This chapter is remarkable, since it introduces a new and interesting character to the public, to wit the "Gentle Lunatic," who rushed down upon us from the wild and boundless forests of Bohemia.

We journeyed to Capodistria on Saturday, 22nd June, the "Gentle One" filling the place of the "Other Boy" in the usual quartette.

We left Duino at 8 o'clock in the morning (another early start), and drove to Nabresina; from thence we went to Trieste by train. Our train was half an hour late, for which we abused the "Photographic Lady," as she had made all the arrangements for the journey.

It is marvellous how our arrangements always go wrong! We have tried all the ladies in turn as superintendent-in-chief: the "Energetic One," who did not want any railway guide or any advice, but knew everything generally; the "Photographic Lady," who smothered herself and everybody else with books, time-tables, etc., asked every one's opinion collectively and singly, and made an elaborate plan beforehand; my collaborator, who did not care a rap how things went, supposed they would be sure to come right somehow, and when they did not, said it was destiny; but none of them answered. We were always in a hopeless muddle, either starting too soon, or too late, or not at all.

We were very much annoyed by the dilatory conduct of our train, even when it arrived at Nabresina. It is extraordinary the length of time it takes to start a continental train! A bell rings violently and then tolls one. This is to inform the passengers that the train is in the station. A long interval follows. The bell rings more violently than before and then tolls two. This shows that in the course of time the train will proceed. There is no hurry, however. You have plenty of time still to make a substantial meal and pay calls on any friends you may have in the neighbourhood of the station. The bell rings a third time and tolls three. The conductor suggests the advisability of taking your seat, the engine-driver and stoker go for their last drink, and the stationmaster begins to play with a little horn he wears suspended round his neck. The conductors—there are generally two or three of them on each train—having ascertained that none of the passengers have any particular wish to remain any longer, step out upon the platform, shout ready, and blow whistles. The stationmaster, with an air of immense importance, sounds his toy trumpet, the engine utters a scream of defiance to the world generally, and after a decent interval, to avoid the semblance of haste, the train crawls out of the station. It is an imposing ceremony, but as it is repeated at every small station on the line, it grows somewhat monotonous and makes railway-travelling rather a formidable and lengthy business. At last, however, our train, having rested sufficiently, proceeded slowly on its journey, and we arrived in the course of time at Trieste.

We drove to the Hotel Delorme, and ordered lunch to be ready in an hour. The "Gentle Lunatic" announced his intention of going to find some tame turtles. He said he meant to buy a dozen, and we could take them home in our pockets. He could dispose of six, and we three should have two each. We argued and remonstrated, but it was of no use—he went.

Meanwhile the two ladies and I set out to see the Church of St. Just, a very fine church—in fact, one of the oldest Christian basilicae. It is a great pity that the beautiful old columns are covered with red damask. They look like a forest of pillars, and divide the church into five aisles. Two of the many altars are bright with very ancient Byzantine gold-grounded mosaics.

The "Photographic Lady" took a photograph of the interior and carried on a flirtation with a young verger, to whom she promised a photograph, whether of herself or the church we were unable to discover. We were then joined by the "Gentle One," who was quite heart-broken, as he had not been able to find his turtles.

Trieste is a nice town. It is a pity it is not a pleasure resort instead of a mercantile place, as it is beautifully situated on green hills sloping quite gently down to the sea; the surroundings are pretty, and brightened with villas and flower-covered cottages.

We went on to Capodistria by steamer. There was a very motley crowd of passengers on board—peasants returning from market, business people bound for an afternoon's pleasure-seeking, persons of all sorts and conditions. The "Photographic Lady" was delighted that, in one particular at least, her researches with regard to our arrangements were correct—namely, that the steamer had left Trieste at one o'clock. To prove her accuracy, she asked the "G.L." soon after starting to tell her the time. But his answer was somewhat vague, and his method of ascertaining the time appeared to us peculiar. He took out his watch, looked at it for a long time, gazed fixedly at the sun, shut his eyes, seemed by the contortion of his features to be going through some abstruse calculation, and then said it was between one and two o'clock. This nettled the lady, and she replied rather warmly that she wanted to know the exact time. With a mournful smile he took out his watch again, went through the previous programme, and gave the same answer. At this we all insisted on seeing his watch for ourselves, and then the mystery was explained. It had no glass! it had no hands! We suggested that such a watch must be rather inconvenient, but he assured us it was the best watch he had ever had in his life; for more than ten years it had been in this state, during which time it had gone absolutely perfectly, and had never needed the slightest attention beyond winding up.

It took us three-quarters of an hour to reach Capodistria. It looks very quaint and old-fashioned this little out-of-the-way town, with its red-roofed houses, blue sky above, and blue sea all around, and the great gaunt prison lighted up by the golden rays of the sun, and forming a bright patch of yellow in the landscape. My collaborator says the prison spoils the appearance of the town, but I maintain that it forms a pleasing contrast to the old gray walls of the houses.

Capodistria was formerly Byzantine, but in 1278 it became Venetian. Under the Republic of Venice it was a very flourishing place, and is said to have been the richest town in Istria. There were many wealthy patrician families, renowned for their luxurious living, inhabiting it. With the fall of the Venetian Republic, Capodistria declined, and it is now a small unimportant town. It was formerly known by the name of "the Gentlewoman of Istria."

On arriving, we found that we had made a mistake of two hours in the time of the return steamer, a discovery that threw all our plans out of gear, but we comforted ourselves with the reflection that it gave us more time to see the place. We engaged a chariot and drove off to inspect the town. It was a remarkable conveyance. The "G.L." selected it, and it appeared as if he had chosen the dirtiest he could find. It was small too. We could only just squeeze in, and were very much cramped for room; but any trifling defects in the carriage were amply made up for by the horse. This was indeed a noble animal, and high spirited in the extreme; the driver too was perfectly reckless, so we dashed off at the rate of some sixty miles an hour, the chariot pitching and tossing like a small boat in an angry sea.

The "piazza" is quite the sight of Capodistria, and is very picturesque. A church stands on one side of it, and before one is an old Town Hall, turreted on both sides, with graceful Venetian windows, innumerable inscriptions, coats-of-arms, and other carvings, and the whole crowned by the Venetian lion. A pretty outer staircase with little marble columns runs along part of the front of the building, and under it there is a deep and sombre archway, through which one sees a narrow street, with great, high, irregularly built houses almost meeting above it.

I believe we went to see three churches in this little town, but I have seen such a superabundance of churches lately, that I cannot remember the characteristic features of any of the three. I know that in one there was a quantity of fine old silver, and that we were shown round another by a most obsequious monk, clad in russet brown, who explained its beauties to us in a confidential manner. I remember, too, that we saw some pictures. In one church (the "G.L." says it was in the big one on the piazza) there was a very fine one of Benedetto Carpaccio—the Madonna in the company of some saints, and with two little angels playing the banjo (it may be a guitar) at her feet. In the church where we interviewed the monk there was a big altar-piece of Cima da Conegliano, very much spoilt by having been restored, and a most curious picture of Vittore Carpaccio, with a garland of angels' heads (hundreds of them), some painted in natural colours and some bright red. (Red-headed angels—this is art!)

By the way, I was told that in Venice there is a very old picture attributed to the same Carpaccio, and said to represent the Lords of Duino taking tribute from the town of Zara; the Lords of Duino, in quaint armour, with their ladies and soldiers, on the one side of the picture; on the other, the representatives of the vanquished town bringing gold, etc., and in the background a turreted castle—Duino, and a town near it—Trieste. As Carpaccio was a native of Capodistria, it is very probable that he painted this triumph of some of the most powerful barons of his country.

After this came more sight-seeing. We visited a funny old drinking-fountain known as the "Bridge" (why, I know not), and watched the women drawing water.

It is a sleepy and dull little town, with small streets and dark forbidding-looking houses. There are hardly any shops, but in one quaint sort of jeweller's stall the fashionable ornaments of Istria were pointed out to me. These are ear-rings—little crowned negroes' heads in black and white enamel, and the height of fashion among the fishermen is to wear both in one ear.

One sees very few people in the streets. Here and there a dark-eyed girl strolling along with the peculiar shuffling gait caused by the "zoccoli"—the wooden slippers of the Venetian women.

Everywhere are relics of Venice—the carved cisterns on the piazzas, the winged lions on the houses, where you find inscriptions bearing some of the most illustrious names of the Republic, but everywhere, too, silence, abandonment, and decay. There are some fine old palaces, but the windows are shut, and they seem deserted. On one we admired a wonderful old bronze knocker of most refined workmanship, and as the house with its arched windows and marble balconies looked particularly nice, we explored the interior. There, too, we found the large Venetian entrance-hall and an imposing-looking staircase, but no soul appeared.

Then we repaired to a cafÉ on the piazza. It was formerly an open "loggia," but between the stately marble columns some mean commercial soul has put glass windows, and the interior is dishonoured by the usual little marble tables and black leather seats. The ladies ordered coffee and sponge-cakes, I drank beer, and the "Gentle Lunatic" asked for a cup of hot water—his favourite drink.

One of the "G.L.'s" passions is his liking for low acquaintances. Hardly had we finished our repast and gone out, before he formed a new friendship of this kind. An old beggar with a long gray beard approached, and the two immediately fraternised. They sat down on a stone bench together, and discussed politics and literature. In the meantime another beggar came up, whom the first beggar introduced as "the greatest poet of Capodistria." The poet was proud, however, and evidently averse to becoming intimate with strangers; at any rate, after having received with lofty condescension the "tip" diffidently offered to him by the "G.L.," he went majestically off. It was with the greatest difficulty that we finally separated the two friends, who parted with mutual expressions of everlasting esteem.

We then once more mounted our chariot, and betook ourselves to the steamer.

So good-bye to "the Gentlewoman of Istria," lying placidly asleep by the blue waters of the Adriatic. Though changed and abandoned, you can still distinguish some of the charms that won for her that poetic name. May she dream of the glorious time long ago—the glorious time of her youth, when she was growing and blooming in the shade of the mighty wings that Saint Mark's lion was once spreading over land and sea!