water would come through; and for a long time
there was a steady ooze, which defied discovery,
until it was found that the pit was rapidly
becoming an unreclaimed bog. This element,
however, was baffled — perhaps by the ingenuity
of Malone. He bore generous testimony to the
"willingness" of Myles, who was ready on any
night, no matter what the weather. Even last
March, when every one was enjoying his skating,
this devoted gentleman went through his duty
as usual; but the performances had to be suspended,
owing to Myles, not unnaturally, contracting
a rheumatic fever.

Taking it all in all, it is a move in the right
direction, and the least I can wish Malachy is a
"collar of gold."

A HARBOUR OF REFUGE.

THE time of year has now arrived when most
people have formed all their plans for the
autumn months, and have settled where they
will spend the season of general relaxation.
Some are gone to Scotland, some to the German
watering-places, some to the English coast, and
some to foreign sea-side stations. They are
bound, for the most part, in search of pleasure,
rest, and change. Good luck be with them!

But there is another class of persons who are
beginning to think of flight about this time, in
favour of whom our sympathies should be the
most strongly enlisted of all. These are they
who, in forming their plans, have something
besides pleasure to think of, who are preparing
rather for the winter season than the autumn,
and who have before them a period of absence
from their native country of many months' duration.
Exiles these, banished by no human authorities,
but by a Power before which human
authority must bow in unresisting humility. I
speak of the chronically sick and enfeebled, and
of those who watch over them and direct their
movements.

And whither are all these individuals bound?
They are all going in search of health; are they
all going to the same place? By no means.
They are going, some to Madeira, some to Algeria;
others to Egypt, and yet others to the
less distant shores of the Mediterranean, to
Hyères, Cannes, Nice, Mentone, or other settlements
on the Riviera. Of that last-named place
of residence, Mentone, the author of this paper,
having had something more than four months'
experience, will say a word or two.

It is a good deal the custom among those who
are acquainted with the south of France to draw
comparisons between Nice and Mentone. Now,
except in the matter of climate, it is hardly
possible to do this reasonably, the two places
being so very different. The one is a town, a
sort of small capital, a place of fashionable
resort, where people get themselves up very
magnificently, and drive about in handsome
equipages with stepping-horses and liveried
servants, where calls are made and visits paid at
the canonical hours, where balls are given, and
dinners, and where smart people from England,
and princesses from Russia, and leaders of ton
from Paris, congregate in considerable numbers,
dressing themselves in splendid attire, and
driving, and riding, and dancing, and flirting
very much as they might in Belgravia, or in the
Champs Elysées.

This is Nice. Mentone, on the other hand,
separated from Nice only by some twenty miles
of Maritime Alps, is little more than a village of
one street, is quiet and unsophisticated in the
extremest degree, and after ten o'clock at night
lies steeped in a repose which is only broken on
rare occasions by the appearance in the main
thoroughfare of some Englishman of unwonted
hardihood, who has been guilty of the frantic
dissipation of having a game of billiards at the
Cercle.

How can these two stations be compared?
At Nice there are two distinct elements discernible
in the local society: the fashionable
element, and the invalid element. At Mentone
the invalid element is altogether predominant,
and a certain seriousness and unworldliness, so
to speak, is observable about the tone of the
place, which is remarkable, and perhaps — considering
the cause of it — somewhat touching.
At Nice you may spend your winter in gaiety
and, if you like, in dissipation, and you may
manage to fight pretty successfully against
reflection; but at Mentone you must lead a
quiet life, you must fall back, to some extent, on
your own resources, and you must think.

The superiority of the Mentone climate over
that of Nice has been established by the almost
universal opinion of those who have made this subject
a study. The violent storms of wind which are
so common at Nice are only found at Mentone in
a very modified form, and are of more rare occurrence.
The Nice wind is indeed a thing apart,
and can hardly be appreciated by any who have
not themselves had experience of it. It is arid,
furious, withering, and is accompanied by such
whirling clouds of fine dust, that the unhappy
wayfarer who happens to be out of doors when
the storm comes on, is involved, in a moment,
in a dense cloud of infinitesimal sandy particles,
which, like a London fog, renders the objects
about him entirely invisible, even if he dared
open his eyes, which it would be the height of
imprudence to do.

The first intimation which he receives of
mischief brewing, is a peculiar one. A sort of
darkness suddenly comes on when the daylight
should be at its brightest, and (this when
the wind itself is as yet inaudible) all the
doors, which are most likely numerous, belonging
to his apartment begin to rattle. The effect
of this is very peculiar, and in no wise exhilarating.
A terrific roar is presently heard outside;
then the jalousies begin to flap and
rattle, then the wind makes a rush at the building
in which our stay-at-home friend is sitting
before a wood fire, and finding ingress by the
chimney, crams the smoke down it (as the
ramrod drives the charge into a gun-barrel)
and discharges it into the room in a massive