There is one other excursion which ought not to be omitted. It is to Cap Martin, and will be comprehended in a forenoon walk. What, I think, may particularly interest strangers, is a sight of the largest and finest olive trees in the whole Riviera, and also some curious Roman remains, of which no one can give any perfectly satisfactory explanation. A few days before my departure from Mentone, I made this excursion. Fortunately, I was not alone in the journey. I was favoured with the escort of Mr M. Moggridge, an English gentleman of nearly my own age, who has resided a number of winters in Mentone with several members of his family. Uniting a singular saliency of disposition with scientific tastes, and happily possessing a wiry frame, which seems to defy fatigue and exposure, he has been able to undertake journeys over a lengthened tract of the Riviera, from the sea-shore to the tops of the highest mountains. In 1862, he occupied himself in exploring the caves in the limestone rocks on the shore near Pont St Louis, already noticed, bringing to light bones, pieces of charcoal, and flint instruments, which are the puzzle of historians. In the midsummer of 1868, he made an expedition to the mountainous region of the Laghi delle Meraviglie, thirty-two miles north of Mentone, and there, at the height of 7825 feet above the level of the sea, copied certain hieroglyphic inscriptions on rocks, which bear some remote resemblance to those remarkable stone carvings in Scotland which have engaged the inquiry of antiquaries. Ever on the alert, chiefly with a view to investigating the nature of the plants in the Riviera, and so aiding the inquiries of his son, who has written some elegant brochures on the botany of the district,^[A] Mr Moggridge readily consented to be my cicerone to Cap Martin and the vicinity of Monaco.

At ten o’clock I was ready to start, equipped in my strongest shoes, which, however, were not half strong enough; for the weather had been wet, and the roads were in about as bad a condition as possible for a walking expedition. Feeling the inadequacy of my equipments, I could not help admiring and envying my friend’s whole set-out. On presenting himself, you might see at a glance that you had to deal with an enthusiastic mountain pedestrian. Attired in a pair of knickerbockers, ribbed woollen stockings, and stout ankle boots, he carried a pole five and a half feet long, with a pike at one end and a hook at the other, calculated either to steady him on the acclivities, or to pull down the branch of a tree which he wished botanically to examine. Besides this formidable pike-staff, he carried a green-painted tin box, slung by a belt round his shoulder, as a receptacle for specimens of plants; while around his waist was another belt, bearing two leather sheaths, one containing a large knife, and the other a saw, both serviceable in his explorations. In his visits to the hills, as I learned, he does not burden himself with provender. Ordinarily, he is satisfied with a few oranges in his pocket, and a brown tobacco-pipe, which he has the knack of smoking while talking to you, holding the pipe adroitly between his teeth.

It was in this guise that he proceeded to lead me to Cap Martin. Passing Carnolles and the last house in the western suburb, we left the main thoroughfare, and struck to the left, down a narrow road, dreadfully cut up with wheel-tracks, and environed by grounds, on which grew a forest of olive trees of considerable size, and evidently, from their appearance, of great antiquity. I had seen none so large elsewhere. According to tradition, many of these trees were upwards of a thousand years old, and such, in a qualified sense, is likely to be the case. Branches and part of the stem of the olive tree decay, but life remains in the roots and lower division of the trunk, from which new boughs spring time after time through a succession of ages. From these causes, while many of the trunks are rent in antiquated hollows, the mass of branches above are youthful and luxuriant. Such trees may command a degree of veneration from their age, but I cannot coincide in the notion of their beauty. Evidently the whole require frequent manuring around the roots. Old woollen rags, if they can be obtained, are used for the purpose. There is a belief that the Romans brought the olive from Palestine and introduced it into the country. Nowhere, as I have said, has it attained such a gigantic size as on the soil of Cap Martin.

Having floundered along the pathway for about a mile, turning and winding, and at length ascending to the higher ground forming the flattish ridge of the Cap, we paused a little to have a view over the Mediterranean and the environs of Mentone. Mists hung on the summits of the higher mountains, a few peaks being slightly whitened with snow. One sharp point stood out clearly against the sky.

‘Do you see that tall jagged peak,’ said Mr Moggridge, ‘that one clear of clouds, immediately behind Castellare?’

‘Of course I do,’ I replied: ‘it seems so narrow that a person could not find footing on the summit.’

‘Quite a mistake,’ he replied. ‘I have often pic-nicked with parties on the very top, which is only 2745 feet high.’

‘Surely, ladies cannot have climbed to such a height?’

‘Yes, they have,’ replied my friend. ‘The last time I was up, there was a lady in the party who was a grandmother, and she is quite ready to make the ascent again at the first opportunity. You have no idea what spirited ladies—English visitors—we have in Mentone; they will walk for miles up the hills, and afterwards dance half the night at a ball at the Cercle. This is the place for exercising the limbs.’

‘Perhaps,’ said I, ‘sometimes rather more dancing than discretion; however, that is not my affair. What is your idea about the climate of Mentone?—you must have had a good experience of it.’

‘My idea is very conclusive; I care nothing about popular fancies, but go to Nature. Two things I take as a criterion—contour and vegetation. See that semicircle of mountains, the whole a mighty rampart sheltering the lower grounds from the cold and moist winds of northern and central Europe. Then, see what is the vegetation. Lemons and citrons, two most delicate fruits, growing in profusion in the open air, like apples in Herefordshire. Look around you, also, and see these noble olive trees, as old and as tall as oaks in England. I might speak of the carouba and various other trees, but it is unnecessary.’

‘Is not dryness a peculiarity of the air?’

‘Yes, the air is generally dry and light, which adapts it for some classes of invalids; but I do not consider it as being too dry; the sea must have a certain modifying influence. The benefit derived by members of my own family wintering here, enables me to speak with confidence of both air and climate.’

Speaking of the adaptability of the Cap for a pleasure-ground, with drives for the enjoyment of visitors, I learned that the land had been put in the way of being saved from exclusive private use by being purchased by a Parisian gentleman, a winter visitor, M. Sabatier, to whom, as well as to his family, Mentone was under many obligations. Having bought the property, he has given the municipal authorities an opportunity to acquire it at the purchased price for the use of the public. Whether the liberal offer will be embraced seems doubtful; for besides the purchase-money, there must be a considerable outlay in forming a proper road along the beach to join the Promenade du Midi.

After a little chat on this interesting topic, we walked on, immediately striking upon a narrow road through the forest, differing in some respects from the miry path in the lower grounds. It was bounded by low walls, and here and there we came upon a remnant of pavement with large stones; such being portions of the old Roman road through the country. Excepting what produce might presumably be gathered from the huge olive trees, the district was a waste. Along the road, we met only two or three labouring men going to their work somewhere, to all of whom my companion said: Bonjour, mon ami, to which greeting there was a gracious response.

‘I see,’ said I, ‘that you make a point of speaking to every one you meet—I suppose that is the common practice.’

The reply was: ‘Some do it, and some do not. It has been my custom through life to always have a kindly word for every one when walking through the country. It is a bit of civility that gives pleasure. I have never been the worse, but often the better, for it. Years ago, when helping a canvass in Wales, I secured a great many votes from people I knew nothing at all about; the explanation being, as they candidly told me, that I had spoken to them long before, when I asked for and expected nothing. Since I came to France, I have followed the practice, and am the best friend in the world with all the poor people in the neighbourhood.’

‘The opinion I have formed,’ I said, ‘from a comparatively limited observation, is, that the humbler classes in Mentone and its vicinity are an industrious, quiet, well-disposed people—does that consist with your experience?’

‘Most assuredly it does: they are old-fashioned in their ways, possess no enterprise, but in all my experience I never saw such a decent, well-behaved people. Crime is almost unknown amongst them.—But here we are at the ruin.’

At the distance of about sixty feet north from the side of the road, on a raised bank surrounded by olive trees, stands this fragment of masonry. Approaching it, to have a close inspection, we find it to be a building of stones squared, and laid in regular courses. Fronting us is a faÇade, measuring twenty-seven feet across, and twelve feet high; but as the top is broken and ragged, the original height must have been greater. The thickness of the faÇade is five feet six inches—so thick as to admit of three alcoves or recesses in a row, each recess arched, and about two feet in depth backwards. The wall above the arches shews a handsome string-course, with a lozenge-shaped figure over the two side arches. Over the central arch, there is a square recess in the wall, which had evidently at one time been occupied by a slab, probably bearing an inscription. Behind the mass forming this frontage, there had been an open quadrangle, enclosed by a wall two feet thick. Of this wall the west side only remains, but we trace where the other sides had been. The depth of the quadrangle over the wall had been twenty-eight feet six inches, by twenty-seven feet—very nearly a square. These walls, as is observed by significant traces, had not been above seven or eight feet high.

Having examined the structure at all points, we can have little difficulty in assigning its origin to the Romans; but at what period it was erected, or what were its uses, are questions less easily solved. There it stands, without date or mark to tell its mysterious tale; and from no ancient writer do we learn aught concerning it. To strengthen the opinion that the ruin is of Roman origin, it is known with all but absolute certainty that on the flat ground hereabouts was the military station of Lumon or Lumone, indicated by Antoninus as being on the Roman way from Ventimiglia to Turbia. Of this station there is now no visible trace, such as the mounds of an encampment, but this may be accounted for by the universal trenching caused by the culture of the olive trees.

‘Well,’ inquired my companion, ‘now that you have had a good look of the ruin, and taken its measurements, what is your opinion about it? I have made up my mind, but I will be quite fair, and let you speak first.’

This was putting me on my mettle. I took a little time to think. ‘My first notion,’ I said, ‘on seeing the building was, that it was the relic of some habitable structure; then the idea of baths crossed my mind; but on looking closely at the faÇade, I am fully of opinion that the building has been of a commemorative character; and I will shew you why. That empty square space over the middle arch had, no doubt, been originally filled with a slab bearing an inscription; and it is quite as likely that in each alcove there had stood a figure in marble; in the central one, possibly, a bust, and an appropriate heathen deity on each side.’

‘Not badly guessed, so far,’ said Mr Moggridge: ‘now, I will tell you what I think. This had been the mausoleum of some distinguished Roman family, connected with the station of Lumone. The burial-place had been the enclosure behind; and in front had been the inscription. Such, in fact, is the opinion of several French antiquaries who have written about the place. I believe, however, no one has thought of the figures in front; but that conjecture, I allow, is very feasible.’

We argued the point as to whether the mausoleum was that of a family or an individual; but having no basis of facts whereon to found our respective theories, the discussion settled nothing. I suggested that the space behind the faÇade should be trenched, to discover if there were any sepulchral remains; and that at anyrate the whole ruin should be enclosed, and protected from further injury. There is no photograph or drawing of the ruin, and I likewise hinted that something of that kind was very desirable. I have attempted a small sketch of it from memory, and put it at the conclusion of the present volume.

Leaving this relic of antiquity, we continued our walk westward till, getting clear of the woods, and still on the old Roman road, we came in sight of Monaco and the very picturesque shores of the Mediterranean in its neighbourhood. The ground was an open uncultured steep. Far below on our left was the sea-shore, while on the face of the hill above was the town of Roccabruna, which can be reached by a steep pathway. Around us on the sloping bank, trees and small flowering plants were growing in a state of nature. This wild condition of affairs was highly relished by my companion. He was on the outlook for a particular plant, which he described as being never found except in the south. I drew his attention to a modest-looking shrub about the size of a whin-bush, bearing very small purple blossoms along the outer stems.

‘Why,’ said he, ‘that is a common plant here; it is rosemary—the well-known rosemary of Shakspeare; and if we look about we shall also find rue, another plant of poetic renown—there it is. You remember what Ophelia says about rue: “There’s rue for you; and here’s some for me.”’

‘Ophelia says something more than that: in tendering the rue to Laertes, she says, “we may call it herb-grace o’ Sundays,” and what is meant by that has been subject of subtle inquiry among critics; I suppose, however, that rue was called herb-grace simply as figuring by its sorrowful name the grace of repentance.’

The remark introduced a conversation on the practice of laying a bunch of rue before persons on trial at Newgate—an impertinent practical pun on their unfortunate position at the bar. While discussing the subject, Mr Moggridge made a sudden rush to a plant with small slender leaves, being the one he was in quest of, and seemed to feel more happy in securing a specimen of it than if he had fallen upon a mine of the precious metals. ‘I daresay it is a valuable plant that you have got hold of,’ said I; ‘unfortunately, I am not able to see anything remarkable about it; that, of course, is my ignorance. I go in for admiring the rosemary, which is flowering hereabouts in great profusion; so, “for remembrance,” I will take the liberty of carrying off a sprig in my button-hole.’

Glancing down the steep, I observed a donkey climbing a pathway under a load of sticks, with a lad behind driving it. ‘What a wonderfully useful animal the ass is in this mountainous region,’ I observed. ‘I don’t see how the people could get on without it. And so patient, so docile is the creature, I am sometimes sorry for it. Talking of that, I have heard the donkey-women address a few words to the animal, as if to cheer it on, which I did not understand. The words sounded like alla eesa. Can you tell me what they mean?’

‘Yes,’ was the reply. ‘The meaning is a pious exclamation of kindly import from the Arabic, and is traced to the Saracens, who at one time held possession of parts of the country along the coast. The hill-dwellers certainly take the work out of their donkeys, but on the whole treat them kindly; they are, in fact, their companions, their friends, their dependence.’

Conversation now turned on the remarkable absence of wild animals, particularly birds, along the whole Riviera. There was, doubtless, no deficiency of butterflies, but this only confirmed the notion, that insects injurious to plants had gained in numbers by the vicious practice of shooting almost every kind of small bird.

Mr Moggridge confirmed me in this opinion. ‘Some of the tracts on the higher hills,’ said he, ‘have been wholly stripped of their pine forests by a destructive caterpillar, the Bombyx processiania; so called because these caterpillars follow each other in long and very strange processions. One goes in front as a leader, two follow close behind, then three, and so on, all hard upon each other. As they are marked brown and black, a procession of them looks like a triangular piece of old carpet on the march with one of the corners foremost—a very queer sort of thing, I assure you. Two or three years ago, when on an expedition among the mountains, I came to the forest of Braus, which was already half destroyed by these voracious caterpillars. Many trees were merely withered stumps, others were dying, and to all appearance the remainder would ere long perish. A good way to get rid of these destructive caterpillars would be to gather and set fire to their nests, which resemble bunches of fine wool placed among the branches of the trees. I suggested to the government that women and children should be employed to pick off the nests, otherwise the country would be denuded; but I was referred to the communal authorities, and they would do nothing. I suppose the woods are all gone by this time. All this comes, of course, from shooting the small birds which are appointed by Nature to keep down the number of insects. There has been, I believe, some formal edict of the French government against killing these birds, but little or no attention is paid to it. The insects which prey on plants have full swing. The time may come when, alarmed for the consequences, the French, like the people of Philadelphia in the United States, may have to import batches of live sparrows from England.’

Taking the road back to Mentone, and leaving Mr Moggridge to pursue some inquiries in the neighbourhood of Roccabruna, I had not an opportunity of following up his remarks on the folly of killing small birds. It is more than a folly. It is a gross public outrage. At Mentone, persons are seen sallying out with guns slung by a belt over their shoulders, on the watch for every stray sparrow, lark, or robin. Shooting these small birds goes on with perfect impunity in the streets and by-ways. The practice is not carried on in a mere spirit of idleness or mischief. The little creatures are killed for the sake of picking up a few miserable sous. The birds are disposed of to shopkeepers, who hang them up in bunches for sale outside their doors; and in due time they make their appearance cooked at the tables-d’hÔte: a menu with an EntrÉe des alouettes et des rouges-gorges—in plain English, a dish of roasted larks and robin-redbreasts! Greatly to the credit of the visitors residing last season at the HÔtel Splendide, they protested against the barbarity, and the remonstrance, as under, obtained publicity in the small local journal.^[B]

Besides being injurious to agriculture, the systematic slaughter of insectivorous birds must tend to increase the number of mosquitoes. I cannot say we were annoyed with these insects, for the season was winter, and from any stray one that happened to be in the apartments at night we were protected by fine gauze curtains hanging in copious drapery around the beds. They become, however, a serious trouble in spring and summer, more particularly in the neighbourhood of trees. If it were for nothing more than lessening the numbers of mosquitoes, the settled inhabitants should interpose by some general movement to preserve the small birds from indiscriminate destruction. If they do interpose, they may as well, while in a lecturing mood, offer some hints to the municipal authorities regarding their neglect in sundry other little matters; some of them so obvious to the senses, that they do not need to be particularised. When a town professes to lay itself out as an attractive health-resort, it should not have been left to strangers to make these remonstrances. The self-interest of the people, as well as good taste, ought before this to have applied a corrective.

Before quitting the country, I visited Monaco, partly with a view to see what I had heard sufficient talk about, the Casino of Monte Carlo. The principality, shrunk to moderate dimensions, is now visited almost exclusively on account of the Casino. Few trouble themselves about the old walled town on the rocky peninsula, though it is interesting from historical circumstances. Occupying a pleasant situation on an elevated plateau east from the town, Monte Carlo consists of the Casino, a hotel, and a few villas, shops, and restaurants. The whole are intermingled with gardens, promenades, and terraces. On the principal terrace grow some fine date palms. The place has an air of splendour. Everything has been done to render it attractive. Much money must have been spent by M. Leblanc, the lessee of the Casino, which bears a considerable resemblance to the similar establishment at Homburg. The edifice comprehends several large and very highly-decorated apartments for the gaming-tables, balls, and concerts. There is likewise a reading-room, provided with a profusion of English, French, German, American, and other newspapers, open freely to visitors from morning to night. A band of musicians plays in the open grounds twice a day. Les jeux are of the usual character—rouge et noir with cards, and roulette. As the railway station is at the foot of the slope immediately behind, the Casino can be reached many times a day in a quarter of an hour from Mentone, and in less than an hour from Nice. The resort is considerable, more particularly from Nice; every train carrying a flock of persons of both sexes with an appetite for gaming. Natives of the district are, I believe, forbidden to enter the establishment, but this is a rule which could not be easily enforced. I heard of cooks and waiters from the hotels in Mentone occasionally winning or losing a five-franc piece.

It would be easy to enlarge on the gambling which, day by day, Sunday included, goes on in this authorised temple of Pluto; but with every disposition to say something condemnatory on the subject, one is awkwardly reminded of the old injunction about first taking the mote out of your own eye before trying your hand on the eyes of others. On this matter of Monte Carlo, I feel as if my mouth were shut by a knowledge of prevalent gaming practices at home—I mean the wide-spread system of betting on horse-races, which is nothing else than inveterate and disreputable gambling under the cover of sport and fashionable usage.

Wandering about the sunny knolls near the Casino, I had pointed out to me a pretty spot on the sea-shore, as the original site of the shrine of Ste DÉvote, the patron saint of the small sovereignty. I had been lately reading the legend of this highly appreciated female martyr, which I may condense into a few lines, for the amusement of those who care for this class of stories.

DÉvote was a young maiden of Corsica, who, for her faithful adherence to Christianity, was cruelly put to death during the frightful persecutions of Diocletian and Maximilian. Warned by a vision, two priests, who had hid themselves in a cave, carried away her body, and putting it on board a boat, set sail for the coast of Africa. A storm, however, arose, and there appeared to be a danger of being wrecked. In this emergency, when all was given up for lost, the priests were again favoured by a vision; the spirit of the girl announced that the storm would soon cease, and that a dove would issue from her mouth, which they should follow with the boat till they arrived at a certain spot on the Italian coast near Monaco. They accordingly saw a dove come forth from the mouth of the corpse, and they gladly followed it to the spot indicated. There the body was interred on the 27th January, which day remains the festival of Ste DÉvote. The relics of the saint have been transferred from her original shrine to the church in Monaco, and are carried in great ceremony at the annual festival. It has long been a custom, on this occasion, for the inhabitants of Monaco to prefer a request to the prince, which, if they all agree upon, and is reasonable and practicable, is graciously granted.

The implicit belief in the legend of Ste DÉvote may be taken as a fair specimen of the credulity still prevalent in the Riviera. At Monaco and several other places, the passion of our Lord is dramatised in a public procession every year on Good-Friday, when an immense concourse of people attend.

Efforts, as I understand, have been made by some of the higher order of clergy to put an end to these practices, which have degenerated into little better than sacrilegious burlesque, but such well-meant attempts have hitherto failed. The occasion is hailed as a sort of ‘Holy Fair,’ of which the lower uninstructed classes are immensely fond. To accommodate the fluctuating crowds, Roccabruna holds its Good-Friday entertainment on the 5th August. The maintenance of the revelries is said to be partly due to the keepers of DÉbits de Vin, who find it to their account to encourage them; and there are persons who cling to them for histrionic reasons. One man is good at playing Pontius Pilate, another (the villain of the piece) is clever at representing Judas Iscariot, a woman is proud of being able to simulate the tenderly weeping Mary Magdalene, and so on with other personages. There is sometimes a difficulty in finding a person with sufficient self-command to endure the contumelies heaped on the meek and suffering Saviour by the Roman soldiers. A few years ago, at Roccabruna, one who undertook to represent the sacred character was, as he thought, so maltreated as to lose his temper, and using his fists in defence, broke out in imprecations which greatly shocked the onlookers. From what I heard, these pretended solemnities are losing hold on popular feeling. At Mentone they are of a subdued character. Education and intercourse with strangers are year by year lessening the general respect for them. Let alone, I doubt not that, like the mummings of the olden time in England, they will gradually disappear.

The concluding part of the season, as has been said, was spent by us in Nice, where, as well as in Paris subsequently, I found something to interest in the method of forming foot-pavements and roadways of a species of artificial stone, which was introduced a few years ago with perfect success into France. The material employed is a bituminous limestone rock ground to powder; the powder is heated, but not melted, in a caldron, after which it is laid evenly, as a sort of hot mortar, on a bed of concrete; lastly, it is pressed smooth with rollers, and is allowed a short time to cool and harden previous to being used. In the case of foot-pavements, after pressure, it is stamped with indentations to resemble sandstone. When finished, it is smooth, beautiful in appearance, hard, and more durable than any stone ordinarily employed. In Paris, it has latterly come extensively into use for the roadways, and is only now becoming known in London. The rock which furnishes this remarkable material is a hard limestone dug from mines in the Val-de-Travers, canton of NeufchÂtel, Switzerland. The proportion of bitumen in the rock is eleven to twelve per cent., just sufficient to fuse the material when ground, and to take a firm consolidated form by pressure; on which account, it is a very different thing from the pitchy asphalt mixed with sand with which we are accustomed. Any one who is acquainted with the newer streets in Paris will recollect their smoothness, and the ease with which carriages are run upon them. The wonder is, how the invention should have been so long in making its way to England.

My little tale is told. I have endeavoured to offer a fair outline of what may be experienced, and what seen, by a Wintering at Mentone—extenuating nothing, overpraising nothing. More might have been said regarding the climate without trenching on the province of the physician; yet enough has been stated to shew invalids and health-seekers in advanced years that, with care, very considerable benefit may be experienced. It will have been seen that certain discomforts, possibly extortions, may have to be submitted to. The dreariness of exile in a place so unfortunately devoid of means for rational amusement as Mentone, will in itself be hateful. The inadequacy of various public arrangements may cause personal inconvenience and dissatisfaction. But seriously considered, what is all that and much more, when balanced against the probability of returning home with a reinvigorated constitution? My latest sojourn, not free from annoyances which are vanishing from memory, effected every desired end. On losing the last glimpse of the Mediterranean, I felt something like a pang of regret, though its noisy movements had at times been troublesome. Its pleasant sunny shores had restored the health that had been impaired on the banks of the Firth of Forth.