upon a bed of these, you take note of the utter
seclusion of the place in which they grow, you
look around in search of some human dwelling-place,
to whose inhabitants the flowers may owe
their existence; and, finding no such thing, and
marking the almost oppressive solitude which
reigns over all the shadowy region round about,
a sort of fearfulness mixes with your wonder,
you snatch a handful of these splendid creatures
hurriedly, and hasten away, looking back from
time to time, and as long as it is still in sight,
to that isolated spot where the flowers which
you have left behind wave and bend in solemn
fashion before the spring breezes. The glorious
things of nature seem most glorious in this:
that they do not need our applause, or court
our admiration. We must seek them out if we
want to see them, and they are still prodigies of
finished beauty, whether there is any one by to
admire them or not.

In this beautiful land there are regions where
the narcissus grows in such profusion that the
ground seems to have a pattern on it like a
carpet, and mixed with these are legions and
legions of violets, which throw over the old
stone walls and banks of earth where they grow
the thickest, a sort of halo or mist of purple,
infinitely grateful to the eye. And other flowers
there are which grow by the beds of the mountain
torrents, and which the learned can call by
their proper names, while the unlearned can
admire them, thank Heaven, none the less,
though they may know nothing about them.
But many of these you must know well where
to look for or you will never find them, growing
as they do in retired, and sometimes almost
inaccessible places.

And besides this scenery of the mountain and
the valley, besides the olive groves, and the
terraces where the orange and lemon trees
grow, there is sea-side loveliness hereabouts,
such as the shores of the Mediterranean can
alone provide. Enormous headlands of magnificent
form, promontories where the pine-trees
and the myrtle-bushes grow down to the sea's
edge, and little deep bays, enclosed by these, in
which the water, of profoundest blue, lies sometimes
motionless as a sea of glass, or gently
chafes among the coral rocks, or in the waving
of a wand, when the sudden storm arises, dashes
against the very rocks which it was but now
caressing, in whirling fury, its colour changing
in a moment to livid grey in the passion-fit to
which it has suddenly given way.

Wonderful, wonderful beauty, both of sea
and land. Beauty of sunshine, and of calm, of
a glowing earth, and a still blue sea. Beauty
of the storm which changes both in a moment,
the land lying veiled in a gloomy and fitful
shade, and the water raging in dark ungovernable
fury. Beauty of the mountain ranges,
when the snow has fallen upon them in the
night, and when the morning sunlight reveals
them, in still and pure relief, against the blue
atmosphere behind.

The lovely scenes in the neighbourhood of
Mentone are within easy reach of those who can
only do but a very little in the way of walking;
and here again the place may be favourably
contrasted with Nice. About this latter place
there is beautiful country in all directions, but
then it is not close at hand. There is a considerable
extent of weary suburb to traverse
before you can get to it, and unless you are
strong — which, generally speaking, when you
go to Nice you are not — you are apt to
find yourself at the end of your physical
resources while you are yet among the villas
of the Carabacel, or scaling the heights of St.
Hélène. At Mentone it is altogether different,
and you may be in the midst of the most
beautiful scenery five minutes after you have
turned out of your own doors. This is by no
means a small consideration to invalids and convalescents
who can crawl as yet but a very little
way daily, and who do not wish that small
diurnal excursion to which they are limited, to
be made where there are villas enclosed in
walled gardens on either side of the way.

It is very well that the walks about Mentone
are so beautiful, and that many lovely scenes
are within easy access, for locomotion, except
by means of one's own legs, is both inconvenient
and expensive here. There are no stands of
public carriages to be hired at a moment's notice,
and if you want a vehicle, your only course is to
apply to a proprietor of carriages for it, giving
him due notice of your need, and making up
your mind beforehand that you will have to pay
somewhat heavily. Even the donkeys here —
which are very large and fine — are only let out
at a price which in many cases is quite exorbitant.
Indeed, it must be frankly owned that
there is, on all sides, a very strong tendency
towards extortion on the part of all the native
purveyors of every kind of commodity. But
then where is the watering-place, containing
any special attraction of its own, where you are
not plundered? We must not look for it on
British soil, at any rate.

The speciality here is the climate, a peculiar
air is in the market, and the invalids must bid
for it and pay the market price. The place, in
a manner, belongs to them. You see them
creeping about in the sunshine, with large white
umbrellas to shelter them from the very heat
which they require, with black box-shaped
spectacles which must be worn because of the
glare, with respirators, and camp-stools, presenting —
and more especially the young men
among them, who are very numerous — an appearance
which cannot fail to excite very sad
feelings. Sometimes, too, you miss one of these
well-known figures that you have been accustomed
to meet in the course of your daily walks.
In a few days more there is a new grave in the
English cemetery.

In the matter of church accommodation,
Mentone is particularly well provided. The
little town is built on a sort of promontory or
cape, in the middle of a very large bay, which
by this promontory is subdivided into two — an
eastern and a western bay. The houses in which
visitors reside extend round both these in a