The usual quartette went to Sagrado and Gradisca—two little Italian-like towns—on Saturday, 15th June.

There is one great drawback about Duino—there are only two roads. One goes to Trieste and the other doesn't. It is rather monotonous always driving along the same road. Familiarity breeds contempt, and even poplar-trees and marshes pall on one in time. However, "what can't be cured must be endured," and if you do not want to go to Trieste you must go the other way, even if it has grown almost too familiar. We branched off on a new road after passing through Monfalcone, and soon came to Sagrado. It is quite a little place, more of a village than a town, but there is an old villa standing in a large park, which was the attraction here. Two magnificent cypresses stand at the entrance-gate, one on each side, and the park is beautiful, full of fine trees, especially oaks overgrown with ivy. It forms a great contrast to the surrounding country, which towards Duino is barren and stony in the extreme. One has a magnificent view from the villa. It stands on a hill, and the valley of the Isonzo stretches below it. Far on the left one catches a glimpse of the sea. Before one, far as the eye can reach, is the plain, covered with vineyards, like waves of a billowy sea of emerald green, with tiny villages nestling here and there (the "Photographic Lady" says you can count two thousand of them, but I am afraid some untruthful person has imposed on her credulity), and the blue river winding through it, like some giant snake; and on the right, rising higher and higher as they fade away into the shadowy distance, are the snow-capped Alps.

The house is an old villa of the Italian style, with stuccoed walls, and on the floor the pretty Italian "terrazzi." In the hall, just when you enter, one is struck by four quaint old pictures of four men almost life-size; they are dressed in the peasant's costume of the country, of last century, and each holds a little money-bag in his hand. It seems that these worthy people were four farmers, who, when a former owner of the property (one of the Della Torre) was in financial difficulties and on the verge of ruin, came forward and paid off his debts. In gratitude to them he had their portraits painted and put in his entrance-hall. What a pity it is that people don't do this sort of thing nowadays! If any one feels inclined to follow the example of the four farmers and pay off my debts, I will faithfully promise to have his photograph taken and placed on my writing-table. I am only sorry I cannot rise to oil-paintings and entrance-halls.

From the pretty marble staircase you enter a charming drawing-room in the Italian LouisXVI. style. The walls are green marmorino, with ornaments of white stucco, and big mirrors let into them. There is a very large dining-hall of great height, with its walls and ceiling painted in fresco. No one lives in the villa at present.

The gardens must have been very pretty—all terraces and staircases—when they were kept in the style of the time. They are rather neglected now, and seem to be only inhabited by a perfect army of nightingales. A queer little red house is at the farther end of the garden, with a crypt under it and an imitation tomb. The walls are covered with mottoes—Greek, Latin, French, etc., and there is one in English: "Happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy of pomp and noise." The individual who built the house must have been very much struck by this last motto, for it seems that he used to live in this little dismal-looking place all alone, in the one room over the crypt, leaving his smiling villa untenanted at the top of the hill.

We had tea in the park. It is a great mistake to wander about to find a suitable spot for tea—you are sure to pick out the worst possible place. It is much better to stop under the first shady tree one comes to, and to sit down there. On this occasion the ladies chose the situation, and when tea was about half over we found we were sitting on an ant-heap. It was hardly worth moving then, though, so we stayed where we were, and pretended to be very much interested in the movements of the ants. I made the tea. I have a way of my own for making it, which is, I believe, sometimes practised by homeless wanderers in foreign countries—it is very superior to civilised methods. I am not selfish, and I have not taken out a patent for it, so I have no objection to presenting my method to the world, free, gratis, and for nothing. This is my recipe. Boil the water in the kettle, and when fiercely boiling put in your tea (one teaspoonful for each person and one for the kettle) and stir up the mixture. Let it go on boiling for a few seconds, and then pour out and drink. You will find you have excellent tea in this way. N.B.—It is as well to have a strainer with you to get rid of the tea-leaves.

My collaborator had often stayed at the villa as a child, and had hosts of acquaintances. I was interested to know who the various ladies and gentlemen who kept addressing her were, but her explanations were so confusing that I soon gave up inquiring. I remember that one lady was "the sister-in-law of a gardener, who was the step-brother of a cousin of the late wife of the man with the wig, who was the old butler." I cannot grasp such involved relationships—they are too much for my intellect. I made the acquaintance of the "man with the wig" afterwards. We called to ask him to order supper to be ready for us at the little inn when we came back from Gradisca. Then we drove on to Gradisca. You cross the Isonzo to get there, and there is a lovely view from the bridge, of the blue river and the distant Alps. Gradisca is a nice little old-fashioned town. The inhabitants are evidently not accustomed to visitors, and we caused an immense sensation. The "Photographic Lady" took several photographs, and she was always the centre of an admiring crowd. They were rather disappointed, I fancy, not to see any results then and there. They caused the lady great annoyance by going and standing before the camera to get a better view of the performance—in fact, she got quite angry, and abused them in all the four languages of the country.

There is a fine old palace in Gradisca that once belonged to the Della Torre. The whole of this part of the country seems to have belonged to them, and everywhere—in churches, on old houses, over doors—you see the tower with crossed lilies that was their coat of arms. In this particular house I was struck by a charming courtyard with graceful "loggia" and a flight of steps from both sides to the ground.

We went to see two churches. The first contained nothing interesting, but the second is worth seeing. There is a tomb there erected to the memory of Nicolao Della Torre in a private burial-chapel. The monument is very large, with a recumbent figure of the gentleman lying in full armour. He must have been of unusual size, with a fine regular face and a long flowing beard, and is very much like the portraits of Martin the Giant. He, too, fought against the infidels, being General of the Imperial troops that protected the Hungarian frontier against the Turks. He was badly wounded in one of the battles, but his end was not so tragic as that of his ancestor, and he now lies peacefully in the little church of Gradisca, enjoying at last the strange old motto of his family—"TranquillitÉ."

The stuccoed ceiling of the chapel, which seems to be particularly fine, was pointed out to me, but somehow I had had too much of churches and monuments for one day, so I was not so appreciative as I suppose I ought to have been. In any case, I was again the victim of sundry abuse.

After all this sight-seeing it was a pleasure to wander quietly and aimlessly through the quaint little streets, meeting only an occasional donkey or dirty baby, who stared very much, whilst at the windows one would sometimes catch a glimpse of a pair of big black eyes following one curiously from behind a row of red carnations. We admired the old walls of the town, which was strongly fortified in ancient times—enormous black walls with battlements, and beneath them a sort of green lawn shadowed by numerous chestnut-trees, the fashionable promenade of the high life of Gradisca.

We drove back to Sagrado and had supper in the little inn. The "man with the wig" waited on us with a beaming face. I did not feel at all happy, for we had the most horrid wine it has ever been my lot to drink. It is the wine of the country, and said to be the pure juice of the grape (everything nasty seems to be "the pure juice of the grape"). One drinks it diluted with water, and it has a most extraordinary bitter taste. The ladies assured me that I should soon grow accustomed to it, and then I should never like any other wine as well. I had my own opinion on the subject, but I had to smile and look pleasant.

We drove home in the evening. I had foretold a thunderstorm all the afternoon, but had been laughed to scorn by everybody. My prophecies were correct, however, for we had hardly left Sagrado when the storm began. I never saw more vivid lightning—the whole sky was lighted up by it, and it was almost incessant. The weird effect was increased, too, by the fireflies—there must have been millions of them flitting hither and thither, like the lost souls of the departed. We had a great argument as to whether we should remain at Monfalcone till the storm had passed over. The ladies were in favour of waiting, the coachman and I were for going on, and the boy was neutral, being fast asleep. Our eloquence prevailed—we hurried on. It was a desperate race, but we had the satisfaction of beating the worst of the storm by some ten seconds.

After all, I did not think much of Sagrado and Gradisca, and I can only say I hope people will be as bored in reading this chapter as I have been in writing it.