Something may now be specially said of the climate of Mentone, which as yet is its sole attraction. The charm of the place is its fine air, sunshine, and shelter during the winter months, and for these advantages some petty annoyances may be endured. What will not any one rationally disposed give for health, or a protraction of existence? A journey of several days, much expense, an absence of months from home and from valued friends, possibly professional inconvenience—what is all that when weighed in the balance against a means of extending one’s length of days, and making life a pleasure instead of a constant pain and anxiety! Change of air and scene is in itself a good thing, as is universally acknowledged; but doubly beneficial to the jaded and the enfeebled by functional derangement is the substitution of a mild and exhilarating for an inclement, humid, and depressing winter.

Evidently, large numbers do not need to be stimulated to winter in the more sunny regions of the south of France. At several places, the accommodation offered is barely sufficient for the demand. The crowd of emigrants is of a very varied character. Fashion, ennui, and love of gaiety seem to send quite as many abroad as absolutely bad health. The greater proportion of persons, old and young, whom you see frequenting the promenades, and driving about in open pony phaetons, have nothing apparently the matter with them. Many of them, doubtless, have come abroad for a bit of fun, for personal exhibition in a new field, or on some other frivolous ground, satisfactory to their own conscience. It is at all events certain that if weakened by bodily infirmity, they act as if it were otherwise, disregarding alike the laws of health and the counsels which are offered regarding the peculiar winter climate of the Riviera.

To a stranger from a northern region, the striking thing about the climate is, that during the day, while the sun brilliantly shines, there is a feeling of, and a resemblance to, a fine autumn—say the heat of an English September; but no sooner does the sun disappear below the Mediterranean, than we are back in a minute to our old accustomed wintry sensations. Why the atmosphere does not retain the heat imparted by the sun’s rays is perfectly obvious. The air is so dry and thin that there is little medium for retaining the warmth, and the heat generated escapes in the clear sky overhead. What we have to expect, therefore, by a winter sojourn in Mentone, is a species of summer while in the direct rays of the sun, during daylight; and it is our own blame if we suffer by neglecting the precautions suggested by the chills which settle down immediately after sunset. It is, however, to be borne in mind, that the cold of evening and night is only comparative. In an atmosphere so rarefied, a temperature of 40° to 60° Fahr. feels more chilly than the same degree of cold in Great Britain. The feelings and discreet apprehensions are a better warning than a recollection of temperature according to the scale of the thermometer. In the shade during the day there is a sensation of bleakness, approaching to that felt at night. Accordingly, to secure the full benefit of the climate, it is indispensable to have rooms with less or more of a southern exposure. No temptation of cheapness must induce the health-seeker to occupy apartments facing the north, or under the shadow of buildings which exclude the glow of sunshine. The sun rises earlier and sets later at Mentone during winter than it does in England, a circumstance favourable to invalids and outdoor promenaders.

If the weather be good, the sunshine from half-past ten to half-past three o’clock is delicious, and with the clear sky all nature is joyous. Sometimes the rays of the sun are so inconvenient, that many persons walk about under the shelter of white cotton parasols lined with blue or green, and with hats shrouded in white gauze. It is during such warmth that the visitors pour forth to ramble along the Promenade, and make short excursions on foot or on donkeys, or drive about in open carriages. Those who prefer to remain within doors, throw the windows open, from floor to ceiling, and so far enjoy the pleasures of fresh air. The fire, if lit in the morning, is at these times allowed to die out, and the inmates have the satisfaction of depending exclusively on the wholesome warmth of the sun. To derive as much benefit as possible from the open air without bodily exertion, loungers seat themselves on benches (with backs) commodiously placed for public use on the Promenade, near the margin of the sea, the surging of which on the shingle diffuses saline particles in the atmosphere advantageous to some classes of invalids.

Dr Siordet, an English medical practitioner who has been resident on the spot for several years, mentions in his small work, Mentone in its Medical Aspect (1863), that the ‘small daily range of temperature is one of the most important features of Mentone.’ He instances the greatest for two years as being 15°·5 Fahr., and that in another year it was 23°; also stating that the range was least in the colder months. In the tables which he quotes, the mean temperature of the winter months for ten years was as follows: November, 54°; December, 49°; January, 48°·75; February, 49°; March, 52°·9. During my stay on both occasions I hung up a thermometer outside one of the windows, with a southern exposure, but shaded from the sun, and recorded its indications twice daily, at eight o’clock morning, and three o’clock afternoon, and these pretty much corresponded with Dr Siordet’s tables. Frequently, the temperature ranged from about 40° in the morning to 60° or 65° at from noon to three o’clock. In November and December the temperature in the morning was often 58°, and beyond this it did not rise if the day became overclouded. In our bedrooms without a fire, the temperature in the mornings, on rising, between seven and eight o’clock, ranged throughout the winter at from 50° to 60°—commonly at about 54°. With these generally favourable features in the climate, it has to be emphatically stated that there are great differences of weather in different winters. The season of 1868–69 was immensely superior to that of 1869–70, but so was it everywhere throughout Europe, also on the northern coast of Africa, and at Malta. Though well sheltered from the northern blasts, Mentone lies invitingly open to winds from the south, south-east, and south-west, and these can be cold enough when the Atlantic is encumbered with icebergs, or when other causes of atmospheric disturbance greatly lower the temperature of the European continent and African coast.

While the vegetation of the district is a proof that the summers are hot, and the winters on the whole mild, it is indisputable that the mildness is sometimes broken in upon by days and weeks of cold weather, in which few visitors, with any regard to health, venture out. At the close of 1868 and beginning of 1869, the weather was beautiful; the jour de l’an as fine as could be desired, and the thoroughfares crowded with holiday-makers. Let us contrast this state of things with the weather twelve months afterwards. I quote from my notebook.

‘Dec. 21. Dull, overcast, bitterly cold wind; temp. 54°-55°.—Dec. 22. There has been a stormy night; sea tempestuous, has destroyed tramway on the beach; morning dull; the Promenade flooded with sea-water; temp. 53°-56°; snow on tops of the mountains.—Dec. 23. Fine; temp. 53°-65°; many people out looking at the havoc on the beach.—Dec. 24. Fine; temp. 52°-62°.—Dec. 25. Dull, cold; temp. 50°-56°; a dismal Christmas Day; few people out; attempted a walk to the Quai Bonaparte, but driven back by a cold stream of air down the street.—Dec. 26. Dull, overcast, very cold; temp. 43°-41°; could not venture out on account of the cold wind.—Dec. 27. Dull, overcast, very cold; temp. same as yesterday; did not go out.—Dec. 28. Clear but cold, with wind from south-east; mountain-tops white with snow; walked out, and saw ice half an inch thick on pools in the Borigo and Carei; temp. 40°–43°; am told that the temperature during the night has been down to 26°.—Dec. 29. Clear and fine, but a cold wind; temp. 40°–63°; children breaking the ice on the pools, and carrying pieces away.—Dec. 30. Cold but fine; ice still on pools; temp. 42°–43°.—Dec. 31. Clear and fine; sun melting the ice; temp. 45°–55°.—Jan. 1, 1870. Dull, cold, overcast, showers; temp. 39°–47°; minimum temp. by a registering thermometer, north side of house, said to have been 34°·5; a miserable jour de l’an for the poor people; few out holiday-making; stalls of books and toys, and a show of a fat boy at east end of Promenade, shut up for want of customers; knife-grinder in disgust has left his wheel in the rain, and retired for consolation to a neighbouring DÉbit de Vin.’ The extracts need not be continued.

For about a fortnight after New-year’s Day the weather was tolerable; then, it became cold and frequently wet, until we left Mentone, at the middle of February, to conclude the season at Nice. If we could have had proper fires, the cold would have been of no account, for I walked about almost daily, and sometimes made excursions; the torment consisted in keeping up a sufficient degree of warmth while confined to the house. The season was indisputably an impeachment of the reputed climate of Mentone. The natives, who consider the district a sort of earthly paradise, were much discomfited—the shopkeepers in despair. The carriages which used to be open were sometimes seen shut up as closely as if they had been driving up Regent Street. The keeper of our hotel (an aged Italian with ear-rings) vehemently declared that he had never known such bad weather in all his experience—‘Jamais, jamais, jamais!’

Our only resource in the cold weather were the wood fires, feebly supplemented by bits of coal. By all our expedients we could not raise the temperature of our salon above 63°; the sensation of cold being several degrees below that point. My fingers were at times too cold to write, and we were fain to sit with hands and feet close to the imperfect fire, which it required some dexterity to manage; for any awkwardness with the tongs, which are mechanically on the sugar-tongs principle, might have laid the whole in ruin. Yet from these brushes of cold we suffered no ill effects. There was inconvenience, but not injury. Cold days now and then, even to the extent of benumbing the fingers, do no great harm. What kills in England is protracted cold, accompanied with damp and a thick atmosphere. We experienced no fogs; the air was comparatively light and dry—so dry as to have a visible effect on the skin, and to suggest that there was a more than usual exhalation from the system. The snow and mists never descended below the tops of the distant mountains. The hills and gardens remained green. The only damage to vegetation was the blight of exposed exterior branches of some of the lemon, orange, and other trees. At Nice, as I afterwards observed, there were similar marks of injury. The frost had not been general. The low temperature of 32°, or under, occurred principally in the openings of the valleys, where the pools were operated on by currents of cold air. Had the frost been severe and extended over the district, the lemon and citron trees, which are peculiarly delicate, must have perished. Mingled with the troublesomely cold and wet weather there were fine June-like days, when all was joyous, as befitted the ordinary character of a southern winter. What we endured from the intermittent cold of the season of 1869–70 was not for a moment to be compared to what was experienced at home. And this is the way to estimate a wintering at Mentone. We have to think not so much of what we have enjoyed, as what we have escaped.

Visitors are apt to make mistakes regarding the climate of Mentone. Expecting too much from it, they neglect the precautions which are necessary. Dr J. H. Bennet, the principal authority on the climate, says: ‘It should never be forgotten that in winter the heat is sun-heat, and that the air, barring its influence, is usually cold. Warm clothes and woollen outer garments should be used.’ Dr Siordet says on the same subject: ‘Too much stress has, perhaps, been laid on the excellence of the climate of Mentone, and the expectations of visitors have thereby been unduly raised. No greater mistake could be made than to expect here perpetual sunshine and a perfectly equable temperature; a certain number of rainy days do occur, as my weather-table shews; a moderate amount of cold must be anticipated and provided for.’

Dr Edwin Lee in his Notice of Mentone (1862) is less explicit on this point. Speaking of the infrequency of frost, he says: ‘According to the account of an influential resident (M. de Montleon), it appears that during twenty-seven years the thermometer descended only three times below the freezing-point (in three successive winters).’ No one can doubt that so low a temperature as 32° is rarely reached. I have never seen it below 39°. But what visitors have to contend with is not a particularly low degree of cold according to the thermometer, but an occasional chilliness and wintry feeling, for which warm clothing is necessary in the open air, and a good fire becomes desirable within doors.

The cold which is endured at times in a sitting-room may not be injurious to health, but it is exceedingly unpleasant, and greatly poisons the enjoyment of a wintering in the south. It may look like a heresy to speak with disrespect of wood fires. They answer well enough for a short time in the morning and evening; but are a poor expedient in days successively cold, wet, and boisterous. Movable grates with coal fires should therefore be supplied when wanted on occasions of this kind. It is perhaps too much to expect that hotel and pension keepers will voluntarily remedy the deficiency. They have a superstitious veneration for wood fires, and regard with traditional complacency the practice of supplying paniers de bois at 2·50—the more the merrier, so far as their feelings are concerned. Cold weather is to them the opening of a brisk trade in timber. French visitors who do not know much about coal, and perhaps have a hatred of it, submit without murmuring to these venerable usages. The English, as it may be supposed, have their growl, and look on the whole thing as a downright imposition. It will not surprise me, therefore, to hear that the 2·50 usage gets into disrepute. On calling to see some acquaintances at the HÔtel du Pavillon on what happened to be a cold day, I found a coal fire of proper proportions in the salon de lecture, which I accepted as a step in the right direction. As regards those who wish to hire ready-furnished residences, they have the remedy in their own hands. I would recommend them to procure a few movable small fire-grates. If they cannot be procured on the spot (regarding which Willoughby may be consulted), they may be had from Paris. There is a store for the supply of such things under the arcade in front of the Palais-Royal. Coal is imported into Mentone, and can be had in any quantity. It is not Wallsend, but it will do.