_Hotel du Pavillon, Menton, November 13, 1873._
MY DEAR MOTHER,--The _Place_ is not where I thought; it is about where
the old Post Office was. The Hotel de Londres is no more an hotel. I
have found a charming room in the Hotel du Pavillon, just across the
road from the Prince's Villa; it has one window to the south and one to
the east, with a superb view of Mentone and the hills, to which I move
this afternoon. In the old great _Place_ there is a kiosque for the sale
of newspapers; a string of omnibuses (perhaps thirty) go up and down
under the plane-trees of the Turin Road on the occasion of each train;
the Promenade has crossed both streams, and bids fair to reach the Cap
Martin. The old chapel near Freeman's house at the entrance to the
Gorbio valley is now entirely submerged under a shining new villa, with
pavilion annexed; over which, in all the pride of oak and chestnut and
divers coloured marbles, I was shown this morning by the obliging
proprietor. The Prince's Palace itself is rehabilitated, and shines afar
with white window-curtains from the midst of a garden, all trim borders
and greenhouses and carefully kept walks. On the other side, the villas
are more thronged together, and they have arranged themselves, shelf
after shelf, behind each other. I see the glimmer of new buildings, too,
as far eastward as Grimaldi; and a viaduct carries (I suppose) the
railway past the mouth of the bone caves. F. Bacon (Lord Chancellor)
made the remark that "Time was the greatest innovator"; it is perhaps as
meaningless a remark as was ever made; but as Bacon made it, I suppose
it is better than any that I could make. Does it not seem as if things
were fluid? They are displaced and altered in ten years so that one has
difficulty, even with a memory so very vivid and retentive for that sort
of thing as mine, in identifying places where one lived a long while in
the past, and which one has kept piously in mind during all the
interval. Nevertheless, the hills, I am glad to say, are unaltered;
though I dare say the torrents have given them many a shrewd scar, and
the rains and thaws dislodged many a boulder from their heights, if one
were only keen enough to perceive it. The sea makes the same noise in
the shingle; and the lemon and orange gardens still discharge in the
still air their fresh perfume; and the people have still brown comely
faces; and the Pharmacie Gros still dispenses English medicines; and the
invalids (eheu!) still sit on the promenade and trifle with their
fingers in the fringes of shawls and wrappers; and the shop of Pascal
Amarante still, in its present bright consummate flower of
aggrandisement and new paint, offers everything that it has entered into
people's hearts to wish for in the idleness of a sanatorium; and the
"Chateau des Morts" is still at the top of the town; and the fort and
the jetty are still at the foot, only there are now two jetties; and--I
am out of breath. (To be continued in our next.)
For myself, I have come famously through the journey; and as I have
written this letter (for the first time for ever so long) with ease and
even pleasure, I think my head must be better. I am still no good at
coming down hills or stairs; and my feet are more consistently cold than
is quite comfortable. But, these apart, I feel well; and in good spirits
all round.
I have written to Nice for letters, and hope to get them to-night.
Continue to address Poste Restante. Take care of yourselves.
This is my birthday, by the way--O, I said that before. Adieu.--Ever
your affectionate son,