In a few things the French are a little behind. They have established no uniform national time. The railways keep Paris time, which may be learned from a clock exhibited at every station; but provincial towns have all their own time, and that is somewhat distracting. At Nice, the hotel and post-office clocks shew both Paris and local time. At Mentone, time is in a chaotic condition. Some few years ago, according to a floating tradition, an English clergyman in the town who was punctilious about time, possessed a watch which was reckoned so great an authority that people thankfully set their pendules by it. Since this public-spirited individual quitted the place, time has become disorganised, and as no one can tell the hour precisely, you may happen to be too soon or too late at church or at any appointed place of meeting. No doubt a horologer who deals in jewellery and mosaics has a clock swinging in his window inviting the confidence of passengers, and over the entrance of the Eglise EvangÉlique there is a clock of respectable appearance, but I never put much faith in their indications.

The want of a good well-accredited town clock is only one of many wants in Mentone, of which something severe could be said. Let us, however, be gentle and considerate. It is easy saying ‘they’ should do this, and ‘they’ should do that, but where are ‘they’ to get the money to do all these fine things? Any one who has been at the helm of civic affairs knows that scarcely a day passes without the receipt of letters patriotically pointing out great public works which should be undertaken for the good of mankind, but never giving the slightest hint where the money is to come from to execute them. It is an unfortunate thing that everywhere money is in such urgent requisition, yet so it is. Mentone is in the position of needing a good deal, in which respect it resembles a man of small capital newly set up in business with great possibilities of prosperity. We have seen something of its history. It is an old, very old town, and should by this time have attained a decent maturity. But think of what it has come through—held down, starved, taxed, cudgelled, and brutalised by that ‘noble Genoese’ family which so long maintained sway over it; think of the difficulty it had to get rid of these rulers; how sore were its trials until it was taken in hand by the great and gallant nation with which its fate is now associated; and how short a time has elapsed since it found itself famous as a winter resort, with obligations imposed on it which it had no means adequately to discharge. A consequence of this unforeseen celebrity was that land suddenly rose to ten or twenty times its former value. Capitalists, local and cosmopolitan, made a rush to build villas, hotels, pensions, and houses with shops, without any concerted plan. With the old town clustering on a height like a bee-hive, nothing could be done. The new edifices spread themselves westwards, eastwards, anywhere—the only thing that kept them from falling into utter disorder being the obligation not to encroach on the great Corniche road, or on the cross-way called the Route de Turin.

In the scramble for sites, all kinds of mean selfishness came vivaciously into play. Enormous prices were sought for the merest scraps of ground. The rules of inheritance also stood in the way. In and about Mentone it is not uncommon for several members of a family to own a house, a garden, or even a single olive-tree. An inheritance may consist of but one or two branches. Petty and complicated heritages of this kind are not easily dealt with. At any offer to purchase, the proverbial pretium affectionis undergoes a marvellous development. Attempts to effect improvements on a sweeping scale are everywhere difficult without the potent statutory spell of ‘compulsory powers;’ here, from the divisional heritage system, they are scarcely practicable unless central despotic rule interposes. From one cause or another, the opportunity to lay out the newer part of Mentone on a symmetrical plan was lost. The most genial as well as most beautiful spot in the Riviera was architecturally spoiled. There was no attempt to construct buildings in harmony with the surrounding scenery—a too common fault everywhere, but especially to be lamented where Nature has been so prodigal of beauty. The most conspicuous instance of bad taste has been the setting down of a square box-like villa, painted a glowing buff colour, on the top of the pyramidal hill which lies between the valley of the Borigo and Carei. Go where you will, this eyesore stares you in the face—an offensive blotch in the midst of a glorious amphitheatre of gray picturesque mountains. Will the proprietor not take pity on strangers, and at least tone down the colour of his box? For a tint, he has only to look behind at the old chÂteau which crowns the heights of Ste Agnes.

It will take a week to see Nice. You may walk all over Mentone in a forenoon, and two or three days will make you fully acquainted with it. The long main street, named at one end the Rue Victor Emmanuel, and at the other the Rue St Michel, offers nothing to attract. In winter, the plane-trees, which line the roadway for a certain distance, are bare. On our arrival at the beginning of November, the leaves were falling, and encumbered the thoroughfare, until they were cleared away to be used for litter to horses and cattle. Some of the houses in the street are of a huge size; those on the south side throwing those of the north partially into the shade. The newer parts of the street are provided with side pavements; in the older parts towards the east, the buildings stand close to the roadway. Foot-passengers have accordingly to take their chance of being interrupted by carriages, but no other inconvenience is experienced, because here the street is laid from side to side with flat paving-stones, as at Genoa, Naples, and some other Italian cities. In the eastern or older division, the chief shops and other places of business, also public offices, are situated. Few of the shops make much display, and there is little regularity in their appearance; some with large, others with small windows. It would be unreasonable to expect in so small a town the variety of Nice. Yet there are evidences of progress. Those who visited Mentone seven years ago, could have purchased few of the delicacies which are in constant request by the English. Now, all that is changed. Wines, biscuits, pickles, sauces, preserved meats, and other odds and ends, are now supplied as profusely as at home. There are tailleurs and tailleuses ready for any equipment. You might be furnished with a Highland kilt if you wanted it. The town has a carnival in a small way. Previous to the beginning of Lent, when balls are in the ascendant, there is a glow of ladies’ dresses spangled with gold, fancy costumes, masks, feathers, frippery, and artificial flowers in the shop-window of the Amarantes, whose well-known establishment comprehends a store of knick-knacks, where there is no difficulty in getting rid of money. Speaking of money, there are two banking-offices in the street, ready at a moment’s notice to cash your Bank of England or circular notes, at the Paris rate of exchange.

I should infer there is no police regulation to restrain shop-keepers from placing goods outside their doors. The side-paths, though often of scant width, are in sundry places occupied by stalls for the exhibition of miscellaneous articles—calicoes, fish, poultry, meal, flour, fruit, and vegetables, with glass cases of combs and cutlery. To all appearance, any one may set down a stall anywhere, commence to sell articles by auction, or draw a crowd about him as a tooth-extractor, or curer of corns. All goes on in public. The pedicurist, a well-dressed gentlemanly looking personage, takes his stand behind a table and chair. He lays out his instruments. Harangues the masses as to what he has done, and what he can do for them. He has cured the most inveterate corns in all the courts of Europe. He shews a string of eight gold medals given to him in gratitude by emperors, kings, queens, and princesses. He has been sent for to Moscow. He has cured corns in the Kremlin. He points exultingly to a large picture hung on a pole behind him, representing the members of a royal family, each with a bare foot on a richly embroidered cushion preparatory to be operated on, and all of whom he cured one after the other, not a vestige of corn remaining. And he is prepared this instant to cure the worst possible corn of any monsieur or mademoiselle present, sans souffrance—insists greatly on that—oui, messieurs, sans souffrance; certainement sans souffrance, for the insignificant charge of cinquante centimes! One can scarcely fail to be diverted with the volubility, the audacity, and the antics of these wandering charlatans, who remind us of characters inimitably touched off in the brilliant comedies of MoliÈre.

A sea-side health resort without a promenade for loungers along the beach can expect to do little good. What would Brighton have been without its Parades? The Promenade des Anglais has in a sense been the making of Nice. At Mentone, the working out the idea of a promenade was not thought of till it was too late to do the thing rightly on the Nicean principle. The villas and houses lining the south side of the main street were set down in such a way as not to leave a sufficiently commodious space next the sea, the view from which consists to a great extent of irregular outs and ins, and backs of dwellings of various heights. The blunder is irrecoverable. All that has been latterly effected is a Promenade about forty feet wide, retained by a sloping sea-wall, extending from the older part of the town on the east to the Borigo on the west, and forming an unbroken line except at the Carei, which foot-passengers cross by a wooden bridge. Styled the Promenade du Midi, because it faces the south, it is on the whole a creditable effort. It has been strongly represented that ‘they’ should extend the Promenade to Cap Martin, which is quite practicable, and certainly desirable, but whether ‘they’—or, to speak more plainly, the municipality—have means or spirit to undertake so large a public work is somewhat doubtful. Such as it is, the Promenade is a boon to visitors who dwell in the West Bay. If the weather be fine, they are out, as has been said, to enjoy the air and sunshine, also to walk about and exchange courtesies with acquaintances, to see the fisher-people in their picturesque costumes drawing their nets ashore, or to lounge on the seats, and as far as possible think of nothing but the beauty of the sky, and to be lulled with the ceaseless murmur of the waves.

Walking or driving, visitors prefer the Promenade, so far as it goes, for a thoroughfare east and west. It is not very well kept, but it is better than the main street, which one soon gets acquainted with, as it is the only continuous passage for traffic. At a central part of the street, where there is a cross entrance to the Promenade du Midi, will often be seen a mixed throng of loungers of the ouvrier and vetturini type, through which passengers have to thread their way. This place is evidently the favourite lounge for town gossip, where there is frequently something to excite critical remark in connection with the octroi. At this spot is the receipt of custom for duties on animals coming into the town for slaughter, and which must go through the preliminary ceremony of being weighed. One after the other is urged to walk on to the flat top of a steelyard, level with the ground, and scarcely distinguishable from the street. What the poor animals cannot rightly comprehend is the reason for making them stand on a particular spot and no other. Oxen—great horned beasts of a light dun colour, which have been driven from distant pasturages—are tolerably docile, and require little management. They stand stupidly with their heads bowed down, till the man in the adjoining office records their weight. Pigs—a dark-skinned race like the Hampshire brocks, but with long legs, and nearly as nimble as greyhounds—are more difficult to deal with. Disposed constitutionally to take their own way, they can by no artifice be persuaded to go or stand quietly on the machine. They move, they wriggle, they bolt. Then begins the popular merriment. The onlookers shout with laughter on seeing the abortive manoeuvres of the drivers to bring their charge to a proper sense of obedience. One of the obstreperous pigs at length darts off in a state of indignation down the street, with twenty gamins full cry after it—the groups of loungers all the time frenzied with delight, and one of the sergents de ville, a merry personage who seems to spend his days in chatting and smoking, evidently relishes the contre-temps with all his accustomed humour.

It may not be thoroughly comme il faut for a visitor to notice such popular diversions, but then what is he to do? Getting some amusement from the harangue of a loquacious street charlatan, from the capers of a long-legged pig scornfully refusing to be weighed, or from the playing of a monkey on a miniature sham fiddle, seated on the hump of a peripatetic dromedary—is it not better than having no amusement at all? Mentone is a dull—a very dull—place. That is its reputation, and I am not going to deny or qualify the fact. The town has not yet got so far ahead as to have a regularly constituted system of public entertainments, such as one has the opportunity to fall back upon for recreation in Nice, Paris, or London. Nor does private society offer an equivalent which can with safety be embraced by professed invalids or the health-seeking sexagenarian. There are few natives with whom visitors are likely to make an acquaintanceship. Dinner-giving is not the custom of the place, and if it were, it would perhaps be so much the worse. We are to keep in mind that it is not very advisable to go out after sunset, which, in the depth of winter at Mentone, is about half-past four o’clock. If visitors can make up an agreeable society among themselves in the house in which they reside, they may be congratulated. The chances are against their being able to do so, in consequence of a difference in languages and tastes, as well as from the peculiarities of hotel usages already referred to. Unless visitors be specially fortunate, they will have to rely on themselves. The evenings will probably be dull. You may occupy a neatly-furnished room, provided with a wood fire, and a lamp on the table—a pair of candles being useless for reading—and that is what has to be looked forward to. No callers. The surging of the Mediterranean is heard outside. The moon and a sparkling planet shine on the waters. It is a beauteous scene, but you are alone in a strange land. Is it surprising that the heart should yearn for home, and for the friends whose companionship and sympathy count for so much in reckoning up the sum of earthly happiness?

Isolation, less or more—a monotony in daily routine—what the world calls dulness—will have to be submitted to for the recurring hours of brilliant sunshine, and the possibility of reinvigorating a frame wasted by functional or organic derangement, or by a too assiduous pursuit of professional, or it may be needlessly self-imposed duties. What sacrifices, it has been asked, will not one make for the possibility of improved health? Curiously enough, many will make no sacrifices whatever. This I discovered during my last visit, and it is proper to speak plainly out on the subject. Numbers of people go abroad professedly for the benefit of their health. They have been advised to winter in the south of France or Italy, and no doubt they have been cautioned as to a mode of living suitable for effecting their cure. If quitting home be a sacrifice, that they make, but it would be hard to say what other privation they endure. They have probably never been accustomed to restrain their inclinations, and have lived in a perpetual holiday humour. Possibly, they are under the strange hallucination that mere climate is to do everything—that no care on their own part is necessary. Such is the most charitable view that can be taken of conduct that could be more frequently explained by a deficiency in self-control, and a heedless recklessness of consequences. They like gaiety, and will have it at all hazards. The pleasures of dressing, dancing, and evening amusements are what they alone greatly care for. Ladies bringing enormous boxfuls of fashionable attire, wish to shew it off somehow. Favoured with good looks, liveliness of manners, and a fair stock of jewellery, it may be possible to become that most envied of women, ‘the belle of the ball.’ Young gentlemen, however (and some not young), have also their aptitudes for amusements, which involve a necessity for going out in the evening.

Parties of twos and threes of this indiscreet order of invalids come to Mentone. Fun must be had, though the forfeiture of health, and even of existence, should be the penalty. Here arise some strange reflections as to wintering in Mentone. Several English medical practitioners reside in the town during the winter, among whom Dr J. Henry Bennet acts as consulting physician. It is customary for invalids on arrival to ask advice regarding their respective complaints from one or other of these professional gentlemen; but frequently the advice is not strictly followed, and fatal consequences ensue. The sunshine and azure skies tempt to take unjustifiable liberties. The more staid order of visitors of course remain in their hotels in the evening, there finding such slender means of amusement as these houses afford. Others, indifferent to what may ensue, and unable to resist temptations, accept invitations to dancing-parties, although perhaps aware that one of their lungs is already gone, and that the other is in process of decay. They have come to Mentone to have that one lung healed, and with care the object might be accomplished; but how is it possible to resist going to that delightful party! As well, they say, go into an infirmary at once! These perverse indiscretions cause the death of several visitors every year. Such conduct gives fair-play neither to the climate nor to the physician who is consulted. I was told of a young gentleman of fortune with lungs very much gone, who, two years ago, contrary to advice, attended a dancing-party. The result was very abrupt. He dropped down in the room, was carried out, and died in the passage. In that ‘Dance of Death’ he had finished the last atom of lung—gaily ended his days in the revelry of a waltz. Last season, a young lady, considered to be the reigning beauty, was pointed out as having only one lung, which it was alleged she was doing all in her power to get rid of. What is the use of invalids of this stamp coming to Mentone, unless it be for the pleasure of finishing their career abroad? Dr Bennet, with whom I had some conversation on the subject of climate and hygiene, spoke despondingly of these errors, and mentioned a number of cases which proved fatal, but might have been effectually cured had his professional advice been followed. But the same thing, I suppose, could be said by all medical men whatsoever. ‘I will die, and nobody shall save me.’

As a contrast to these instances of thoughtlessness, we have opportunities of recognising cases in which the utmost care is taken to derive the fullest possible benefit from the climate. The anxiety shewn by relatives for the recovery of some young person under their charge is matter for daily and interesting remark. It may be the case of a boy affected with phthisis in its early stage—the hope of a family in a decline. With what solicitude is the pallid youth wheeled out to the Promenade; there, under the shelter of a white parasol, to breathe the fine air wafted from the Mediterranean. How, on any symptom of a cold wind, is his Bath-chair drawn aside to a protecting wall! What means are taken to amuse him by conversation, and observations on natural phenomena! How, at the proper hour, the attendant wheels him home, and remarks made as to the circumstances which amused the passing hours! In one case of this kind, we took especial interest. It was that of a French gentleman who day after day brought out his partially paralysed child to enjoy, and, if possible, benefit by, the animating sunshine. Towards the end of the season there was a visible improvement in the languid countenance; and at our departure we ventured to hope that parental care had not been unblessed or unavailing.

If the irregularities to which I have adverted admit of any excuse, it will be in the deficiency of rational and available amusement. At Nice, there is a military band which plays almost daily in the Jardin Public, much to the gratification of the visitors. There is nothing of this kind at Mentone, neither, as may be gathered from previous remarks, does there exist any means of genial or social intercourse on a scale worth speaking of. The English-speaking population are scattered about among the hotels and villas, and are generally unknown to each other; while the obligation of not venturing over the door after dark, if one has any regard to health, is in itself an insuperable difficulty. In these circumstances, it would greatly contribute to the pleasure of a winter sojourn at Mentone were a few mutual friends, with similarity of tastes, to sojourn at the same establishment. It is pleasant to note that croquet parties are getting into vogue among the younger class of visitors. The turf—if there be turf at all—is not what English players are accustomed to; but if the weather be good, the deficiency is not of serious import. The introduction of croquet is something, at anyrate, set agoing in the way of wholesome recreation and companionship. More may follow.

It is fortunate for invalids that there is good medical attendance at Mentone, in consequence of English practitioners residing at least for the season in the place. The fees expected are said to be higher than what most persons are in the habit of paying at home. On this point, I am unable to offer any personal experience. I believe napoleon fees are common, but more is given for special consultations. I cannot say whether things are conducted on the rigorous business principle which a lady a few years ago experienced at Nice. A medical practitioner to whom she gave a sovereign for a piece of advice, said he would call again next day, which he did, and before leaving said ‘it was proper she should understand that for every visit he expected a fee of a napoleon.’ The money was paid. If this was a trifle too exigeant, we may perhaps be reminded that the English practitioners have but a limited field of operation, and further, that they must have been put to the inconvenience of procuring a diploma from the University of France. Both at Nice and Mentone there are druggists who dispense medicines according to the authorised British pharmacopoeia, at whose establishments English assistants are employed. All sorts of patent medicines with which we are familiar are seen on their counters, but high in price, on account (as is alleged) of custom-house and octroi duties.

Mentone is pretty nearly destitute of means of intellectual recreation. What can be furnished in the way of books is not much. Therein lay my chief privation. There was nothing within doors to fall back upon to relieve the tedium caused by the absence of accustomed resources; and doubtless this species of desolation will press heavily on the more thoughtful class of visitors. At the HÔtel de Ville, there is a BibliothÈque Publique, consisting of a roomful of books in French and Italian literature, including some old encyclopÆdias and historical works, which may be consulted daily by persons studiously disposed. Strangers have little recourse to this collection of books, for besides that they are not the kind of works ordinarily wanted, they are not given out. Let us, however, give credit to the municipality for maintaining an establishment so meritorious. Not many towns in Great Britain, of only 6000 inhabitants, keep up a free consulting library for public use.

For reading, visitors chiefly depend on a circulating library kept by Papy, a bookseller in a central situation in the main street. The library consists of a collection of English books, mostly of a light kind, not particularly new, and of works in other languages; though limited in point of choice, the library is gladly hailed by visitors as something better than no library at all. Papy also offers the attractions of a reading-room, in which will be found copies of the Times, Standard, Illustrated London News, Punch, and Galignani, and several French and German papers. The subscription for the reading-room is five francs per month, or eight francs for reading-room and library; and for a longer period, less in proportion. Papy is a civil fellow; he speaks no English, but here, as elsewhere, a very little French is sufficient for visitors to procure all they want. The shop (which is open on Sundays, to accommodate the French and Germans) is a considerable resort for books and stationery. There is another bookseller in the town, Giordan, who circulates the Tauchnitz editions. Near his shop is the photographic establishment of M. Noack, whose productions are of an unusually high order. Few parties quit Mentone without carrying away some of his views of the neighbouring scenery.

Opposite Papy’s, in an open space back from the north side of the street, stands a handsome building of recent erection, known as the Cercle Philharmonique. This is a club-house partly on the English plan. It does not aspire to rank with the famed Cercle on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, yet is much beyond what might be expected in a place of such moderate size as Mentone. The building, erected by an association on shares, is under an administrative committee. It comprehends a large, splendidly decorated apartment for balls, concerts, and other entertainments, French and English billiard-rooms, a reading-room provided with French, English, and German newspapers, a smoking-room, and what is called a salon de reunion pour les dames. In the large apartment, styled the grande salle de spectacle et de bal, take place balls about Christmas and Carnival time, balls given by the members of the Cercle to a select number of the visitors, and balls given by the visitors to residents who have paid them some attention. Here, also, by means of a small stage at one end of the room, take place amateur theatricals, for which some Parisian and other ladies who are annual visitors have a special fancy. The invitation is by private ticket. Entertainments of this kind are in the afternoon, and are given for charitable purposes, a voluntary collection being made by which a few hundred francs are raised for distribution among the poor. (The heat from artificial lighting, and the crowding, not advantageous for invalids.) During the day, few persons are seen in the reading or other rooms.

If the intention of the originators of the Cercle was to accommodate male visitors in the town, it has signally failed. No means are adopted to make the character of the establishment known; no one having any curiosity on the subject knows whom to apply to for information. So far as the general body of strangers are concerned, the establishment might as well not exist. Only a few days before quitting Mentone, was I able, by particular inquiries, to learn anything satisfactory regarding it. Subscribers, it seems, are admitted to the privileges offered at the charge of 20 francs for a month, 45 francs for 3 months, and 80 francs for the season of 6 months. As in most cases, the only thing cared for is a reading-room, these charges will appear too high, and tend to exclusion. The stock of newspapers on the table sought after by the English, appeared to me inferior to what can be seen on much more moderate terms at Papy’s. The administration is sleepy, and needs rousing.

Many visitors, invalids in particular, will depend on newspapers ordered from England. The time of transit of letters from London is two days, and deliveries are regular. Newspapers, for some incomprehensible reason, cannot be reckoned on with the same certainty. Frequently, no paper arrives, and then perhaps two or three come together. Such irregularities, often complained of, but never redressed, are the reproach of the French postal system, and it is useless to say any more about it. There can be no complaint as regards cost of transit. A penny stamp takes an English newspaper to any part of France.

There is no local newspaper. All that the press produces is a small weekly sheet, with lists of strangers, advertisements, and some miscellaneous literary matters. It purports to be issued every Saturday; things, however, are taken easily. Sometimes it does not appear till Sunday or Monday, and on one occasion it did not appear till the succeeding Thursday. Since the opening of the railway, a hawker with a basket goes daily about calling out the names of Parisian newspapers which he has for sale. Some of the cheap literary drolleries of Paris may be obtained at a kiosk in the Place NapolÉon.

At all the winter resorts in the Riviera, there are found English churches, also chapels in connection with the Established or the Free Church of Scotland. In the East Bay, Mentone, a Church-of-England chapel has existed for a number of years. More recently, for the accommodation of residents in the West Bay, a neat and commodious chapel, known as St John’s, has been erected at the entrance to the Route de Turin. It is built in the Gothic style, and with the trees about it reminds us of that usually interesting object, an English parish church. Services are here frequent throughout the week and on Sundays. The chapel has a good organ, and also an effective choir, which is aided by the voices of young ladies who kindly volunteer their assistance. The Free Church of Scotland has a mission chapel in the Rue Pieta, a narrow cross thoroughfare. It consists of the first floor of a house on a common stair, with windows commanding a view of an orange-garden adjoining the HÔtel de Ville. The situation is central, but not otherwise satisfactory. Yet here, during the season, a congregation of about fifty persons, Scotch, English, and American, ordinarily meet on Sundays. The expenses are defrayed by voluntary contribution at the door in going out. I attended on several occasions, and it was not without emotion that I joined in the simple psalmody of ‘The Martyrs,’ while overlooking gardens blazing with orange-trees and other sub-tropical vegetation.

These chaplaincies are of use, not alone as regards the appointed services of public worship. The ministers may be said to form a pastorate to the whole English-speaking community, irrespective of national distinction. The reputation of Mentone as a health-resort has reached the United States (where Dr Bennet’s work is, I believe, fully as well known as in England), and every season numbers of Americans in a jaded state of health make it a place of abode. I heard of a family who had come eight successive winters from Philadelphia, every year crossing and recrossing the Atlantic, as if it were a holiday trip. Last season I had the honour of becoming acquainted with an American clergyman, of most apostolic character and appearance, Bishop Whipple of Minnesota, whose health had been grievously impaired by arduous professional labours at his distant see, and who here sought for its restoration. Among the visitors generally, denominational differences are in a great degree laid aside. When distant from home and friends, and when life is perhaps felt to be waning, sectarian and other distinctions in a great measure disappear. The consolations of the Gospel are thankfully accepted from any kindly disposed administrator. As far as I could learn, the several ministers are zealous in their sacred calling, and hold themselves ready to help on any occasion, when their services, secular or spiritual, are in request. A little incident, which occurred in the season 1868–69, is worth relating.

It is the custom to hang up in the lobbies of the hotels English-printed notices of the different chapels, with the names of the officiating ministers, and hours of divine service. Late one evening, an American gentleman, with several ladies, drove up to a hotel in Mentone for the night. They had hired a carriage at Nice to go on to Genoa, only stopping at certain places on the way. In coming from Nice, one of the ladies had been taken ill. To proceed in the morning was foreseen to be impossible. What was to be done? Not one of the party could speak French, so as to be able to adjust the matter with the voiturier. In this dilemma, the gentleman, in looking around the lobby, saw the printed notice about the Free Church: ‘Rev. James Stuart, parish of Yester, minister.’ ‘Take me to that person,’ he said to the hotel porter, who spoke a little English. He was conducted accordingly to the villa Guibert, where Mr Stuart, roused from bed, listened to the painful story, and heard that there was a written contract, which it would be necessary for him to see before offering advice. Accompanying his visitor to the hotel, the contract of hire was examined, and it was at once obvious that unless the party went forward to their destination, they must at once pay the whole prescribed fare. In these circumstances, and the voiturier being inexorable, all that could be recommended was, that the sick lady should be left in charge of the landlady of the HÔtel d’Italie, who was an obliging Englishwoman, while the others proceeded on their journey—a few days’ repose being all that was necessary, and it would be easy afterwards to go by the diligence. The proposed arrangement being acceded to, Mr Stuart without delay kindly saw the lady carefully bestowed, and next morning the party went on their way to Genoa. It is by such self-sacrificing labours as this, that an English or Scotch minister stationed on the continent may shew his lively perception of the precepts which ought to rule the Christian character. It need hardly be said that, for clergymen so missioned abroad, a knowledge of French is of exceeding importance.

Besides the chapels above mentioned, there is a French Protestant church (Eglise EvangÉlique) in the town, ministered to by a much esteemed pastor—the whole body of Protestant clergy in the place uniting to carry out objects of common concern. For the accommodation of the Protestant community, a portion of ground at the public cemetery, on the top of the hill surmounting the old town, has been specially set apart as a burying-ground. It is provided with a neat mortuary chapel, to which bodies are brought shortly after decease, and where they may remain for any reasonable length of time previous to interment. This fact in itself may tend to soothe the feelings of those whose relatives chance to die at Mentone. All is done becomingly according to the usage of the English, and ordinarily a small party of visitors interested in the deceased attend in honour of the obsequies. If there be such a thing as cheerfulness in a burying-ground, it is at the slip of terrace appropriated as a necropolis some hundreds of feet above the sea-level. The elevated spot is sunny, secluded, and beautiful. How solemnly is borne on my remembrance the circumstance of attending the funeral of a young Englishman from one of the midland counties, who had sunk under a mortal ailment, and was here interred with the usual service of the church! His grave occupies the edge of the declivity, and on it rest the last rays of the sun as it declines in the blue waters of the Mediterranean.