The slopes to the sea-shore, after passing Grimaldi, if less picturesque, possess an interest from archæological circumstances. The land, rich and beautiful, had pertained to a number of families of distinction, each with a palazzo of old Italian architecture, the approach to which had been by lofty gateways, surmounted by heraldic devices, and opening on the old Roman way. As that way is now broken up, and all but impassable, the palazzos are in the awkward position of being left without a road. All that can be done is to make pathways down to them from the modern Corniche, and in a country where donkeys play so important a part in social economy, the absence of regular roads is perhaps not esteemed a serious inconvenience. If anybody wants to buy a palace with fifty to a hundred acres of land on the borders of the Mediterranean, here is his chance. Revolutions and what not have cleared out the old families. The actual proprietors are living somewhere in penury and obscurity; their palazzos are shut up, with boards in the windows instead of glass; and the only major-domo is a peasant dwelling in an outhouse, to take charge of the grounds. Several properties were pointed out to me (1869) as being for sale. The idea of making an investment in Italy may not be pleasing. One never knows what may turn up. Possibly, this is being too sensitive. Distance is said ‘to lend enchantment to the view,’ but it sometimes also lends unnecessary apprehensions. On the spot, everything looks as composed and harmless as may be, and whatever political turmoils may occur, this cosy nook in the Riviera offers a retreat not likely to be molested. It is a great thing to acquire a palazzo and the importance of a seigneur for two or three thousand pounds—to make your own oil and wine, eat your own oranges and figs, and have boating and yachting to any imaginable amount. It is something in the catalogue of recommendations, that the authorities at the neighbouring town of Ventimiglia are delighted (and no wonder) to see Englishmen buying properties about them; any one, therefore, settling down in the neighbourhood, may expect to be treated with profound civility and consideration. Then, think of being within an hour’s drive of France—Mentone quite at hand, whence friends can come to see you on all occasions during the season, and the douaniers at the frontier giving no sort of trouble. I retain a vivid recollection of the richly-prolific grounds which environ these old and traditionally dignified palazzos. Peeping within the gateway, you see an enclosure exuberant in orange, citron, and fig trees, with vines trained from pillar to pillar over the silent approach. Amidst the foliage towers the old gray battered edifice, shut up, and sorrowful, with nothing to animate the scene but the swallows wheeling in their busy flight around the deserted mansion. My visit to these palazzos was in the month of January, when peas (probably raised for market) were in full bloom.