When autumn has drawn to a close, and unmistakable symptoms of winter are making their appearance, the swallows are seen to wing their way from England, and betake themselves to the sunny regions on the shores of the Mediterranean; thence returning to their northern haunts when nature is reviving under the genial influence of spring. The example set by these sagacious birds is not unworthy of being followed when circumstances call for and permit an escape from the cold, the fogs, the rain, and sleety drizzle of a protracted winter.

Without undervaluing the comforts of an English fireside, when frost dims the window-pane with its beautiful efflorescence, I am on the whole disposed to think that health is best secured by a reasonable amount of outdoor exercise in the sunshine; but that enjoyment is unfortunately denied on anything like a salutary scale to those who are enfeebled by pulmonary or bronchial affections or by advancing years, in any part of the British Islands. No doubt, much may be done to avert the evil influences of winter, by means of warm and well-ventilated rooms, having windows facing the south, in a sheltered and airy neighbourhood. Various places can be pointed out in the south of England recommendable as winter and spring resorts for invalids—none, perhaps, better and more agreeable than the Undercliff in the Isle of Wight; but there is this to be said of the whole of them—that they less or more participate in the humidity and variableness of our British climate. By no contrivance can we get rid of a certain dampness in the atmosphere. Inside the best constructed and best warmed dwelling, we still breathe the outer air, however much it may be qualified; and as regards persons of delicate constitution, who require a light and dry atmosphere, this may prove a serious objection. Cold, damp weather is, in short, the great enemy to health, and when we recollect that in all our large seats of population the cold and the damp are aggravated by a smokiness in the general atmosphere—to say nothing of sudden changes of temperature and other unsanitary conditions—the malignant influences of winter are greatly intensified.

Invalids who propose wintering abroad will, of course, consult their medical adviser with a view to selecting a locality suited as far as possible to their respective cases. With such counsels I do not interfere. The persons in whom I take a more special interest, or at least to whom I can speak more freely, are those who, advanced in life, stand in need of a remission of ordinary pursuits, along with that salutary re-invigoration of constitution which may be brought about by a change from a cold and moist to a dry and buoyant atmosphere—from a peculiarly variable, to a comparatively steady, climate—from a cloudy to a brilliant sky—from dinginess to sunshine. As to how many are swept away by refraining from taking a step of this kind, let the authoritative statistics concerning the mortality of the late severe winter testify.

When any man on the shady side of middle life has the fortitude to look around to note the number of his old and valued friends, he is shocked to find how meagre is the list. One after another has disappeared, from no other perceptible cause than that their physical powers, originally vigorous, had succumbed in the feverish, and we might almost say, insane, battle of life. Too long and too diligently have they stuck to their professional pursuits, or been fascinated by the allurements of society, taking relaxation only by fits and starts, and seemingly under the impression that they have still a long career before them. Having realised a fair competence, they might very well ask themselves why they should continue to toil, to speculate, and to rack their brains, when a life of comparative ease and reflection would in all respects be more becoming. This is exactly the question, however, which they never put. The upshot is well known. Through sundry real or imaginary entanglements, their day of safety is past. A cold, foggy, drizzly November finishes them; and at about two o’clock on a wintry afternoon, they are, in all the pomp of hearse and carriages, decorously conducted to the burying-ground. That is why people advanced in life have so few old acquaintances about them. They had forgot that Death is always busy laying about him with his scythe, and that the art of long living consists pretty much in knowing how to keep out of his way.

A celebrated French writer on hygiene has a theory that dying at anything under a hundred years of age is all a mistake—that it is people’s own blame, or the blame of their progenitors, if they die earlier. Far be it from me to dispute the accuracy of this very cheering though somewhat irreverent theory. I would allow a handsome discount of ten per cent., and take ninety as a fair age to attain to. The method of living till ninety, however, is either not understood or very slightly acted on. Lord Brougham was acquainted with it. He saw there was a knack in giving fair-play to the system by means of an annual restorative. Every year he went off at the right time to Cannes; cheating alike the winter and the grave-digger as long as flesh and blood could do so. Other individuals, making the necessary sacrifices, now adopt a similar policy. They leave and return to England with the swallows; by which not unpleasant contrivance they spin out their lives, if not to ninety, still to something considerably beyond what, to all appearance, was to be their allotted span.

In contemplating a residence abroad for four or five months, it is, as just hinted, all important to go to an appropriate place. Besides consulting medical advisers, it might be well to peruse the well-known work on Climate by Sir James Clark, and also the singularly comprehensive and entertaining work of Dr J. Henry Bennet, entitled a Winter and Spring on the Shores of the Mediterranean. In his own person, this ingenious author exemplifies the benefit of stopping in time, and taking a long annual relaxation in a genial climate. He tells us that five-and-twenty years devoted to a laborious profession, and the harassing cares which pursue a hard-worked London physician, broke down his vital powers. In 1859, he became consumptive, and strove in vain to arrest the progress of disease. The choice was either retirement, with the faint hope of restoration to health, or within twelve months Kensal Green Cemetery. He chose wisely to relinquish a large and lucrative practice, and to take the chance of benefiting by a residence in a climate suited to his special condition. His book may be described as an exhaustive research in quest of such southern climates as may be best adapted to the assuagement of certain bodily complaints, including general debility. He describes his visits to various parts of France, Italy, and Spain, bordering on the Mediterranean, to Corsica, Sicily, and also to Algeria; his narrative being everywhere interspersed with such a variety of anecdote and adventure, as well as of remarks on the vegetation, natural history, and geography of the countries visited, as gives it an interest to the general reader.

Summing up, he says, the health regions may be divided into three sections. First, the mild and dry, in which are comprehended the Western Riviera, and the east and south-east coasts of Spain; second, the mild and moist, to which belong Corsica, Sicily, and Algeria; and third, the west coast of Italy, which appears to occupy, meteorologically as well as geologically, an intermediate position. It may be safely concluded that no person from Great Britain who seeks merely for an agreeable winter resort, would from choice go to a place reputably moist. We have plenty moisture at home, and do not need to search for it abroad. What we want is, a mild dry atmosphere, with as much sunshine and scope for outdoor exercise, without recourse to greatcoats, as can possibly be procured within a reasonable distance, and which abounds in the attributes of civilisation. As may be learned from Dr Bennet, latitude is not all in all. This original inquirer says very candidly that ‘five degrees of south latitude do not make up in climate-questions for want of protection from north winds.’ It might be added that, besides protection from cold winds, we also need good house accommodation; for without that, the best climate in the world can be of no use to visitors. There is another important circumstance, and that is, the discomfort of a voyage on a sea so capricious in its moods as the Mediterranean; for which reason alone, we may leave Algiers out of present consideration.

The doctor has evidently a high notion of Corsica as a health-resort; but there again is the drawback of a sea-voyage. Coming to the mainland, he speaks approvingly of San Remo, which lies about twenty miles to the eastward of Mentone. There, I can say something from experience. On visiting it in January 1869, I found it a dirty, old-fashioned Italian town, which had not even got the length of gas-lighting, though some improvements were going on. Further, it had no public promenade along the beach, and that I hold to be indispensable in any health-resort of the English. Nice has a long and handsome promenade of this description. Cannes has likewise high claims on account of its amenities—so high that it is entitled to be spoken of as by far the most aristocratic and expensive of the continental winter resorts.

From the configuration of the coast, HyÈres, Cannes, and Nice lie farther south than Mentone, but that advantage is more than counterbalanced by the superior shelter from cold winds enjoyed by Mentone; for, as has been observed, a full exposure to the south, along with shelter on the north, is worth several degrees of latitude. After all, Mentone can modestly boast of being situated in latitude 43° 45´ N., or upwards of twelve degrees south of Edinburgh. It may be deemed a conclusive proof of Dr Bennet’s appreciation of Mentone, when we know that among all the Mediterranean health-resorts he has chosen it for his habitual winter residence; and that, after ten years, he has to outward appearance overcome the malady which drove him abruptly to this species of exile. My own experiences, poor in comparison, point to Mentone as a place, all things considered, where any one not encumbered with expectations as to social intercourse, and not fastidious on a few points which will be particularised, may advantageously pass the more dreary months of winter. It is, however, not what this or that one says of a place, but the unerring testimony of Nature, as demonstrated in the contour and vegetation of the district, which decides its character. So far, as will be shewn, Mentone is highly favoured, and Art, under considerate direction, is alone needed to complete its recommendations. Unfortunately, the journey thither will to many be a serious objection as regards not only distance but expense. The easiest way it can be performed may prove too fatiguing for some invalids, but taken leisurely, there is nothing in it to deter persons who are able to bear railway travelling.

There were times, not long ago, when travelling through France was tedious and painful. Those were the days of diligences and passports, and many other things that were very disagreeable. In the present day, such has been the material and social progress of the country, that travellers will find matters not greatly different from what prevails in England. There are railways in all directions; the hotels are frequently on a scale of great splendour; at very nearly the whole of them on the main routes English is spoken; and everywhere visitors are treated with marked civility. We all know what Paris has latterly become--the finest town in the world, an attraction to strangers from all parts of the earth. So lately as twelve years since, the railway from Paris was not pushed beyond Marseilles. There it long remained, and to those who wanted to get on farther, there was no help for it but to take the diligence, or hire a carriage specially for the purpose. I can remember hiring a voiture with a pair of horses to go on to Nice, and of being nearly three days on the journey, including stoppages of two nights, one of those nights being spent at Frejus, in one of the worst and dearest hotels I ever set foot in. Now all this is changed; there is a railway from Marseilles by way of Toulon, Cannes, Nice, and Monaco to Mentone—the trains going several times night and day to suit the convenience of travellers. There are likewise telegraphic wires the whole way, by which messages can be sent in advance to bespeak accommodation at hotels along the line of route.

In making their way southwards, there are many who drive on hurriedly, never stopping night or day, as if under a vow to get to their journey’s end in the least possible time. My plan is to stop a night, or, it may be, two nights and a day, here and there, for which there are several good opportunities—as, for example, at Paris, Dijon, Lyons, Avignon, Marseilles, and Nice. The only drawback on these stoppages is the annoyance experienced at the stations as concerns luggage. After getting your ticket, you have to see your luggage weighed, paying for the same a small sum; and then on arrival at your destination, some time has to be spent in a cold salle until the whole of the luggage has been arranged, and you can claim your own. The way to avoid these wearisome detentions is to get your luggage registered and sent on by the grande vÎtesse, or quick goods-train, to your final destination, be it Nice or Mentone, where it can be reclaimed. Sending it by the petite vÎtesse is cheaper, but as it may not get to the end of its journey by this slow train for several weeks, the grande vÎtesse should by all means be adopted as preferable. Following this plan, a traveller may take along with him into the train a portmanteau or carpet-bag sufficiently small to be accommodated under the seat, also any small bundle to be placed in the rack overhead. The torment of waiting for luggage is, I observe, driving the French into the practice of taking cumbersome articles with them into the trains; and on several occasions I have experienced personal inconvenience from their expedients. Professedly, dogs are not permitted to be taken into the carriages; but the rule on this point is not on all occasions strictly adhered to. Ladies may be seen with favourite lap-dogs, either carrying them openly, or in small baskets, without challenge. For such indulgence, much depends on the complaisance of the guard.

The preferable route from London is by Folkestone and Boulogne, and it will save trouble if tickets are taken at Charing-Cross station direct for Paris, getting luggage ticketed accordingly. The steam-boats between Folkestone and Boulogne, though well managed, are certainly poor in comparison to what they might and ought to be; but there is nothing superior in the Channel service, and all we can do in the meantime is to make the best of them. At the railway terminus at Boulogne there is an excellent restaurant, where travellers have a choice of refreshments, tastefully served, and with a composure which pleasantly contrasts with the hurry and confusion which prevail on the English side of the Channel. Any one, going or coming, who has occasion to stop for a night at Boulogne, may be safely recommended to the HÔtel Christol, a comfortable and well-conducted establishment not far from the railway terminus. On each of my recent trips, I spent two nights in Paris at the Grand HÔtel du Louvre; a night at Lyons in the HÔtel de l’Univers (good, and near the station); and two nights at Marseilles in the Grand HÔtel du Louvre et de la Paix. The reason why I remained more than a single night in Marseilles was to note the extraordinary improvements which have taken place within the last few years. If we except Paris, no city in France has been so much changed for the better as Marseilles. Its new streets and boulevards are a sight worth seeing, and so is its new port of Joliette, constructed at a great cost with much engineering skill. The most surprising novelty, however, is the system of water-supply, effected by bringing the waters of the river Durance a distance of sixty miles by means of tunnels and aqueducts, at an expense of fifty-two millions of francs. One of the aqueducts, that of Roquefavour, measures as much as four hundred mÈtres in length by eighty-two in height—a gigantic work, creditable to French engineering, which may compare favourably with some of the grandest of recent undertakings in Great Britain.

Quitting England towards the end of October, and pursuing the journey across France to the shores of the Mediterranean, a visible change of climate usually occurs about half-way between Lyons and Marseilles. We leave the cloudy northern skies, and get gradually into the serene sunshine of the south. The sensation of warmth increases during the day, and at night a lustrous planet shines almost like a moon in the star-spangled heavens. The vegetable world assumes new forms. The mulberry-groves remind us of silk-worms and the tasteful industries of Lyons and St Etienne. Approaching Marseilles, tracts are covered with almond-trees, which, on our return journey in spring, are seen to clothe the country with a mantle of delicate purple blossom. Passing onward, the aloe and prickly pear grow by the wayside, and are planted as hedges; and we observe that in the fields the small tufted plant producing the yellow Immortelles (a species of Helichrysum) is cultivated as a branch of husbandry. The railway from Marseilles, though only a single line, has been a costly and remarkable undertaking, for it is carried through numerous tunnels and along heavy embankments near the sea-shore. No doubt, we lose the picturesque scenery of the Estrelles by this modern method of transit; but yet we are afforded glimpses of many beautiful valleys and rocky mounts, garnished with fig and orange trees, these last coming prominently into notice on crossing the Var and getting into the vicinity of Nice. The olive, first seen as a shrub in Provence, now attains to the dimensions of a tree, which, planted profusely on hill-sides, imparts a greenness to the landscape even in winter.

Nice, ‘the Queen of the Mediterranean,’ has suddenly risen into beauty and importance. Facing the south, close on the sea-shore, with a fringe of verdant hills on the north, its situation has raised it to a high rank as a winter health-resort, and its reputation in this respect has been augmented by vigorous efforts, public and private, to render it attractive to strangers. Formerly, visiting the town while it belonged to Italy, there appeared to be a general stagnation. Great endeavours had stopped short, and there was obviously much half-done work. In the hands of the French, a new spirit has been infused into the place. Streets just begun have been completed, and handsome quays with boulevards stretch along both sides of the Paillon, over which several new bridges have been thrown. One of these deserves to be styled something more than a bridge. It is so broad as to afford space for a public garden, in the centre of which is erected a statue of MassÉna, a native of whom, as of Garibaldi, the Nizzards are justly proud. Nominally, the Paillon is a torrent, but it usually is little else than a bed of dry gravel; the only water in it being a few puddles, in which numbers of women are seen washing clothes in the ordinary continental style. The Paillon offers a fair specimen of one of those numerous torrents in the Riviera that are flooded only on the occasion of snows melting, or heavy rains falling in the mountains, when, rushing impetuously down, the tumultuous waters bear all before them.

Looking to its crowds of fashionable loungers, who come to it professedly for health, but seemingly as much for amusement, Nice may be styled the continental Brighton. One thing, as at Brighton, has greatly added to its fascinations. This is the Promenade des Anglais, stretching a mile along the shore, and forming from morning to night the place of concourse for throngs of idlers. The spacious promenade for pedestrians is divided by a row of sub-tropical plants, including specimens of the pepper-tree and date-palm, from a broad drive, where ladies in the fantastic dresses of the period, with a taste for fast living and public exhibition, indulge in driving backwards and forwards with a fury not usual with their sex in our more sober-minded country. To do them justice, they leave the lashing of the ponies to the driver, who sits behind them with a long whip, with which he seems to have much pleasure in inflicting pain on the poor animals. This species of cruelty meets with no reprobation from the onlookers; and from the immunity shewn to the practice, I should infer that in France there is no law repressive of cruelty to animals. I regretted to observe that these fast young ladies were generally English. With its promenades, drives, balls, cercle, Jardin Public, musical band, theatres, shops of various kinds where every luxury may be obtained, and abundance of street carriages, Nice offers a choice of attractions, independently of its fine air and sunshine. Besides the cathedral and numerous other Roman Catholic churches, the town now possesses an English and a Scotch church, both handsome new buildings. At kiosks on the Quai MassÉna, several Paris daily newspapers may be purchased. Letters and papers from England are delivered twice a day, Sunday included. For persons studiously inclined, there is a large public BibliothÈque supported by the commune, where books (of course in French literature) may be freely consulted or read by strangers as well as natives. There are likewise two good circulating libraries with English books—that of Visconti a really excellent collection, associated with a capital reading-room. To accommodate the numerous fashionable visitors, as also the more steady order of winter sojourners, there are now divers hotels of huge dimensions, and every succeeding year seems to increase the number. They are for the greater part situated on the quays overlooking the Paillon, also in the Jardin Public, and in the terrace-like line of street along the Promenade des Anglais. The house which after sundry trials I found preferable was the HÔtel d’Angleterre, in the Jardin Public, kept by M. SteinbrÜck, who speaks English and is married to an Englishwoman; both are most vigilant in attending to the comfort of their guests. All the hotels have omnibuses which wait the arrival and attend the departure of the trains.

Although Nice is now a French town, the humbler classes remain essentially Italian of the old Savoy type. The dresses of the women are picturesque, and their favourite mode of carrying things is to poise them on the top of the head. The peculiar costumes of the district are well represented in the wooden mosaics which form a remarkable local manufacture. I have never returned home from Nice without purchasing specimens of these beautiful mosaÏques en bois, at the shop of the brothers Mignon, in the Rue Paradis. On the last occasion, I received an interesting account of how they were prepared. The pictorial effects are, it is said, wholly a result of the varying tints of different kinds of wood grown in the neighbourhood; all being ingeniously shaped and put together without any aid from artificial colouring. As the intrinsic value of the small pieces of wood employed must be insignificant—a pennyworth probably being wrought up in a mosaic which will sell for a couple of napoleons—we have here a striking instance of how national wealth may be increased by exerting artistic ability on materials which are, of themselves, worthless.

Considering its extent, its numerous attractions, its choice of society, and its abundance of hotels, pensions, and villas and floors to be let for hire, Nice, as a place of agreeable resort, has a prodigious advantage over Mentone, which is in a comparatively primitive condition, with much to be done to bring it up to the Nicean finish. To all its recommendable qualities, Nice has further added a supply of pure water led on in pipes from the hilly ground behind; and this is a thing of first importance. If the public authorities would be but a little more liberal in their supply of scavengers to scrape and sweep the streets and by-ways, and to prevent the accumulation of nauseous rubbish on the shore side of the Promenade, they would merit a tribute of thanks from every one who makes a sojourn in the town. Granting all that can be said in admiration of the Queen of the Mediterranean, the question remains as to its availableness in a matter where health is so intimately concerned. In its very imposing size and stylish way of living there is, I fear, something objectionable. Health-seekers ought not as a rule to care for balls, theatrical representations, or the lavish exhibition of finery. What they generally want is the re-invigoration of an enfeebled constitution, through simple and natural agencies. Wherefore, the sea-side, the rural hamlet, or any other place where, by abandoning artificialities, Nature has fair-play to strengthen the animal system, is what is sought after. On this account, as well as on its higher claims in point of shelter and climate, there is no room to hesitate. Pleasure-seekers, or those to whom a town-life is indispensable, will stop at Nice; the less sophisticated will go twenty miles farther, and, with all its deficiencies, bask in the very garden of the Riviera.

The time of transit from Nice to Mentone by railway is an hour and six minutes, including stoppages at Villafranca, Monaco, and other places. It is a cheap, easy journey; but the line is carried through a number of dark tunnels, and to those who have sufficient time at command, and do not mind the cost of a carriage and pair of horses, the road forming the first stage in the Corniche will be preferred. On last, as well as previous occasion, selecting this famous highway across the mountains—the Alpes Maritimes, from which is derived the name of the department—I hired a carriage for the journey. The route is the commencement of the famous Corniche, which most tourists endeavour to see at least once in their lives. Until 1806, when it was partially completed, by order of Bonaparte, there was no other road along this part of the coast of Italy than the very insufficient pathway, fit only for mules, which had originally been made by the Romans on subduing the Ligurians. Snatches of this old Roman road are still in use by the country-people. It was only the pressing emergencies of the Revolutionary army under the conqueror of Italy, at the beginning of the present century, that led to the engineering of the Corniche—a name significant of a pathway winding its way along a natural precipitous cornice. On quitting Nice, the road rises along a mountain-side which commands a magnificent prospect over the valley of the Paillon, dotted with villas and orange-gardens. By and by, on attaining a great height, it gets behind the hills, and we lose sight of the sea. In this respect, the road was devised under the temporary but awkward necessity of avoiding a cannonade from British ships of war. Now that there are no longer any fears on this score, a new Corniche as far as Monaco is partly constructed, and will be a great improvement on the old one; though it will fail to afford such magnificent views as we now have of mountain scenery, and will prevent travellers passing through and seeing the ancient village of Turbia.

On both occasions on which I have passed this way, the weather happened to be of exceptional brilliance. The season was winter, and the height attained was two thousand feet, yet the air was mild and balmy, and in the open carriage, the only shelter required was an umbrella, to avert the dazzling rays of the sun. On the left were the rugged Alpine peaks stretching far away in the distance, while on the right we looked down the precipitous banks, laid out in terraces for vines and orange-gardens, to the picturesquely peninsulated shores of the Mediterranean. Midway, on our right, we come in sight of the ancient town of Eza, perched most picturesquely on the summit of a conical mount, and which figures in the early history of this singularly irregular line of coast. A more difficult piece of country for military manoeuvres can scarcely be imagined, for there hardly appears a level spot in the whole territory; hence we have a pretty good idea of why the Ligurians so long defied their enemies, and also why the district, in its quality of Principality of Monaco, should have for such a length of time maintained an isolated existence. Of the final success of the Roman invaders we have an interesting memorial at the decayed village of Turbia, through which the road passes. It consists of the shattered remains of a colossal monument, erected in honour of Augustus CÆsar. Occupying a prominent rocky knoll, it is visible from a great distance at sea. Reaching it by an irregular path through the old village, we find the ruin surrounded by a wall, to prevent further dilapidation. What was the original form of the monument is nowhere mentioned. It was certainly a tall ornamental structure, bearing a gigantic statue of Augustus in white marble, of which fragments have been discovered. In the middle ages, the building was altered and enlarged to form a species of fortress, and thus it remained until it was destroyed by Marshal Villars, during the wars of Louis XIV. (1705). The present name of the village is said to be a corruption of TrophÆa (TrophÆa Augusti), but this is mere conjecture. A few minutes bestowed in a visit to this noted historical ruin, and in enjoying the outlook seaward, will not be misspent.

At Turbia, we come full in sight of the town of Monaco, perched on a rocky peninsula jutting into the sea, and still walled all around as it was in the days when it required to hold out against foreign enemies. Divided from it on the east by a small port, rises Monte Carlo, a plateau now noted for its gaming establishment, the only authorised resort of the kind in the south of Europe. The only other place on the route calling for a word of observation is Roccabruna, a cluster of antique buildings, the capital of a commune, jumbled up in a strange manner with huge brown rocks, that look as if they had been suddenly arrested on tumbling down the lofty hill behind them. From this we have a continued descent to Mentone. As we advance, the scene opens, and turning a corner of the road, we see the place of our destination stretching along the curve of a beautiful bay, backed by low hills, covered with evergreens, while behind these rises a semicircular range of arid mountains, towering several thousand feet high, and forming the screen from the north, that, constituting Mentone an Undercliff, gives it that peculiar mildness and dryness of climate for which it has attained celebrity. A drive for a mile along an avenue of plane-trees, environed with olive-grounds and villas, brings us to the spot where we are to spend the winter.