a minaret of pinnacles and pyramids and dome bubbles, with windows showing heavy bells, old clocks, and sundials painted on the walls, and a cupola of green and yellow tiles like serpent-scales, to crown the whole.  The sea lies beyond, and the house-roofs break it with grey horizontal lines.  Then there are convents, legions of them, large white edifices, Jesuitical apparently for the most part, clanging importunate bells, leaning rose-blossoms and cypress-boughs over their jealous walls.

Lastly, there is the port—­the mole running out into the sea, the quay planted with plane-trees, and the fishing-boats—­by which San Remo is connected with the naval glory of the past—­with the Riviera that gave birth to Columbus—­with the Liguria that the Dorias ruled—­with the great name of Genoa.  The port is empty enough now; but from the pier you look back on San Remo and its circling hills, a jewelled town set in illimitable olive greyness.  The quay seems also to be the cattle-market.  There the small buff cows of North Italy repose after their long voyage or march, kneeling on the sandy ground or rubbing their sides against the wooden cross awry with age and shorn of all its symbols.  Lambs frisk among the boats; impudent kids nibble the drooping ears of patient mules.  Hinds in white jackets and knee-breeches made of skins, lead shaggy rams and fiercely bearded goats, ready to butt at every barking dog, and always seeking opportunities of flight.  Farmers and parish priests in black petticoats feel the cattle and dispute about the price, or whet their bargains with a draught of wine.  Meanwhile the nets are brought on shore glittering with the fry of sardines, which are cooked like whitebait, with cuttlefish—­amorphous objects stretching shiny feelers on the hot dry sand—­and prickly purple eggs of the sea-urchin.  Women go about their labour through the throng, some carrying stones upon their heads, or unloading boats and bearing planks of wood in single file, two marching side by side beneath one load of lime, others scarcely visible under a stack of oats, another with her baby in its cradle fast asleep.

San Remo has an elder brother among the hills, which is called San Romolo, after one of the old bishops of Genoa.  Who San Remo was is buried in remote antiquity; but his town has prospered, while of San Romolo nothing remains but a ruined hill-convent among pine-trees.  The old convent is worth visiting.  Its road carries you into the heart of the sierra which surrounds San Remo, a hill-country something like the Jura, undulating and green to the very top with maritime pines and pinasters.  Riding up, you hear all manner of Alpine sounds; brawling streams, tinkling cowbells, and herdsmen calling to each other on the slopes.  Beneath you lies San Remo, scarcely visible; and over it the great sea rises ever so far into the sky, until the white sails hang in air, and cloud and sea-line melt into each other indistinguishably.  Spanish chestnuts surround the monastery with bright