not so large or so closely packed, and the flowers may
be less rare, though scarcely less beautiful, yet they are grouped with
more discernment and harmonious taste than elsewhere. The great business
in these little "floral arsenals" is to pack the fragrant blossoms
carefully in cotton-wool, for transmission to all parts of the world,
especially to Covent Garden. Some are stowed in large round boxes like
cheese-tubs, with a hole for the stalks to come through. I could have
bought a bouquet here for seven francs which in London would have cost
almost as many guineas. There are also small boxes, which you can get
addressed and sent, post-free, for three or four francs inclusive. In
fact, almost the first thing visitors do on their arrival here, is to
send off one or more of these tiny boxes of dainty flowers to dear
friends in England. You simply pay for them and give the address, and
they are at once despatched. So large a trade is done that there is a
special Flower Post, and at the station a warehouse is set apart which
is generally filled with these flower-boxes, ready to send off by the
night train.

The culture of flowers in this part of the world is a very profitable
and important industry, and, remembering all the distilleries--such as
at Grasse--for making perfume, we can well understand the numerous
beautiful flower-gardens in Italy, particularly along the shores of the
Mediterranean. Italy may truly be called the "Garden of Europe," but it
is rather difficult to imagine that she sends her vegetables away as far
as St. Petersburg!

The river Var passes though the town, and falls into the Mediterranean.
Its valley, or bed, being spanned by a number of bridges, adds not a
little to its picturesqueness. At this season the river is almost dry; a
few slender streams wind in and out of the rough stones which form the
river-bed, and at these streams are to be seen hosts of women and
children, most busily engaged in washing, and the whole valley by the
river is white with the clothes of the numerous visitors, hanging out to
bleach and dry in the hot sun. At times, when the snow on the Maritime
Alps melts, this dry bed suddenly becomes a foaming, roaring torrent,
and signals are given from the upper stream to warn people of the
approaching rush of water. Instances of women engaged at their washing
being carried away by the torrent have frequently occurred.

The harbour of Nice is but a small affair, and only capable of