On the first visit we came to scale the walls of this old city which was much like Eze and commanded the sea from a great eminence. But after Eze it was not Ventimiglia that interested me so much as the fact that Italy was so different from France. In landing at Fishguard I had felt the astonishing difference between England and the United States. In landing at Calais the atmosphere of England had fallen from me like a cloak and France--its high color and enthusiasm--had succeeded to it. Here this day, stepping off the train at Ventimiglia only a few miles from Monte Carlo, I was once more astonished at the sharp change that had come over the spirit of man. Here were Italians, not French, dark, vivid, interesting little men who, it seemed to me, were so much more inclined to strut and stare than the French that they appeared to be vain. They were keen, temperamental, avid, like the French but strange to say not so gay, so light-hearted, so devil-may-care. Italy, it seemed to me at once, was much poorer than France and Barfleur was very quick to point it out. “A different people,” he commented, “not like the French, much darker and more mysterious. See the cars--how poor they are. You will note that everywhere. And the buildings, the trains--the rolling stock is not so good. Look at the houses. The life here is more poverty-stricken. Italy is poor--very. I like it and I don’t. Some things are splendid. My mother adores Rome. I crave the French temperament. It is so much more light-hearted.” So he rambled on. It was all true--accurate and keenly observed. I could not feel that I was anywhere save in a land that was seeking to rehabilitate itself but that had a long way to go. The men--the officials and soldiery of whom there were a legion clad in remarkable and even astonishing uniforms, appealed to my eye, but the souls of them to begin with, did not take my fancy. I felt them to be suspicious and greedy. Here for the first time I saw the uniform of the Italian _bersaglieri_: smart-looking in long capes, round hats of shiny leather with glossy green rooster feathers, and carrying short swords. This night as I crossed the border after leaving Garaban I thought of all I had seen the day I came with Barfleur. When we reached Ventimiglia it was pitch dark and being alone and speaking no Italian whatsoever, I was confused by the thought of approaching difficulties. Presently a customs inspector descended on me--a large, bearded individual who by signs made me understand that I had to go to the baggage car and open my trunk. I went. Torches supplied the only light: I felt as though I were in a bandit’s cave. Yet I came through well enough. Nothing contraband was found. I went back and sat down, plunging into a Baedeker for Italian wisdom and wishing gloomily that I had read more history than I had.