The cemetery of Mentone, surmounting the hill, on the ridge and slopes of which the old town is built, has a picturesque look from below. As usual abroad, the Protestant ground is separated from the Roman Catholic; the Catholics, by the narrow feeling of religious exclusiveness, refusing Protestants burial in the same ground with themselves. But it collects the strangers the more together, and it is painful to walk round and think of the many who are buried so far away from their homes and friends. We have seen at different places one or two funerals, when the English service was performed, but at Cannes had the opportunity of witnessing a funeral service conducted by the French Protestant clergyman. He was a remarkably fine–looking old gentleman, and in place of a formal service, or perhaps in addition to it, for we had not arrived at the commencement, he made a very touching address to the relations and others present, and offered a simple earnest prayer. We could not help thinking that it was so very much more appropriate than the formal service of the Church of England, however stately and beautiful, which so often is rattled over without much appearance of feeling, and is uniformly the same to all. * * * * * We were three months in Mentone during our first winter there, and, as may be gathered from what I have previously said, we had ample means of spending the days pleasantly. Perhaps the evenings, though pleasant, had too much of the public life about them, living so much in family with others. We occasionally longed for the quietness of home life, which could not be said to be had by simply retreating to our rooms. Sometimes the evening was varied, as I have elsewhere mentioned, by little entertainments, such as conjurors with their tricks. But we had, even amidst all the pleasant days we spent there, some peculiarly red letter days, embracing our more extensive excursions, and days to be noted. * * * * *