* * * * *

But it would be endless to describe or even to enumerate all the

many walks and excursions which are possible from Mentone. These are

principally from the western side; but we had occasionally walks in

the other direction. I have already mentioned the walk to the gorge of

St. Louis. There is another walk which we sometimes had to the rocks

below and beyond the gorge, called ‘Les Rochers rouges’ from their red

colour. These derive a peculiar interest from their containing certain

caves or fissures in the rock, disclosed or opened up by the formation

of the railway, out of one of which was exhumed the skeleton, or what

is called the fossil skeleton, of a man. This, of course, is held up

as evidencing the existence of man anterior to the creation of Adam,

by those who believe in the existence of Preadamites. The skeleton is

in Paris, and I have seen neither it nor the _brochure_ of Dr. Rivière

describing the discovery; but I noticed that the sides of the cave—as

it at present stands, after the excavations for the railway—are not

more than 20 feet apart at the bottom, the cave extending probably 40

feet inward, and about 50 or 60 feet high; but these eye measurements

are sometimes deceptive. It is of very soft limestone, and in other

parts of the rocks there are huge stalactites depending. It may

therefore be very safely said that stalactite would at an early

period form with great rapidity, and speedily cover up what the cave

contained. I was informed, however, that the skeleton was found about

9 feet below the surface, in the midst of debris. In these caves, and

elsewhere round about, many flint implements have been found, and some

of them are collected in the Natural History Museum in the Hotel de

Ville at Mentone. The workmen finding them sell them to strangers for a

few pence.

Dr. Bennet’s and Mr. Hanbury’s gardens both lie in this direction—Dr.

Bennet’s, on the rocks above the Italian _douane_ station; Mr.

Hanbury’s, about a mile and a half farther on the road to Ventimiglia.

They may properly be called hanging gardens, and are not laid out as

gardens are with ourselves. Many tropical plants are growing in them in

the open air.

* * * * *

Our best excursion in this direction was that to the top of Belinda.

We started on 31st January 1877, a party of eleven, with six donkeys.

The walkers drove to Pont St. Louis, where they were overtaken by

those on donkeys. All then proceeded a little beyond the bridge and

the station of the Italian _douane_, and ascended by very steep paths

to the village of Grimaldi, about 700 feet above the sea, on the slope

or shoulder of Belinda, and seen from Mentone picturesquely buried

among the olive trees. This is another of those curious old towns with

the usual appendage of a church and spire. The slope on which it is

built is all but perpendicular, so that house rises over house, and

the back base of a house is greatly higher than the front. Clovelly in

North Devon is nothing to it. Roads are impossibilities. There are no

streets, only narrow paths, or at best donkey tracks, through it. By

one of these paths, winding upward, we were led to a point right above

the gorge of St. Louis. From this dizzy height, the party, halting,

looked down upon the precipitous yawning gulf below, and then across

the bay towards Mentone, and upward towards the mountains, which this

new position threw into shapes different from any observable from other

points. Having taken in this striking view, we are urged to proceed by

a very rough path, some parts of which are so uncommonly steep that

those riding were compelled to dismount from their donkeys, and manage

the ascent, like the others, as best they could; and so, alternately

scrambling up pretty nearly perpendicular parts, and alternately

winding up and jogging on by gentle ascents, where the donkeys were

remounted, and through a forest of young trees, we, in about two hours

and a half from the time of leaving the hotel, inclusive of a halt of

half an hour at Grimaldi, attained the top of Belinda.

[Illustration: PROMENADE DU MIDI, MENTONE.]

This mountain is, as already stated, 1702 feet high, and the view

from the top of it is very extensive. We fancied we saw westward

along the French coast, beyond the Estrelles, as far as the Îles d’Or

off Hyères. If so, this would be a distance of fully ninety miles.

On the east side, we could not see along the Italian coast beyond

Bordighera, as the mountains rise and shut out further view in that

direction. The huge rocky Berceau towered up in close proximity, to

the north; and behind it, away to the eastward, we saw the tops of the

snowy Maritime Alps peering up in magnificent white drapery; while

between them and the coast lay a peculiar species of high, barren,

bleak, desolate–looking mountains, intersected by wild and bare river

courses; and more immediately below us, portions of the ramparts of

Ventimiglia; and beyond, the long arm of Bordighera, appearing, from

this point of view, stunted and different from its aspect at Mentone.

The wind was blowing piercingly cold from the north–east at the top,

so that we could not gaze at the scene in this direction above a few

minutes; but just below the top, on the western slope, we found shelter

and sun warmth, and enjoyed our lunch and the splendid prospect. On

returning, we descended by a different path, which in many parts might

well be termed a _mauvais pas_. It was often so bad and so precipitous

that the riders, in dread of their necks, were soon obliged to leave

their saddles and walk. At last we reached the Corniche road, near to

Mr. Hanbury’s garden, and by this road returned home. From the heights

we had seen a cloud of dust hanging over the road to Mentone, in

consequence of the wind having risen to a gale. We now were under the

necessity of encountering this dust, and, barring the chill blast on

the hill–top, it formed the only obstacle to a thorough enjoyment of

this most delightful excursion, which occupied altogether between seven

and eight hours.

* * * * *

Although Mentone thus possesses so many walks and excursions in its

neighbourhood, of which only a few have been touched upon, there

are some people who, going there, fancy that it is an unattractive

place. The fact is, that these people do nothing but walk up and down

the promenade, perhaps also proceeding a short way up one or two of

the valleys, and in all likelihood never even so much as venturing

through the obstructions to the pier or the breakwater wall in course

of formation, and now extending some length, from which one of the

best views of the mountain range is to be had. It may be imagined,

therefore, that a monotonous perambulation up and down the same road,

however attractive in itself, may in time become tiresome, even if

we put out of consideration those numerous dullards upon whom fine

scenery or the charms of nature are altogether lost. In reality,

however, it is one of the most captivating promenades to be found

anywhere; and I always felt it to be in itself a very cheerful scene,

whether when gay with its moving crowds in a morning, or when in the

quiet repose of still life. But although preferring a quieter time,

it is when thronged and all ‘the world’ of Mentone is there that

seemingly to most people it is most inviting; and between the hours of

10 A.M. and 12, the Promenade du Midi is alive with promenaders, for

the earlier part of the day is considered to be the best period for

so walking. Twelve o’clock is the general lunch or early dinner hour,

and after that, or even before, the wind sometimes rises; but before

12, it is usually warm—nay, hot; and many men as well as women walk

out with white parasols (lined with green), and many with blue goggle

spectacles, to protect their precious eyes from the white glitter of

the road. Although the glistering blaze of the sun upon the water,

if caught direct, is too dazzling to abide, I never personally found

either the heat or the general glare so oppressive as to require these

protections, and it rather appeared to me that it was beneficial

to accustom the eyes to the light. On certain days a band of music

plays in the gardens in the afternoon (at other times playing at the

_cirque_, or at the new gardens at the East End), but we seldom heard

it, except by accident, as we devoted the afternoon to more distant

walks. To some people, however, the music was evidently an unfailing

attraction, although, so far as I could judge, the audiences were

mainly confined to French and Germans, and other continentals, who,

with some excellent exceptions, never seem to have any enjoyment beyond

occasionally a little light reading, a good deal of idle smoking, or

an endless elaborate thrumming on pianos, and on whom, therefore,

time hangs heavily. English people, women especially, have generally

an occupation of some kind. In reading, writing, sketching, and other

occupations, I was never myself without employment, and sometimes was

pressed enough for time.

* * * * *

On the promenade one sees a good deal of the peculiarities of the

different countries represented in Mentone, especially in the matter

of dress; and on this account, if for no other reason, it affords

opportunities for observation not without their interest. Let us

take a walk. It is, we shall suppose, the 21st December, the shortest

day, cold and shivery in the north, and verging to eleven o’clock of

the forenoon. The fishing operations of the morning are over, and

the boats engaged in it have been drawn up upon the beach. The water

carts, small wooden boxes drawn by men, have performed their rounds,

and the roadway is moist, but is rapidly drying up under the burning

beams of the hot sun; but the dust is laid. The sea is tranquil—not

a ripple disturbs it, except at the very edge, where it lazily turns

over in the tiniest of waves, as if the exertion implied far too much

fatigue for this melting day. A ship has ventured out of the harbour,

spreading its white sails in vain attempt to catch a breeze. A flock

of gulls are resting, in quiet happiness and contemplation, their

snowy bosoms on the glassy water. In the distance, bright Bordighera

is stretching its long green sleeve far into the blue sea, its fair

hand lighted by the sun; while its cathedral window, like a jewel

on the finger, catches and glistens with a blazing ray. Nearer, the

fortifications of Ventimiglia are peering round from behind a jutting

hill. Belinda, high and verdant; the gorge of St. Louis, deep in the

shade; and the lofty Berceau, just emerging into the solar beams, fill

up the near background, against which is cast the pier, terminated by

its old castle, and half concealing the little sheaf of masts which

it girdles, and bounded landward by a line of tall picturesque old

buildings, out of and above which the minarets of the town churches

gracefully rise. Then down along the promenade, on the one side, rests

the irregular and diversified line of hotels and houses and gardens,

partly filled with low trees, refreshing to the sight; while a low,

scrubby, ill–kept belt of evergreens, dusty and withered, strives at

some parts to guard the frontier on the other side against a careless

tumble down the bulwarks bordering the beach; and all along this level

road, common to man and to beast (for there is no footway), a crowd of

people is streaming. In the view of so much that is grand in nature,

we are at first hardly conscious of the concourse. We begin to move

down the promenade,—’cric–crac,’—turn the shoulder suddenly, and find

a _voiture_ has almost run us down. Neither man nor horse apologizes.

They pass on unheeding our well–merited indignation; and, as we cast a

fierce look and waste an English word, down comes another at full speed

with angry ‘crack, crack.’ Glad, like others, to jump unscathed away,

we are about to sit down upon one of the many wooden seats or forms

which the providence of Mentone has placed here and there to lessen

the lassitude of the human frame. In the very nick of time we luckily

discover a warning label, and are thankful we have not become for the

day men of mark; for the bright green seat, so delightfully clean and

pretty and enticing, has just been repainted. We look out for another,

for the sun is hot, and our limbs are getting jaded, and fortunately

detect one to which the attention of the municipal adorners of Mentone

has not as yet been directed.

And now pass in review before us all the inhabitants—no, not all the

inhabitants, but a considerable section of the visitors, intermingled

with a few of the residents of this remarkable place. Here comes a

short Cockney, broiling in a long Noah’s Ark Ulster—the young man has

no other upper coat, and, besides, it adds a span to his stature. Then

follow him in a row, three or four tall, lanky young Dutchmen in their

dapper little coatees. Then a party of German ladies, plump in figure

and peculiar in their body–gear and head–dress, their good looks set

off by a most comfortable–looking ruff or frill about the neck. They

are accompanied by a fair German gentleman in gold spectacles. As they

pass, their ‘Yahs’ and their ‘Achs’ betray their origin. Close after

saunters along a pleasant–looking clergyman, who, far from official

cares, wisely doffs official costume, and is accompanied by two

blooming English daughters. Near to him follows meditatively a priest

without daughters, whose bluish–black cheeks and chin disclose it to be

three days off from last shaving night. Now we must feel nervous and

think and shake about our misdeeds, for who should follow in the full

dignity of office but an imposing gendarme with fierce moustache, and

in cocked hat and hot blue cloth clothing, adorned by yards of twisted

cord, and swinging a murderous sword by his side. The little boys

could see him a mile off. We breathe more freely when he is past—this

terrible man of office. But nothing afraid, three women of Mentone are

close upon his heels, perhaps in gaping admiration. Two of them bear

on their heads each a large basket of dirty clothes they are taking to

some dirty pool to wash. The third leads a child, and wears a broad

Mentone flat hat, 16 inches wide at the very least. All are sturdy,

and their carriage is erect. The little child wears a red hood, which

tightly fits the round bullet head, and descends upon the neck and

shoulders. The women wear short woollen jackets reaching to the waist,

their lower drapery decently short. Another woman is behind, dressed

similarly, except that, instead of hat, she, in common with most other

native women, ties a coloured handkerchief round her head, and thus

with a presumable thickness of bone beneath becomes proof against solar

heat. Then succeed rows or groups of unmistakeable English in all

varieties of home costume, suitable or unsuitable, though occasionally

a damsel will glory in French attire, possibly a little Anglified.

Then other groups of equally unmistakeable French. Here and there a

solitary Frenchman steps out in full Parisian costume, with trig kid

gloves, high chimney–pot hat, and smart cane or white parasol. And

now and then a pale–looking young man, tended by an anxious sister or

still more anxious mother, walks slowly past. He has come too late

to obtain good. Had he come a year sooner, he might ere this, had it

been the Divine will, have regained his strength. All health resorts

abound with clergymen, particularly English and Scotch clergy—men of

all denominations, whose ministerial exertions seem to necessitate

occasional ‘retreats.’ Mentone is a favourite gathering–place for

them. Here comes one, with a broad, low–crowned wide–awake (clerical

undress), with white choker and lengthy surtout, his round face red

and jovial, and beaming with laughing jollity; and alongside of him

stalks a younger man of a sad and sallow countenance, whose greater

length of coat proves more veritable descent from the apostles. He has

just arrived from London, and is on his route to the great city of the

Italian king—perhaps hopes to have a secret meeting with the Pope. ‘I

can’t linger here,’ he says; ‘I am on my way to Rome.’ ‘Ay,’ replies

the older one, ‘so I see. I am content to remain here; half way, you

know—ha! ha!’ They stop a moment, shake hands, and as the younger

one turns carelessly to go, he nearly upsets an old fisherman with a

coil of ropes in his hand, a pending striped cowl on his head, and

clothed in a short wrought woollen coat and indescribable trousers,

patched, like the famous Delphian Boat, till no trace of the original

remains. One trouser leg is down, the other is drawn to the top, and

discloses a long, bare, dirty–looking, unwashed, hairy leg. The feet

are shoeless, the body spare, and the face pinched, as if he saw more

work than victuals, and browned, as if he handled more fish than

_savon_—in all likelihood the very personification of the fisherman of

Cæsar’s time. And now a nursery–maid with three lively little English

children toddle along, the young ones attired in Mentone hats of narrow

diameter, prettily decorated in worsted, but rather difficult articles

to attach to the head. Fortunately the wind does not blow. And now

jauntily trot up two riders—a young Englishman on a milk–white steed

and lady on a chestnut. They are off for a canter along the road to

Cape Martin. And then, as if in mockery, immediately follow an ass with

panniers, in each of which will be found planted a fat, chubby, small

child, looking dreamily contented or ignorantly happy, attended by

donkey–driver, pleased attentive nurse, proud mother, and a big little

brother with toy whip in hand astride another donkey. But here walks up

an old friend, a divinity professor, presumably of the Broad Church;

for is not the brim of his wide–awake broad enough to drive a coach and

four round it? We must rise and shake hands, the more especially as

we see stealthily approaching the lean painter, casting hungry looks

at the seat, as much as to say, ‘By your leave;’ and feeling really

desirous of being regarded blacker than we might be painted, we quit,

join our friend, and move on. All this time we have been revolving the

peculiarities of French female attire; for, generally speaking, we

could tell a French woman by her long sack–like cloak. According to the

fashion then prevailing, which may most likely be now changed, this

sack hung down from the shoulders, tapering outwards as it descended

to the bottom without any waist; for it seems to be the practice of

the French for the men all to dress so as to give them the appearance

of a wasp–like waist, and for the women all to dress as if waist they

had none. Nor can I say, having had no opportunities of knowing, unless

in observing the specimens of Mentone women walking about, whose

conformation, unaltered by dress, is striking, and apt to convey this

idea, being broad at the shoulders, broader still at the waist, and

broadest at the haunches. Then all the French ladies, in defiance of

surgical laws, wear high heels upon their shoes—sometimes no less than

three inches high; and perhaps I am not far wrong in saying that, with

few exceptions, every one of them in consequence walks badly, with a

short hobbling step. To crown all, there is often stuck upon the head

a bonnet like the hat of a typical Irishman, resembling an inverted

flowerpot, with a brim, if brim it be, no broader than that of the

article from which it is copied. Often, too, one sees a long gown tail

flourishing in the dust, which next morning is shaken vehemently by

the owner outside her room, and is brushed assiduously by the maid on

the staircase; so that out of the deposits from this stupid fashion,

the wearers do not positively kill their neighbours, but thoughtlessly

compel them to bite the dust. The picture of French women, therefore,

is not particularly inviting, though there is often a spicy jauntiness

about the mode and ornamentation of their costume which is peculiarly

taking. Upon a Sunday or fête day, young French children are habited

in the gayest of attire, sometimes smart and pretty, but at all times

to our eyes Frenchy, and frequently with alarmingly short, expanded

petticoats, and long, lanky, bare legs. In every case, these children

must be dressed out of all proportion to their position in life.

Occasionally a child dressed entirely in white, denoting its dedication

to the Virgin, will be seen. English young ladies may be at once

distinguished from French, inasmuch as they usually exhibit a most

disquieting tightening of the waist. Real wasps, however, in nothing

but the waist, it is truth to say they carry the palm in appearance and

good looks over the representatives of every other land.

* * * * *

One of those customs which Sterne could hardly have said were better

ordered in France, is the French mode of passing people when walking.

Instead of doing so upon the right hand, they pass upon the left, which

certainly does not appear to British people to be nearly so natural

as their own mode; and till the English stranger becomes habituated

to the foreign custom, it is not inapt to produce a startling, if

not a striking, method of seeing eye to eye. Similarly, a contrary

rule exists as regards horses and vehicles. It would be well if there

were one general system observed all over the world for walking and

driving. In sailing, I think there is already a universal rule. In

saluting, foreigners always lift the hat, be it to man or woman of

their acquaintance, making a very ceremonious swing of the chapeau,

but little inclination of the body, and no movement whatever of the

countenance, thus imparting the impression of a very superficial,

heartless politeness. Perhaps there may be more kindliness in the

practice, at Mentone and elsewhere, of every man or woman met in the

mornings in the hotel saluting you and expecting you to salute them

with a ‘Bon jour.’ At home in some rural districts a similar usage is

occasionally encountered.

I have not observed many beggars in France, but in Mentone, so close

upon Italy, there are some professional or regular mendicants always

hunting the promenade and other parts; while all the native children

have been taught a very evil custom, which many men and women also

practise, of coming up to visitors, holding out the hand and saying,

‘Donnez moi un sou,’ or simply, ‘Un sou’ (Give me a halfpenny); and

some visitors, unconscious of doing harm, give them sous. An American

gentleman told me he had given away 8 sous in a single forenoon, being

all that he had about him. The children do not require them, and it

teaches them a very bad lesson, sapping their independence. Sometimes

the method is varied by presenting bunches of wild–flowers, or by lying

in wait and tossing the bouquet into passing carriages; for which, of

course, they expect, if accepted, to be recompensed.

* * * * *

An excursion to Monte Carlo and Monaco is one which even the most

inveterate promenade walkers will at times take; and it is, indeed,

a very favourite one with most Mentone visitors, many going weekly,

and even oftener. The distance to Monte Carlo is about six or eight

miles, and young people occasionally walk it. Driving by carriage is

undoubtedly a most enjoyable mode of going. The road, after passing

some elegant villas, including the palace of the Carnoles family, the

former residence at Mentone of the princes of Monaco, for great part

of the way is bordered by olive and other trees, embosomed in the

midst of which, here and there, are brightly–painted houses and large

villas with a grand background of lofty mountains. Glorious views are

had by the way not merely of the mountain scenery, but of the bays,

of Cape Martin, of Rochebrune, of white–terraced Monte Carlo, and of

the singular projecting rock of Monaco with its castellated walls

and buildings, and overtopping it, rising with great abruptness, the

mountain called Tête de Chien, resembling very much in shape Salisbury

Crags at home, only three times as high, the height being stated to be

1810 feet. Just below Rochebrune, the road, keeping by the coast to

Monte Carlo, diverges from the Corniche road, which slowly ascends and

surmounts the Tête de Chien.

The railway is a more rapid means of conveyance, but its hours do not

always fit in with the visitor’s time.

The famous gambling tables at Monte Carlo, established in 1856, are,

I believe, the only thing of the kind now left in Central Europe. The

French Government, it is thought, would fain acquire the principality,

so as to put down this pernicious institution; but I presume it

would be too costly, at least in present circumstances, to arrange.

To attract visitors to the place, the grounds have been laid out in

beautiful terraces flanked by elegant white balustrades, the borders

being filled with palm and other exotic trees and shrubbery. The main

attraction, however, is contained in the Casino, which is a long

handsome building, in which are a spacious concert room, a reading room

with newspapers, and the gambling rooms. A first–class instrumental

band, numbering between seventy and eighty performers, attached to

the establishment, plays gratuitously to the visitors every afternoon

and evening, and on Thursdays gives a selection from classic music.

This daily concert, to which dramatic and other entertainments are

sometimes added, forms an excellent excuse to many for going to Monte

Carlo; and I have seen persons whom I would not have suspected of

passionate fondness for music, visiting it day after day—the real

moving cause being, no doubt, the hazard table. To see the mode of

operation, I once entered the room where the gambling is carried on.

For this purpose, application must be made, in a room off the hall,

for a ticket of admission, which specifies the length of time, say a

month or two months, during which the holder desires to use it. Upon

presenting a visiting card, and stating residence and country to which

the applicant belongs, the admission card is at once filled up and

handed over; but it is refused to natives of Monaco, nor are young

people allowed to enter the room. The roulette tables are divided into

squares, and corresponding numbers from O to 36. The gamesters place

their money stakes upon the squares, or, if they desire to spread their

chances, upon the lines which divide them. A revolving wheel and a

small ball are then simultaneously set in motion, and both circulate

many times before they stop. According to the divisional number of the

wheel into which the ball eventually falls, the fate of the stakers

is determined. The table has the advantage of 1 in 36 in its favour,

so that in the long run it always gains. If the gambler stake upon a

number into which the ball rolls, he gets thirty–five times the amount

of his stake; if upon the line between two numbers, and the ball fall

upon one of them, he gets only half; if staked at the junction of four

lines, correspondingly less. If O (zero) turn up, nobody gets anything,

unless zero have been staked on, and the player then gets thirty–six

times his stake. I do not profess either to describe the rules or even

to know them, and state these facts, possibly inaccurate, merely upon

casual information. The roulette stakes are not less than 5–franc

pieces, and are often gold; but the highest amount which can be staked

at one adventure is 6,000 francs, £240. It is astonishing with what

rapidity the game is renewed and carried on. The sums are laid down by

the eager onlookers, and as soon as the table is formed, which it takes

a very short time to do, round goes the wheel; and when the ball falls

into one of the spaces marked on the wheel, one of the men stationed at

the table calls out the number, rapidly pulls in the losing money, and

shovels out with equal rapidity the sums which are gained. Not a moment

is lost; the table is again formed, and the ball again decides the fate

of those who peril their money on its uncertain movements. There are

three such tables in the rooms, at each of which there are three or

four men in charge; and each table is always surrounded by a crowd of

onlookers and players, many of whom are persons who evidently cannot

afford to lose money. There is a fourth table, at which the lottery

is decided by a foolish game at cards, called ‘_trente et quarante_.’

The stakes here are always in gold, and the play is for much higher

sums than at roulette, the lowest stakes being 20 francs, and the

highest 12,000 francs (£480). I believe that most people not withheld

by principle, upon visiting the rooms, try their luck; and some visit

the neighbourhood with a given sum, which they risk from time to time

till all be lost,—a species of ‘limited liability’ which is better than

total want of restraint. Whether a first loss always is the least, or

often withholds from further play, I do not know; but I fear that, in

general, a spirit of infatuation seizes upon people, tempting them

either by failure to retrieve loss, or by success to go on further

and lose all. Most of the habitual players watch the turning of the

wheel, and form their own ideas or calculations as to what numbers or

combinations of numbers are fortunate, and act accordingly. It is a

sad temptation to silly young men, who are often led on from bad to

worse, till they lose all they possess. The consequences are sometimes

distressing. At Mentone we heard that in one week, while we were there,

two young men, visitors, had committed suicide; but such occurrences do

not reach the newspapers.

It was pleasant to leave this gay though sad scene of a vicious

institution to stroll into the tasteful little shops permitted

outside, in which enticing fine–art wares in choice variety are

displayed, or wander about the gardens and terraces, sitting in the

sunshine under shelter of the trees from the air, which is often

cold at Monte Carlo when mild at Mentone, and looking at the lovely

scenes around. But there is, out of doors, one object suggestive of

any feeling but that of admiration; it is the pigeon palace, upon and

around which, unconscious of their fate, the poor pigeons are seen in

crowds, bred to become marks for the would–be sportsmen. The shooting

of these gentle birds is one of the most barbarous descriptions of

pastime; it has not even the recommendation of sport. The shooters

might as well fire at barn–door fowls.

* * * * *

The drive from Monte Carlo to Monaco is down a decline of little more

than half a mile. The Palace of Monaco is visible upon Saturdays, and

to see it specially, we devoted a forenoon. After ascending by a long

fortified or walled road within the castle, the flat summit of the

rock was reached; and here we found a large open space, or esplanade,

or _place d’armes_, facing the palace and between it and the town. The

palace, however, was not open to the public till one o’clock; so that

we first visited the town, which of course is a small one, limited to

the size of the rock, but possessing a population of about 1500. It is

intersected by narrow streets, outside of which there are shady walks

upon the south and west margins or edges of the rocks, among which we

rambled, and at parts could look down to the water, more than 200 feet

below. As the rock projects so far into the ocean, it is withdrawn

from the shelter of the mountains, and is exposed to the mistral as

well as to the north wind; so that the town itself, inhabited solely

by the native population, is no doubt often a cold residence during

winter. The principality, whose independence was recognised by the

Treaty of Paris of 1815, used to extend on the mainland fifteen miles

in greatest length by six in greatest breadth. In 1860, the Mentone

portion was ceded to the Emperor of the French for £12,000. Monaco is

now, therefore, greatly shorn; but the revenues are said to be 350,000

francs, or £14,000 yearly. The palace, a large one for a prince whose

territory is now so circumscribed, is square, with a courtyard in the

centre, round which the buildings are placed, and on one side of which

a handsome outside marble staircase leads to a splendid suite of state

rooms. We were shown through these rooms, each of which is hung and

decorated in a uniform tint or hanging, but each room differing from

the others. It was interesting, a sort of Versailles in miniature. We

were also conducted through the adjoining gardens at the extreme north

and more sheltered end of the rock, which, though small, are filled

with palm and other trees and plants growing luxuriantly, forming a

pleasant retreat to the inhabitants of the palace.

Monaco is a place of great antiquity, its origin having been traced

back as far as 1700 years B.C. Its history has been most eventful, and

is set forth in full detail in Pemberton’s _History of Monaco_, where

the oppression suffered by the people at the hands of its princes,

and the spirited resistance made, especially by the Mentonnais, who

ultimately succeeded, without violence, in throwing off the yoke, will

be found narrated.

* * * * *

The villas about Mentone are, as already mentioned, like the

generality in the Riviera, painted in lively colours, and surmounted

by tidy–looking red–tiled roofs. Slate is unknown, though sometimes

roofs are covered with what appears to be lead or zinc, imparting a

little variety. The windows of all the houses have outside jalousies,

generally painted green. These Riviera houses resemble somewhat

in colouring the houses in a German box of toys, or one of those

vividly–coloured dolls’ houses sold in toyshops. They give a remarkable

brightness to the landscape, more especially where the hills are

covered extensively and monotonously with the sombre olive tree. All

houses are painted, and sometimes very fantastically, in imitation of

shaped stones, carvings, projections, and other architectural features,

and even of roofs, and they are so cleverly executed that a stranger

has often to approach close to them to detect the illusion. So far

is this sometimes carried, that I have seen a good substantial house

painted to represent it in a state of decay—an odd freak; at other

times, painted as if vegetation were, under neglect or abandonment,

springing out of chinks between the painted layers of stones. The

houses are built—with a certain amount of substantiality, though with

wonderful rapidity—of a species of rubble, which is plastered over

and sometimes neatly ornamented with stucco mouldings. Internally,

they are in general nicely finished with abundance of decoration,

particularly at the painter’s hands; though one is sometimes annoyed

to find that the plaster work is of such inferior quality as to be

full of cracks, and even to give way and tumble down. The paintings

on the ceilings are certainly wonderful specimens of art. Accustomed

as people so often are at home to paper ornamentation, they are apt

to suppose at first that these ceilings must simply be stained paper

pieces pasted on; but on examination, it is found that they are, with

some occasional imitations, all hand–painted. And although there are

many coarse specimens of this style of decoration, they are frequently

finished with great delicacy. The rooms we ourselves had in Mentone

were in this respect, as well as in others, finished with good taste

and skill; and although the ceilings were prettily painted, they were

light and suitable. Sometimes the decoration of houses is carried the

length of painting cleverly outside garden walls with scenic views,

imitation staircases and theatrical trees, fountains, grottoes,

etc. Marble is used in abundance in the houses, in chimney–pieces,

staircases (outside sometimes as well as inside), and other portions of

the buildings. Proximity to Italy renders cheap the carriage of the

rough marble, which is wrought up according to requirement at local

marble workshops. Windows are all constructed on the French fashion

of opening up the centre—a method which is suitable to the climate,

although, not being so close–fitting as our window–sashes, it would

not answer in our own sterner climate. They are fastened by a bolt,

the working of which the inhabitant requires to understand, as, if

not properly fastened, a window may blow open, as it once did to us

in a gale at Marseilles during the night; and in ignorance of the way

of turning the bolt, much trouble will be occasioned in the dark.

Nearly all rooms open into those adjoining, on both sides, by a door,

sometimes two–leaved. The consequence is, especially when the partition

walls are thin, that all that goes on in your neighbour’s apartment is

overheard. To remedy this inconvenience, in part, as well as to add to

the warmth of the chambers, the doors are in first–class houses double,

for which a certain degree of thickness of walls is necessary. Terraces

and balconies are common adjuncts, and enable the inhabitants in many

cases to enjoy the air and the views without leaving their houses, or

scarcely their rooms.

The gardens attached to villas are usually planted with orange,

lemon, and red pepper trees, with aloes, and the ever–green, and

health–producing, rapid–growing Eucalyptus, besides other trees and

plants, natives of a warm climate.

At Cannes we were taken by a French gentleman through a large villa he

had just built for his own occupation. Upon the first floor (what we

would term the street floor), above the ground floor, or that occupied

by the offices and servants’ accommodation, and opening out of a large

hall, there was a suite of public rooms, consisting of dining–room and

drawing–room, with intermediate ante–drawing–room—all looking to the

sun, and of a library and another room upon the north or non–sunny side

of the house. On the floor above, there were six bed–rooms, separate

sleeping chambers being devoted to the husband and wife. The south

windows opened out on each floor to a broad terrace, looking down

upon a large garden, beyond which fine views were had of the sea and

Estrelles. Every room was finished in the best style.

As I have already said, there is only in reality one street in

Mentone occupied with shops. This is in the heart of the town, and

the shops are few in number, some of them evidently having a struggle

to exist; but coupled with a vegetable and fruit market, they are

abundantly sufficient, if not more than sufficient, for the wants of

the inhabitants and visitors. None of the shops can be said to be

of any size—except, perhaps, one of the bazaars, of which there are

several, and in which almost every description of ware except eatables

is sold. And at Christmas–time they are packed with purchasers in

quest of nicknacks for presents—toys, photographs, woodwork, and

ornaments of divers descriptions, many of which are marked with the

letters ‘Mentone;’ for it is curious that the old Italian name is

thus preserved in preference to the French Menton, which is not so

euphonious. Things are generally dear in the shops; in fact, nearly

every description of article is dearer than at home, unless, perhaps,

it may be French writing–paper, which is sold at a moderate price. All

articles of household consumption are dear; sugar, for instance, is 8d.

or 10d. per lb., showing the French people themselves do not benefit by

their system of bounty on sugar enjoyed by their refiners. Many things,

however, have to be brought from a great distance,—butter, I believe,

comes from Milan, and is good; fish, from Bordeaux and other distant

ports; books, from Paris and London,—and a large percentage is added

to the price. I have been told, but cannot say from experience, that

shopkeepers follow the Italian custom of asking more than they will

take or than the goods are worth, and that the disagreeable custom of

bargaining is necessary. But the things we have bought have generally

been such that there could be little room for difference of price.

However, it is extremely likely that, in the market, bargaining is

absolutely needful, and possibly also in some shops. A lady said to me

that at Nice they had to bargain about dress.

The booksellers have circulating libraries, in which are many English

books, including a quantity of Tauchnitz editions; but the collections

are principally of works of fiction and light reading, and for our

second winter at Mentone I thought it advisable to have a box of

selected books from home.

* * * * *

If asked to say what is the great industrial occupation of the

inhabitants of Mentone, I think I could not be far wrong in naming

that for women as consisting in the washing of clothes. In fact, all

along the Riviera, as well as in other parts of France, washing of

clothes seems to the women portion of the working population the sole

vocation of life; although it is difficult to comprehend from whom all

the clothes to fill their hands and baskets come, unless France be the

washing field of the world. At Mentone, go where one might, women were

washing clothes, and that in a manner most disgusting and repulsive to

English notions. Instead of washing them in some rural part with pure

hot water and soap, wringing out the water and bleaching on the grass,

these women will walk to any spot where a drop of water can be had, no

matter how foul, or whence it comes, or what are its surroundings. Thus

at Mentone they haunt the rivulets, which are full of olive juice sent

down from the olive mills, the water passing over, as it trickles down,

beds thick with the deposited accumulations of months of olive refuse,

mud, and other dirt; and then, ensconcing themselves in the baskets in

which the clothes are brought, and on their knees, they stoop down,

put the clothes into the filthy water, and with a wooden roller–pin

beat the unfortunate articles till one might suppose they were beat

into a jelly, or at least into a thousand holes.[24] The clothes are

thereupon hung up or spread on stones to dry, all in the view of the

population, and along the beach and elsewhere. There was, indeed—for

it is now disused, in consequence of the remonstrance made as after

mentioned—one public washing–place, constructed for the purpose of

washing in; but this was nothing but one long continuous stone trough,

for the use of which, I presume, a small charge was made. Here I have

counted fifty–two women washing at one time, as close as they could be

packed, upon both sides of this trough, which seemed about sixty feet

long and three or four feet wide. All the garments were washed in one

water, which, I presume, could scarcely be said to have been changed

oftener than once a day at best, although a trickle of new water might

ooze through it. The washing in this trough, however, was purity itself

compared with what took place elsewhere. I have seen women washing at

one pool of dirty water for weeks together, any fresh water which could

possibly percolate through it being utterly unable to carry off the

soap and dirt of the washings which stuck to the sides and bottom. Nor

was this the worst. At one narrow aqueduct, full of the blackest dirt,

and with the veriest drop of water struggling through it, little more

than an inch deep, and only secured by damming it up, and only changed

when a flood unexpectedly came, women were to be seen constantly

engaged, it is to be hoped only on their own clothes.

So offensive has this custom been considered by the English, that a

representation was made to the civic authorities, and some change for

the better was promised; but whether it has been or will be such as

will adequately meet and remove all the evil complained of, or whether

it will simply remove them out of sight, I cannot say. It is most

uncomfortable to think, were there no other objection, that one’s

clothes may be washed in the same water as that in which, it may be,

the clothes of those who have been suffering from disease are being

soaked. Towels and sheets have, when fresh, a most disagreeable soapy

smell. Linen articles of wearing apparel, however, seem to come home

remarkably pure, and it is to be hoped that they are, after the first

bleaching, put through clean water. Buttons, however, soon get loose

after the violent treatment to which linens are subjected.[25]

* * * * *

Another grand pursuit of the Mentonnais is that of fishing. Two or more

fishing boats are engaged almost every morning in this occupation.

A boat takes out the net a long distance, when it is dropped in the

water. By two long lines the nets are then laboriously drawn in upon

the shore by from twelve to twenty men or women. A great deal of

this labour might easily be saved by the use of windlasses. When the

net comes near the shore, a crowd of visitors and other idle persons

surround the fishermen to witness the result. Often I have seen the

net pulled up without a single fish in it; at other times, a small

basketful of little fish which they call sardines. Sometimes a few

larger fish, a dozen or half a dozen mackerel, may be taken; but at

other times I have seen little more brought up after all this waste of

exertion and time than a quantity of minute fry about an inch or so

long, the young of fish which might otherwise have attained maturity.

The result is miserable, and one could wish not merely that the men

were better employed, but that there might be some stoppage put to a

mode of catching which must prove so injurious to the fishings. Is

it not likely that a deep–sea line, baited with so many hooks (such

as our fishermen use), would take large fish and leave the young to

develop? But the fishermen have no doubt fished for two thousand years

or more in the same way, and could not possibly take in the thought

of any novelty; and, patient as they are, one would wish to see this

patience change to enterprising and inventive vigour. It is, however,

to be kept in view that the sardines for which they lay their snares

may apparently be caught only on the surface, as when there is a surf

falling on the shore I have seen the nets dragged into the boats upon

the sea, and many sardines thereby caught. In stormy weather, a rare

occurrence, the fishing is altogether stopped. Judging from what I have

seen, I should say it was unlikely that the fishermen earn more than

the merest pittance (a few pence a day) by their calling, in pursuing

which they dress in their worst clothes; and it is well they do so. I

have seen an active young man knocked over and sucked in by the surf,

disappear for a moment, and come out dripping.

But wretched as this occupation is, there is a still more pitiable

phase of the fishing life, consisting in grown men—not one alone, but

many—angling the whole day with a long reed rod and a hook baited with

chewed bread. After enduring hours of waiting, during which their

hearts may have been rejoiced by glorious nibbles, they will entrap

some unfortunate little fish—generally a small sardine, only fit

to be tossed back into its element; while around the noble fisher,

various idle spectators are congregated, watching his float and deeply

interested in his success.

* * * * *

Another pursuit, curious in its mode, is that of the shepherd. Hardly

a morning passed but we saw an Italian shepherd standing about,

singularly attired in shaggy coat and rough knee–breeches, and a

species of stocking leggings, with a short, tawny–coloured Italian

cloak on his shoulder, and a long, conical, Italian wide–awake on

his head, the whole suit bearing traits of the wear of a lifetime.

Sometimes he was accompanied by a boy, a representation or copy in

miniature of the same; the copper–brown complexion and bright dark

eyes of both revealing them to be children of the sun. Near to them

on the hard stony beach, a flock of thin small sheep as gaunt–looking

as their herds were hobbling about on the stones and picking up dried

leaves and anything that once was green which they could find in this,

to them, barren land. He moves, and they follow. No dog scares them, or

collects or pursues them. They hear his voice and, as if affectionately

attached, obey. When they have traversed the beach, he produces a sack

and spreads upon the ground what looks like sawdust, but is probably

bran, which they eagerly devour. It would seem as if the sheep never

had a chance of browsing on the hillside, for I do not recollect ever

seeing a sheep upon the grass. Whence they come I know not, but their

food by the road is just the fallen leaves.

* * * * *

A better occupation than the fishing, although it is dependent on the

weather, is that of letting out donkeys. What we would regard as great

fortunes cannot, of course, be made out of the small remuneration which

the donkey people receive, but it seems enough to enable them to appear

respectable.

Some employment is also had in the making of wooden inlaid articles

for sale in the shops, generally with the word ‘Mentone’ on them.

The articles sell well; but it is said that many of them come from

Sorrento, which is the headquarters of this description of work, and

where it is carried to the highest perfection, or at least to its

largest extent. The prices asked at Mentone are sometimes double what

are asked for similar work at Sorrento; while the same variety and

beauty of work cannot, I think, be procured, although a Mentone workman

laboured to make me believe his _modus operandi_ was superior.

The great mass of the Mentone men, however, seem to be occupied in the

various trades connected with house–building—in quarrying stones; and

upon the works of the town, such as metalling and watering the roads

forming the promenades, etc.; and I must say that the men appear to be

industrious and steady in their application to their appointed tasks,

as well as sober, for during all the time we were in Mentone, I never

witnessed but once a case of drunkenness, and it was that of two men

who apparently were not of the town, but from the rural parts. Not

that they do not drink, for even the women carry to their work a huge

litre bottle, but their drinking must be in great moderation and of

a weak quality of wine. It is, however, very desirable to have some

saving of human fatigue effected. For example, instead of lifting large

stones by means of cranes, three or four men may be seen tediously

and laboriously moving them by means of levers, keeping time to an

unearthly sound ejaculated by the foreman or leader of the group.

Labour is no doubt cheap. I suppose that wages do not exceed 2 francs

per day, but the employment of so many men unnecessarily must add to

the expense of public improvements. I suspect, however, that in this

also, as in other things, there is a conservative clinging to old

habits and customs, and fear of innovations, which it is very difficult

to eradicate, and that men follow in their fathers’ ways just because

their fathers had always done so before them.

Necessarily the visitors bring with them employment to the inhabitants,

such as in dressmaking and the various other requirements of life;

and if one be passing along the main street of Mentone after the sun

has reached the meridian, for no public clock strikes or bell sounds,

he will find it crowded with girls and men leaving work and going to

dinner.

The rural population is mainly occupied with the cultivation of the

olive and the gathering of the olive berries, which are beaten off the

trees by long rods, and picked off the ground by women and girls; and

also, but to a much more limited extent, with the cultivation of the

lemon and orange trees, and the gathering of their fruit, which is

borne off by the women in large baskets on their heads. There appear

to be few vines about Mentone, although there are a good many kitchen

gardens to supply the needful vegetables for the population. Connected

with the olive cultivation, is the employment of building terraces on

the sides of the hills for the planting of trees. These are very neatly

executed with a smooth facing of stone. The crushing of the olives

in the olive mills also affords employment to a small class of men;

while the building of water reservoirs or tanks in connection with the

terraces, in order to secure supplies of water for the trees, gives

further occupation. These reservoirs, and the conduits which are found

running all over the hill–slopes to supply them, or to turn the mill

wheels, are scattered everywhere: the tanks look ugly places to tumble

into.

The wages of agricultural labourers, I believe, do not exceed from 1 to

2 francs per day.

* * * * *

Assisting the operations of labourers of different kinds, there

are horses, mules, and asses. Frequently a cart will be drawn by a

combination of all the three, a small ass leading the van, followed

by the larger mule, the rear being brought up by a horse yoked within

the shafts of the cart. The carts are, as a rule, laden far beyond

the strength of the animals drawing them, and it would be well that

the police could sometimes interfere. The horses are willing, though

it is sad to see them occasionally brutally beaten, to urge them to

efforts under which every muscle is strained to the utmost. But the

mountaineers depend mainly on the ass. On this animal they throw the

burden of carrying up and down the steep and rough hill paths, stones,

barrels, bags, wood, and agricultural produce, etc., and patiently and

intelligently do they perform their work.

One sees here and there poultry, but few comparatively to the number

which are requisite to meet the daily consumption at the hotels.

Small wild birds are scarcely ever seen. I have counted up six sparrows

fluttering about or chirping in the trees; but a sparrow, like every

other small bird, is in France a _rara avis_. Three broad–shouldered

men, dressed in blouses like labourers, go out daily with guns to shoot

them. One could almost wish a visitation upon France of the Colorado

beetle, or if birds do not feed on it, of some other insect plague, to

open the eyes of the French to the impolicy of allowing these small

birds to be shot. One of the most pleasing diversions in Mentone is

to sit and watch the flock (perhaps now only two or three hundred

in number) of sea–gulls which frequent its shores. While you are

witnessing the joyful flights of these beautiful birds, suddenly you

hear a shot fired, and the whole flight rises and skims away, leaving

perhaps a distressed comrade, who has probably had its wing broken by

a bullet. It is making frantic attempts to rise or to get out to sea.

With right good–will could one pitch into the fellow who had done this

wanton, cruel harm. I believe that the consequence of the shooting is

that the poor birds find their muster roll greatly reduced, and they

may in time disappear or migrate to some safer locality.

There is one animal which everybody could more readily wish to

disappear, and that is the mosquito. I have previously mentioned that

we did not find this plague so great at Mentone as at Cannes and

Hyères. This may partly have arisen from our having visited these other

places earlier in the winter; but I think a good deal also is due to

Mentone being better drained, or at least to the drains not being so

offensive.

At Cannes we were also more plagued than at Mentone with flies. These

little animals are very impudent. They walk over your face and hands,

nibbling as they go, and play at hide–and–seek in your hair. They

are not to be deterred by the most stringent prohibitions; and while

one has no mercy on mosquitoes, you hesitate to inflict the extreme

penalty of the law upon a fly—nay, rather help your tormentors out of

their scrapes when they tumble into water, milk, treacle, or the like.

* * * * *

It is commonly thought that it must be a disagreeable feature of

Mentone that visitors encounter in their walks so many invalids there.

No doubt there are a good many invalids at Mentone, and some of them

have all the appearance of being so, but they do not predominate by

any means. Many of them keep their rooms, and those who go out seldom

go beyond the promenade, except for a drive. It is indeed painful

sometimes to see some delicate invalids who are hopelessly beyond

recovery, and particularly young men, thin, gaunt, and white, well

wrapped up, even on sunny days; but they are never so numerous as

to make Mentone a painful residence. The English people, as a rule,

are wiser than the Continental. They come at an early stage of their

complaint, and get rapidly cured; while it is said, on the other

hand, that people of other nations come when they are incurable. Of

course, some of these invalids succumb, and from time to time a death

occurs; but a funeral is seldom or never seen. When a death happens,

the hotel people keep it as long quiet as possible. The authorities

take charge of the burial, and the body, which must lie unburied

twenty–four hours after death, is removed in a coffin after dark to the

mortuary adjoining the cemetery, where the relations assemble usually

on the following day, and it is buried. The expense of burial is said

to be moderate, the charges varying according to circumstances. But

there is one repellent fact connected with this subject which I have

heard exists. It is, that some of the hotels put up a notice in the

printed bills of charges, which are hung in the bedrooms, that a death

occurring in the house will be charged so much. This is no doubt done

to prevent disputes, and there is fairly reason for a charge, seeing

that the bedding on which the dead person lay is burnt or otherwise

destroyed, the room is unoccupied for a short time, and it is against

the hotel; but the making of this prominent notification shocks one’s

feelings, and may sometimes be injurious to the invalid. I have not

personally seen it.

The cemetery of Mentone, surmounting the hill, on the ridge and

slopes of which the old town is built, has a picturesque look from

below. As usual abroad, the Protestant ground is separated from the

Roman Catholic; the Catholics, by the narrow feeling of religious

exclusiveness, refusing Protestants burial in the same ground with

themselves. But it collects the strangers the more together, and it is

painful to walk round and think of the many who are buried so far away

from their homes and friends. We have seen at different places one or

two funerals, when the English service was performed, but at Cannes had

the opportunity of witnessing a funeral service conducted by the French

Protestant clergyman. He was a remarkably fine–looking old gentleman,

and in place of a formal service, or perhaps in addition to it, for we

had not arrived at the commencement, he made a very touching address to

the relations and others present, and offered a simple earnest prayer.

We could not help thinking that it was so very much more appropriate

than the formal service of the Church of England, however stately and

beautiful, which so often is rattled over without much appearance of

feeling, and is uniformly the same to all.

* * * * *

We were three months in Mentone during our first winter there, and, as

may be gathered from what I have previously said, we had ample means of

spending the days pleasantly. Perhaps the evenings, though pleasant,

had too much of the public life about them, living so much in family

with others. We occasionally longed for the quietness of home life,

which could not be said to be had by simply retreating to our rooms.

Sometimes the evening was varied, as I have elsewhere mentioned, by

little entertainments, such as conjurors with their tricks. But we had,

even amidst all the pleasant days we spent there, some peculiarly red

letter days, embracing our more extensive excursions, and days to be

noted.

* * * * *

Of these, the first was Christmas day. Among the English people this

was maintained in the usual manner; but we had heard that there

would be a grand service according to the Roman Catholic form in the

cathedral or parish church, and we went thither. The Church of St.

Michael, a large one, dating back, it is said, to the thirteenth

century, was draped with crimson cloth, and a profusion of gold or

gilt articles was displayed at the altar, which was lighted up with

an immense quantity of candles. The place was crammed with people,

the crowd even extending a good way outside the door. After the

usual service and chanting, the great event of the day took place.

Several priests, preceded by a tall janitor in cocked hat and uniform

and halberd, in humble imitation of the grand man of the Madeleine,

commenced parading through the church, one of them bearing in his arms

a wax doll, baby size, as if new born, which he held out to be kissed;

and every one, even respectable–looking people, pressed forward as they

slowly progressed to kiss the doll’s foot. When he came our length,

the priest, a jolly fat man, who, whatever he may have felt at the

absurdity of the scene, contrived to keep his countenance, quietly,

seeing at a glance we were Protestants, or what was the same thing,

‘Anglais,’ presented it to others, and did not give us a chance. A

priest behind him took up the collection. Each person, besides, had

to pay for the use of a chair, some paying for two, one being used to

kneel on.

* * * * *

New Year’s day is, however, the great day among the native population;

and gifts among the foreigners are usually then exchanged, in place

of, as with the English, on Christmas day. A very common form of such

gifts is that of a large bouquet of flowers, generally more than a foot

in diameter, laid out in circular symmetrical rows, the flowers on

short stalks being supported by wires. They look pretty, but stiff, and

do not last so long as our assorted bouquets with their long stalks.

On occasion of a birthday, the heroine of the day, if popular, and the

event were known, would often get three or four such sent to her.

* * * * *

On the 3d of February we saw bands of young men parading the streets

in an uproarious manner, with flags, and preceded by drummers beating

the usual rat–tat–tat. We could not imagine what this meant, until

informed that it was the day upon which the young men drew lots for

the selection of those who were to serve as conscripts in the French

army. The noise and merriment were, like the tom–tom at a Hindoo suttee

funeral pile, doubtless intended to hide the agony and to drive away

thought, if they any had, from the ‘chosen few.’

[Illustration: CORSICA AS SEEN BEFORE SUNRISE. MENTONE.]

A week later witnessed the grandest event of the season, for on

10th February the keeping of the Carnival commenced. For some days

previously, the shops were full of false faces, wire gauze masks,

strange dresses, and confetti; and cars were in course of decoration

for the event, which necessarily, in a small place like Mentone, could

only be upon a small scale. The coming affair was the grand talk of

the town, and we had even some masquerading before it came. At last

the eventful morning dawned. It was a complete holiday. Every one

turned into the streets, or took possession of windows, balconies, and

other salient points; while the promenade was ornamented with long

venetian decorated poles, such as we had planted in the streets of

Edinburgh when the Queen came to unveil the Prince Consort’s statue in

1876. Balconies were draped, flags were everywhere fluttering in the

breeze, and the Cercle where prizes were to be distributed was gaily

dressed with evergreens and coloured calico. At mid–day the procession

was expected to move; but it was much too important to move off so

early, and did not commence till two o’clock. Meantime the streets

were filled with people in the oddest and most comical attire, with

masks on their faces, rendering them unrecognisable by their friends.

One of these figures was absurdly dressed in feathers as a huge cock,

while another represented a still larger eagle. All this time the

people were peppering each other with confetti, small round chalk

pellets smaller than peas. But the grand peppering was reserved for

the procession, which at last hove in sight. It was preceded by a car

filled with musicians in carnival costume, who did not play, being

probably afraid lest their instruments might suffer damage. Then a

long row of fancy soldiers ambled forward on horseback, two and two,

dressed in a uniform of blue coat and white trousers, looking very

gay. Then various cars were dragged slowly or staggeringly along in

odd devices, one of which was the representation of a gigantic lobster

pie filled with men dressed out in red as boiled lobsters, while the

horses had vast coverings as black or unboiled lobsters. Another car

personified classical statuary, the men and women being chalked or

painted over in white, and intended to be motionless, but as taken

being well shaken, not always succeeding in preserving either rigidity

or composure. Various other cars, besides walking figures, and people

in carriages, all disguised, completed the procession, which, like a

stage army, to make up for the want of numbers, passed round the circle

and repassed repeatedly. All this time, the people in the street, or

on the balconies or scaffoldings erected for the occasion, and in the

carriages and cars, continued to fire away at each other a copious

shower of confetti. These were discharged with a right good–will;

but all, except the improvident, being protected by masks and calico

garments, no damage was suffered, except when a man audaciously

appeared in a good hat, which hat was battered by discharges of

confetti without mercy. Young men and young ladies adopted the novel

method of flirting by vigorously pelting each other, and wicked men

would quietly and furtively slip a handful of confetti down a woman’s

open neck. This tomfoolery was begun upon the Saturday and continued

upon the Monday, but was not practised upon the Sunday at Mentone. At

Nice, however, where the English do not preponderate, the Carnival,

which was there upon a larger scale, was kept up on the Sunday, and

about twenty of the visitors (foreigners, of course) at our hotel went

to Nice to see it. On the Monday night the promenade was lighted up

by means of paper Chinese lanterns, and there was an exhibition of

fireworks, concluding with setting in blaze a giant figure representing

‘the Mentone man,’ well stuffed with tar. The streets on the following

day, as well as previously, were covered with the chalk pellets, and

it was some time before they were swept and restored to their ordinary

condition.

* * * * *

Of a different sort were other days regarded as eventful in so quiet a

place as Mentone. A fall of snow was an event, the discovery of ice in

the river, even a rainy day was to be noted. But of all days of this

description, those in which Corsica was visible were the greatest,

and the query when friends met on such days always was, ‘Have you

seen Corsica this morning?’ It was only in peculiar states of the

atmosphere that this distant island became visible, and it happened

perhaps six times in the winter. Just before sunrise,—generally from

a quarter to half an hour before, if the atmosphere was particularly

clear, and especially if frosty,—the sun rising behind Corsica revealed

the tops of mountains from 90 to 130 miles off, and from 6000 to 9000

feet high: the vision remained till the sun rose to the horizon, when

it disappeared. I was always on the watch on likely mornings, and

succeeded in taking a sketch of the view, which, by verifying at each

successive appearance, I rendered exact. The engraving opposite is a

little more than half that of the original sketch, which was just as

seen. Only on one occasion was Corsica visible during the day. This

happened in the second winter, on 26th November 1877. I had seen it in

the morning, and was incredulous when informed in the forenoon that

it was then visible. Seeing was believing, however; for there it was,

and it remained in sight the whole day till four o’clock, the sun

throughout shining brightly _on_ it instead of behind it, so that this

appearance was quite different from what was seen in the morning. I

looked upon it as the harbinger of wet weather, and accordingly for

some days afterwards we had rain.

* * * * *

By the end of February we began to prepare for leaving Mentone to

travel in Italy. During December we had five days, during January two

days, and during February three days with more or less rain—eleven days

altogether out of ninety. Besides these days, which were also cold,

we had as many more days which were cold or stormy without being wet.

All the other days, even with the north or east winds blowing, were

fine and sunny. There were very few days in which an invalid could

not venture out. In fact, more than three–fourths of the weather was

fine and sunny, and often as hot as a hot day in July at home. On 27th

February, however, we had an eclipse of the moon, which was total. It

must, I think, have had a serious effect upon the temperature, for

immediately afterwards it became extremely cold; so much so that there

was ice for the first time on the river, and it was needful at last to

don our winter attire. We had planned to leave upon the 2d March, but

the day was such as to necessitate postponing our departure till the

morrow. We proceeded by carriage to San Remo.