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)—

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

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—closely shuttered, 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 unearthly screams 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.

Grado is a sea-bathing place, or would be one, if anybody went there. The bathing sheds are a very imposing-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 disputing thereon. 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.

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 much prolonged 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.

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

Aquileia was founded B.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 was struck 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 to 1031—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 relics of 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 places repainted. 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. Turning round, 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.

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 was setting 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 grew more 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.