scattered line something like two miles long.
Formerly there was only one church here, situated
in the eastern bay, but recently another
building has been opened at the other end of
the town, where the English service is conducted
under the excellent superintendence of
the Rev. W. Barber, of St. John's, Leicester,
so that no one — and this is a point of considerable
importance to sick people — has far to go
to church.

The town of Mentone itself is not by any
means a nice town. For an ex-Italian settlement,
it is considered to be rather exceptionally clean
and well kept, but this is not saying much. There
are odours, and apparently there are not drains.
Some say that the town is drained into the sea,
some that it is drained into the country by means
of an ingenious system in which casks and
donkey-porterage are combined. There are, in
fact, various theories extant as to how this little
settlement is drained, but that which seems to
force itself most strongly upon the convictions
of all dispassionate noses, is the theory that it is
not drained at all. Be the system what it may,
it is unquestionably odoriferous. But then, is
not this the case with every Italian town, and
have we not here the delicious perfume of the
orange-blossom to drown that other and less
agreeable smell?

Some, then, there are who would call this
town odoriferous, and some who would call it
dull; and doubtless, regarded from the point of
view taken by those who are fond of excitement,
and given to the pursuit of pleasure, it is dull.
If you cannot be satisfied with beautiful scenery,
and restorative air — warm but not relaxing — if
you cannot provide yourself with some occupation
which shall engage you for a certain number
of hours daily; if you cannot get recreation
enough out of country walks, excursions to the
neighbouring towns and villages, and a certain
amount of intercourse with the visitors to the
place, who are generally exceedingly well disposed
to be sociable — then it seems probable
that Mentone is not the right place for you, and
that you had better settle elsewhere for the
winter.

An attempt has been made lately to provide
some amusement for those who are capable of
availing themselves of it, by the inauguration
of a sort of casino at some little distance from
the town. Here you can read the newspapers,
and play at billiards, on condition of paying a
certain monthly subscription. Now and then,
also, a concert is given at these rooms, and sometimes
a few adventurous spirits will even attempt
to get up a dance. Such efforts, however, are
somewhat spasmodic in character as yet. It is
possible that they may prosper better hereafter.
The fact is, and this should always be borne in
mind, that everybody who comes here is either
an invalid, or is in constant attendance upon
somebody who is so. If you have got a leg to
stand upon, you feel as if you were a sort of
interloper who has no business in the place,
like an irregular customer who gets into an
omnibus full of commercial gentlemen who are
bound for the City, and all know each other —
"What the deuce business have you here?"
they seem to say by their looks. There are
some here, however, who have come with sick
friends or relatives, and who, being themselves
almost exceptionally strong and robust, wear so
defiant and sturdy an air as they march along,
prepared with baskets slung round them, and
alpenstocks in their hands to ascend the mountains,
that their carriage seems almost unfeeling
and entirely inconsiderate towards the weaker
Mentonists. It is certainly not the place for
strong and energetic people. There is nothing
going on, no theatre except a sort of booth with
a pay place outside, and which is never open.
There are, indeed, no evening amusements of
any kind, for the place is intended for invalids,
and they must not go out after dark. So the
friends in health are apt to find themselves a
little low in their spirits, and are apt to look
frequently at their watches, and to express
astonishment that it is still so early. The
sources of excitement are certainly not many.

There is the departure and arrival of the diligence
which travels daily between Mentone and
Nice, and there is nothing to prevent you from
looking on at these ceremonies, when you will
observe that all the horses have raw places on
them, and that all the raw places have buckles
rubbing against them. Perhaps it is this circumstance
which makes their tempers fractious,
but certain it is that you must mind where you
stand, or you may chance to get a kick. Then
it is possible to walk to the frontier, which is
not far off, and to stand in front of the stone
which marks it, with one leg in France and the
other in Italy. This is quite a grand sensation,
and he who so stands will invariably feel that
he has done something exceedingly clever,
something to be mentioned afterwards to his
grandchildren. The change of language is proclaimed
at once upon that stone. " France" is
on the French side of it, but on the other is
inscribed the euphonious word " Italia."

The two nations are in this neighbourhood
greatly at loggerheads, and the French annexation
is somewhat unpopular with the Italians.
Even the names of the towns are being Gallicised;
Villa Franca has become Ville Franche,
and Mentone, Menton. The pronunciation of
this last word has become quite a badge of
party. The Italian faction, adhering to the
original spelling, and pronouncing the final " e;"
while the French appear sometimes not to
understand you unless you pronounce the word
in accordance with the French idiom — Menton.

Mentone is by no means a gourmand's paradise,
and a sojourn in this town should never be
recommended to those who depend much upon
the pleasures of the table. It is not merely
that there is great difficulty in getting hold of
a cook with clean and wholesome views in connexion
with this great art, but that the materials
with which the culinary artist has to deal are
to so great an extent defective. There are no
vegetables at Mentone, only some very bad
oranges in the way of fruit, scarcely any fish,