let the
misfortunes and unhappiness and evil of others cloud his joy. After
all, of the quarter million pleasure-seekers who come to Nice each
year, the greater part are in as good moral health as yourself, and
very few of them have any more reason than you to be "in the dumps."

Unless one becomes engrossed in the study of cosmopolitan human nature
to the point of being sunshine-proof, one soon tires of the foreign
residential and hotel and shopping quarters of the city. They lack
"subjects," as the Artist would put it. But at the eastern end of
Nice, the Old Town, home of Garibaldi and many another Red Shirt, takes
you far from the psychology of cosmopolitanism and the philosophy of
hedonism. This is the direction of Grande Corniche, of villa-studded
winding and mounting roads, of the best views (if we except Cimiez) of
city and sea.

[Illustration: "The Old Town takes you far from the psychology of
cosmopolitanism and the philosophy of hedonism."]

A mountain stream of varying volume, but always a river before the end
of Lent, separates the _ville des etrangers_ from the _vieille ville_.
The Paillon, as it is called, disappears at the Square Massena, and
finds its way to sea through an underground channel. From the center
of the city you cross the Paillon by the Pont Garibaldi or the Pont
Vieux. Or you can enter the Old Town from the Place Massena and the
Rue Saint-Francois de Paule, which leads into the Cours Saleya. Here
is the most wonderful flower market in the world, with vegetables and
fruit and fowls encroaching upon the Place de la Prefecture. Behind
the Prefecture you can lose yourself in a labyrinth of narrow streets
that indicate the Italian origin of Nice. If you bear always to the
right, however, you either make a circle or come out at the foot of the
Chateau.

East of the Jardin Public, the Promenade des Anglais becomes the Quai
du Midi, renamed Quai des Etats-Unis in the short-lived burst of
enthusiasm of 1918. At least, the aldermen of Nice were more cautious
than those of most French cities, and did not call it Quai du
President-Wilson _nel dolce tempo de la prima etade_! Following the
quay and keeping the Old Town on the left, you come to the castle hill,
still called the Chateau, although the great fortress of the Savoyards
was destroyed by the Duke of Berwick in the siege of 1706. The hill is
now a park, surmounted by a terrace, and is well worth the climb to
look down upon the c