Mentone is not a place to attract fashionable and gay visitors, they have no public gardens, no places of amusement, most visitors are supposed to be invalids. They have a promenade by the sea and a pavilion, but you never see many people about. I think they must all go to Monte Carlo or Nice when they want to see a little life. Mentone is hemmed in and sheltered from the north and east by the French Alps (Alps Maratimes); they form a bold back ground with bristling spurs, and valleys, and ravines down to the shores of the Mediterranean. It seems a strange contrast to have the wild snow-clad mountains in the back ground with peas five feet in pod, and oranges and lemons in galore. The old town of Mentone which, up to a few years ago, belonged to Italy, consists of tall houses and narrow streets. Some of these streets are looped together with stonework to give them firmness should an earthquake take place, which gives them a peculiar appearance. Since it came into the hands of the French, and became a sanatorium for lung diseases, a new town of large hotels and pretty villas around the bay and up the hill side has sprung up.

The French seem to possess an exquisite taste in building their villas that you never see in England. It is not the architecture alone, but the work, the little extra finish, ornamental steps, balconies, balustrading, the vases, statuettes bearing lamps, all adding to its happy appearance. They are all cemented outside, some perfectly white and others tinted with distemper. The climate never seems to discolour or destroy their freshness.

We made Mentone a centre, and stayed here. Nice, Monaco, Monte Carlo, and San Remo are only a few miles distant. Nice has long been famous for its annual fetes, and even more so of late. Our Royal Prince was present at the last Carnival. In going through Covent Garden Market we wonder where the Spring flowers come from–the violets, the roses, &c. It is Nice and the neighbourhood that sends them. There are large shops with heaps of flowers where they pack them very carefully and send them to London and Paris. You can buy a small assortment for two or three francs, and send them to England at a very small cost. I was almost forgetting to mention that it is the flowers that form one of the principal features in making up the display at the Carnival. We were a fortnight too late to witness this display, but in Mentone we saw the Battle of Flowers, a small affair compared with that of Nice, but still characteristic. Along the streets was a profuse display of bunting, lining the parapets with flags on Venetian masts, a gaily decorated grand stand or tribune on each side of the road, filled with ladies and children, each provided with a large basket or hamper of flowers. At two o’clock the mayor opens the fair, or rather two or three gendarmes come galloping along followed by the mayor, the band strikes up and the battle commences; ladies, gentlemen, and children dressed in fancy costumes; carriages dressed even to the spokes of the wheels; coachmen decorated even to their whips; some with masks and trunk hose; boys on donkeys; gay carriages with fashionable residents; and visitors following each other in rapid succession; the spectators defending and the occupants of the chariots attacking, not forgetting to give their particular friend a bob in the eye with a bunch as they sweep past. The battle lasted about two hours, and the roadway was covered with flowers by the time they had exhausted their supply. We were told some of the carriages cost £50 and even £100 to decorate and supply with flowers as ammunition.

Monte Carlo and Monaco are only three and four miles from Mentone, a lovely walk along the coast. Monaco is the old town, built on a peninsular rock raised some hundreds of feet above the sea, where Prince Grimaldi has his palace, and a curious little kingdom it is; he can see it all from his bed-room window. He lives in state, and has an army of eight. The sergeant was busy drilling his last recruit when we were there. There are only two streets in this little town, and they are very narrow. There is not room to build another house, but they have built on the table land adjoining, and this is what is called Monte Carlo, one of the most beautiful spots in the world. I can never forget the two days we were here, because they were faultless days, the sky was blue and so was the Mediterranean, as blue as ever I had seen it painted. A gentle slope of high table land with the Maratime Alps for a back ground. Portions of the approaches or lower parts of the mountains are covered with sombre-looking olive groves, while the lower ground, sloping down to the sea, is laid out as ornamental gardens–rare specimens of shrubbery of distant lands, semi-tropical plants, such as palm and aloes, evergreen shady bowers, fountains and cascades. The walks and borders are so clean and perfect that you could not find a scrap of paper or a loose pebble. The name of Monte Carlo, in my mind, was associated with sharpers, cut throats, and other pests such as we see in England associated with the turf, where you would require to look after the safety of your pocket, but in this respect we were quite mistaken, every thing is quiet and orderly there–there is a gendarme at every point. The Grand Casino is a magnificent building, situated in the Gardens. Strangers or visitors are only admitted, i.e., no inhabitants of the town or neighbourhood. All the visitor has to do is to enter his or her name in a book, and state the hotel where he or she is staying. Everywhere is free, no fees are expected. There is a fine reading-room, plentifully supplied with newspapers and periodicals from all nations. There is a large crush room or promenade, where you may enjoy the weed. Leading from this is a very gorgeous concert room–a constant orchestra of over 100 musicians are always kept; performances of high-class music are given twice a day. The other–a greater portion of the buildings–is where the tables are, eight in number. The gaming business commences at eleven in the morning and finishes at eleven at night. The tables are presided over by croupiers, who pay and receive the money and spin the wheel of fortune or deal the cards. The players are standing or seated round the table; everybody is quiet, all the noise you hear is the declaring of the winning number and the clinking of the money as it is raked in or shovelled out. The players consist of all classes, young and old of all nations, from gay and licentious to the blue stocking of the dorcas meeting–a large proportion are women–staking from 5 francs to 1000 francs and more. The business is profitable to the proprietors of the tables, keeps Prince Grimaldi a prince, and pays all the taxes in the town.

The principal object of our journey to the “Sunny South” was health, to be best acquired by rest and sea breezes. It was now time to take ship.

I had not an opportunity of shooting any brigands while in Italy, because at Vintemille, they took charge of a very nice six-shooter lent me by my friend, Jupiter. It happened just on the Italian frontier. If you wish to carry a pistol it must be a foot long, and you must carry it in a belt around the waist. My companion was wrath to see these friendly Italians rudely destroying some choice plants and roots he had so carefully collected at Mentone, saying, “not possibul, coller ha,” being afraid of having cholera thus imported into Italy.

From Genoa we took berths by the Florio Rubittino steamer “Asia.” Having twelve hours to wait at Leghorn we landed and went to Pisa to see the leaning tower, the cathedral, and baptistry–a quiet, clean old town, its greatness is recorded in ancient history. The only noticeable feature about Leghorn is its fine harbour.

Two more days’ delightful sailing along the coast, passing the small barren island of Elba, where the first Napoleon was banished to for a time. Nearing the bay of Naples, the first land sighted is the island of Ischia, where 2000 people lost their lives in 1883 by an earthquake. It was evening when we sighted Vesuvius, about twenty-five miles away, a red glare of fire issuing from its summit. As we entered the bay, Naples looked as if it was illuminated, the rows of gas lights so regular in line above each other; the night was fine and clear, and the scene enchanting. We were too late that night to be cleared by the Customs, so slept on board. Early in the morning we were awakened by the cries of human voices belonging to the Neapolitan boatmen waiting for their prey. Before breakfast we went on deck to have a morning view of the bay of Naples. It was fine, the sun was up. The bay looks like an inland sea of twenty miles in width. The islands of Capri and Ischia stand at the opening of the bay, and so close up the view to the open sea. The bold outline of the mountains, the towns and villages can be seen here and there on some elevated spot, the atmosphere being so fine, and the sea glistening placid and clear. To the south of the bay stands Vesuvius, steaming and smoking, throwing up its vapours to the sky, by night a bright red glare; at the crown of the bay stands the far-famed Naples, with its many-tinted houses piled one above another up the hill that skirts the bay, crowned by the colossal castle of Elmo. The curve of the bay is broken in the centre by a small mole, on which stands the ruined-looking castle Dell Ova and the Palace Royal, and further north, on the rising ground stands modern Naples, laid out with fine hotels, villas, and gardens.

We left the steamer here to take another when we wished to proceed further South. Here, as in all the Mediterranean ports, we were anchored in the bay; hundreds of boats were clustered around our steamer, and a ragged, noisy lot they were. We landed, were searched and counter searched before we were clear, and able to drive to our hotel. Naples is a place we have heard much of, writers have painted it in words and artists in oil–they say, “see Naples and then die.” If you happened to be a nervous man or troubled with heart disease, you would soon die. I have been in Scotland Road Market on Saturday night, I have been on London Bridge, the greatest thoroughfare in the world, but in the Toledo, the Strada del Mola, and the Strada del Piliera, you will hear noises far greater in volume and variety than in London. I think it must be the language that helps them on, every word appears to end with a ee, oo, ii; they whistle, they shout, rush and jostle you about, and as the streets are narrow you have to look after yourself or be run over. The sense of smell will have a feast, with a few new specimens which permeate the air on every side; outdoor cooking arrangements, vegetables, and other mystic messes simmering and spluttering in fat or oil. Their sanitary arrangements are worse than in Paris, and their sense of decency is less shameless.

Naples like Genoa, in the old portion of the town, is so closely huddled together, and the streets are so steep and narrow, that no vehicles can pass up. They are generally so littered up with baskets and hampers that foot passengers have a difficulty in threading their way. The shoemaker brings his bench outside, and plys his trade in the open street; the tailor with his clumsy-looking sewing machine, and his dirty-looking apprentice, are likewise busy on the parapet. The houses are eight or nine stories high with balconies, and washing on each storey. On a bright day the streets look dark because no sun can penetrate them, and the sky is hidden by the various projecting obstructions. If you look into a shop window, some miserable-looking fellow will ask you to go in and purchase. If you do so he will ask for commission from the buyer, you may be sure he will try and do his best with the seller. If you go into a shop and price a certain article, they fix a price they never expect to get; you say it is too dear, they immediately ask, How much will you give? and if needs be will take one-half or one-third what was first asked. There is no very marked difference between a Neapolitan and an Englishman. They appear to be of the same family as our English gipsy, dusky, with dark hair and eyes. Their dress, hat, and coat are much the same as our fashion, but still there is a difference; perhaps the pockets are fixed horizontally instead of perpendicular, or the buttons are different; their boots are more namby-pamby, in contrast with those the writer wore–there must be something. We were marked at once as Englishmen. The cabman would get his eye upon us, chase us about, back his horse across our path, and try and cajole us into his car; once in, he would be sure to try and take you to some place four times the distance you wished to go.