Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

The following alternative spellings were identified and left unchanged.

• zigzags and zig-zags
• Broniewsky and Broniewski
• Petersburg and Petersburgh
• Niegosh and Niegosch
• Mahomedan and Mahommedan
• Roganovitch and Roganovich
• Vissegrad and Wissegrad
• trowsers and trousers

RAMBLES IN ISTRIA, DALMATIA,
AND
MONTENEGRO.

RAMBLES IN ISTRIA,
DALMATIA AND MONTENEGRO.

BY
R. H. R.

"Dirvi ch'io sia, saria parlar indarno."—DANTE.

IN ONE VOLUME.

LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS.
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1875.
All rights reserved.

PREFACE.

Every year more and more is the constantly recurring question ever put "Where shall we go to this Summer?" and every year the field for selection gets narrower and narrower.

In writing the following pages, my object has been less to make a book than to point out to those who are tired of the old beaten tracks, countries within easy reach of London, but seldom visited, and quite outside the lines affected by the typical tourist:—countries where at moderate expense and with total freedom from danger they may enjoy new scenery, receive fresh impressions, acquire new information; and if by so doing I shall have suggested to others one more field for exploration that shall afford them half the enjoyment which I experienced during my wanderings, I shall consider myself very amply rewarded.

CONTENTS.

RAMBLES IN ISTRIA, DALMATIA,
AND
MONTENEGRO.

CHAPTER I.

A CONVERSATION—WHERE SHALL WE GO FOR A HOLIDAY TRIP—ATTRACTIONS OF LAPLAND—REMINISCENCES OF ITALY—THE GRAND TOUR IN FORMER DAYS—HOW TO STUDY HISTORY—DIFFICULTY OF FINDING NEW GROUND FOR TRAVEL—AN INTERESTING COUNTRY WITHIN FIVE DAYS OF TEMPLE BAR.

"LET us go to Lapland!" was the exclamation which rang on my ear, as I was entering my club, one fine morning in the early part of June, 1873.

"Lapland!" said I, "what put that into your head?"

"Yes," replied my friend M—, in his rich, good-humoured voice, slightly flavoured with Hibernian Doric. "I hear that somebody has written a book about it. I have been everywhere else in Europe—and it is quite the place to go to now, you know. We shall pic-nic on Cape North and then drive across to Spitzbergen in reindeer sledges on the ice, it will be awfully jolly!" and his joyous laugh echoed through the hall. "Do come, like a good fellow," said he, "there will be just the four of us, R—, C—, yourself, and I, and you really must not say no, for we none of us can speak a word of anything but English, while you speak every language under the sun. So agree to it at once; let us all meet here to dinner, to-morrow at six, and then off by the mail to Calais."

At first I thought that M— was chaffing; but having now been joined by R— and C—, who at once chimed in on the same subject, I said,

"Have you any idea about Lapland, my dear M—, do you know anything about it? and what do you expect to see there?"

"Oh, dear me, yes," replied he, "it is a country in the North of Europe, surrounded on all sides either by land or by water, and inhabited by men who are four feet six high, and the darlingest little women just four feet nothing. They go to church on Sundays, riding on reindeer, and shoot Polar bears with bows and arrows! Oh dear, yes, I know all about Lapland."

"Not at all a bad account," said I, "but what writes Captain Hutchinson in his book? Is his description of Lapland very captivating?"

"Well," answered M—, "I confess I have not read his book; but go abroad I must, London is getting too stupid, and I have been everywhere else in Europe; and I want to see a country out of the beaten track, something I have not yet seen."

"Now, my dear fellow," said I, "though I have not been exactly in Lapland, I have been in Finland, and that, you know, is just next door to it; and knowing what the mosquitoes are in those swampy northern latitudes, nothing could induce me to visit those countries again in Summer, except for very cogent reasons indeed. But come now, tell me where have you been, that you say you have seen every other country in Europe?"

"Well," answered M—. "I have been twice to Italy, up and down, and done it as thoroughly as any man could do it. I have been—"

"Stop a wee," said I, "how have you done Italy? let me see, suppose we just begin in the middle, let us take Florence—no doubt you were there."

"Oh dear, yes, and such a jolly place, where one could live and love for ever! oh, yes,

"'Of all the fairest cities of the world,

None is so fair as Florence!'

"If it were not for the heat, and having been there twice already, it would beat going to see the sun at midnight, which we shall see in Lapland, old fellow. We shall see the sun going right round the horizon, neither rising nor setting—not a bit—but going just as in the old riddle we had when we were children, 'going round and round the house, and never touching the house.' So now no more 'shirking and lurking,' but let's be off to Lapland, and if there are a few mosquitoes, we can take plenty of flea-powder to protect us; there now, I'll stand the flea-powder—a whole pound's worth," and the laugh of that excellent fellow rings in my ears still.

Here R— joined in the conversation; he had never been to Italy, and his curiosity was raised by the enthusiastic expressions of my friend M—, in regard to Florence.

"Do tell us something about that place, where you could live and love for ever," said he.

"Well, what can I tell you?" replied M—. "Florence was the capital of Tuscany, and is situated on the banks of the river Arno, and it is a most delightful place. What more do you want? There is the charming Mrs. —, and her equally charming daughter, whose house opens just as the opera closes; and once there, one never thinks of leaving till three o'clock in the morning at soonest. Then there are the Cascine, the Café Doney, and the club, and my friend G. M—y; and then the churches and the galleries, and the pietre dure, &c., &c., I did every one of them."

"Where did you go when you left Florence?"

"To Rome, naturally."

"So all you know about Tuscany and Central Italy resolves itself into the Cascine, the Café Doney, and our friend G. M—y. Did you not even visit Siena on your way to Rome?"

"No, for, being fond of the sea, I went to Rome by Civita Vecchia."

"When you were at Civita Vecchia, did it not come into your head to visit the birth-place of the Tarquins—Corneto? only a short drive from Civita Vecchia, and one of the most interesting places in Italy."

"I never even heard of it," said M—.

I was going to say ex uno disce omnes, this is how la jeunesse doré of the present time travel on the continent—to finish their education, by the way! but my remark would be of too sweeping a character, for there are many exceptions to be met with occasionally. Still, though travelling is multiplied a thousand-fold compared with what it used to be even only a century ago, it is doubtful, I think, if travelling is as fruitful of good results in our days as it used to be in the days of our grandfathers, when, under the guidance of a well qualified tutor, young men used to take the "grand tour" with a view to completing their education, the foundation and groundwork of which had been laid first in our public schools, and then in our great universities. Now my friend M— was a charming fellow, well educated to a certain point, pleasant, agreeable, and good-tempered; he had travelled a good deal, and yet I may safely say he had seen nothing, and simply because he had not prepared himself for travelling with a view to thoroughly seeing the countries he intended visiting, and obtaining the information they could bestow. And how many are there that just travel in the same way! How many are there among those who yearly flood the approaches to the Eternal City who do more than lounge about the galleries, the Campo Vaccino, or the Pincian Hill! and who, if asked about the City of Veii (for instance) will simply open their eyes and say they never heard of it, where is it? Why, my good fellow, Veii was a great city, and its inhabitants among the most civilized and luxurious in the world, long before Rome was built. What! before Rome was built? he will say; and then if some mild reminiscence of the kind comes across his memory, he may, perhaps, recall some fleeting visions of Agamemnon and Mycenæ, taking it for granted that Veii, if anterior to Rome, must have been in Greece; but when informed that Veii was the rival of Rome, that its ruins were within twenty miles of the Eternal City, he will possibly get angry and think you are chaffing him. He, no doubt, may have heard of Etruria, but probably in his mind it was jumbled up with Minton's pottery; if associated with Wedgewood, it will be a point in his favour. He may probably have heard of Etruscan cities and Etruscan vases, but all his information in this line is terribly hazy; and so he dawdles through his sojourn at Rome, goes on to Naples, perhaps to Palermo and Malta, returning to England by the P. and O. steamer, imagining that he has seen, or done, Italy, as he terms it.

It so happened that I had made arrangements for another tour, and was thus unable to join my three friends in their intended expedition; but the following Winter M— and I went to the continent together, we spent four months in Italy, that Italy he had so thoroughly "done" twice before! and to his amazement, he had to confess that in his previous journeys he had simply wasted his time and his money.

We visited numberless out of the way places, having made Florence our head-quarters for Central Italy, and there under the guidance of Micali's Antichi Popoli Italiani, we dived into the history of Italy, beginning with the misty periods synchronous with the siege of Troy, illustrating them as we went along by visits to the ancient cities and cemeteries of Etruria, and thence through those glorious Middle Ages and their unparalleled works of art, which can nowhere be so well studied as in Italy! It was a surpassing pleasure to him, no doubt, to see for the first time all those wondrous things; but it was almost as great a delight to me to witness his raptures, his astonishment, as city after city came under our examination—Fiesole, Volterra, Chiusi, Cortona. This last, especially, struck him with astonishment, a city co-eval with Ilium, and still in our days a city preserving its ancient name, while of Ilium, periêre ipsæ ruinæ, and its very existence questioned, till the researches of the indefatigable Schliemann brought monuments to light within the last few months which have clearly identified the spot, and proved to a demonstration that Ilium really had existed, and that the siege of Troy was not simply a myth, a poet's dream!

I well remember helping him to measure the immense blocks of the ancient walls of Cortona, fitted with such wonderful exactness that the blade of a penknife can even at present be scarcely pushed in between them, and which still remain in situ without mortar or other cement, though probably thirty centuries have rolled on since those walls were erected by the ancestors of their present inhabitants. How I remember the interest he took in scanning from the hill which looks over the rippling water of the Trasymene Lake, pointing out the probable spot where those false-hearted Romans had rested whilst the battle was raging below, only to be overtaken, however, on the morrow by Hannibal and his victorious legions, who made them pay so dearly for their treachery.

"This is the way I like to study history, and this is the way never to forget it," said he. "I hated the very names of Tacitus and Livy, but how delightful I think them now!" and so we did do Italy from Agrigentum to the Alps, and from the Adriatic to the Mediterranean, and many queer out-of-the-way places we visited, and such scores of sketches we carried away; and a more delightful trip never was made before or since.

Captain Hutchinson, in his introduction to "Try Lapland," writes, "The difficulty of finding new ground for travel is increasing every year for those who, with but a limited time at their disposal, are yet tired of the beaten paths of Ramsgate or Scarborough, Switzerland or the Rhine, and pant after lands fresh and fair, of which they have never seen the photograph—where the gorgeous hotel with its elongated bills, and the pertinacious touter with his cringing greasy manners, are alike unknown."

Now to a great extent that pleasant writer is correct; but the man who rushing away from the turmoil and bustle of London life, whether he be lawyer, merchant, or physician, seeking for fresh air and scenery, but as far away as possible from those hackneyed tracks infested by the typical tourist, both English and Transatlantic, and by poor Marryat's "shilling-seeking, napkin-holding, up-and-downstairs son of a sea-cook" of an hotel waiter, need not go to the Arctic Circle to find all the above-named advantages, unless, indeed, he is bent on also seeing the sun at midnight, and his own body a prey to the mosquitoes.

Within five days of Temple Bar, or as we soon shall have to say, where Temple Bar once stood, there are as splendid countries to explore, as fine ruins to contemplate, as glorious scenery and as gorgeous costumes to admire, as the heart of man can wish for; and if the reader will trust himself with me for a little while, excusing the many shortcomings he will meet with in these pages, I will lead him over a trip I took last Summer which I think will fully repay him, though he will often have to make great allowances and deal leniently with the Author, who for the first time in his life rushes into print, just for the same reason that the stars shine above us, because he has nothing else to do! But if through publishing this little book he shall have opened up a new field of travel to those who yearly require to recruit their strength of body and of mind by a ramble in foreign lands, if he shall have added one more possible source of enjoyment to those within the reach of the many, he will consider himself amply repaid for whatever trouble he may have been put to in its compilation.

CHAPTER II.

MAN PROPOSES, BUT GOD DISPOSES—VIENNA—ST. STEPHEN'S CATHEDRAL—OLD CATHEDRALS—SANTA MARIA DEL FIORE—USES OF EAU DE COLOGNE—INSECT ATTACKS—THE UNIVERSAL EXHIBITION—THE GARDENS AND ACCESSORIES—THE LADIES OF VIENNA—NEW OPERA-HOUSE—ON THE DANUBE—A WEALTHY PRELATE—WISSEGRAD—ARRIVAL AT PESTH.

I STARTED from London for my holiday trip early in the month of June, 1873. The route I had laid out for myself on my departure was not exactly that which I eventually adopted, for nothing is truer than that man proposes, but God disposes. I had intended visiting the Crimea, and then crossing over the Straits of Kertch, I meant to have rambled over the Caucasus, finishing my trip with a visit to the Monastery of Echmiadzin, at the foot of Mount Ararat.

But it was not to be; I got as far as Pesth, when the cholera, which was then very active, not to say raging in Hungary, barred my further passage down the river into the Lower Provinces of the Danube, by threatening me with a quarantine of eleven days in a dirty lazzaretto, at a temperature of at least 90° in the shade. I would have risked the cholera, but I could not face the loss of eleven days in the limited time I had at my disposal, nor could I contemplate at all the horrors of an Oriental lazzaretto. All my plans were therefore upset; still the result was eventually satisfactory, as I think I shall be able to prove in the following pages.

After leaving London, I made straight for Vienna, by Brussels and Cologne, where I remained only a few hours, during which I visited for the twentieth time and more that exquisite specimen of ecclesiastical structure, its unrivalled Cathedral; every time I see it I admire it more and more, I think there are none to equal it, while most certainly none surpass it.

St. Peter's at Rome is a magnificent building, astonishes one by its size and its rich adornments, but it fails to impress one from a religious point of view. It might be a church, or it might be a grand reception room, a salle des ambassadeurs, or a colossal ball-room—whereas the Cathedral of Cologne is a church, a place of worship, and nothing else. I suppose there is something in the pure Gothic architecture conducive to this impression. There is but one other church I know of in the world which has the same solemn awe-producing effect, perhaps in a greater degree even than the Cathedral of Cologne, and that is Santa Maria del Fiore, the Cathedral of Florence. I have been hundreds of times in that grand old edifice, but never without feeling an overwhelming sense of solemnity and awe. It was not only the low murmuring notes of the organ sounding the responses at eve to the plaintive litanies of the Virgin, nor the deep tones of the full accompaniment to the Miserere mei Deus in the Passion Week, which produced it, for I was perhaps oftener there when all was silent, than during festive times, as I have always had the greatest objection to going into Catholic churches during service, gaping about and sight-seeing, to the evident annoyance and discomfort of the worshippers—a habit which, I regret to say, many of our country people too often indulge in, greatly to our detriment, especially in the less frequented places of the continent, where the people have come to regard us as heathens, and constantly to say of us, "Non sanno meglio, non sono Cristiani."

It was something more than all this which ever filled me with a feeling of intense devotion when I entered that grand old building. The severe simplicity of the structure, with no tawdry ornamentation to obtrude itself and take off the attention, may have played an important part in giving birth to solemn thoughts, together with the height and size of the three enormous pilasters which alone support the roof—the lofty arches, the vast depth and gloom of the aisles, the intensity of the shade, the deep silence made still more impressive by an occasional foot-fall—all would combine to proclaim this a house of prayer, and nothing else; a Temple in the fullest and most unequivocal sense of the word, offering to the old and the broken-spirited, to the infirm and to all who sought it in prayer, an assurance of tranquillity, consolation, and peace!

Having enjoyed my oft-repeated visit, and purchased a large supply of Eau de Cologne from the Farina gegenüber dem Julichs Platz, (and don't you believe that the others make it near as good), I got in the train for Munich and for Vienna.

I think I see a smile, slightly perhaps savouring of a sneer, from some of my readers of the masculine gender, at my purchase of a large supply of Eau de Cologne; but just let them hold hard, till they shall have endured the trials of hot winds and dusty roads in the daytime, stuffy cabins and the ordinary accompaniment of flea invasions and other entomological attacks in the night-time; and then if they have the luck to have any of it with them, they will discover the use of Eau de Cologne in allaying pain and irritation.

Travellers in all Eastern countries should have with them a supply of good Eau de Cologne, not for scenting their pocket-handkerchiefs only, but principally as a remedy. Some people suffer more, some suffer less from insect attacks; but I have seen a man, a strong, stout, brawny Britisher, set nearly wild by flea-bites, and I shall never forget his appearance, as he stood before me one morning, after passing a restless night in a very wild region in the South of Europe, like a patient with small-pox, and scratching away at himself for bare life. I am sure he would have been in a high fever that night, had I not bathed him with a mixture of equal parts of Eau de Cologne, laurel water, and sal-volatile. So don't forget it, kind reader, if ever in your travels you are likely to be in countries infested with insect tribes; whatever their nature may be, whether the mosquito which flieth, the flea which hoppeth, or t'other thing which crawleth, my nostrum will be found a sovereign remedy against them all.

Although the Vienna Exhibition was fully open, and that numbers were flocking from all parts to that most charming capital, which has so justly acquired the epithet of "le Paradis des Hommes," I was fortunate in having but one companion in the train all the way, and thus we both were enabled to extend our limbs and sleep as comfortably as in our beds. It is wonderful the amount of comfort one can obtain through life by the judicious distribution of a few cigars accompanied by a little silver!

At Vienna, I went—as I always do—to the Archduke Charles' Hotel; a little old-fashioned, perhaps, but unquestionably the best hotel in Vienna, and where the cooking is always undeniable. During my short stay, I went every day to the Universal Exhibition—the world's fair! but don't be afraid that I mean to weary you by dragging you with me through those confusing avenues of "all sorts," where nothing that was wanted could be found, and everything we wanted not was sure to be everlastingly obtruding itself before our eyes.

I confess that the Vienna Exhibition disappointed me; whereas the Paris one of 1867 left me nothing to desire; and all owing to the want of order and system in the one instance—while in the other, the arrangement was so perfect that there was not the smallest difficulty in getting at anything one wanted to find out.

But if the exhibitional department was less perfect in its arrangement at Vienna than at Paris, the gardens and the outside accessories were far more beautiful at the former than the latter; while Strauss's delightful band always afforded an hour's luxurious enjoyment in the cool of the afternoon, till the fearful braying of the steam trumpet, (they called it a Telephone, I think) drove one out into the Prater. Then the restaurants and cafés of the different Nationalities were so well got up and so picturesquely scattered about the Gardens, as were also the several buildings characteristic of the different Nations, and among which was pre-eminent for elegance of form, design, and execution, the kiosk of the Pasha of Egypt.

And then the Viennese ladies! I know I should have mentioned them the first, I confess it; confiteor, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, but, gentle reader, it was from sheer diffidence! I did not know how to approach the subject, I felt myself totally incompetent, and indeed I do so now! To say that at Vienna there are more lovely women to be seen than in any other city in Europe, is not saying one half. There are loads of pretty women to be seen in Dublin of a fine Sunday afternoon, especially among the middle and lower classes; but at Vienna they are not only lovely, but terribly attractive, and winning, and seductive; there are none like them anywhere else!

In the fine arts department there were many beautiful things to be seen; but as I promised not to drag the reader round the World's Fair, I shall keep my word, and shall only call his attention to two statues which greatly attracted me, one was a bronze figure of a Hindoo charming a cobra, the other a Negro running away, both figures perfectly alive!

I went twice to the opera, once to hear Meyerbeer's "Africaine," which disappointed me; and once to see a grand ballet, I think it was called "Eleonora," which did not. I had not been for several years at Vienna, and had, therefore, not seen the new Opera House. I was greatly struck with its size and beauty; it is unquestionably the finest theatre in Europe, and the arrangements are perfect. But Vienna is now undergoing such a process of transformation, and to such an extent, that in a few years those who knew it ten or twelve years ago will be utterly unable to recognise it. Even now it is one of the finest capitals in Europe, but at the rate it is progressing, it bids fair to surpass in a short time every other city, when the Viennese will really be able to give utterance with truth to their old saying, "Gibt nur eine Kaiserstadt, gibt nur ein Wien!"

After a very delightful week in Vienna, which seemed indeed far too short a time to bestow upon the most enjoyable capital in Europe, I took my passage in a steamer to Pesth, starting at six a.m., and arriving at my destination at about the same hour in the evening. The steamer was a very fine one, the accommodation excellent, the cuisine not good, but then I had been terribly spoilt at the Erz-Herzog Karl; probably had I been at a worse hotel, I would not have found so much fault with the cookery on board the steamer. The company on board was worse than the cookery—in all my rambles I don't think I ever met so unprepossessing a lot.

The large steamers that navigate the Danube don't come up to Vienna, but lie off the Island of Lobau, to which passengers are carried in a smaller steamer. The morning I started was drizzling and chilly in the extreme, in marked contrast with the weather of the previous week, which had been intensely hot; and when I sat down on the deck of the little steamer which was to take me down a branch of the Danube to the main steamer, I was glad to avail myself of my top-coat and rugs. In a short time we reached the larger vessel, and, having all got on board, we started at a good round speed.

From Vienna to Gran, the Danube is uninteresting so far as scenery is concerned. Its enormous volume of muddy water, wider than the Thames at Westminster, though still upwards of nine hundred miles from its entrance into the Black Sea, flows through a vast flat country; an interminable front of sallows and alders on the one side, and an interminable plain on the other, dotted all over with countless herds of white cattle with long black horns like the Tuscan oxen, and endless troops of horses; and as I gazed on the mighty flood of turbid waters, the old Italian nursery rhyme came back to my memory.

"Tre Ombroni fanno un Arno,

Tre Arni fanno un Tevere,

Tre Tevere fanno un Pò,

E tre Pò di Lombardia

Fanno un Danubio di Turchia."

We passed by Pressburg where the two sides of the river are united by a bridge of boats. We only remained a short time and I had no opportunity of going ashore, so that I could form but a very inaccurate opinion of the place; it seemed to me from its outward look as not now prosperous, but had quite the appearance of having seen better days.

After a time we came to Komorn, the celebrated fortress; if I had not been told, "There is Komorn," I might almost have passed it without observing it, so protected from sight are its bastions by the immense earthworks in front of them. Still down we steamed, and still the same country right and left met our view, till we came to Gran, the seat of the Prince-Primate of Hungary, perhaps one of the wealthiest prelates in the world, possessing no less an income than £90,000 per annum.

Here the scenery began to improve; the Cathedral of Gran, though in itself unclassical, and one that in any other place might be passed by unnoticed, yet served to relieve the monotony of the view. The river, which up to this had flowed through boundless plains, became suddenly contracted, and consequently swifter as the high lands approached the edge of it; and now with every revolution of the paddles the scenery improved, till on reaching Vissegrad it became absolutely lovely. Instead of the interminable plains, we now had precipitous mountains on either side, some clad with forest down to the water's edge, some bare, ragged, and rocky, but all lovely, quite equal to the finest parts of the Rhine, not even lacking a Drachenfels in the beautiful ruins of the ancient castellated palace of the Kings of Hungary, the favourite retreat of the learned Matthias Corvinus.

Nature has done everything to beautify this favoured spot, but man, as is too often the case, has done his best to mar it. At the foot of the cliff, the top of which is crowned by the ancient residence of the Kings of Hungary, on a beautifully wooded spot between the mountain and the rushing Danube, some enterprising German has erected, horribile visu, three villa residences, in the correct suburban style, a few yards distant from one another. Regardless of expense, everything about them, including themselves, is radiant with white-wash, except where green paint asserts its place. At first I thought it must be an hotel or pension, with two succursales; but no, the skipper assured me they were country houses, and seemed astonished when I said the man that built them deserved to be hanged in front of them; he could not comprehend me, he thought them lovely!

Often during my subsequent travels I thought of that lovely country between Gran and Vissegrad; such exquisite scenery, so diversified; such a combination of rolling pastures, of glorious hills clad with forests, backed by rugged mountains, with that grand old Danube rushing through the midst; such shooting and fishing, all in a compact locality, and only four hours by rail from Vienna; such a spot for a country residence could scarcely be equalled, and certainly not surpassed. If it were within ten hours of London, what a fabulous price it would command! but here no one seems to have placed any value on it since the days of Matthias Corvinus.

After going through this gorge, the Danube spreads itself out again, and the scenery becomes tame and uninteresting, and continues so till one reaches Pesth, where I arrived somewhat later than I expected.

CHAPTER III.

PESTH—HOTEL UNGARIA—BUDA—STORY OF AN ARTIST—PROSPERITY OF THE CITY—NEW BRIDGE OVER THE DANUBE—ST. MARGUERITE'S ISLAND—ANCIENT ROMAN BATH—CONDITION OF HUNGARY—FIELD FOR THE JUNIOR BRANCHES OF THE UPPER TEN THOUSAND—KEEPING UP APPEARANCES—THE TERMINATION OF TURKISH MISRULE—FUTURE OF THE DANUBIAN PRINCIPALITIES.

I DROVE to the Hotel Ungaria, to which I had been recommended, and where a most comfortable apartment and an equally good dinner gave me an avant-goût of a comfortable night's rest, in which I was no wise disappointed; and I can safely recommend the Ungaria as one of the finest and most comfortable hotels in Europe, without at the same time being extravagant in its charges. The only drawback I found was with the person of the porter, a most respectable man no doubt, but he could not speak either French or English; and I had to carry on all my consultations respecting my intended future progress with the hall-porter of the "Königin von England" hotel, close by. If that man could only be installed at the Ungaria, that hotel would be as near perfection as possible.

The windows of my bedroom at the Ungaria opened out on a balcony which gave me a splendid view of the "blue Danube," which, however, I never saw of any other shade but mud colour. Across the river, and just opposite, I could see the ancient city of Buda, with the royal residence in front, and a little to the left, on the top of the hill, the celebrated fortress which played so important a part during the last Hungarian civil war. A little to my right was the grand suspension bridge, guarded at each end by two colossal couchant lions, about which the following improbable anecdote was related to me.

The artist who executed them forgot to put tongues into their mouths, to loll out in proper heraldic fashion, and when the defect was pointed out to him as the lions were uncovered, he took it so to heart that he at once put an end to himself by plunging headlong into the river! Now when "le grand Vatel" committed suicide, because the turbot did not arrive in time for the dinner of the Most Christian King, there was some show of reason in the act, Vatel's credit was in some degree pledged to that dinner; but not one man in ten thousand would have noticed whether these lions had tongues or not.

Pesth seems, like Vienna, to be undergoing a process of rebuilding, and that on a scale of considerable magnificence. I was told that its commerce was daily increasing, and, certainly, to judge from the immense number of vessels moored in the river, the ceaseless passing up and down of immense steamers, the piles of merchandize, and the constant bustle on the quays, a very considerable amount of business must be done there. The grand suspension bridge which spans the Danube being found insufficient for the increasing traffic, a new one is in process of construction, to be built of iron on piers, and not a suspension bridge. It is to cost an immense sum, and will require to be well protected against the action of the ice on the one hand, while on the other it may become the source of considerable danger to the low land in its neighbourhood by arresting the free passage downwards of the ice, if not well looked after. I went to see the works at the central pier, and remained there some time watching the men at the bottom of the immense caisson out of which a donkey engine was incessantly pumping water; outside it, the river was running like a mill race at not less than eight miles an hour, and I was assured that the depth at that spot was fully forty feet.

After visiting the works at the new bridge, I went to St. Marguerite's Island, on which is a park beautifully laid out, and which forms one of the favourite promenades of the pleasure-loving inhabitants of Pesth. As it can only be approached by boat, it is frequented only by pedestrians; but in order to cater for all tastes and gratify those who enjoy a jaunt, there is a tramway running the whole length of the island. There are also some capital restaurants, and several bands play every evening in fine weather.

There is another park on terra firma, an imitation of the Prater at Vienna, but it is small and shabby. There were a good many people strolling about it when I went, but I did not see even one middling-good turn-out, and though one constantly hears of the beautiful horses and rare horsemanship of the Hungarians, I was doomed to be disappointed in both cases.

Crossing over the suspension bridge one gets into the old town of Buda or Ofen, in which are situated the Royal residence, the Government offices, and some of the palaces of the native magnates.

There is a fine street by which one can drive to the upper part of the town, which is considerably above the level of the Danube; but for pedestrians there is an easy, cheap, and quick method of getting to the summit, by means of a small counterpoised railway, which carries one up and down very rapidly at an exceedingly moderate rate. There is a fine view from the top, and several fine old palaces, but the most interesting thing in the town of Buda is the old Roman bath erected over some sulphurous springs, celebrated for the cures they perform. It is in exactly the same condition as in the days of ancient Rome, and consists of a large vaulted apartment lit by a circular opening in the centre of the cupola, and containing a large hexagonal piscina with an ambulatory all round. None bathe there save the lower classes—men, women, and children promiscuously; in the immediate neighbourhood, however, there are some very well appointed baths which are considerably patronized, and bear a high reputation for the cure of skin disease.

From all I could collect during the brief stay I made at Pesth, Hungary in general must be in a very progressive condition; and from the numbers of agricultural machines and implements, all of English construction, which I saw everywhere stacked upon the quays, not only at Pesth but at many other stations on the Danube, including large numbers of steam-thrashing and winnowing machines, a vigorous attempt is evidently being made to exploit the unbounded fertility of perhaps the richest soil in Europe. Land, however, is still cheap in Hungary, probably in consequence of the extreme love of pleasure of its inhabitants, who preferring to spend their days in the society of Vienna, Paris, or Pesth, draw exorbitantly on their revenues, till at last compelled to sell their lands in order to meet their engagements. Nice estates within twenty miles of Pesth, with good substantial dwelling-houses, and all the necessary offices for farming, with varied soil, vineyard, pasture, tillage, and forest, can be had sufficiently cheap to ensure a clear return of five per cent, free of taxes, for the capital laid out on them! A vast number of the agricultural community in Hungary are Jews, and it is perhaps the only country in Europe where we find the children of Israel as tillers of the soil; and I was assured by many in Pesth that they make by far the most satisfactory tenants—though naturally they require looking after occasionally, as well as their soi-disant Christian brethren.

When one reflects on the countless acres of the richest land in creation, which to a great extent are still unoccupied and uncultivated in the eastern and south-eastern regions of Europe, one cannot help regretting that some of our surplus population do not try a venture in those countries. I am thinking principally of that most unfortunate and ill-used portion of society belonging to the upper classes, and which, from circumstances beyond its control, is suffering from positive want in its struggles to keep up a respectability as necessary for its existence as the very air it breathes. The labourer, the artisan, the skilled workman are well off at the present time in our country; wages are very high and the friendly societies, to one of which almost every workman belongs, provide for them amply in cases of sickness, and in some cases even contribute something to the family when the illness terminates in death—not to mention the numerous hospitals and asylums, all open to the labouring classes, but which are all virtually closed to those I am now speaking of.

The working classes, with few exceptions, are all well off at present, and require none of our sympathy except when in affliction, when the richest and poorest come to the same level. They can afford to supply all their wants out of their wages, and lay out one fifth, and in many cases one fourth, and even one third (I am assured by good authorities) in drink, for the gratification of the only pleasure which they are capable of enjoying; for proof of which the police reports throughout the country will bear ample evidence.

But I will tell who really deserve all our sympathy and all our aid, the junior branches of our upper ten thousand—the families of officers, poor clergymen, poor lawyers, &c., &c., all struggling for dear life against difficulties of every kind; those are the classes who claim the greatest share of our sympathy, and to whom the regions above mentioned offer advantages unequalled any where else.

I remember when the Canterbury settlement was established in New Zealand, it was intended in a great measure to provide for the classes I have alluded to above; but the distance was too great, the mere cost of going out was a most serious drawback, at the very least ten times the amount required to land one bag and baggage in the centre of Hungary, or better still in Servia, among some of the most beautiful scenery in the world, the richest soil, the best climate, and the finest fishing and shooting that could be desired, where game laws and river preserves and licences are still utterly unknown.

I hate croaking; still, if one hears rumbling noises underground for any space of time, one is justified in apprehending an earthquake. For several years I have been hearing these subterranean noises, and year after year they have become more and more threatening, and the earthquake must come at last. But as a volcanic eruption, acting as a safety valve, often saves a country from the effects of a physical earthquake, so the timely exodus of an excessive population may save a country from a moral one.

By the very nature of my profession, I have innumerable times been willingly or unwillingly let into the secrets of the private affairs of scores of families; and I have watched with perfect dismay the misery, the poverty, the utter wretchedness that were screened from the eyes of the world by the decent exterior which was kept up in order to preserve appearances.

If with Asmodeus we could but lift up the roofs of a few thousands of houses in these prosperous islands and see the difficulties, the make-shifts, and the make-believes which are resorted to, and that in many cases where one would least expect them, it would make our very hearts bleed at all the anxiety, all the wretchedness, all the scalding tears which would be disclosed—all brought about by that great delusion "keeping up appearances." Well, all this living under false pretences, which is the distinguishing characteristic and the great evil, the real "social evil" of the present time cannot go on for ever. It is an evil of long standing, no doubt, but it has gone on increasing from year to year, like a falling avalanche, with constantly increasing velocity. The earthquake must come at last, if not averted by an emigration en masse of those educated classes to which I have alluded above; and the best, finest, healthiest, most fertile, and most accessible country, outside the British dominions, I hold to be, roughly speaking, that tract of Southern Europe bounded on the North by the Saave, on the South by the Bosphorus, on the East by the Danube, and on the West by the Adriatic.

"But, my dear Sir," I think I hear some reader say, "that is Turkey in Europe!" No doubt it is, but the Turks won't be there for ever, their time is nearly run out; the period of their wretched misrule over the Christian populations of Europe is nearly accomplished, and I still hope to live long enough to see those barbarous hordes recrossing the Bosphorus into Asia Minor, on their way back to the Steppes of Khiva and Bokhara, from whence they originally emigrated. They have ever shown themselves irreclaimable barbarians throughout. Look at the present condition of European Turkey, after centuries of Ottoman dominion; contrast it with the nascent state of Roumania, which only quite lately succeeded in shaking off its Moslem chains. Let us look at both countries, as they present themselves opposite to each other on the banks of the Danube. On the left bank of that river we have Giurgevo in Roumania, the port of Bukharest, where, notwithstanding centuries of slavery and misgovernment, the natives, now under the government of an enlightened Christian Prince, are all activity and progress—while on the right bank at Rustchuk, just opposite, in dark contrast to the Christian, who is trying to turn to account all the advantages of his country, the indolent, uncivilized Turk is still lazily dozing away, leaning against his ancient painted and bedizened araba, drawn by a pair of patient oxen, waiting for the chance of some solitary, silent traveller!

A new era is dawning, however, over these south-eastern regions, but much of their prosperity and future happiness may depend on the model they will propose for themselves in their efforts at civilization; whether the brilliant glitter of Parisian veneering and varnish, or the less attractive, but more solid advantages of British institutions. A great future is before the Danubian Principalities, may they use their opportunities with wisdom, and may they prosper!

CHAPTER IV.

STEINBRÜCK—THE SÖMMERING—FIRST VIEW OF THE ADRIATIC—TRIESTE—SHOCKS OF EARTHQUAKE AT BELLUNO—AUSTRIAN IRONCLAD 'LISSA'—CAPTAIN R. BURTON—FLYING VISIT TO SAN CANZIANO—SUBTERRANEAN COURSE OF A MOUNTAIN STREAM—THE KARST—WILD SCENERY—A THUNDER-STORM—CHURCH OF SAN CANZIANO—STUD FARM.

THAT odious and useless mediæval institution, the quarantine, having barred my passage into the Lower Provinces of the Danube, I determined to go to Trieste, then proceed by sea to Constantinople, and thence to the Caucasus, but it was written differently in the book of Fate!

The line to Trieste was full of interest; during the first portion of the journey I passed quite close to Lake Balaton, celebrated for its fish, and then after traversing some wonderfully rich plains, dotted here and there with patches of forest, and covered with herds of cattle, horses, and geese, which are kept here in vast numbers for the sake of their feathers, arrived at Steinbrück at one p.m., where I dined. Here, at the junction of the Saane and the Saave, the scenery became truly magnificent; we had been for some time following the banks of the Saane, and the mountains had been getting closer and higher with every mile we made, till at last they actually came down to the river, allowing a bare passage to the railway which followed its every bend.

Having finished our mid-day meal at Steinbrück—where the Pesth line joins on to that miracle of engineering, the celebrated railway between Vienna and Trieste—we resumed our journey, the scenery retaining its grand features, till having topped the Sömmering, we came on to the desert Karst and got our first peep of the salt water—the glorious Adriatic. Nothing could exceed the wild grandeur of the country on both sides of the railway, as the engines (for we had two of them) slowly panted up those steep inclines, winding in and out through the gorges of the Sömmering, now plunging into a tunnel to traverse the heart of a mountain, and now crossing a viaduct between two cliffs, over a precipice hundreds of feet in depth. Once at the top, our pace increased considerably, and by eight o'clock I found myself comfortably installed at my hotel at Trieste, on the evening of the 29th of June.

After a most refreshing night, I descended the next morning to the café on the ground floor of the hotel, and then heard for the first time of the severe shocks of earthquake at Belluno and its neighbourhood, which had been felt even in Trieste. Several lives had been lost, and one church nearly shaken to the ground.

After breakfast I went to pay my respects to our excellent consul, Captain Burton, and then hearing that the Austrian ironclad "Lissa" was outside the harbour, I took a boat and went to have a look at her. She is a fine vessel with a long projecting prow, and looks well in the water. Having sent up my card, I was received and shown over the ship by Lieutenant Count Petruski, who was most kind in pointing out every thing of interest connected with it. I think he said she mounted 12 rifled fifteen-ton guns of our Woolwich Infant type, and was furnished with a galvanic apparatus, by means of which the captain could fire a whole broadside at a time. Although she was only in after a cruise, and consequently not in the best of trim for exhibition, I was much gratified by all I saw. The men were a very fine set of fellows, the state cabins and officers' cabins particularly neat and nice, and should these lines ever fall beneath the eye of Count Petruski or any of his brother officers on board the "Lissa" I beg them all to receive my warm thanks for their kindness to me that day. I spent a couple of very pleasant hours on board, and as Count Petruski spoke excellent English, it made our interview all the more agreeable.[1]

Trieste is anything but an interesting place; though a couple of days may be spent pleasantly enough visiting the neighbourhood, especially if one has the advantage of the acquaintance and company of our consul, Captain R. Burton; the Burton of Harar, of Mecca, and of Medina; the facile princeps of modern travellers and pleasant companions.

Why is Captain Burton kept at Trieste? It is not a difficult post, nor one requiring a man with exceptional qualifications; and it does seem a misapplication if not a waste of force to keep a man like Burton at Trieste, when he could be of so much greater use elsewhere. The thorough and intimate knowledge that he possesses of Oriental character, his perfect mastery of Arabic, together with the knowledge he has of Persian and scores of other languages, not to mention the experience he has acquired of Oriental affairs, customs and idiosyncrasies, all go to point him out emphatically as the right man in the wrong place at Trieste. I spent some very pleasant hours in his company during my short stay in that city, and shall never forget the kindness I experienced both from him and la bella Contessa, his most charming and accomplished lady.

Thus far, my observations have been of a strictly selfish nature. I know Captain Burton's capabilities, I feel that he is utterly thrown away where he is, and I want a quid pro quo for my money—consequently I want to see him in some post where his talents and exceptional qualifications may be of some profit to me. The reader will perceive that I am strictly selfish and utilitarian, and that in writing as above I have not been led away by sentimentality in any shape. Had I been in the opposite vein, I could have said, I met at Trieste Captain R. T. Burton, who undoubtedly is the greatest of living travellers, and also second to none in that great phalanx of explorers, who from time to time have devoted their lives to carrying civilization to the most remote corners of the earth. He opened up Eastern Africa, and most probably discovered in Lake Tanganyika the mysterious sources of the Nile. He directly opened up the path and led the way which was subsequently trodden by Speke, Grant, Stanley, Cameron, and others; indirectly he pointed out the way to Baker, Schweinfurth and Gordon. To Richard Burton then is due the discovery of this New Africa, this great Lake Region, so fertile and so rich in the centre of a continent which fifty years ago was believed to be one vast uninhabitable desert. What has been his reward? He has been made consul at Trieste. Here is an inducement to our ardent British youth! I hear there is some talk of making him a K.C.B.; for myself, I wouldn't give a roll of ginger-bread for the distinction; however, let him have it by all means, but let us see him also removed to some more useful sphere of action where his exceptional talents and his great knowledge of Oriental languages may be of service to us. Let him be sent to Africa again—to Morocco for instance—at the first vacancy.

Having still to wait a couple of days for the departure of the steamer which was to take me on my trip down the coast of Dalmatia, I employed my time in paving a flying visit to San Canziano, where a good-sized river, after meandering down a deep ravine like any other Christian stream, suddenly plunges into the bowels of the earth, and after a mysterious course of many miles, reappears again at the surface under a different name, previous to losing itself in the Adriatic.

The little hamlet of San Canziano is about twenty miles from Trieste, it consists of a very small and meanly built church, with a good campanile however, with two sweetly-toned bells—why is it that ours are always so unmusical and woody?—a small wretched Presbytery, a roadside pot-house where nothing could be got for love or money, and half a dozen dilapidated houses. The drive however, was very pleasant, for the weather was warm and at the same time cloudy, so that we were never inconvenienced by the sun. The road, on leaving Trieste, goes by easy windings over a mountain clothed with oak, so beautifully kept, that it gives the idea of driving through some private park. On reaching the top we came into the open, and had a glorious view of the Styrian mountains on the one side, and the Adriatic on the other. After driving for a short time on the level, we again commenced ascending and soon got into the "Karst," as it is called; a wild barren tract where little or nothing appears to grow, and where rocks and stones seem to have rained down from heaven, not unlike some other spots I visited subsequently in Dalmatia, and notably in Montenegro. But this bleak and barren spot owes its absolute desolation, not so much to the rocky nature of its soil, as to the Bora, a north-east wind, which often sweeps across it with the force of a West Indian hurricane.

In many places on the road, traverses of immensely thick stone walls had been erected for protection against the fury of the wind, but notwithstanding all, the Karst is sometimes impassable when the Bora blows in real earnest, and heavy-laden waggons which have tried to cross it at such times, have been turned over and over like "leaves in Autumn weather." After travelling for some short time along this elevated plateau, we again began to descend, and soon reached our destination, where, having eaten the lunch I had brought with me, I started on foot, under the guidance of a native who could speak nothing but Styrian, to seek the mysterious river.

In less than half an hour's walk, I found myself on a grass-covered plateau of some miles in extent, fringed in the distance by lofty hills, dotted with clumps of fir trees, and after a few minutes more walking in an easterly direction, I suddenly came on a perpendicular precipice, upwards of five hundred feet in depth, which completely barred my further progress. The cliff on which I stood rose in a narrow valley, or glen, or cleft, as if the crust of the earth had cracked here for a few miles. This cleft, nearly of uniform depth, was not of uniform width; in some places it was so narrow that the smooth river which glided through it completely filled it from side to side, while in other places a sufficient strip of soil remained between the river and the cliff to admit of some amount of cultivation, and here and there a cottage.

This strange cleft, or valley, or crack in the plateau through which the river flows is of a most irregular outline, going zig-zag, in and out, just like the cracks one sees in a dried up pond at the end of a hot Summer in England. I was standing where this precipitous crack barred the way, by running exactly at right angles across the path, and here right under me at a depth of about five hundred feet, the river which could be seen coursing from a considerable distance at the bottom of the cleft, suddenly leapt into a cavern and disappeared beneath my feet.

Having made a rapid sketch of this extraordinary landscape—or, more correctly speaking, having tried to convey on paper some faint idea of what the place was like—I again followed the guide, who now, turning his back on the precipice, led me in a westerly direction, and brought me in a few minutes to the brink of a fearful-looking circular chasm, about fifty yards in diameter, with precipitous rocky sides, and from the bottom of which could be heard the distant roar of the river rushing among the rocks. The guide threw some large stones down this yawning gulph, disturbing some thousands of rock-pigeons who build their nests in the nooks and crannies of the rocks, and having timed the fall of one of these stones by listening for its splash in the subterranean river, I noted about seven seconds as the time it took in falling.

I now accompanied the guide through the little hamlet of San Canziano, and still going westward came just beyond the village on another chasm, of oblong form, about six hundred yards one way, and three hundred and fifty yards the other way, while in depth it was no more than about fifty yards. It looked to me as if this opening had been made by the subsidence or falling-in of the roof of some cavern, of which the limestone rock of these mountains, as well in Styria as in Dalmatia is so full. The sides of this depression were not precipitous except in some places, and an easy descent led me to the bottom, across which stretched from side to side a fantastic ridge of rock pierced by a natural arch about the middle, and under which an opening in the rock gave entrance to another cavern, through which anyone desirous of exploring it could without much difficulty, but at the cost of some fatigue and the risk of some falls, descend by a series of about six hundred high and slippery ledges of rock to where again the river makes its appearance after its subterranean course.

As the day was pretty well advanced, and as the weather, which had been cloudy all the morning seemed now to be threatening rain, I thought it wisest not to venture on going further, although the guide had provided himself with candles for the descent. So I scrambled up the sides of the chasm, and was making for the roadside inn where the carriage was waiting for me, when the storm-clouds, which had been gathering thicker and thicker for some time, broke out at last into such a deluge of rain, accompanied by thunder and lightning, that I was glad to take refuge under the archway of the belfry of San Canziano, and from thence into the church itself, the door of which was opened for me by a queer little old dried-up chip of a sexton.

I am sure he said to me, "Pray take shelter in here from the rain," though as he spoke Styrian I could not understand a word, but his looks and gestures were as eloquent as words. Having walked into the little church, first taking off my hat, the little sexton became quite eloquent, and pointed out with evident satisfaction to every part of the chapel, which was poor and desolate in the extreme. Four white-washed walls, a wretched altar piece of wood painted in a few gaudy colours, and a crimson damask baldachino in tatters, which, stowed away in a corner, served to shelter the "Santissimo" when carried about in procession, two or three benches, a confessional box, and a lighted lamp hanging in front of the altar, constituted toute la baraque! but the poor little old man seemed delighted with himself and everything around him, and kept repeating in a shrill voice the only Italian word he apparently possessed "Bella," "Bella," to which I responded as in duty bound, "molto bella," and I trust I may be forgiven the cram; for I never told a bigger one in all my life!

The floor of this little church was formed of large flag-stones, in some of which iron rings were inserted, while in others there only remained the marks of where rings had formerly been; some had inscriptions, and I should have been interested in hearing something of the ancient tenants of these graves, but here the sexton and I came completely to a dead lock. "Bella" could serve my friend no longer, still he understood perfectly what I required, so when he sat down on a bench, pointing to me to do the same, I complied at once, and all the more willingly as the rain was still coming down in torrents.

The old fellow then commenced, and, pointing with his skinny finger to the central slab, entered at once into what, I presume, must have been a full, true, and complete history of the tenants of that grave, descanting probably on their virtues, and dealing gently with their faults; but alas! I could not understand one word. At last, I suppose the same thought must have struck "Old Mortality," for he suddenly stopped and bursting into a shrill, unearthly, and most discordant laugh, pointed to the sky which was now clearing, and held out his palsied hand, when I discovered he knew another word, not Slave, nor Italian, but this time German, "Geschenk!" I gave him the only bit of silver I possessed, an English sixpence, and left him seemingly contented.

The clouds had all melted away, and the sun shone brilliantly when I left the little roadside tavern of San Canziano to return to Trieste; but, as I wanted to visit a stud-park which the Emperor of Austria keeps in this part of his dominions, we took another route on my return journey. The country we now drove through was prettier than what we had traversed in the morning, and the road passed through some fine oak woods, which constantly prompted one to look out for a mansion, the country appeared so park-like—but in vain.

After a drive of an hour or so we came to the stud-farm, a collection of large buildings, consisting of several dwelling-houses, a spacious riding-house for exercising the horses in severe weather, three large stables intended to accommodate three hundred mares, and one lofty vaulted stable fitted with nice large loose boxes in which were kept the sires. The mares were all out at grass together with their foals, so that I did not see them, as I should have had to drive some miles in a different direction, and turn my back on Trieste in order to visit them. The sires I did see, but as they were not led out I could not form as accurate an opinion of them as I should have wished. They seemed, however, small, and not exactly the style of horse we would select in this country with a view to supplying our cavalry. The loose-boxes were commodious and the stable was well-ventilated; the weather being extremely hot the windows were closed with tatties, which served the double purpose of keeping away the flies, which always seek the light, and keeping the stable cool. The stable was fairly clean, but the grooming did not come up to our ideas. On the whole I was disappointed, and as for the produce, I should think that nothing but the very lightest of light cavalry horses could be expected from them.

We returned to Trieste by nine o'clock, coming by the old post-road from Vienna, and passing by that wonderful quarry of limestone slabs, perhaps the largest in the world.

CHAPTER V.

THE "SAN CARLO" AND HER PASSENGERS—A DALMATIAN'S REMARKS ON THE PRESERVATION OF HEALTH IN INDIA—DALMATIAN DIGGERS FROM AUSTRALIA—COAST OF ISTRIA—PIRANO—CATHEDRAL OF PARENZO—ROVIGNO—POLA—THE AMPHITHEATRE—PICTURESQUE SIGHT—GIOVANNI ASTONISHED—MONTENEGRIN COSTUME—ZARA—EXTREME HEAT.

On the 2nd of July I was up betimes. I had taken my place for Zara on board the 'San Carlo,' a small coasting steamer which trades down the Dalmatian side of the Adriatic, going in and out among that archipelago of islands which fringe the coast of Dalmatia from the mouth of the Guarnero to the entrance of the Gulf of Cattaro. It was a small, slow, and dirty little steamer, but it stopped everywhere going on its way, and that was just what I wanted.

Small as the vessel was, we had plenty of passengers, and a strange lot they were. We had two Capuchin monks going to Ragusa, one of them a most interesting man of whom I shall have more to say by and by; his lay brother, a simple, ignorant monk, and no more. We had a tall, handsome Dalmatian from Spalato, returning home to end his days in opulence and comfort after spending twenty years in India, where he had accumulated an independence which in Dalmatia will be considered a large fortune. He spoke English remarkably well. Being struck by his hale and robust looks, I asked him how he had managed to preserve his health so well after residing for twenty years in India. "Many of them," added he, "in unhealthy localities." "Simply by not drinking," he answered. "I don't mean to say that I was a water-drinker—not at all, for I believe that water-drinking is nearly as bad as spirit-drinking, and indeed I think I have observed that those who were 'teatotallers' died even sooner than drunkards. But I never drank anything before breakfast, I drank nothing but good, full-bodied claret, and I never took more than two bottles of it a day, and seldom so much; I smoked, but always in moderation, and I never had a day's illness during those twenty years. India is not a bad climate, it is the reckless habits of Europeans that make it apparently so."

We had two other Dalmatians from Sebenico, who also were returning home after residing many years abroad. These two had been in Australia; one had been a digger, and seemed the reverse of well-off; the other had kept a store at some gold-diggings, and had apparently made plenty of money. Both spoke English well, and the last one brought with him from Australia an Irish wife, who had emigrated to the Antipodes all the way from Lurgan. She was a fine comely young woman of about twenty-six, and was overjoyed at finding I knew her native place. In the afternoon I made some tea in my portable kitchen, and gave her a cup of it with some preserved milk, which she declared the most delicious thing she had tasted for many a long day.

The rest of our passengers consisted of country people returning to their homes along the coast of Istria and Dalmatia, after having been to Trieste to dispose of the produce of their lands.

As the clocks struck five, we steamed out of Trieste on one of the finest mornings that could be imagined. The sea was as smooth as a mirror, and of the most intense blue. How often we stopped as we went down the coast of Istria I cannot tell, as we were constantly heaving to for the convenience of passengers going on shore in boats which put off to receive them; we did stop however at Capo d'Istria, and then at Pirano, where I was able to take a rough sketch of that most picturesque little town, with its beautiful mediæval castle perched on the cliff behind it.

Then we came to Parenzo, where I should very much have liked to go ashore for a couple of hours to look at the cathedral, of which I had heard so much, but unfortunately the little business the steamer had to transact was done in a few minutes, and the Captain would not delay (probably because my bribe was insufficient), so I had to comfort myself with the hope of seeing it on some future occasion, when I trust to be able again to visit all those spots which interested me so much then, as also many other places in the same countries, which accidental circumstances prevented me from seeing.

The Cathedral of Parenzo, which I was so anxious to see, and which had been described to me by a friend at Trieste as a meraviglia, was founded by Bishop Eupatius, and completed in the year 526; it is therefore as old as St. Sophia of Constantinople, and older than any other Cathedral in Europe. "It is said to have a semicircular apse behind the altar, with the Bishop's throne, and seats on either side for the clergy, instances of which are now so rarely to be met with."[2]...

"At the east end is a round apse, as glorious in its mosaics as St. Mark's, or St. Sophia. Every part of the wall and rounded roof is covered with mosaics, &c. A group of nine saints and angels surrounding the Blessed Virgin and Child, on a golden background, is exquisitely done. Heads of saints adorn the arches, all are beautiful. Below these, to about ten feet high, the walls are inlaid with whole shells of mother-of-pearl let into a dark brown stone; it looks just like a piece of Damascus furniture, and though rude it is effective and beautiful.

"The flooring of the whole church is of course mosaic, in Byzantine patterns, the same as in Murano and St. Mark's; but one can scarcely look at anything after the wall mosaics, save the capitals of the columns. The pillars themselves are of a fine brown marble; the capitals are identically the same as those in Santa Sophia, one more exquisitely under-cut than the other into lace-work of leaves, flowers, birds, &c.; they are perhaps a little bolder than those of St. Sophia, but full of life and spirit, not a line wasted nor a thought thrown away. I longed to sketch them, but I could only hope they may one day be photographed; Jerusalem and Constantinople alone can rival them.

"The Baldacchino is exceedingly curious and fine, as are also the very ancient altar hangings. There is a splendid altar front, of solid silver gilt, of the Renaissance date. The interest appertaining to this is that it is placed at the back of the altar for high mass, facing the Bishop, who is seated behind the altar, as at Torcello; this is an ancient and I believe unique privilege.

"The Chapel of St. Andrew, at the north-east corner of the church, is very interesting and curious. There has been a porch or cloister at the west entrance, but only two or three columns remain of it. I venture to think this church is well worth a special journey from England to see. I could think of nothing else the rest of the day, although our onward voyage was full of beauty."[3]

We then came to Rovigno with its beautiful campanile, and here again I could not get half an hour to go on shore to look at it, though I believe there is not much more to be seen beside it.

At three p.m. we came in sight of the harbour of Pola—the Portsmouth of Austria;—but Pola itself we could not see, as it lies at the bottom of a bay communicating with the sea by a deep and winding channel, apparently well defended by numerous forts which surround it. The harbour itself is of very considerable dimensions, and so deep that the largest vessels can come alongside the quays.

Although so important a place, there did not appear to be much life or bustle about it. The country around it is flat and marshy, and sometimes in the year very unhealthy. It must have been, however, an important place in the days of ancient Rome, judging from the size of its amphitheatre, and the beauty of the Temple and triumphal arches which still remain, and which constitute after all the great attractions of Pola. They are quite close to the landing, so they can be visited with the utmost facility during the stay which the steamer generally makes there. The amphitheatre alone is worth a special visit, as the exterior of it is perfect, and at a short distance does not even look like a ruin. It dates from the third century and is very fine. It consists of a basement story about four hundred and thirty feet in length, by three hundred and fifty feet in width, surmounted by two tiers of arches, with half columns of the Tuscan order between each, all about eighty feet high.

Beautifully preserved as is the exterior, the condition of the interior is most disappointing, as nothing remains of the internal arrangement except on one side, the one furthest from the sea, where there are still a few seats cut in the rock, some even bearing what most probably were the initials of their owners carved into them.

What can have caused this utter ruin of all the accommodation for the spectators? Have the natives from time to time removed the building materials from the inside, for the purpose of building the modern town? not daring to lay a sacrilegious hand on the shell of the building itself, which bore no semblance to a ruin, while at the same time they treated the interior as a quarry! or were the seats made of woodwork, and destroyed by fire, as some have imagined?

The steamer always remains long enough to permit the traveller to visit the amphitheatre and the temples, as well as the triumphal arches, and to take a stroll through the Piazza. I did so, and still further improved the passing hour by eating an excellent dinner al fresco under a pergola of vines at the Trattoria of the place.

It was just dark as I got on board again, having been warned by the unmusical steam-whistle that the vessel would soon be under way again. Just before starting, a military band came to play before the Commandant's house, which is on the quays just opposite to where the steamer was moored. It being now dark, the band was accompanied by a score of soldiers carrying a peculiarly shaped lantern fastened to the top of a pole, to enable the men to see their music. At first as the band came marching down the quays with their lights dancing high up in the air before and behind, I could not make out what it was, and only for the liveliness of the music I might have thought it was a funeral, the whole thing was very picturesque and the music excellent. At last we got under way and steamed out of the harbour on our way to the coast of Dalmatia, across the Gulf of the Quarnero, so well known for its dangerous navigation and so much dreaded even by the hardy sailors of the Adriatic, when swept by the fierce impetuous Bora.

Fortunately for me, who am not the most intrepid of mariners, and who prefer admiring a tempestuous sea from off a rocky vantage point upon the shore, to tossing on its stormy waves, the dreaded Quarnero was as smooth as a millpond. The night was magnificent; the heavens cloudless, and studded with countless stars, but scarcely as bright as I have seen them at other times, owing to the intense brilliancy of the moon now nearly at the full. The track of the steamer was clearly marked out far in the rear by a broad phosphorescent wake, while the water which was dashed off from the paddles seemed like liquid fire.

The cabins were all occupied, so I had to make my bed on deck; but even if I could have got one, I never could have slept below, it was so hot and stuffy. I was soon settled for the night; a doubled-up rug laid lengthwise on the deck was my bed, and my dressing-bag was my pillow. It was so warm that I required no covering save my light tweed suit, and I was no sooner down than I was fast asleep. I don't know how long I slept; but I would have slept still longer, if I had not been awoke by the steamer stopping to put down and take up passengers and goods at some place on the coast of Dalmatia.

We had safely crossed the mouth of the Quarnero, the moon had set, and the blue black vault of heaven was studded with countless stars sparkling like diamonds. The steamer was hove to a little distance from the shore, while scores of boats, each with a coloured lantern at the prow, came and went, making as pretty a scene as can be imagined; but for all that, after sitting up and admiring it for a few minutes, I lay down again on my rug, and falling asleep never awoke again till the sun was high in the heavens the next morning.

By degrees the passengers one by one came on deck, when by making interest with Giovanni, the steward, I obtained the use of a camerino (cabin) to make my toilet in. Having completed my ablutions I called in Giovanni to empty my tub, for as the camerino was extremely small it was next to impossible to stand in it, unless with one's feet in the water. Never was steward so astonished and so puzzled as Giovanni was at the sight of my flimsy mackintosh tub; he had no idea of how to take it up to empty it, he was afraid to touch it until I had taken it up on three sides and showed him how to lift it, when he was so delighted with the whole arrangement that he placed it on the table of the cabin just as it was, and fetched down the passengers to see the ingenious English device. By the time it had been well examined and then emptied, I was up and dressed. When I came out of the camerino, I showed the assembled company how it could be rolled up into the smallest compass, and stowed away in a travelling bag.

There was no regular breakfast on board, but everyone as he wanted it got a cup of coffee and a bit of bread or a biscuit; preserved milk also could be had, but of butter there was none.

Our passengers had somewhat varied since leaving Trieste. We had deposited many on the coast of Istria as we went along, and taken up others in their place. We had a remarkable Oriental-looking woman, plain perhaps, and yet handsome, a Montenegrin of rank, a cousin of the present Prince, dressed in full native costume. She was on her way to her native country to petition the Prince to permit certain of his cousins, who had been expatriated for political causes, to return to their homes.

The costume of the Montenegrin women is not becoming; even this handsome woman, and the beautiful Princess whom I subsequently had the honour of seeing at Montenegro, failed to render it attractive to my eyes, whereas the costume of the men is eminently becoming. This lady's dress consisted of a sort of white chemise of fine lawn, tight, but gathered very full round the neck, without any frill, and open down the front for six or eight inches, where it was closed by a row of very small buttons. This white garment, which reached down to the ankles, was fastened round her waist by a massive silver belt, made in compartments three inches by four and joined together by hinges. Each compartment was highly ornamented with rich repoussé work in alto rilievo, and from a side-piece hung down several ornaments of the châtelaine species, while from the other side depended an exquisite little dagger in a sheath of silver repoussé.

The sleeves of this white garment were tight at the shoulders, but grew wider and wider as they approached the wrist, where they were upwards of two feet six inches in diameter. They were bordered with a rich margin of embroidery in gold and silver thread, mingled with red and blue silk, in excellent taste, and the same embroidery was continued up the external seam of the sleeve on the outside of the elbow up to the shoulder. From below the silver belt she wore a large apron of rich black silk coming down to her ankles, and over all a peculiar white cloth coat without sleeves, the typical garment of the Montenegrins, both male and female. This coat was made of a very soft white cloth, so close and yet soft and pliable, that although sitting next to her and touching it with my finger, I could not at once determine if it was cloth or some sort of beautifully tanned leather. As I said before, this coat was without sleeves or collar, but scooped tight to the back of the neck. In front it did not come further forward than about half way between the point of the shoulders and the middle of the neck, and then straight down like a sack till just below the calf of the leg. This coat was bound right round the whole way with a narrow pattern of embroidery in the same style as round the sleeves of the muslin dress, and in addition had a row of very small round silver buttons down the front on one side. On her head she wore a very large black Indian silk kerchief fastened into her hair with pins, and hanging down behind her back as low as her waist.

The costume is decidedly ugly, though containing the elements of great beauty, if only put together with taste and harmony. Nothing, for instance, can be more attractive and becoming than that black kerchief, be it of silk, gauze or lace, when gracefully put on the head, as the women of Spain or Genoa know so well how to wear it; but the Montenegrin arrangement is as clumsy and inelegant in the women as it is manly and picturesque in the men.

We had on board also several Austrian officers going to join their quarters, some to Zara and some to Cattaro, Budua, and Kosmatch. Very nice, pleasant, gentlemanlike fellows they were, some of them speaking French, but all able to converse freely in Italian, and all well-informed, agreeable companions. Acquaintances are made much more easily abroad than in England, so we were soon quite at home together, and what with chatting, smoking and walking up and down the deck, we quickly passed over the time, till at ten o'clock a.m., we came in front of Zara, celebrated in ancient times for its long siege, when "in 1346 Marino Faliero earned his laurels by the most daring assault," and in modern times for its excellent Maraschino!

Zara is an important place even at the present time. It is the capital of Dalmatia, and the seat of the Archbishop of the province. It is well-built, clean, and tolerably well-paved, and well-worth a visit. The time, however, allowed by the stay of the steamer is amply sufficient to enable one to see it; but the heat was so great that I felt more inclined to stay on board smoking cigarettes under the awning of the steamer than to go on shore. The prospect of some café à la glace, however, which I knew was to be obtained in the Piazza, added to the more important fact that I was to receive here a letter for the Archimandrite of Montenegro, induced me to shake off my apathy.

Having landed on the quay, I passed through the gate over which is sculptured the grim effigy of the Lion of St. Mark, everywhere seen down the Eastern shores of the Adriatic wheresoever the Venetians had established their authority, I proceeded to execute my plans; but the heat was so intense that I was glad to come back to the steamer where I imagined it was something less stifling. But this day was unusually hot and close, and with the exception of one at Cattaro, when the thermometer registered at four o'clock p.m., 105° Fahrenheit, was the hottest I experienced in all my journey.

CHAPTER VI.

DEPARTURE FROM ZARA—SEBENICO—PLEASANT COMPANIONS—NOBLE HARBOUR—THE CATHEDRAL—CURIOUS ROOF—CORAL FISHERY—SPALATO—SALONA—DIOCLETIAN'S PALACE—MR. PATON'S DESCRIPTION OF IT—BEAUTIFUL SPECTACLE—THE PORTA FERREA—QUAINT DWELLINGS—AMBROSIAL TOBACCO.

AT about one o'clock p.m. we steamed away from Zara while we were at dinner, and at five p.m. reached Sebenico. Should I ever travel again in that part of the world, I think I should try to go from Zara to Sebenico by land in order to see the ruins of Asseria, which I learnt afterwards were well worth a visit; but the journey should in that case be undertaken earlier in the year, to avoid the oppressive heats.

The afternoon between leaving Zara and arriving at Sebenico passed quickly away, for I had the advantage of two most agreeable companions; one the capuchin monk, the other a charming young fellow, an officer in an Austrian Jäger regiment, Baron Heyd von Heydeg.

The Capuchin was a most interesting man, and we chatted many an hour together by moonlight on the deck, when every one else had gone to sleep, when I used to chaff him about the rules of his order, which forbid the smoking of tobacco, while they permit the use of snuff without any restriction. He used to take it most good-humouredly, and laughed as if his sides would split when I would refuse to take a pinch of his snuff unless he smoked one of my cigarettes. I verily think I should have brought him round at last, had he not been constantly under the surveillance, and in mortal "soggezione" of his lay brother.

Heyd was a different fellow altogether, but most agreeable. He was going to join his regiment, then quartered at Budua. We travelled together as far as Cattaro, and I met him subsequently both at Cettigne and Budua, where I went expressly to pay him a visit.

The time sped swiftly and most agreeably in spite of the heat, and at five o'clock p.m. we steamed through the narrow tortuous opening, bordered by steep rocky sides, which leads into the bay, at the further end of which stands Sebenico. It is a noble harbour, and so deep that a frigate can lie alongside the quay. At the narrowest part of its entrance, the approach is defended by what a few years ago would have been considered a masterpiece of fortification, but which at present would offer too fair a target to our projectiles to afford any great protection against an enemy. It is still worth a visit, as its casemates are perhaps among the finest in the world. It was engineered and built in 1546, by the celebrated architect San Micheli. The entrance to the fortress is surmounted by the usual Venetian Lion with the following inscription:—

"Pax tibi Marce Evangelista meus."[4]

Having landed with Baron Heyd, who had been quartered there some time before, for cicerone, I proceeded to inspect the Duomo, or cathedral, the principal object of interest there. Some people are lost in admiration of this cathedral, I really could not see much about it to admire, and the two statues on its façade representing Adam and Eve (they might as well be Gog and Magog) are simply detestable. But the roof of the cathedral is a curiosity in itself, and worth the journey. It is of its kind unique, and though it is said to be perfectly safe, and I suppose must be so, having continued so for so many years, still I could not help feeling a sense of insecurity as long as I was in the church, and enjoyed great relief when I finally came out of it.

This roof is simply a semi-cylinder made of enormous slabs of stone joined edge to edge, but so beautifully adapted and fitted one into the other that, without any other support save what they afford each other, they form the vault of this cathedral. I trust they may never crack; but I, for one, could never say my prayers with comfort under such a roof.

Having taken a ramble through the streets, which were clean and contained many fine mansions, we went up to the fort on the hill behind the town, and which commands the whole place, where we passed a pleasant hour with the officers of the garrison.

My time being limited, I was unable to make an expedition from Sebenico, which under different circumstances I should certainly have undertaken, that is to the falls of the Kerka and the monastery above them. My friend, the Capuchin, who had travelled a good deal both in Europe and America, and had a good eye for the picturesque, told me they were well worth seeing; but like many other interesting spots down that coast, I must only hope to visit them at some future time.

At dusk we returned to the steamer, though we knew it would not leave till the following morning early, and we could have spent a most pleasant night on shore; but Sebenico shuts its gates at sunset, and then till the following sunrise no one can come in or go out, and had we attempted it we should only have lost our passage.

Having partaken of an excellent supper, I returned to the deck, where, as was my wont, I sat down beside my friend the Capuchin, who always took a cup of coffee with me though he would not consent to smoke. We chatted till very late, when he went down to his camerino, and I settled myself on deck as usual for my night's sleep. It turned out awfully hot, as the steamer remained till break of day in the harbour of Sebenico, but what must it have been in the cabin?

At the very earliest dawn we left our moorings, and steamed out of the harbour by its well guarded entrance. Just outside we passed a group of small islands, among which is established a considerable coral fishery. The coral is not however of the finest quality, mostly of the common deep red kind, and is principally sold on the spot or at the fair of Sinigaglia in the Romagna on the opposite or Italian side of the Adriatic.

The dawn was just merging into daylight, when we steamed out of that land-locked harbour. It had been stiflingly hot as long as we had lain still alongside the quay, but the moment we came out into the open sea, the

". . . . Aura messaggiera . . . .

Ad annunziar che se ne vien l'Aurora,"

came with a most refreshing breeze, so light, however, as not even to raise a "cat's paw" on the glassy waters, but still deliciously cool and invigorating.

The steward was not long manufacturing me a good cup of coffee, after which, having made myself comfortable in a capital arm-chair, I again went to sleep, not to awake until Giovanni summoned me again, "per far colazione."

In the course of the morning we reached Spalato, a beautiful and most interesting place, where an artist could with advantage spend many days. It was celebrated in ancient times for the gorgeous palace which the Emperor Diocletian built for himself after abdicating the Empire in 303 a.d., and the magnificent remains of which still form the glory of the present city. After a reign of twenty years, "Diocletian executed his memorable resolution of abdicating the Empire," and acquired the glory of giving to the world the most remarkable, if not the first, example of a resignation which has not been very frequently imitated by succeeding monarchs. Withdrawing to Salona, he passed the last nine years of his life in seclusion—the building of a palace in the neighbourhood, and the superintendence of his garden, occupying his leisure hours. The satisfaction he derived from these pursuits is sufficiently proved by his well-known answer to Maximian, when urging him to re-assume the purple, "If I could show you the cabbages I have planted with my own hands at Salona, you would no longer urge me to relinquish the enjoyment of happiness for the pursuit of power."

This immense palace, which covered very nearly nine English acres of ground, was almost a perfect square terminating at the four corners by a quadrangular tower. Its faces were directed as nearly as possible to the four cardinal points—the southern side being pointed to the shore and facing the sea. It still exists in good preservation and forms a grand object of attraction to the visitor entering the harbour. Two streets intersected each other at right angles nearly in the centre of it, which has lately been completely excavated and is now fully exposed to view.

The following description by the late Mr. Paton (author of "Highlands and Islands of the Adriatic," one of the most charming books ever printed) will convey to the reader a far clearer impression than anything I could pen; I therefore make no apology for inserting it here, and whoever should wish to go still deeper into the matter and learn all that is to be learned concerning this palace, I refer him to Mr. Adams' book "Spalato Restored," which is a perfectly exhaustive treatise on the subject.

"At the outset we are struck with the enormous extent of the palace, which is not less than nine acres and a half; so that even Constantine Porphyrogenitus speaks of it with admiration, as one of the greatest edifices then extant. In the time of Diocletian, his great retinue and a pretorian cohort could be lodged with convenience in it. Sixteen towers gave strength and elegance to the edifice, of which the largest were those at the four corners. The back of the edifice looked to the north-east on the land-side, and there was the principal entrance, the Porta Aurea, or golden gate, which led to the Peristylium, a great court of granite columns; and the cross street which intersected the principal passage at right angles was terminated at each end by gates, the one the Porta Ferrea, or iron gate, the other the Porta Ænea, or gate of brass, which are so called to this day.

"This peristylium, or court of granite columns, was flanked by two temples; the greater of Jupiter, and the smaller of Esculapius; the former, a lofty octagon, was ascended by a stair of fifteen steps; an uneven number being generally found in the temples of the ancients, that, beginning to move with the right foot, they might, of course, place it first upon the uppermost step in order to enter the temple—a form which was accounted respectful in approaching the Deity. From the peristylium, or court of granite columns, the Roman entered the principal inhabited part of the palace; first was the porticus of Corinthian order, then the circular dome-covered vestibulum, with the Lares and Penates; then the atrium, or quadrangular hall, ninety-eight by forty-five with its arms and trophies dedicated to ancestry; and last of all the crypto-porticus, or grand gallery, looking to the south-west, thus facing the sea, and forming a noble promenade of five hundred and fifteen feet in length, in which, during the heat of Summer or inclemency of Winter, the Emperor could take exercise. This crypto-porticus was the principal feature of the palace, and the well-known taste of Diocletian leads us to suppose that the choicest statuary and paintings of the Old World must have adorned its walls. The relics of Pompeii give some idea of the classic fancy in ornament, the harmonizing contrasts in colour, and the consummate skill in tessellation employed in the domestic architecture of the ancients; and if we relieve these splendours with the latest fascination in the unpretending forms of Greek statuary, how puny is the utmost magnificence of Versailles compared with the dwelling of the retired Roman!

"Such was the Palace of Diocletian; what now remains of the edifice? The shell or outer wall, of which the best preserved part is the grand gallery facing the sea; for Spalato like its contemporary Baalbec being used as a fortification, the rough stone and mortar of the middle-age battlements surmount in many places the massive normal masonry of the Roman Empire.... Within the town, fragments of Roman architecture are scattered thickly enough, but so obscured and mingled with modern houses as to present a mass of confusion."

Did we stop short here, the reader might well imagine that beyond the shell, the walls which surrounded the palace, nothing has been preserved; such however is not the case, and I shall now endeavour to describe what I saw in Spalato the morning that I steamed into its harbour, when from the deck of my vessel I gazed on that sea studded all over with numberless boats spreading the most fantastic sails to the gentlest of breezes!

The prevailing form, if not the only one, was the lateen in all its varieties, most of the boats carrying but one. But such colours and such devices painted on them! things that would look simply outrageous at Cowes or Ryde, how lovely they seemed there! Some were striped from above downwards with every colour of the rainbow, but only two colours to each sail and these always harmoniously contrasted; others of one uniform colour, with some fantastic ornament in sharp contrast in the middle; while some, all of one colour had at the topmost angle of the lateen a representation of the sun generally in burnished gold with its rays coming down a long way over the sail. The glittering golden sea, those fairy-looking boats gliding over it, the picturesque costumes of the sailors, the whole scene bathed in that golden light was a fit preparation for my introduction to the rare beauties of Spalato itself.

As we slowly approached the quay, there was ample time to admire the long façade of Diocletian's Palace, with the tall and elegant campanile which rises inside it on the right, and the strong hexagonal machicolated tower on the left. The lofty steeple on the right, a very Giralda of elegance and airiness—the dungeon on the left a sturdy emblem of the iron-fisted middle ages.

After some customary formalities, during which I feasted my eyes on the picturesque groups that crowded on the quay, permission was finally given to go ashore; when crossing as quickly as could be the narrow intervening space, I plunged through the Porta Ferrea into the vaulted passage which on this side gives entrance to the city of Spalato; and now commence the real difficulties of description, but having undertaken it I must only try, trusting to the kind forbearance of my readers.

This vaulted entrance is narrow, perhaps not twelve feet wide, but very lofty and formed of immense blocks of stone put together with wonderful accuracy. After following it a little way, it opens out into a spacious round hall rising up to a considerable height, this portion being unroofed; from it open out several streets, all running about here and there, crossing and recrossing each other as if in search of light and air. The dwellings in these streets are full of quaint artistic beauty; at one point one meets a massive wall of square-cut blocks dating from the days of Diocletian, against which, perhaps, is built up a modern house with wrought-iron balconies of the most delicate workmanship; further on, an outside staircase of rude stone steps, partly covered with a roof of russet tiles, leads to a door some thirty feet above our heads, from which a flying buttress crosses over to an opening in an ancient wall beyond, where a modern habitation has been constructed in some mediæval donjon.

Each turn brings a new surprise, and so one passes on till one comes to the piazza, and this day being a festival, it swarmed with natives from all the surrounding campagne. The reader must now come with me to the café, where under a thick awning and surrounded by a screen of oleanders and orange-trees in full bloom, we shall take a granita di caffé (a water-ice flavoured with coffee), and study the moving panorama before us, whilst we slowly puff away a cigarette made with the ambrosial tobacco of Trebigna—a kind still unknown in London and in Paris!

CHAPTER VII.

A TYPE OF SHYLOCK—SCENE IN THE STREET—VARIED COSTUMES—MORLACCHI—TURKS FROM THE HERZEGOVINA—WOMEN OF SPALATO—INSPECTION OF THE CITY—THE PORTA AUREA—COURT OF THE VESTIBULE OF THE PALACE—INTERIOR OF THE CATHEDRAL—ILLUSTRIOUS MEN OF SPALATO—MARK ANTONY DE DOMINIS—ST. JEROME—THE MORLACCHI.

SITTING down cross-legged on the very oldest and dirtiest of rugs, and just outside our fragrant hedge of oleander, is to be seen an old Jew, the finest type of a Shylock that could be imagined; with ample, heavy, flowing beard, aquiline nose with sharp cut nostril, and deep-set piercing eyes shadowed by an ample turban. He has before him, on his rug, a collection of arms, pistols of the old approved Turkish form and yataghans of every price, from the common horn-handled weapon in a wooden sheath to the jewel-hilted Kharjar in a sheath of repoussé silver. Around is a motley group of countrymen, all talking at the top of their voices in their several languages, whilst examining and praising or depreciating the weapons there for sale, just as they are either simple flâneurs in the square, or really intending purchasers. The varieties of costume rendered this picturesque group most interesting, there were Morlacchi from the neighbouring mountains with full blue Turkish trowsers fast to the knee; gold embroidered crimson jackets without sleeves, and gaiters to match; the whole finished off by an immense Albanian scarf of many colours wound round the waist, holding a perfect armoury of weapons in the front. On the head most of them wore a small red fez, others wore a turban, but it was not put on like the Jews, they did not seem au fait in settling it; but whatever head-gear they adopted they all were decorated with a tail—a genuine plaited tail coming down their backs with such luxuriance that it might have been the envy of any Celestial. I could not bring myself to like it—though report says that the Morlacchi are wonderfully attached to their tails, and cherish and pet them somewhat in the manner of our old tars in the days of Collingwood and Nelson.

There were Turks from the Herzegovina, ill-looking, badly-clad, scowling Mussulmans, who would willingly have earned ten paras by sending a Christian to his latter home, but still gorgeous in their tatters and vermin. There were Christian Albanians with their white fustanellas, high aquiline nose, glittering eyes, and false smile, in dress somewhat similar to the Morlacchi, but wearing a smaller fez with a long blue tassel. Conspicuous above them all was a Risanese from the Gulf of Cattaro, in full Montenegrin costume; but with a green instead of the white characteristic coat, all overladen about the breast and shoulders with plates of solid gold of considerable thickness, especially over the shoulders, where they would, if required, afford some protection from the blow of a sabre.

Mingled with the men were several women—some very good-looking—with golden-brown hair and dark eyes and eyelashes; their hair in plaits, not hanging but coiled round their heads, which were further adorned with Turkish piastres and other coins. The dress is a mixture of red, white, and blue artistically combined, with coral and coins twisted round their necks.

The noise of this Babel of tongues was deafening, and the scene not to be described. One wretched, tattered old man, but armed to the teeth like the rest, long tried to persuade me to buy a hank of onions, and would not be gainsaid when told by one of the waiters of the café that I was a traveller and did not require onions; what better or more portable provisions could I carry with me in my travels than onions? said he.

Having finished my granita, I again started to explore the city; this time under the guidance of a most obliging gentleman, well versed in the antiquities of the place, and to whom I had brought an introduction. We first went outside the city to inspect the grand Porta Aurea. This had only lately been thoroughly excavated, and even in its present dilapidated condition, not so much the effect of time as of the plundering propensities of man, is still most beautiful and grand. What must it have been before the eight columns which decorated its front were taken away to adorn some modern church?

From the Porta Aurea, we again got into the city, proceeding straight to the court of the vestibule of the Palace, where all that is best worth seeing in Spalato is collected together. Here in front of us was the façade of the peristyle, consisting of four large and beautiful granite columns, supporting a triangular pediment, and which occupied the whole breadth of the court. On each side were a row of six Corinthian columns, equally large, and also of rose-coloured Egyptian granite, supporting not an architrave as is generally the case, but a series of arches which sprang from their capitals. On the right was the smaller temple, dedicated to Esculapius, now converted into a baptistry, and dedicated to St. John. On the left, the Temple of Jupiter—now the Cathedral of Spalato, by the side of which rises that most elegant campanile, the Giralda of Spalato, only one hundred and ninety-nine feet high, since the two upper stories were thrown down by lightning.

The interior of the Cathedral does not offer much to admire—nevertheless its general effect is sufficiently imposing. But it is outside in the court, the present piazza, that all the beauty of the place reveals itself. It is not a ruin—of the sixteen original granite columns not one has been displaced, and this portion of the Palace of Spalato is as in the days when Diocletian came into his Temple to pray. Can the reader believe that all this is really within five days of London?

Dalmatia has been the birthplace of many men of letters and science, and Spalato can boast of having even given a Protestant Dean to our royal Windsor, in the person of the celebrated Mark Anthony de Dominis, once Catholic Archbishop of Spalato, whose life and death would furnish materials for a sensational novel. As his history is not commonly known, it may, perhaps, interest some of my readers to hear it now.

He was born about the year 1570, and educated at the Illyrian College of the Jesuits, in Loretto, from whence he passed to Padua, where he became Professor of Mathematics. In the year 1600, he was created Bishop of Segna, and in 1602 he was raised to the Archbishopric of Spalato, where, during the terrible plague of 1607, he nobly distinguished himself by his liberality to the poor, and his fearless and humane attendance on the sick in the administration of his sacerdotal duties—emulating the courage and devotion, under similar circumstances, of Borromeo of Milan. He occupied the Archiepiscopal throne of Spalato for fourteen years, during which period his time was divided between the performance of his ecclesiastical duties, and the investigations of science. He converted the upper part of the Palace, at Spalato, into a Laboratory and an Observatory, and the window is still shown where he is supposed to have made the discovery of the prismatic colour of light, "by the falling drops of water;" which discovery, including a description of the nature of the rainbow, he published to the world in a work printed at Venice in 1611. His fickleness in matters of religion, however, proved his ruin; his Chapter accused him of heretical opinions, upon which he withdrew to Venice at the close of 1615, having previously vacated his See in favour of his nephew Sforza Ponsoni. During his residence in that city, he wrote a work in favour of the Republic, which was condemned by the Inquisition, when he determined on withdrawing, for safety, to a Protestant country.

He went first to Heidelberg, and thence came to England in the suite and at the invitation of Sir Henry Wotton, Ambassador of James I. to the Venetian Republic. In England, he published and dedicated to James I. a history of the Council of Trent, which had been lent him, it is said, by its author, Fra Paolo Sarpi. He also edified the Protestant public by an open recantation of his religion in St. Paul's Cathedral, and then published a work against the Papacy, entitled, "Scoglio del Naufragio Christiano." He was particularly well received in England; and was patronized by the King, who made him Dean of Windsor. He seems, however, to have expected more, and to have been disappointed at not getting a bishopric; and on Gregory XV., who was a friend and relative of his, succeeding him to the Papal throne, he changed his religion again, and yielding to the solicitations of the Pope, conveyed to him through the Spanish Ambassador, who promised him a Cardinal's Hat, he returned to Rome in 1622.

Gregory XV. received him kindly, and as long as he lived De Dominis remained unmolested, but at his death Pope Urban VIII., who succeeded him, saw no reason to extend his protection over the ex-Protestant Dean of Windsor; he was accused of heresy, handed over to the tender mercies of the Holy Inquisition, and thrown into a dungeon of the Castle of St. Angelo, where he died in 1625—it is supposed by poison, and his body was subsequently burned, together with his writings, in the Campo dei Fiori.

De Dominis was a very distinguished philosopher, and we must not be too severe when judging him by the light of the present day. There can be no doubt that the change from Popery to the Reformed religion was principally due, not to a feeling of animosity against the Church of Rome, as many have maintained, but chiefly to those doubts concerning the truth of the things taught by that church, and to its conduct in persisting to refuse the results of the investigations of science, as evinced by its treatment of Galileo and others. His return to the church is more difficult to account for on generous grounds; but he, himself, is stated to have said that by becoming a Cardinal he might be of greater use in effecting a reformation in that community to which he had originally belonged. The Holy Inquisition had hoped to have enjoyed the satisfaction of publicly roasting, "ad majorem Dei gloriam," a professor of Natural Science, a renegade Catholic Archbishop and a Protestant Dean all in one; but some charitable friend robbed that holy confraternity of its anticipated triumph by passing in some poison to the unfortunate De Dominis, who learnt too late that Rome never changes, "che il Lupo perde il pelo, il vizio no" and that according to Papal ethics to keep faith with heretics is at best a grievous sin.

Spalato, in common with the rest of Dalmatia, has given birth to many able men, among which they claim even St. Jerome, the most learned of the ancient fathers and the talented author of the noblest translation of the Bible; but I fear on insufficient grounds, as all the authorities I have looked into seem to make him a Pannonian and not an Illyrian; Carrara, however, claims him as a compatriot in his "Uomini Illustri di Spalato."

Within a few miles of Spalato are the ruins of Salona, I had not time to visit them. There is not comparatively very much of interest to be seen above ground, but I believe that methodically conducted diggings have yielded some valuable results. It was the Roman capital of Dalmatia and was destroyed by the Avars in 640, when the inhabitants who escaped from the slaughter took refuge in Spalato and there founded the new city, by grouping themselves around and under the protection of the Palace of Diocletian.

The majority of the inhabitants of Spalato are Roman Catholics, with an admixture of Greeks and a good number of Jews, who wear the turban and the Oriental costume, and are principally descended from those who were expelled from Spain in 1493. For many centuries they were subjected to the same indignities as in other Christian countries, and compelled to inhabit the Ghetto where they used to be locked up at night; but such practices have long been abolished in Dalmatia, and the Jews of Spalato have enjoyed for many years the same privileges as the other citizens of that place.

My stay at Spalato was much too short for enjoyment; I saw indeed most that was to be seen there, but it was not much more than a glance, and I longed to be sketching amongst those picturesque nooks.

Having several times mentioned the Morlacchi, it will, I think, be interesting to my readers to know something about them. Again I have to regret that I was unable to visit them in their villages, and that the only information I can give of them is, that they are inhabitants of the wild mountainous district lying to the East of Dalmatia. They are a fine race of men, though much smaller and inferior to the Montenegrin; their women, on the contrary, are often very beautiful, and they have many strange customs in their dealings with foreigners which would make an excursion into the fastnesses of their mountains of more than ordinary interest.

With the Lowland Dalmatians and the inhabitants of the towns on the coast, the name of Morlacchi is always associated with plunder and cattle-lifting, just as in Scotland a hundred years ago every Highlander, in the eyes of a Lowlander, was a cateran and a robber; but I heard from people that had been among them, that they are very hospitable, and that their country can be freely traversed in any direction without the smallest danger. They are Catholics and apparently of the same stock as the Montenegrins, though these latter are schismatic Greeks.

CHAPTER VIII.

ISLAND OF LISSA—NAVAL BATTLES—A BRIDAL PARTY TAKEN ON BOARD—LESINA—FORTRESS OF SAN NICOLO—THE LOGGIE—FORT SPAGNUOLO—ISLAND OF CURZOLA—LA CHROMA—BEAUTIFUL SCENE—RICHARD CŒUR DE LION—CATHEDRAL OF RAGUSA—EARTHQUAKE OF 1667—TERRIBLE CONFLAGRATION—PRINCE MAXIMILIAN.

EARLY in the afternoon we left Spalato, and steaming away from the coast we stood out to sea, making for Lissa, a large island of the Adriatic, celebrated in the days of the first Napoleon for the stout sea fight in which, on the 13th of March 1811, Captain Hoste, (afterwards Sir William Hoste), with four ships mounting 156 guns, utterly defeated the French fleet of twenty-seven sail, mounting 284, having on board 500 troops. In 1808 we occupied Lissa, and having established free trade and other institutions, the island improved so much under our administration that in less than three years from the time we occupied it the population had risen to 12,000 inhabitants (at present it has scarcely 5000).

The French were naturally sorely tried by the advantageous position we occupied in front of their coast, and the very good use we made of our opportunities of pushing our commerce in every direction. They determined therefore on expelling us from Lissa and the Adriatic, as from the smallness of our armament there they had no doubt as to their success. Swiftly and silently they fitted out an expedition at Ancona, which under the command of the brave Captain Dubourdieu arrived at Lissa on the 13th March, 1811. It consisted of four 44 gun frigates, ten 32 gun corvettes, one 16 gun brig, a schooner, ten gun-boats, and a xebeque, in all 284 guns.

The British Squadron consisted of only four ships, the 'Amphion,' 'Active,' 'Cerberus,' and 'Volage,' mounting but 156 guns all told, but it was commanded and manned by British seamen! the result could not be doubted, and although Dubourdieu fought like a gallant sailor as he was, the victory remained with us. Our losses were severe, and in a quiet retired little nook, on the left hand as one enters the land-locked harbour of Lissa, are buried those who fell in that engagement; while on the right hand side is another burial place, where under a handsome sepulchral monument lie the remains of those Austrians who fell in the latest naval engagement at Lissa when a few years ago the Italian Navy, the pet toy, an expensive one by the by, of King Victor Emmanuel, was all but annihilated by the Austrians under Admiral Tegethoff.

At Lissa we remained a very short time, so short that I had not even time to go ashore, though I should have very much liked to visit the burial place of those brave English sailors who fell in the naval action of 1811. The business of the steamer, which seemed principally to consist in shipping a bridal party, was soon concluded, and after a very short stay we were again under full steam for Lesina, another island of the same archipelago, but much smaller and closer in to the Dalmatian coast.

The bridal party we had taken on board consisted of the bride and bridegroom, both very plain and very much, even tawdrily over-dressed in Parisian costume, and with remarkably dirty hands and otherwise unwashed appearance. A bishop with a couple of priests in attendance on his reverence, and half-a-dozen relations and friends of the newly-married couple, who seemed principally to study not to take any notice of each other but went about making themselves generally agreeable.

The groom most kindly insisted on my smoking his cigars (and villainously bad they were, but had I declined them he would have been awfully offended) and drinking his maraschino, which fortunately was as good as his cigars were bad, whilst the bride, luckily for me, persistently avoided me, probably from fear of heretical contamination, and exclusively devoted her attentions to the Bishop and his priests.

After a few hours steaming through the smoothest and bluest of seas, in full view of the grand mountains of Dalmatia, in due time we arrived at Lesina a little before sunset. This island is said to derive its name from being somewhat shaped like an awl, in Italian lesina. It is just a thin strip of land forty-two miles long, blunt at one end (which represents the handle) and sharp at the other. I doubt, however, the correctness of its etymology, and am inclined to think that its present name is more probably derived from its ancient one of "Pharos Insula," often reduced by elision into simply "Insula;" now the anagram of "Insula" is "Lusina," a word much more in harmony with the genius of the Italian language, and from Lusina to Lesina is but a shade. I think I am fortified in this etymology by the fact of at least two other instances in the Adriatic of this identical transposition of letters, and the conversion of Insula to Lusina, in the names of two islands near the Quarnero, named respectively Lussin Grande and Lussin Piccolo, which are evidently the anagram of Insula Grande and Insula Piccola.

We arrived just in time to enjoy the effect of the setting sun upon that rocky landscape and the exquisitely pretty town at the foot of the mountain, and sufficiently early to be able to take a rapid sketch just as the sun was beginning to sink behind the tower which rises to the west of the town. The fort behind and above the town was still in full sunlight, as was also the more distant fortress of San Nicolo, brought forcibly into relief by a bank of dark purple clouds which were massed behind it. Down below, close to the water's edge, lay the town bathed in a flood of amber light, partly caused by the reflection of the golden sunset beyond, and partly by the colouring of the town itself, the houses of which are all painted with the warmest tints.

In the middle of the town, close to the water's edge, are the "Loggie" or Portico, an elegant building, which in the olden times of Venetian supremacy was used by the merchants as an exchange to transact business in, as well as a hall of justice for the administration of the laws, and at the back a room is still shown where criminals and suspected persons underwent the question by torture.

Immediately behind and above the Loggie rises Fort Spagnuolo, built by Charles V, connected with the town below by two long crenelated walls, enclosing in front a considerable space planted thick with colossal aloes (Agave Americana), which in case of assault would, in olden times, have offered a very considerable impediment to the advance of troops.

The island of Lesina is barren, and its commerce very insignificant; it grows, however, an immense quantity of rosemary, from which is distilled a celebrated essential oil Oleum Anthos, and the Aqua Regia, or rosemary water, which are both largely exported.

It was dark when we left; shaping our way for Curzola where we arrived about midnight. My friend, the Capuchin, who sat chatting with me till we arrived there, regretted I could not see it by daylight, as contrary to the other islands, which are conspicuous for their barrenness, Curzola is well wooded, and is celebrated for the size and magnificence of its pine trees.

We did not make any long delay here, and were soon threading our course again between the islands and the mainland in the direction of Ragusa, but I know nothing about them. The Monk wished me good-night and went to his cabin, when again I took my usual place on deck, and was soon as comfortably asleep on that oaken plank as if I had been in the most luxurious bed in England.

I was awakened from my night's sleep by my friend the Capuchin monk, who had been my travelling companion all the way from Trieste.

"Get up, my lazy friend," said he, touching me with his foot. "We shall soon be entering the port of Gravosa; and there," stretching, out his arm towards the Dalmatian coast, "is the island of Lachroma, once the property of the unfortunate Emperor Maximilian of Mexico, and in ancient times a harbour of refuge to your great King Richard, Cœur-de-Lion."

Hard though my bed had been, for nothing but my doubled up old rug had interposed between myself and the deck, I had slept profoundly, "à la belle étoile," and far more comfortably than if I had condescended to take my place in the dirty and stuffy camerino down below, where all the other passengers, including my friend the Capuchin and his lay-brother, fearing bad smells, fleas, and other small game much less than the delicious night-air of the balmy Adriatic, had carefully stowed themselves away the previous night. I was up in an instant, and I shall not easily forget the sight that greeted my eyes from the deck of the little 'San Carlo.'

We were about three miles from the shore; the sun, though high above the horizon, had not yet acquired sufficient force to destroy the freshness of the morning breeze which delicately rippled the surface of the sea, making it in the sunshine like a sheet of frosted gold, while in the shade it was like liquid sapphire. On my left rose the wild, rocky cliffs of Dalmatia, rendered still more desolate-looking by the almost total absence of vegetation; while in front and on my right, stretching away to the extreme verge of the horizon, were the sparkling waters of the Adriatic, thickly studded with countless islets, to the nearest of which, Lachroma, the Monk had drawn my attention.

"It is now many years," said the Capuchin, "since your great crusading King found a refuge in that island."

"I was not aware that King Richard was shipwrecked here," said I. "I knew that he met with a terrific storm in this sea on his return from Palestine, but I always imagined he had been wrecked near the top of the Adriatic, on the coast of Istria, in the neighbourhood of Aquileia."

"Yes," replied the Monk, "it is not generally known that it was on the rocks of Lachroma that Cœur-de-Lion was cast away; and it is strange how this error should have crept into history and held its ground and place in every standard work, including your own invaluable Cyclopædias. But we have ample proofs of the truth of what I am telling you, and documentary evidence to establish the accuracy of my assertion; for your King, in gratitude to Divine Providence for delivering him from shipwreck, vowed to build a church in honour of the Blessed Virgin, on whatever land he should first set foot, and having safely landed at Lachroma, he proceeded to make good his vow by committing to the abbot and monks of a Benedictine monastery, which already existed on the island, the task of building this church, to defray the expenses of which the good King devoted no less than 100,000 nummi argentei, which sum he borrowed from his British lieges. But the Rettore of Ragusa (so the President of that ancient Republic was styled), having heard of King Richard's shipwreck opposite his city, went to visit him in state, with all the magistrates and councillors of the Republic, and invited him to Ragusa, where he was received with every demonstration of respect, and all the hospitality and attention due to so distinguished a guest.

King Richard, pleased at the reception given him by the Republicans, and charmed by the attractive graces of the Ragusan ladies, rested there for some time; and then at the suggestion of these fair ones and the urgent entreaties of the authorities, who promised to obtain a dispensation for him from the Pope, he altered the terms of his donation, and founded in Ragusa itself the church to the Blessed Virgin which he had originally vowed on the island of Lachroma; on the condition, however, that the Benedictine Abbot of Lachroma, assisted by the monks of his convent, should have the privilege and the right to celebrate mass in this church in Ragusa every year on the day of the feast of the Purification. The gift of Richard Cœur-de-Lion having been further increased by donations from the inhabitants, this votive church grew into that celebrated cathedral which for so many years held the first rank among all the churches of Illyria.[5] At last, however, came one fatal morning, the 6th of April, 1667, when Ragusa was all but annihilated by an earthquake. In a few moments all the principal edifices in the town were laid low, including the Cathedral of King Richard, and upwards of six thousand inhabitants, more than one-fifth of the entire population were buried in the ruins. There was not a family in the whole city which had not one or more to mourn for. Several of my ancestors perished, and among others a lineal ancestor of my mother, Simone Ghetaldi, then Rettore of the Republic; he and several senators were assembled in the Council Chamber, and about to receive the visit of a Dutch Embassy (which had stopped at Ragusa on its way to Constantinople, to which court it was accredited) when they were all engulphed; not one escaped, and it is supposed that at that spot the earth must have opened and closed over them again. The Archbishop barely escaped with his life by jumping out of a window as the floors of his palace were giving way beneath him, and more than nine-tenths of the clergy perished. We preserve in our family a manuscript which gives an accurate account of this terrible catastrophe; as a youngster, I was often made to copy it out, and I therefore know it almost off by heart. It tells how the morning of the 6th of April, 1667, broke calm and bright, and that the atmosphere was still and serene, without anything to indicate the approaching danger, when suddenly, without any premonitory sound, about two hours after sunrise, while most of the inhabitants were still in their houses, or in the churches hearing early mass, the earth shook so violently that in a few minutes the whole town was in ruins, with the exception of the fortress, and a few other buildings, the walls of which were enormously thick. In addition to the destruction caused by falling houses, large rocks came toppling down, detached from the mountain, which, as you see, apparently overhangs the city. This added greatly to the terror and devastation. So far as we know there was but one shock, and it lasted only a few seconds; but no where and at no time was so much damage done thus instantaneously.

"Many harrowing scenes were recounted, but perhaps the most terrible of all was that of a school of boys which was swallowed up beneath the ruins. All the unfortunate lads perished, most of them by a miserable lingering death, and for days their moans and cries for help and water could be heard by their distracted friends, without the possibility of giving them any relief. One would have thought this a sufficient visitation for poor Ragusa, but calamities never come singly. A fire broke out on the same day, and towards evening a strong wind arose and fanned the flames, thus increasing the conflagration beyond the power of control. Night came on, and the whole side of the mountains was illuminated by the flames of the burning city. Then the wild mountaineers, the Morlacchi, came down in swarms to pilfer and snatch whatever they could from the universal wreck. The scenes then enacted defied all powers of description. The fires were burning with exceptional brightness and fury, in consequence of the conflagration having reached the stores of oil, tallow and tar accumulated in the Arsenal and elsewhere. Groups of Morlacchi, undeterred by the crumbling walls and the scorching rafters, could be seen flitting about among ruins regardless of the danger! Occasionally some such group having ventured too far, would disappear with a fearful scream into some yawning gulf; while in another spot two parties of the same plunderers might be seen in deadly conflict, fighting with their long straight knives over their unlawful booty. It was a fearful night.

"But all this is ancient history; there is another tragic episode connected with Lachroma. Another calamity is brought to our minds when we look upon its shores. Poor Prince Maximilian!—alas! alas! he was a good and kind man,—and that noble unfortunate Princess Charlotte! I had the honour of being in their company more than once, both in Europe and Mexico; they were so good, so affable, so happy, till in an evil hour they allowed themselves to be led away by ambition. The Prince seemed all along to have had a presentiment of evil. I was told by one who was present, that nothing could be more melancholy than his departure from Miramar, and the leave-taking when he was waited on by a deputation from Trieste was the most painful scene he ever witnessed. The Prince was completely overcome, and fairly broke down on this occasion. After his assassination the island was sold, and now I hear it is for sale again."

The good old Monk was silent for a few minutes, and then gently putting his hand on my shoulder, he said,

"You are English, non è vero? You are not American? I would not say a hurtful word to mortal, but I cannot help thinking that the President of the United States was nearly as much to blame as the Mexican savage for the murder of Maximilian; one word from the United States' President would have saved the Emperor's life."

"But what about the French Emperor?" I asked; "he who got the poor Prince into the scrape, and then left him to get out of it as best he could?"

"Ah; true—true," repeated the Monk. "e quell'altro birbaccione di Bazaine! Ah! Providence will overtake them all. But look, see how beautiful Ragusa is, how picturesque! Although I am only a poor Capuchin monk, I feel proud of my native city—che mi son Raguséo!" he exclaimed, breaking out into his native Venetian dialect. "Though most of my life has been spent far away in foreign missions, I still cling with fondness to my native shores, and feel thankful, most thankful," he repeated, bending his head, "that it has pleased His Holiness and our General to order me back here again at last."

CHAPTER IX.

THE PADRE ANSELMO—HIS LIFE AND LABOURS AMONG THE AMERICAN INDIANS—THE PIONEERS OF CIVILIZATION—AMERICAN INDIANS AND NEGROES—PADRE ANSELMO ON PROTESTANT AND CATHOLIC MISSIONS—NATIVE CHRISTIANS IN INDIA—POPE PIUS IX. ONCE A MISSIONARY—CARDINAL P—.—PORT OF GRAVOSA—RAGUSA.

I FELT an unusual degree of regret, thinking I should so soon lose the company of Padre Anselmo; we had come all the way together from Trieste, and had spent many pleasant hours in genial conversation, flavoured from time to time with spicy, sharp, but good-humoured polemics, during which the Padre never lost his temper, and I had not always the best of the argument.

He was a very remarkable man, of an ancient noble Ragusan family, evidently pious, yet wonderfully large-minded. I shall always remember with pleasure the conversations we had together on the deck of the 'San Carlo,' by the bright Italian moonlight, on those deep, smooth waters of the Adriatic that sparkled with phosphorescence at every stroke of the paddle-wheel. He was aware I was a Protestant, and though he had been a missionary for many years he knew how to avoid polemics whenever it was fit. He had been in South America and in North America; in the plains of the Amazon and the Orinoco, and among the Sierras of Mexico.

I asked him about his success among the Indians, and after reflecting for a little he gave me a most interesting account of his life's labours among them. I carefully noted down each night in my diary, after we had parted, the principal headings of his narrative, and some day I may give to the public an account of the labours, trials, and sufferings of this good and conscientious monk.

In answer to my question as to the amount of success he had obtained during his long intercourse with American Indians, he said,

"There is a most extraordinary difference in intelligence between the different tribes, even among those living close together; some are wonderfully more intelligent than others, and, strange to say, I found them better the farther they were removed from the influence of civilization. A great deal might be made of them were it not for the evil influence of the traders who come among them—the most pernicious of whom I invariably found were those coming from the United States. These traders, pioneers of civilization—as they called themselves—were almost invariably men without any religion or principle; awful blasphemers, their oaths were too terrific! They generally consisted of the veriest scum and offscourings of commercial cities; they showed the poor savages the very worst examples, for fair trading was unknown to them, and lying, overreaching, and brow-beating were their chief characteristics, while of drunkenness and unblushing debauchery they were terrible examples. I was once asked by a chief why we came so far to teach them, and left our own people untaught."

Padre Anselmo also told me that some of the natives had some idea of the Divinity, and were very teachable, not like the Negroes of the West Coast of Africa among whom he had laboured a short time. He contrasted the capabilities of both races, and shaking his head, added,

"I fear it will take hundreds of centuries of incessant teaching, and that more by example than by word of mouth, before any good will come from missions among the Negroes; they seem utterly incapable of understanding any of the attributes of God. They look upon him invariably as one to be feared, and propitiated by gifts and sacrifices, so that he may be induced, if possible, to do them no harm."

A chief came to him one night by stealth, "but not like Nicodemus," as the worthy Monk added; he brought various presents to the mission, some of considerable value, consisting of native rings of twisted gold. He whispered under his breath to the Monk,

"You white man know everything, and you say your God rules everything. Tell me where I can find him, that I may kill him! he is a bad god—he has killed my favourite wife, and now I must kill him!"

The Negro was foaming at the mouth from impotent rage, and his fearful language, together with the rolling of his eyes and the contortions of his body, impressed the Monk at first with the idea that he was an impersonation of the Evil One. Yet this chief had till then been the most promising of all those natives on whom he had been wasting his time, his patience, and his doctrine. In vain the Missionary tried to reason with the demoniac chief; his words made no impression, and the savage, failing to discover from the Monk the whereabouts of the white man's God, returned to his village, where he burned his own national fetish, and then cut off the heads of half-a-dozen wretches, having first charged them with messages to be delivered to his wife in dead-man's-land!

One evening Padre Anselmo and I, after making ourselves snug on a pile of sacks near the binnacle, were talking about missionary work, when he spoke to me about our Protestant missions, and asked me many questions concerning them.

"You work your missions differently from the way we do ours; you pay your missionaries well, and even allow them, I have been told, to trade at times, and to buy and sell and follow different callings. I have also heard that you send missionaries abroad without any particular regard to their capabilities, for instance as to their knowledge of the language of the country they are sent to. Now all our missionaries are strictly prepared for the country where they are intended to labour, and are not sent out until they have acquired a good knowledge of the language of that country. How do you find your system to work? Have you had much success in the East Indies during the hundred years you have had the opportunity of working in them?"

I imagined I could detect something of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth as he made these remarks, and just as I was about to reply, a scene came to my mind of which I had read or heard an account somewhere, of an English missionary addressing an Arab audience in Tangier through the medium of a Gibraltar Jew, for the missionary was utterly innocent of any language but his own London English, and my innate appreciation of the ridiculous so overcame my sense of what was proper and decorous that I laughed myself nearly into fits.[6] However, having recovered my equanimity, I replied, "I did not know very much about the matter; but I had always heard that, generally speaking, the native Christians were the greatest blackguards in India, the least objectionable being certainly the Goanese Catholics," at which the good old monk seemed highly pleased.

His ideas of missionary work were peculiar and interesting. "We should always," he said, "treat savages and the utterly uneducated, whether at home or abroad, who are scarcely better than savages, like little children, like very little children in intelligence, yet endowed with the passions and vices of grown up men. One should therefore, if possible, never try to teach them things beyond their understanding, but make their practical civilization proceed pari passu with their religious training—instilling morality before preaching doctrine and dogma, both teachings being backed up by unexceptionable example. "These are not my own ideas," added Padre Anselmo, "they are the precepts of the wonderful man who preceded me in the Amazon Mission, the present Pontiff, His Holiness Pope Pius IX., whose equal will never again occupy the chair of St. Peter."

"What! was the Pope ever a missionary?" I asked with astonishment. I knew he had been a soldier, and had been even assured that in his early days he was initiated a Freemason in a Lodge in Sicily; there was nothing very extraordinary in his having been a missionary, but I had never heard of it before, and was therefore taken by surprise.

"Indeed he was," replied Padre Anselmo, "and a very zealous and hard-working missionary, whose memory is reverenced to this day, among many a wild tribe on the banks of the Amazon."

Then we began to talk politics, that is to say I talked, the Monk only listened, till musingly I said, "I wonder who will succeed him in the Chair of St. Peter?"

"Whoever he may be," replied the Monk, "he will have a difficult task coming after such a man."

"Have you been lately at Rome?" said I.

"I was there two months ago," he replied.

"What then do you think of Cardinal P—? do you know him?"

The Monk fixed his eyes on me for a moment, as if he would have read my most inmost thoughts, and then speaking very slowly, said:

"That Sicilian Monk has long been aiming at the Tiara; he lives within himself, has no confidant, no intimate friend, has no talents, only plenty of doggedness, vorrebbe Papeggiare, but no, never will he occupy the Pontifical chair, never!" and the Monk, for a minute looked me full in the face.

We were now getting quite close to the town, which is built on the narrow strip of land that lies between the Adriatic and the Dalmatian mountains, that here rise up almost perpendicularly behind it. The morning mists were clearing off, and the hazy outlines of the towers and ramparts, the cupolas and steeples, together with the bright colouring of the sails of the felucas and trabaccoli gliding out of the harbour, threading their way through the many islands scattered outside it, formed a picture that might be realized by a painter but of which I will not attempt the description.

We were now fairly in the port of Gravosa, and the steamer was surrounded by native boats conveying eager candidates for the privilege of carrying ourselves and luggage to the shore. The real port is at Ragusa itself, sheltered and protected by the ancient bastions and towers of the city, but, though amply deep enough for its ancient galleys, and for those argosies (so named after this very city of Ragusa) which in ancient times monopolized with Venice the commerce of the world, it is not now large enough or deep enough to accommodate our modern practical, though inelegant fire-ships. It has consequently been abandoned for the port of Gravosa, which is not only large, safe, and commodious, but also exquisitely beautiful, though inconveniently distant, being nearly a mile from the city. An excellent road, however, originally made by the French and subsequently improved by the Austrians, communicates between the two places, and numerous small carriages drawn by one or two horses are constantly in readiness to convey for a trifle those who do not wish to walk to Ragusa.

The two monks and I were soon on shore, and there I reluctantly parted with them; they went on foot towards their convent, while I took a small one-horse carriage and started off to the city.

Away we went at full gallop skirting the harbour, till the rising ground at the end of the little valley compelled our lively little horse to a slower rate of progression. We soon however topped the hill, when we again came in view of the sea on our right hand, while on our left were numbers of villas peeping out through masses of oleanders and gigantic aloes, whose flower stems, like colossal candelabra, fifteen to twenty feet in height, gave a peculiarly exotic character to the scene. Many of these villas were in ruins, and others more or less damaged, still bearing evidence of the French occupation at the beginning of this century, and of their expulsion by the Russian and Montenegrin troops.

Ragusa was now fairly again in sight, and a noble city it is, and how picturesque! so far as its greatness is concerned, Ragusa is now but the shadow of what it was in bygone days. Its political importance has faded away—its commercial supremacy is a thing of the past; but its local beauty, its domes, its campaniles, its lofty cut-stone palaces, its churches and public buildings, its exquisitely clean streets, its balmy air, its azure sea and its pleasant society—all these are things real and of the present. But Ragusa is not a place to be described, it must be seen and studied to be appreciated. See it from the land, or from the sea—wander through its narrow, quaint, artistic streets, ramble round its walls and ramparts, and you will find it from every point of view a most remarkable place.