a cow, moving when it chooses to move, and standing while it feeds-will understand what I mean.

Another vetturino kept in front of us, and we were constantly meeting others, and passing groups of peasants, mules with gay southern trappings, and children with flowers for sale, one of whom we sketched, to her great amusement. Soon we could look down on the lovely little bay of Villa Franca, with its deep green water, and the Russian vessels lying at anchor; and every turn of the road gave us some fresh glimpse of the beautiful coast, bringing us at length within sight of Esa, a little walled town, perched on the top of a rock between two valleys, and looking down on the sea. Monaco lay far below us, with its new buildings and old walls, and independent government-as Lilliput must have looked to Gulliver-resting on the soft blue Mediterranean, which was showing us its fairest colours, changing and shimmering under the light, fading into a soft haze on the horizon, and deepening into glorious purple and green under the shadows of the rocks, and iridescent where the tiny waves caught the sunshine. Then Turbia, with its old Roman remains, came in sight, the road passing through the queer little town; and so, by a pleasant descent always close to the sea, we came to Mentone, which is very different from Nice or Cannes, with its one narrow street full of people (Easter holidaymakers thronging in from the country), growing at either end into a pleasant boulevard, with villas in gardens, and houses, large or small, à louer, bordering the road. High wooded hills rise behind them, and from the back windows of the opposite houses you look out upon the sea. The chief hotels are on the further side of the town.

We drove through an avenue of plane trees, and stopped at the Victoria, which is close to the water and at

the beginning of the main street, and more amusing for one night, though we were not especially charmed by the accommodation or fare. The sea was quite rough, and the great waves came in grandly; we walked close to it and through the little town, looking at the many good shops, pretty wood-work, and picturesque people. The whole place is surrounded by hundreds and thousands of lemon trees, in full bloom. We walked through a garden rich with their heavily laden boughs, the sun shining down through the bright green and yellow leaves on the long fresh grass, every branch covered with ripe golden fruit. The lemon masses much better than the orange, which looks stiff when planted thickly in groups; but these trees were like an old English apple orchard, the fruit and leaves being changed, and the air scented with the perfume of the flowers. There is something very charming in realising that we are at last face to face with this prodigal southern nature, so doubly beautiful in its fresh green life, after the cold winds we have left in England.

We breakfasted earlier than usual, and, leaving my father to indulge in a longer nap, walked up and down the little street, Rue St. Michel, the principal one of the town, visiting Amarante's bazaar (a shop of inlaid woods, and general depository) and the market, with the peasants crowding on the old stone step and wall that marks off their territory from the road, and hunting up some washerwomen in a queer back yard or garden, who let me draw them as they knelt in baskets perched round a great tank, and who were delighted at receiving some Italian gospels, which I fancy they considered as lives of the Saints. One old woman seized on a San Giovanni and reverently kissed it, and we find San Marco' is very popular.

We sat some time on the broad platform above the sand, watching the great emerald-coloured waves breaking