a damsel will glory in French attire, possibly a little Anglified. Then other groups of equally unmistakeable French. Here and there a solitary Frenchman steps out in full Parisian costume, with trig kid gloves, high chimney–pot hat, and smart cane or white parasol. And now and then a pale–looking young man, tended by an anxious sister or still more anxious mother, walks slowly past. He has come too late to obtain good. Had he come a year sooner, he might ere this, had it been the Divine will, have regained his strength. All health resorts abound with clergymen, particularly English and Scotch clergy—men of all denominations, whose ministerial exertions seem to necessitate occasional ‘retreats.’ Mentone is a favourite gathering–place for them. Here comes one, with a broad, low–crowned wide–awake (clerical undress), with white choker and lengthy surtout, his round face red and jovial, and beaming with laughing jollity; and alongside of him stalks a younger man of a sad and sallow countenance, whose greater length of coat proves more veritable descent from the apostles. He has just arrived from London, and is on his route to the great city of the Italian king—perhaps hopes to have a secret meeting with the Pope. ‘I can’t linger here,’ he says; ‘I am on my way to Rome.’ ‘Ay,’ replies the older one, ‘so I see. I am content to remain here; half way, you know—ha! ha!’ They stop a moment, shake hands, and as the younger one turns carelessly to go, he nearly upsets an old fisherman with a coil of ropes in his hand, a pending striped cowl on his head, and clothed in a short wrought woollen coat and indescribable trousers, patched, like the famous Delphian Boat, till no trace of the original remains. One trouser leg is down, the other is drawn to the top, and discloses a long, bare, dirty–looking, unwashed, hairy leg. The feet are shoeless, the body spare, and the face pinched, as if he saw more work than victuals, and browned, as if he handled more fish than _savon_—in all likelihood the very personification of the fisherman of Cæsar’s time. And now a nursery–maid with three lively little English children toddle along, the young ones attired in Mentone hats of narrow diameter, prettily decorated in worsted, but rather difficult articles to attach to the head. Fortunately the wind does not blow. And now jauntily trot up two riders—a young Englishman on a milk–white steed and lady on a chestnut. They are off for a canter along the road to Cape Martin. And then, as if in mockery, immediately follow an ass with panniers, in each of which will be found planted a fat, chubby, small child, looking dreamily contented or ignorantly happy, attended by donkey–driver, pleased attentive nurse, proud mother, and a big little brother with toy whip in hand astride another donkey. But here walks up an old friend, a divinity professor, presumably of the Broad Church; for is not the brim of his wide–awake broad enough to drive a coach and