CHAPTER IVTHE TIMAVO AND SAN GIOVANNI

MIRAMAR

The castle was built about the middle of the present century by the Emperor Maximilian. We saw the rooms that had been his. They are built to exactly resemble the cabins on board his ship when he was Admiral of the Austrian Fleet. Every one knows his tragic story: how he, persuaded by the promise of French support, went off to be Emperor of Mexico; how the French deserted him (France has done many things she may well be ashamed of,but nothing more dastardly than this); how he was captured by the rebel Mexicans, and finally shot by them. Poor fellow! one would have thought that with all he had he might have been content without being Emperor of Mexico. But who knows what dreams of glory and heroic adventures passed through his brain! He was a poet and an enthusiast, a man worshipped by the people, and in his veins flowed the blood of Charles V., who once had been the master of those far countries where his destiny called him. And what must have been his thoughts when he, the son of the German Cæsars, stood forsaken and betrayed before the handful of rebels who put an end to all his golden dreams? In any case his end was worthy of his noble nature. There is an incident in connection with it not generally known. One of the few Mexicans who remained faithful to him was Mejia, one of his generals. He was also captured by the rebels, and was condemned to be shot with the Emperor, but with this difference: for the Emperor a company of picked shots had been selected, and for Mejia they had chosen a number of raw and young recruits, unaccustomed to the use of the rifle. The Emperor, whose experienced eye had immediately remarked the cruel intention of the Mexicans, ordered his companion, as the last boonhe could grant him, to exchange places with him. Mejia obeyed, and was killed instantaneously; but the Emperor died a lingering and miserable death.

People say he was so disfigured that when his embalmed body arrived in Vienna, no one, not even the Grand Master of the Court, could be quite sure of his identity.

I do not admire the castle. It is new, and looks new, and is built in no particular style, though the first intention was evidently to make it Gothic. One sees the love of the unfortunate Emperor for Spanish and Moorish things, by the way in which they are dotted here and there. The interior too is rather tasteless. There are some fine things, but the arrangement is bad. A beautiful cabinet that once belonged to Marie Antoinette is in one of the rooms; it has some wonderful old Wedgwood china on the doors.

We were shown round by the most melancholy attendant it has ever been my lot to meet with. He seemed to find it a heartrending business, and his voice sounded as if he were continually on the verge of tears. I was quite glad when the inspection was over. I am tender-hearted myself, and do not like to wantonly distress any one.

After viewing the castle we went out into the gardens again, and (I am sorry to have to confess it)ate some provisions that we had brought with us, on one of the flights of marble steps. Then we wandered about in the gloaming till it was time for our train.

It was a lovely evening:—

Skies strewn with roses fading, fading slowly,While one star, trembling, watched the daylight die.

The nightingale's rich music and the soft murmur of the waves were the only sounds. All the clamour and bustle of the day were over. The moon rose and flooded the calm sea with a pathway of melted silver; the stars came out one by one, and seemed to smile on us. It was the time when all evil thoughts go out of one's heart, when heaven itself seems nearer in the dim light. On such an evening I always think of the old familiar words of the "blessing" after the sermon, "The peace of God, which passeth all understanding."

THE RISING MOON

We had an exciting adventure during our return journey in the train. We had started, and the conductor was just examining our tickets—having carefully left the door open—when the Vienna "express" crawled by (I almost saidtore, but I cannot tell a lie). Some projecting portion of it caught our carriage door, sent it to with a violent crash, smashing the door and half tearing it from its hinges. The crash was like a cannon-shot, and the explosion was followedby the tinkling of the shower of broken glass that fell over and around us. For the moment we couldnot understand what had happened, and all looked fearfully around, expecting to see pieces of ourselves lying about the wrecked compartment. Fortunately, we were all whole and unhurt, however. Of course, there was the wildest excitement in our railway carriage. "The Seal" kept congratulating himself on not having been nearer the broken window, and explaining what dreadful injuries would have ensued for him if he had been. The directress of our party—the "Energetic Lady"—abused an unfortunate stationmaster, who came at the next stoppage to inquire about the accident, in such a way that the poor man shrank back terrified and in tears. The "Learned Fair Man" started a scientific theory (in which he dragged in Darwin) to explain the matter; but the "Learned Dark Man" (with Schopenhauer in the background) had another scientific explanation exactly the reverse. The "Fat Boy" thought Anarchists had an especial grudge against himself; the "Thin Boy" profited by the occasion to bleed copiously from the nose—a pastime he had indulged in at intervals throughout the whole day, and the other boy lost immediately the one bag of the party. The two other ladies, who had not been in the baneful compartment, explained at great length all their misgivings, presentiments, and extraordinaryperceptions; whilst my collaborator shrieked excitedly—

"There! that's a beautiful incident for the book."

"Bother the book!" I answered with pensive grace.

After this the drive home was dull and uneventful. We were almost smothered in dust, but that was merely a trifling inconvenience, which the beauty of the night and the glorious moonlight quite made up for.

CHAPTER IVTHE TIMAVO AND SAN GIOVANNI

O water whisperingStill through the dark into mine ears.D. G. Rossetti.

O water whisperingStill through the dark into mine ears.

D. G. Rossetti.

I made two excursions to the Timavo and San Giovanni. The first was with the "Fat Boy." It was a rainy sort of day, and there was nothing to be done in the way of exercise but to go for a walk, so I beguiled the "Fat Boy" into accompanying me. I like to take him for walks. I feel I am doing good to suffering humanity—he may get rid of a little of his superfluous flesh by the exertion. I cannot say that up to now he has exhibited much thankfulness for my philanthropic efforts. We took Pixner, the gamekeeper, and his two dogs with us. Pixner is much looked up toin the village of Duino as a great traveller and linguist. He spent one or two years in England as servant to "our host," and was commonly known there as "Mr. Pig-nose"—his own name being found difficult to pronounce.

San Giovanni is not far from Duino—only a walk of half an hour or so. It is classic ground, for does not the world-famed Timavo make here its appearance into the light of day?

Antenor potuit mediis elapsus AchivisIllyricos penetrare sinus atque intima tutusregna Liburnorum et fontem superare Timavi,unde per ora novem vasto cum murmure montisit mare proruptum et pelago premit arva sonanti.Virgil'sAeneid, Book I. 242-246.

Virgil'sAeneid, Book I. 242-246.

The "nine mouths" of Virgil have now sunk to three, however. It is a most extraordinary thing, this river, all at once, seeming to come from nowhere, there it is, not a little feeble, trickling streamlet, but a wide, fast-flowing river. There is no doubt that the original springs are somewhere underground, and that it runs for a considerable distance in the bowels of the earth. Every now and then on the neighbouring hill-side you come to a hole in the ground where you hear the rush of the water, and the splash if you drop a stone down.The ground about this neighbourhood is a perfect honeycomb.

SPRINGS OF THE TIMAVO

Almost all the classic authors speak of the Timavo. I had carefully compiled a list of these old gentlemen with a kind of history of the river, but I will spare the reader, and merely say that they believed it to be the entrance to the Infernal Regions, and that the Argonauts are said to have come here after they had annexed the Golden Fleece.

After having gazed at the place where the Timavo first appears, we went on to the little church of SanGiovanni. This is very old, and is built on the foundations of a temple erected by the Greeks in honour of Diomed—either the Greek hero or the Thracian Diomed who was celebrated for his horses. The latter gentleman seems to have had a stud in the neighbourhood of San Giovanni. The horses from this part of the country were very celebrated, and eagerly sought after for the Olympian games. It is interesting to note that one of the great annual events here is the horse-fair of Duino, which takes place in the month of June.

The Romans built a temple on the same site later on, the temple of the "Speranza Augusta"; and there was another temple—that of the Nymphs—somewhere near it. Villas and country houses were here in abundance; it was then quite a fashionable watering-place on account of the warm springs in the neighbourhood. There is still a miserable little bathing-place at some distance from San Giovanni, a most abandoned and dismal-looking house, though the waters have still their ancient reputation for great healing power.

In Roman times the view from this now solitary spot must have been very beautiful: the murmuring springs of the Timavo, the great lake (now a marsh), with its banks bright with glistening white monumentsand the neighbouring boundless forests, which fable said were inhabited by the most extraordinary creatures.

The wine of the country was very famous. It was the favourite beverage of Julia (or Livia), the wife of Augustus, who died in Aquileia at the age of eighty-three. She gave all the credit of her long life to the wine! Pliny the younger is our informant on this point.

Battles were continually fought on the Timavo towards the end of the Roman Empire and in the Middle Ages. Its banks were the scene of many a fierce conflict between the Roman legions and the Barbarians, whilst, later on, the German Emperors would generally choose this way to sweep down from the north upon Italy. The Venetian and Imperial troops often fought here, and the different lords of the land being always at war with each other, the country round about was kept pretty lively.

The "pigeon-holes" among the rocks are very interesting. They are like the shafts of extinct volcanoes, and descend to a great depth into the earth. The pigeons, which are identically the same bird as the old-fashioned English "Blue-rock," make their nests in the sides. There is good shooting to be had at these holes in September by lyingin wait for the pigeons as they come home in the evening.

· · · · ·

The second time we went by sea, in a diminutive cutter bearing the proud name ofSt. George. I dislike yachting on the whole—there is always either too much wind or none at all. In my case it is generally the latter. It is enough for me to go out in a yacht for a cruise of an hour or two, and you may be sure that yacht will become becalmed, and the unhappy people on board will have to choose between a night "on the ocean wave" and a row home in a small boat. I seem to be a sort of Jonah, and live in expectation of being thrown overboard every time I go on a yacht. A steamer does away with the fear of being becalmed, but then there is the smell of the engines. Do not mistake me, it is not that I fear sea-sickness,

For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow.

In fact, I am an excellent sailor.

Once I did feel rather queer, but that was a dispensation of Providence in fulfilment of the old adage "Pride goes before a fall." I was crossing the Channel—Dover to Calais. We had a small steamer,a choppy sea, and there was a young man with a Kodak on board. I abominate amateur photographers. They are offensive. It is the fact that they insist on photography being an art that makes them so objectionable. Photography isnotan art. One merely requires a good apparatus and a knowledge of how to work it, and there you are—a good photographer. That ismyidea on the subject.

Well, this young man wasparticularlyoffensive. He wore a knickerbocker suit, and skipped about with his Kodak and took "snap-shots" at everything. He did not "speak to the man at the wheel," but he "shot" him instead. He photographed the sea, the sky, the sea-gulls, the passing steamers, his fellow-passengers; but then he became sea-sick. His Kodak fell from his nerveless hand, and he looked very ill. I revelled in his misery, I "chortled in my joy"; but the Fates were on my track. Half an hour before we reached Calais I began to feel very miserable. I thought I was dying. Somebody came to me, a sailor, or a steward, or an admiral, or something of that sort, and asked me if I felt ill. I said I did, that my last hour had come, that I wanted to throw myself overboard and hasten the end. He would not let me do this. I should feel all right when we landed, he said. I knew this wasimpossible, it was merely uselessly lengthening my sufferings; but, curiously enough, he was right. At the time I was unable to understand my misery, but I see through it now. My wretchedness was intended to teach me a lesson—the lesson of never laughing at people in adversity. I learnt it, and since then have never suffered evil effects from being on the sea.

This is a long digression, but I wish to explain the disgust I felt on our going to San Giovanni by sea. We were not becalmed on this occasion, but there was next to no wind, the sun was blazing hot, and as we were constantly tacking, and theSt. Georgeis a very small boat, my life was in perpetual danger from the eccentricities of the boom. I was very unhappy, and not in the mood to admire the beauties of nature that were constantly pointed out to me. But Checco was a comfort. Checco is captain, crew, and cabin-boy combined of theSt. George, a great character and a philosopher. A nice-looking man too, tall and broad-shouldered, with a bronzed skin and snowy white hair (though, in fact, he is not old) and extraordinarily bright blue eyes—they look as if all the light and colour of the sea were reflected in them. He is a proud man is Checco, and generally very silent. He only talks toparticular chums, but then hedoestalk. The "Fat Boy" is the proud possessor of his confidence, and to him Checco unfolds his theories; he even puts the two learned men in the shade with regard to theories. On this particular occasion he was explaining earthquakes. (There have been some here lately.) This is what Checco said to the "Fat Boy": "People are very much afraid of earthquakes, you know. I am not afraid, for it is no use. What must be, must be. But I say, What is the reason for them? I will tell you: it is the doing of those mad winds. When I was young, things were quite different on the sea. The winds blew steadily. Either it was Bora, or Levante, or Scirocco, or Libeccio, and you knew how long it would blow in the same direction. It was a pleasure to sail a boatthen. But now the winds blow all ways at once, and are always fighting against one another. The weaker windsmustgive way, and what becomes ofthem? They rush into the earth—you know all the holes and grottoes there are everywhere—and so cause the earthquakes. Yes, you can believe me, it is all the doing of those mad winds." Checco was silent and gazed out over the blue sea, and the "Fat Boy" pondered over his words. Then he began again, still looking at the distant horizon: "Everythingwas different when I was a young man—the winds were not mad, the girlswerepretty. When we came out of church on Sundays, and the girls, as is the fashion, gave the red carnation they wore to the man they liked best, none of the fellows got as many as I did. But now I have white hair, you see.... Still none of my boys are as tall as I am, and I have never tried my whole strength yet."

Then Checco relapsed into silence, and not even the "Fat Boy" could draw another word from him.

CASTLE DUINO FROM THE ROMAN ROAD

· · · · ·

We sailed up the Timavo. The wind had freshened, and I must confess it was really rather pleasant. Wild ducks rose from the reeds with a great splashing and flapping of wings, and occasionally a snipe would dart away with its peculiar twisting zigzag flight and harsh cry. At San Giovanni we landed, and walked home. Our path, for part of the way, lay along an old Roman road, and then we passed through a little wood of stunted trees (the last remnant of the "boundless forests" of old times), which in autumn is one pink carpet of heavily-scented cyclamens. We skirted the deer park, where some twenty or thirty fallow deer lead a cheerless existence and are fed on hay all the year round. The ground in the park is covered with stones, not a blade of grass is to beseen, only the hardy ilex seems able to flourish on the barren soil.

It has a curious appearance, this little tract of country round Duino, with its dull gray rocks. A few bushes manage to extract enough nourishment from somewhere to exist, but every cranny and crevice in the stones is gay and bright with wild flowers.

Monotonous and almost melancholy is the scenery, and yet it has a charm of its own; the sun shines so brightly, the sky is so blue; and then there is always the sea, ever changeful and ever beautiful, and the old gray castle in the distance, towering above all, and watching over the silent land.

CHAPTER VARAINY DAY

The rain came down upon my headUnsheltered, and the heavy windRendered me mad, and deaf, and blind.E. A. Poe.

The rain came down upon my headUnsheltered, and the heavy windRendered me mad, and deaf, and blind.

E. A. Poe.

It was not quite so bad as all that. I did not go out in the rain, and at present I am neither deaf nor blind. I cannot be sure about the madness. It was very wet, though, but it cleared up before the evening.

A really wet day may be dreary, but still it is rather pleasant to have one sometimes. The rain affords such a grand excuse to be idle and do nothing. One can lounge about, and smoke, and read the newspapers or a novel all day, and justly feel it is quite impossible to be energetic. I am often told that my besetting sin is laziness. I am not sure whether itis true, but all I can say is, it is very pleasant to spend a lazy day occasionally. One must have piles of work waiting to be done, or it loses its charm. If there is really nothing to do, one is bored, and wants something to fill up the time.

On this particular day, however, I was not lazy—far from it. We explored the castle thoroughly from dungeon to attic, with a view to discovering new beauties for "the book."

I must say that occasionally I almost repent of my rashness in promising to write this book; my collaborator is so intensely business-like, and keeps me at it from early morn till dewy eve. I never have a moment's rest. It somewhat detracts too from the pleasure of going anywhere to know that you have to write an account of everything you see afterwards.

THE GROTTO ROOM

We began with the "grotto room." This is a summer drawing-room that we usually sit in. It is a big room, with a tiled floor and an arched roof; the latter and the walls are of cement, thickly studded with little bits of stalactite, that glisten and gleam when the place is lighted up, and give a fairy-like appearance to it. Birds of paradise and sea-gulls, suspended by invisible wires, swing from the vaulted roof and appear to be hovering about the room.Enormous shells, quaint Venetian lamps and mirrors, funny old china, are scattered all about. There is a curious old sedan chair standing in one corner, and near it are two pianos. I never made out the mystery of those two pianos. I believe they are near relations, and that they would be heart- (or string-) broken if they were to be separated. There is a massive marble mantelpiece at the farther end, surmountedby two shields, one bearing the Hohenlohe leopards, and the other the tower and crossed lilies of the Della Torre. Altogether it is a quaint room, without any particular order or style, but very comfortable, and it has one great advantage in being cool. I have spent many a weary hour here, labouring over these sketches, or gazing out through the coloured glass at the sea and the glorious sunsets.

The sunsets at Duino are magnificent—the whole western sky is one flaming blaze of colour, of every tint, from the deepest crimson to the faintest daffodil. The most beautiful moment is, I think, when the sun has sunk to rest behind the distant Alps, that stand out pearly-gray against the rose-coloured sky, and the sea in the foreground glows like a huge bowl of melted gold.

We went next to see the dungeons. They are by no means cheerful—two little damp and musty rooms, destitute of furniture, with grated windows and enormously thick walls—you see their immense thickness when you enter. The last man who was confined here (it was not so very long ago) hung himself. He is now said to haunt them. Poor fellow! one cannot wonder that he should have availed himself of the only possible way of escape open to him.

We then penetrated a little room where the family archives are kept. It has a massive iron door, and shelves full of dusty, musty old parchments. We unearthed a grand treasure here—an old manuscript diary of a tour through France and Italy at the beginning of this century, written by an Englishman of the name of Cockburn. Fired by this discovery we rushed up the tower stairs to another little room, formerly used as a study by an old priest who had once belonged to the household. We found it just as he had left it: the chair, the pens, the old ink-bottle, and he, poor old man, dead years ago! He wrote a book in Italian about Duino and the neighbourhood. It has been very useful to us in some respects, though it is very confused.

We came down the tower stairs again, and I was shown the door of the walled-up rooms; it has been carefully built up flush with the wall, and recently whitewashed over, so as to conceal it. Then we explored all the funny little staircases and passages that are everywhere about the castle, and form a perfect labyrinth.

The rain had cleared off by this time, and the sun was struggling to show himself through the clouds, so we went out, the "Other Boy" accompanying us. First we went down into the old moat,long dry and overgrown with grass and nettles, but in one corner some white lilies rise pure and stately, and bloom unseen in this neglected spot. Some fragments of Roman columns have been built into the wall of the castle—one sees them from the moat. Then we explored some terraces that are round the outside walls, where enormous yellow roses cling to the crumbling stones and lemon-scented verbenas grow wild. We made another interesting discovery here—at least it would be interesting if the general opinion about it is correct. We found a hole in the wall of the tower under the terrace. My collaborator maintains it is the beginning of a ventilating shaft that communicates with the underground passage, but I am afraid it is nothing but a rat-hole.

We descended some rickety stairs, and after inspecting a sculptured Madonna, who, half overgrown with ivy, looks down on the occasional passers-by (people admire her; I donot, as she has her nose on one side), proceeded to the battlements. There are two old field-pieces here that formerly belonged to the French Republic. They have thefascesengraved upon them and the inscription, "An VII. République francaise 6 Fructidor." I could not discover the history of these guns. I was told a hazy story about Duino being in the hands of the Frenchin the beginning of this century; of its being stormed, taken, and partially burnt by the English, and thatthe English captain was always drunk; but the story lacks confirmation—particularly the last part of it.

CASTLE DUINO FROM THE MOAT

In any case, the French were here, and took away all the contents of the armoury. In 1813, too, Trieste being in the possession of the French, Admiral Freemantle sailed up the Adriatic with some English men-of-war, whilst General Nugent advanced on the land side with the Austrian troops. The French commander retired into the citadel, and was there besieged by the English and Austrians. On October 24th the French surrendered.

This being so, it is quite possible that there was a siege of Duino, as it is very strongly situated and has always been an object for attack. Even as recently as 1866, in the war between Austria and Italy, the Italians had intended to land at Duino, had not their fleet been destroyed in the battle of Lissa.

We went down the old staircase to the little bathing-place near Dante's island. There is a strong wire net in the water to guard against the sharks. "Our host" disapproves of this net. He maintains that if any one bathing at Duino is unfortunate enough to be eaten by the one solitary shark that cruises in the Adriatic, he or she is the victim of such extraordinary bad luck that it is much better for him or her to be finished off at once.

Then we wandered through the "Riviera" to the old ruin and the little sombre wood "sacred toDiana." The ruined castle rises dark and threatening on a massive and perpendicular rock, which is on three sides surrounded by the sea. The position is immensely strong—one can only approach by one little narrow path that could easily have been held in the old days by two or three resolute men. There is not much to be seen in the ruin. It is all crumbling to pieces and is half-smothered with creepers and grass. In one vaulted arch, probably once part of the chapel, there are faint traces of fresco-painting; and there are one or two enormous stone bullets lying about that must have been thrown from some kind of catapult. Every provision was made for a siege. One sees the old well, which still holds water.

THE RUIN

Just under the old ruined castle the ground sinks and forms a hollow, and there a little wood of ilex-trees has grown, through whose dark and thick evergreen foliage no ray of sunlight seems ever to penetrate. It is a weird and uncanny sort of place: the trees seem black, the ground is black, and no grass or flowers grow there. Only on some bit of old crumbling masonry the ivy has extended a funereal pall. No birds seem to nestle in this solitary spot, and the earth smells damp, whilst you shiver a little in the cool shade of the sacred trees. It is peculiarly quiet and silent under the ilex; and if, sitting therein the long summer afternoons, you get drowsy and dreamy, thinking perhaps of times long, long ago, you would not wonder very much if, through the dark green of the melancholy trees that make a dome of shade over your head, a white form should glide, swift and silent—glide down from the golden light beyond into the darkness and gloom of the ilex wood.

Dream or reality, what does it matter, since both pass away in the night of time, and after a while are remembered no more?

How many may have come under the old, old ilex-trees in drowsy hot summer afternoons, or later, when the silver moon tried with her trembling rays to pierce the dark gloom of the wood! how many, each with his burden of joy or sorrow—gone—forgotten—faded away!

Dream or reality, what does it matter?

CHAPTER VIAQUILEIA

We were a gallant company.Byron.

We were a gallant company.

Byron.

On Tuesday, 4th June, we had a regular "day out." We were twelve—the original eleven who went to Miramar, with the addition of "our host." We started at 7.30 in the morning, and this involved getting up at six. There is nothing I object to more than early rising. Since my earliest infancy I have always been told what an excellent thing it is to get up early, and the ancient proverb (which you may have heard)—

Early to bed and early to riseMakes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise—

has been repeated to me so often that I actually know it by heart. I do not believe in it, though; I infinitelyprefer the sentiments contained in the old Scotch song—

I would rather go supperless to my bedThan rise in the morning early.

It was not a matter of going supperless to bed in this case, but it meant (at least to our host and myself—we were late) starting without breakfast. We rose to the occasion. Rather than keep the rest of the party waiting, we went without breakfast, and had the satisfaction of feeling martyrs for the rest of the day.

My collaborator, our host, the Thin Boy, and myself were in the first carriage. We kept congratulating ourselves and each other on this fact all the way. There was plenty of dust, clouds of it, and we could dimly discern the other carriages behind us, and their miserable occupants being half-smothered, whilst we were in the pure fresh air of the morning. It was a very pretty drive of about two hours to Aquileia, past marshy meadows bright with flowers, and vineyards with their graceful festoons of vines, the fresh and luxuriant green of the plain contrasting strangely with the gray barrenness of the neighbouring hills, through the little old-fashioned town of Monfalcone. It is quite an Italian town, with its big piazza, graceful church tower, and balconied houses—closelyshuttered, of course; the inhabitants seem to have a horror of fresh air. After Monfalcone the scenery too becomes quite Italian, though we are still in Austria. The plain continues fresh and green as ever, but the hills fade away in the blue distance. We cross that bluest of rivers, the Isonzo, drive between green hedges fragrant with wild roses and honeysuckle, pass a long, low, house covered with roses, with a lovely garden and a grass lawn-tennis ground (the only grass court I have seen on the Continent), go over numerous little brooks that wind along under the dark shadow of overhanging bushes, and are generally haunted by promising families of downy yellow ducklings, and at last reach Aquileia.

Here we had what was a second breakfast to most of the party, of coffee and rolls. Our host did not eat anything. He said he couldn't eat when he had risen in "the middle of the night." It was a mild rebuke, but it passed unnoticed.

We intended to go to Grado before seeing Aquileia, so after this meal we sought our steamer, a launch that plies daily between the two places. It did not require much seeking, firstly, because it rested on the placid waters of the canal close to our "hotel," and, secondly, as it guided us to its whereabouts, with great consideration, by a series of most unearthlyscreams of the whistle, and by disgorging vast quantities of evil-smelling smoke.

The scenery is rather pretty after leaving Aquileia. High reeds and grass grow down to the water's edge, larks carol joyously in the sky, reed-warblers twitter among the rushes, and bright-hued dragonflies dart hither and thither. There is a smell of new-mown hay in the air (which causes the Fat Boy to sneeze thirty-seven times without stopping), and one sees the peasants at work, with the big, gentle, sleepy-looking oxen drawing the waggons. One soon leaves the canal behind, and comes out into numberless shallow lagoons of salt water, with dreary sandbanks, and lonely-looking posts to mark the deeper channels. There are a few dismal huts on some of the sandbanks, and in one place a church tower stands alone in its glory—the rest of the church has fallen down. We saw no living thing there except a solitary eagle. It is a desolate and melancholy sort of place, and I for one was very glad when we came out into "blue water" and Grado hove in sight. It forms a pretty picture, this little Venetian-like town, the blue sea, and the fleet of fishing boats with their brightly-coloured sails.

FISHING BOAT (BRAGOZZO)

Grado is a sea-bathing place, orwouldbe one, if anybody went there. The bathing sheds are a veryimposing-looking building, there is an excellent sandy beach, the water is lukewarm, and drowning is quite impossible on account of its shallowness. What Grado wants is a good waking up. If the inhabitants were a little more speculative; if they would build a good hotel and open a railway line, etc., it might become a flourishing place. At present there is no accommodation for visitors, so no visitors go there. We bathed, of course, all of us, with the exception of the two learned men, who had different theories with regard to bathing, and who were disputingthereon. We enjoyed it very much, except the Seal, who did not take at all kindly to his native element, and found it cold; he evidently felt, too, that his life was in danger, as he explained to everyone the dreadful end he might come to if a larger wave than usual were to carry him away.

GRADO—THE HARBOUR

After our bath we returned to the hotel, very hungry. Our lunch included a dish called Risotto, which, I am told, can only be made to perfection in this part of the world; it is very good. Owing to the bathing and the lunch, the latter being muchprolonged by the voracious appetites of the "Seal" and the "Fat Boy," we had no time to see the town thoroughly, but we managed to make a hurried inspection of the church before our steamer left. It is a fine old building, with two rows of marble columns in the interior, the capitals of which are all different, and remind one of those in the church of St. Mark at Venice. The Byzantine pulpit, a very old episcopal seat behind the altar, and some sarcophagi with inscriptions and carvings in a little courtyard near the church, are also interesting.

THE CHURCH AT GRADO

Our return journey to Aquileia was not exciting. We were all sleepy, and hot, and rather irritable. Onreaching it we proceeded to the hotel, and refreshed ourselves with sundry cooling drinks, and then set out to view the town.

Aquileia was foundedB.C.183 or 181, after the second war against Hannibal. It was one of the twelve fortified towns built to repel the attacks of the Barbarians, and at the same time such towers as Duino, Monfalcone, and Sagrado were erected as watch-towers. Aquileia was a very extensive and important place under the Romans, and possessed a population of half a million. With the decline of the Roman power the glory of Aquileia departed. The town withstood many attacks from the Barbarians, but after a siege of some months it was finally burnt down and quite destroyed by the Huns under Attila. Some of the inhabitants escaped to Grado, and others sought refuge among the neighbouring lagoons.

There is a museum of Roman remains containing a collection of statues, pottery, glass, etc. The old glass is very beautiful, its colouring wonderful, and two of the many statues are particularly fine, one of a Venus or a nymph, very much mutilated, and an almost perfect one of the family of Tiberius. The rest of the statues and carvings, though interesting, did not seem to be of great artistic value, still I wasstruck by a fine mosaic pavement representing the rape of Europa.

When one reflects that all this collection has been made up of things (one could almost say) casually found, one can form some idea of the valuable treasures still left in the soil. Probably Aquileia could rival Pompeii or Herculaneum—in any case, it was a much more important place. In the last year or two some Austrian noblemen have begun to interest themselves in making excavations. It is to be hoped they will continue the work, and that successful results may follow.

After some time Aquileia was rebuilt, but not on the same extensive scale. It seems that Charlemagne came to the town for the sake of the hunting that was to be had in the big forests then existing round Isonzo and Timavo. Old chronicles say that wild boar, wild goats, and pheasants were the principal objects of pursuit, but unfortunately there is no record of the "bags." When one sees the general barrenness of the country now, it is difficult to believe it was once all one dense forest through which the great Emperor and his nobles chased the flying game, whilst the woodland rang with the deep music of the hounds.

The church is extremely old—it dates back to1031—and the arches and pillars of the interior are very graceful. There is a most curious monument in the church—a sort of little temple of white marble surrounded by marble columns that support a modern wooden roof. The inside is quite empty—no trace of fittings left. What it was used for is a riddle not yet solved.

Very interesting is a small chapel with the tombs of the four Della Torre who were Patriarchs of Aquileia. The power of the Patriarchs lasted for fourteen centuries. They were not only very great Church dignitaries, but possessed immense secular influence, and in spite of their peaceful profession were brave warriors. The Lords of Duino were generally their firm allies. We read that when Bertram, Patriarch of Aquileia, defeated the troops of Goritz at Osoppo (1340) he himself celebrated mass in his camp in full armour, it being Christmas Eve. Hence arose the custom, long existing in this part of the country, that on that night the priest should bless the people with the cross of the sword. It was to visit one of the Della Torre, who lies buried here, that Dante in 1320 came to Duino, which was at that time a dependency of the Patriarch of Aquileia.

A crypt is under the church, containing the relicsof various saints. Formerly an immense treasure was there too, but it is said that about 1820 an organised band of some hundreds of people from Udine and Goritz made a raid on the church and stole all that was left of it. The most valuable part, and among other treasures a copy of the Gospel of St. Mark, written in the fifth century, had been taken away long before, and is to be seen now in the neighbouring town of Cividale, where the Patriarchs had in later time transported their seat. Some old Byzantine fresco-paintings of saints are at the east end, very much faded, but still discernible. On the roof above them are some hideous modern abominations. It is a great pity that in the last century all the old frescoes were whitewashed over, and in some placesrepainted. Now people are trying to discover the old paintings, but it will be a long and difficult task. The font is outside the church. It is enclosed in a circular wall, and is of unusual size—a relic of Roman times, as it seems.

We were completely exhausted after going round the town, and returned to the hotel with the ladies, clamouring for ices. I think we spent the greater part of this day in eating and drinking.

After all, it was an impression of sadness that I took with me as we left the town behind us. Turninground, one could only see a few humble peasants' houses rising gray and desolate against the golden glory of the setting sun. No trace of gorgeous temples, of thronged streets, of the mighty legions who started from this very spot to vanquish the Barbarians and to conquer new and immense lands for Rome.

No trace of the great Emperor's passage as, surrounded by his fantastic knights, he hunted the deer through the vast forests.

Nothing even of feudal times. The luxurious palace of the Patriarchs has disappeared, their armies gone, their treasure dispersed; only a few tombs remain in a silent and deserted church.

And yet, if energy and intelligence were to be expended in this abandoned spot where now the peasant drives his plough, a new world would rise in all the glory of white marble limbs—a new world, and yet so old! Shaking off the sleep of centuries from their solemn eyes, the gods and the nymphs, the heroes and the statesmen would live again, and once more Aquileia would rise from her ashes, the proud daughter of Imperial Rome.

ENTRANCE TO CASTLE DUINO

The drive home in the cool of the evening—a wonderful soft June evening—was very pleasant. The air was heavy with sweet scents, the sun wassetting in a crimson sky and flooding the green vineyards with golden rays, whilst the dark shadows grew longer and longer, and the blue mists veiled the distant hills. But our peaceful enjoyment was spoiled by the gloominess of "our host," who, having met a bicycle on the way, failed absolutely and entirely to recover his equanimity. He talked to us with great eloquence on the subject (bicycles are against his principles), but we gradually grewmore and more sleepy, and only the view of the old castle rising dark against the paling sky (and the hope of our dinner) had the power to rouse our despondent and drooping spirits again.

CHAPTER VIIVILLA VICENTINA

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