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, Coeur-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 Coeur-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 Coeur-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."