor to the physician
who is consulted. I was told of a young gentleman of fortune with lungs
very much gone, who, two years ago, contrary to advice, attended a
dancing-party. The result was very abrupt. He dropped down in the room,
was carried out, and died in the passage. In that ‘Dance of Death’ he
had finished the last atom of lung—gaily ended his days in the revelry
of a waltz. Last season, a young lady, considered to be the reigning
beauty, was pointed out as having only one lung, which it was alleged
she was doing all in her power to get rid of. What is the use of
invalids of this stamp coming to Mentone, unless it be for the pleasure
of finishing their career abroad? Dr Bennet, with whom I had some
conversation on the subject of climate and hygiene, spoke despondingly
of these errors, and mentioned a number of cases which proved fatal, but
might have been effectually cured had his professional advice been
followed. But the same thing, I suppose, could be said by all medical
men whatsoever. ‘I _will_ die, and nobody _shall_ save me.’
As a contrast to these instances of thoughtlessness, we have
opportunities of recognising cases in which the utmost care is taken to
derive the fullest possible benefit from the climate. The anxiety shewn
by relatives for the recovery of some young person under their charge is
matter for daily and interesting remark. It may be the case of a boy
affected with phthisis in its early stage—the hope of a family in a
decline. With what solicitude is the pallid youth wheeled out to the
Promenade; there, under the shelter of a white parasol, to breathe the
fine air wafted from the Mediterranean. How, on any symptom of a cold
wind, is his Bath-chair drawn aside to a protecting wall! What means are
taken to amuse him by conversation, and observations on natural
phenomena! How, at the proper hour, the attendant wheels him home, and
remarks made as to the circumstances which amused the passing hours! In
one case of this kind, we took especial interest. It was that of a
French gentleman who day after day brought out his partially paralysed
child to enjoy, and, if possible, benefit by, the animating sunshine.
Towards the end of the season there was a visible improvement in the
languid countenance; and at our departure we ventured to hope that
parental care had not been unblessed or unavailing.
If the irregularities to which I have adverted admit of any excuse, it
will be in the deficiency of rational and available amusement. At Nice,
there is a military band which plays almost daily in the Jardin Public,
much to the gratification of the visitors. There is nothing of this kind
at Mentone, neither, as may be gathered from previous remarks, does
there exist any means of genial or social intercourse on a scale worth
speaking of. The English-speaking population are scattered about among
the hotels and villas, and are generally unknown to each other; while
the obligation of not venturing over the door after dark, if one has any
regard to health, is in itself an insuperable difficulty. In these
circumstances, it would greatly contribute to the pleasure of a winter
sojourn at Mentone were a few mutual friends, with similarity of tastes,
to sojourn at the same establishment. It is pleasant to note that
croquet parties are getting into vogue among the younger class of
visitors. The turf—if there be turf at all—is not what English players
are accustomed to; but if the weather be good, the deficiency is not of
serious import. The introduction of croquet is something, at anyrate,
set agoing in the way of wholesome recreation and companionship. More
may follow.
It is fortunate for invalids that there is good medical attendance at
Mentone, in consequence of English practitioners residing at least for
the season in the place. The fees expected are said to be higher than
what most persons are in the habit of paying at home. On this point, I
am unable to offer any personal experience. I believe napoleon fees are
common, but more is given for special consultations. I cannot say
whether things are conducted on the rigorous business principle which a
lady a few years ago experienced at Nice. A medical practitioner to whom
she gave a sovereign for a piece of advice, said he would call again
next day, which he did, and before leaving said ‘it was proper she
should understand that for every visit he expected a fee of a napoleon.’
The money was paid. If this was a trifle too _exigeant_, we may perhaps
be reminded that the English practitioners have but a limited field of
operation, and further, that they must have been put to the
inconvenience of procuring a diploma from the University of France. Both
at Nice and Mentone there are druggists who dispense medicines according
to the authorised British pharmacopœia, at whose establishments
English assistants are employed. All sorts of patent medicines with
which we are familiar are seen on their counters, but high in price, on
account (as is alleged) of custom-house and octroi duties.
Mentone is pretty nearly destitute of means of intellectual recreation.
What can be furnished in the way of books is not much. Therein lay my
chief privation. There was nothing within doors to fall back upon to
relieve the tedium caused by the absence of accustomed resources; and
doubtless this species of desolation will press heavily on the more
thoughtful class of visitors. At the Hôtel de Ville, there is a
_Bibliothèque Publique_, consisting of a roomful of books in French and
Italian literature, including some old encyclopædias and historical
works, which may be consulted daily by persons studiously disposed.
Strangers have little recourse to this collection of books, for besides
that they are not the kind of works ordinarily wanted, they are not
given out. Let us, however, give credit to the municipality for
maintaining an establishment so meritorious. Not many towns in Great
Britain, of only 6000 inhabitants, keep up a free consulting library for
public use.
For reading, visitors chiefly depend on a circulating library kept by
Papy, a bookseller in a central situation in the main street. The
library consists of a collection of English books, mostly of a light
kind, not particularly new, and of works in other languages; though
limited in point of choice, the library is gladly hailed by visitors as
something better than no library at all. Papy also offers the
attractions of a reading-room, in which will be found copies of the
_Times_, _Standard_, _Illustrated London News_, _Punch_, and
_Galignani_, and several French and German papers. The subscription for
the reading-room is five francs per month, or eight francs for
reading-room and library; and for a longer period, less in proportion.
Papy is a civil fellow; he speaks no English, but here, as elsewhere, a
very little French is sufficient for visitors to procure all they want.
The shop (which is open on Sundays, to accommodate the French and
Germans) is a considerable resort for books and stationery. There is
another bookseller in the town, Giordan, who circulates the Tauchnitz
editions. Near his shop is the photographic establishment of M. Noack,
whose productions are of an unusually high order. Few parties quit
Mentone without carrying away some of his views of the neighbouring
scenery.
Opposite Papy’s, in an open space back from the north side of the
street, stands a handsome building of recent erection, known as the
_Cercle Philharmonique_. This is a club-house partly on the English
plan. It does not aspire to rank with the famed Cercle on the Promenade
des Anglais at Nice, yet is much beyond what might be expected in a
place of such moderate size as Mentone. The building, erected by an
association on shares, is under an administrative committee. It
comprehends a large, splendidly decorated apartment for balls, concerts,
and other entertainments, French and English billiard-rooms, a
reading-room provided with French, English, and German newspapers, a
smoking-room, and what is called a _salon de reunion pour les dames_. In
the large apartment, styled the _grande salle de spectacle et de bal_,
take place balls about Christmas and Carnival time, balls given by the
members of the Cercle to a select number of the visitors, and balls
given by the visitors to residents who have paid them some attention.
Here, also, by means of a small stage at one end of the room, take place
amateur theatricals, for which some Parisian and other ladies who are
annual visitors have a special fancy. The invitation is by private
ticket. Entertainments of this kind are in the afternoon, and are given
for charitable purposes, a voluntary collection being made by which a
few hundred francs are raised for distribution among the poor. (The heat
from artificial lighting, and the crowding, not advantageous for
invalids.) During the day, few persons are seen in the reading or other
rooms.
If the intention of the originators of the Cercle was to accommodate
male visitors in the town, it has signally failed. No means are adopted
to make the character of the establishment known; no one having any
curiosity on the subject knows whom to apply to for information. So far
as the general body of strangers are concerned, the establishment might
as well not exist. Only a few days before quitting Mentone, was I able,
by particular inquiries, to learn anything satisfactory regarding it.
Subscribers, it seems, are admitted to the privileges offered at the
charge of 20 francs for a month, 45 francs for 3 months, and 80 francs
for the season of 6 months. As in most cases, the only thing cared for
is a reading-room, these charges will appear too high, and tend to
exclusion. The stock of newspapers on the table sought after by the
English, appeared to me inferior to what can be seen on much more
moderate terms at Papy’s. The administration is sleepy, and needs
rousing.
Many visitors, invalids in particular, will depend on newspapers ordered
from England. The time of transit of letters from London is two days,
and deliveries are regular. Newspapers, for some incomprehensible
reason, cannot be reckoned on with the same certainty. Frequently, no
paper arrives, and then perhaps two or three come together. Such
irregularities, often complained of, but never redressed, are the
reproach of the French postal system, and it is useless to say any more
about it. There can be no complaint as regards cost of transit. A penny
stamp takes an English newspaper to any part of France.
There is no local newspaper. All that the press produces is a small
weekly sheet, with lists of strangers, advertisements, and some
miscellaneous literary matters. It purports to be issued every Saturday;
things, however, are taken easily. Sometimes it does not appear till
Sunday or Monday, and on one occasion it did not appear till the
succeeding Thursday. Since the opening of the railway, a hawker with a
basket goes daily about calling out the names of Parisian newspapers
which he has for sale. Some of the cheap literary drolleries of Paris
may be obtained at a kiosk in the Place Napoléon.
At all the winter resorts in the Riviera, there are found English
churches, also chapels in connection with the Established or the Free
Church of Scotland. In the East Bay, Mentone, a Church-of-England chapel
has existed for a number of years. More recently, for the accommodation
of residents in the West Bay, a neat and commodious chapel, known as St
John’s, has been erected at the entrance to the Route de Turin. It is
built in the Gothic style, and with the trees about it reminds us of
that usually interesting object, an English parish church. Services are
here frequent throughout the week and on Sundays. The chapel has a good
organ, and also an effective choir, which is aided by the voices of
young ladies who kindly volunteer their assistance. The Free Church of
Scotland has a mission chapel in the Rue Pieta, a narrow cross
thoroughfare. It consists of the first floor of a house on a common
stair, with windows commanding a view of an orange-garden adjoining the
Hôtel de Ville. The situation is central, but not otherwise
satisfactory. Yet here, during the season, a congregation of about fifty
persons, Scotch, English, and American, ordinarily meet on Sundays. The
expenses are defrayed by voluntary contribution at the door in going
out. I attended on several occasions, and it was not without emotion
that I joined in the simple psalmody of ‘The Martyrs,’ while overlooking
gardens blazing with orange-trees and other sub-tropical vegetation.
These chaplaincies are of use, not alone as regards the appointed
services of public worship. The ministers may be said to form a
pastorate to the whole English-speaking community, irrespective of
national distinction. The reputation of Mentone as a health-resort has
reached the United States (where Dr Bennet’s work is, I believe, fully
as well known as in England), and every season numbers of Americans in a
jaded state of health make it a place of abode. I heard of a family who
had come eight successive winters from Philadelphia, every year crossing
and recrossing the Atlantic, as if it were a holiday trip. Last season I
had the honour of becoming acquainted with an American clergyman, of
most apostolic character and appearance, Bishop Whipple of Minnesota,
whose health had been grievously impaired by arduous professional
labours at his distant see, and who here sought for its restoration.
Among the visitors generally, denominational differences are in a great
degree laid aside. When distant from home and friends, and when life is
perhaps felt to be waning, sectarian and other distinctions in a great
measure disappear. The consolations of the Gospel are thankfully
accepted from any kindly disposed administrator. As far as I could
learn, the several ministers are zealous in their sacred calling, and
hold themselves ready to help on any occasion, when their services,
secular or spiritual, are in request. A little incident, which occurred
in the season 1868–69, is worth relating.
It is the custom to hang up in the lobbies of the hotels English-printed
notices of the different chapels, with the names of the officiating
ministers, and hours of divine service. Late one evening, an American
gentleman, with several ladies, drove up to a hotel in Mentone for the
night. They had hired a carriage at Nice to go on to Genoa, only
stopping at certain places on the way. In coming from Nice, one of the
ladies had been taken ill. To proceed in the morning was foreseen to be
impossible. What was to be done? Not one of the party could speak
French, so as to be able to adjust the matter with the voiturier. In
this dilemma, the gentleman, in looking around the lobby, saw the
printed notice about the Free Church: ‘Rev. James Stuart, parish of
Yester, minister.’ ‘Take me to that person,’ he said to the hotel
porter, who spoke a little English. He was conducted accordingly to the
villa Guibert, where Mr Stuart, roused from bed, listened to the painful
story, and heard that there was a written contract, which it would be
necessary for him to see before offering advice. Accompanying his
visitor to the hotel, the contract of hire was examined, and it was at
once obvious that unless the party went forward to their destination,
they must at once pay the whole prescribed fare. In these circumstances,
and the voiturier being inexorable, all that could be recommended was,
that the sick lady should be left in charge of the landlady of the Hôtel
d’Italie, who was an obliging Englishwoman, while the others proceeded
on their journey—a few days’ repose being all that was necessary, and it
would be easy afterwards to go by the diligence. The proposed
arrangement being acceded to, Mr Stuart without delay kindly saw the
lady carefully bestowed, and next morning the party went on their way to
Genoa. It is by such self-sacrificing labours as this, that an English
or Scotch minister stationed on the continent may shew his lively
perception of the precepts which ought to rule the Christian character.
It need hardly be said that, for clergymen so missioned abroad, a
knowledge of French is of exceeding importance.
Besides the chapels above mentioned, there is a French Protestant church
(_Eglise Evangélique_) in the town, ministered to by a much esteemed
pastor—the whole body of Protestant clergy in the place uniting to carry
out objects of common concern. For the accommodation of the Protestant
community, a portion of ground at the public cemetery, on the top of the
hill surmounting the old town, has been specially set apart as a
burying-ground. It is provided with a neat mortuary chapel, to which
bodies are brought shortly after decease, and where they may remain for
any reasonable length of time previous to interment. This fact in itself
may tend to soothe the feelings of those whose relatives chance to die
at Mentone. All is done becomingly according to the usage of the
English, and ordinarily a small party of visitors interested in the
deceased attend in honour of the obsequies. If there be such a thing as
cheerfulness in a burying-ground, it is at the slip of terrace
appropriated as a necropolis some hundreds of feet above the sea-level.
The elevated spot is sunny, secluded, and beautiful. How solemnly is
borne on my remembrance the circumstance of attending the funeral of a
young Englishman from one of the midland counties, who had sunk under a
mortal ailment, and was here interred with the usual service of the
church! His grave occupies the edge of the declivity, and on it rest the
last rays of the sun as it declines in the blue waters of the
Mediterranean.
[Illustration]