IT has always been a source of much astonishment to me, seeing the facility with which these parts can be reached from Trieste, that so few of the ubiquitous English—indeed, I might say none of them,—ever visit them, or any of the other many beautiful and interesting localities which crowd the Eastern shores of the Adriatic. I really believe those countries are not visited because they are in a certain sense unknown. I trust, however, that some of my readers who may perchance be tired of those hackneyed tours which, year after year, are undertaken by the travelling multitudes, will try a venture some day in Dalmatia.

Starting from Trieste in one of the many coasting steamers which trade to Corfu, stopping at every place on the Eastern shores of the Adriatic from Capo d'Istria downwards, and making excursions from each into the interior, anyone fond of everything beautiful and picturesque, whether in nature or in art, would have the most delightful trip imaginable; and if getting out at Cattaro he will scale those wonderful mountains which seem ever on the point of toppling over on that devoted city, and penetrate into Montenegro, coming back to the Adriatic by the Lake of Scutari (or Skodra as it ought to be called) in Northern Albania, he will have made an excursion in the heart of Europe, within seven days from London, and in the short space of five weeks, which for beauty of country, wildness of scenery, novelty of life, and magnificence of native costumes cannot be equalled from Spain to the Caucasus, or from Norway to the Lebanon!

Having made my adieux to Mr. Paton, our Consul at Ragusa, to whom as well as to Persich Effendi, the Ottoman Consul, I was largely indebted for much kind advice, as well as for a personal introduction to Mr. Yonin, Russian Consul at Ragusa, who subsequently at Cattaro and at Cettigne proved a kind friend and most valuable and charming companion, I returned on board and was soon steering south again. We steamed quite close inland, and had an excellent view of the ancient fortifications of Ragusa and its old harbour, only frequented at present by the felucas and trabaccoli which carry on the coasting trade of the country.

We also passed close to the island of Lachroma. The Russian Consul, Mr. Yonin, told me it was for sale and would probably go cheap. I can't conceive a spot on earth where a man tired of the bustle of life and the feverish excitement and turmoil of cities could more delightfully spend the remainder of his days. There is a fairly good house on the island, which is itself beautifully wooded and laid-out. It is sufficiently near to Ragusa to enable one to obtain everything one could require from that city, it is right in the gangway of all the steamers going up and down the Adriatic, within five days of London, and with such a number of communications with the outer world that it would be seclusion only as long as one wished it to be so.

As to the climate, none more beautiful could be desired—sufficiently warm to grow figs, grapes, and oranges, yet daily tempered in Summer by the delicious sea-breeze of the Adriatic, which prevents the heat from ever being oppressive, while of Winter there is barely the name—the thermometer seldom going down to frost.

The sea teems with fish of the most delicious kinds, some of which are totally unknown among us; the dentale coronato, for instance, the true sardine, and the rosy mullet, the woodcock of the sea, which here grows to an immense size—while from the mainland one can always obtain at wonderfully low prices abundance of small mountain mutton, poultry, and game.

I never was in any place that took my fancy like Ragusa and Lachroma—so lovely, so picturesque, so secluded, and yet so accessible!

Since my return to England I have heard with deep regret of the loss we have sustained by the death of A. A. Paton, Esq., our Consul-General at Ragusa. The country has to regret in him an able and industrious servant, while literature has to mourn for one of its most gifted votaries, as his works on Egypt, Servia, and the Adriatic will amply attest; but only those who had the pleasure of his acquaintance can at all venture to measure the loss which his death must be in his own family circle!

Now the bell rings, and Giovanni bustles up and down the deck, intimating, "che'l pranzo ze pronto," so down we all plunged into the saloon, where a good dinner, as usual, welcomed us.

As the coast is uninteresting, besides which I don't want to go on deck at present, I may as well tell you of what our Italian dinner consisted. We first had an excellent Julienne soup, with abundance of grated Parmesan for such as appreciated it; next was served the "fritto," according to old Italian custom, which always enumerates the following dishes, to succeed each other in an orthodox dinner:—minestra, fritto, lesso, umido, arrosto, dolce, frutta, and, when in season, slices of melon, or fresh figs, served up immediately after the soup, to be eaten with thin slices of raw ham or Bologna sausage. Figs being in season they were not wanting, so conforming to the usage of the country I ate some with raw Bologna sausage, and learnt fully to appreciate the strange compound, which I afterwards always indulged in whenever I had a chance.

The fritto was delicious (assuredly nowhere else can they fry as in Italy); it consisted of zucchettine and fiori, i.e., young unexpanded gourd flowers and very young gourds not bigger thin an egg, cut in thin slices, dipped in the thinnest of batter and fried quite crisp and golden brown, and served dry without a particle of grease. Then came a dish of gnocchi alla Milanese, a superb dish, but difficult to explain; imagine the ingredients of a colossal vol-au-vent À la financiÈre, replete with livers, cocks' combs, unborn eggs, &c., &c., surrounded by a bastion of a peculiar preparation, made of maize-flour, and the whole bathed in tomato sauce and sprinkled right over with grated Parmesan, "proprio da far riavere i morti," as the chef exclaimed to me after dinner, when, handing him a cigar, I complimented him on his gnocchi. Then came the arrosto which consisted of veal and fowls, and after that a splendid piatto dolce of stewed peaches in an artistic cage of caramel sugar, ornamented with strange devices of most delicious marzapane.

Having slowly worked our way through this sumptuous repast, we went on deck, where coffee was served with its usual accompaniment of Maraschino, both sweetened and unsweetened, together with the inevitable smoke, which contrary to reason, as one would think, is even more comforting in hot countries like the Levant, than it is in cold damp regions like Holland.

I have a dim recollection of the captain tapping me on the shoulder and telling me something about Ragusa Vecchia and Epidaurus as we were steaming down the coast; but I was in too dreamy a state to pay much attention to him at the time, and as I knew the coast was uninteresting, I told him to call me as soon as we should come in sight of the Bocche and Castelnuovo, and dozed away again.

I afterwards learnt that this Epidaurus, about which I was rather fretting for having refused to stir from my siesta to look at it, was really not worth seeing, though an ancient city, having been founded by a Greek colony somewhere about 700 years b.c., more or less; but all its antiquities had been removed long ago.

It was between three and four in the afternoon when I awoke of my own accord, thus anticipating the captain, who was just coming to tell me that we were about entering the canal of Cattaro, as it is called, but which to our ear is far better described by the name of Fjord of Cattaro. It is to all intents and purposes a Fjord, being an arm of the sea running up for eighteen miles into land, between high precipitous cliffs; and if there is not a glacier at the end of it, but only a quaint Dalmatian town with the most picturesque fort and fortifications in the world, it does not alter the character of the inlet.

The entrance to this Fjord, called "le Bocche di Cattaro," is guarded on the right by the Fort of Castelnuovo, and on the left is bounded by a narrow strip of Turkish territory, a portion of Herzegovina, which here comes down to the Adriatic, separating the Circolo of Ragusa from that of Cattaro. By some strange political arrangement, or oversight more probably, another narrow strip of Turkish territory comes down to the Adriatic on the north of Ragusa, completely isolating that ancient Republic which finds itself thus entirely surrounded by Ottoman territory on three sides, while on the fourth it is bounded by the Adriatic.

The country about the entrance of the Bocche di Cattaro is fine, well wooded and planted with olive trees, through which can be seen numerous habitations, while many of the rugged heights are crowned with semi-fortified churches, which served as places of refuge to the women and children in troublous times.

Proceeding onwards, the scene varies and the trees lessen in numbers, though the landscape loses nothing of its beauty, as by the constant windings of the Fjord the changes are continuous and rapid, and the many villages built on the edge of the water, and sharply reflected in it, add one more charm to the picture. At one point the Fjord is barely half a mile across, when suddenly it expands into a lake of many miles in circumference, where all the navies of the world could lie in safety. But now the scene changes again and the Fjord becomes a narrow tortuous channel, bounded on either side by naked rocky cliffs. Like the rest of the coast of Dalmatia it is, however, very beautiful. About half way between Castelnuovo and Cattaro, the Fjord expands and divides right and left forming two bays, that of Risano to the left, and that of Cattaro to the right; while in front rise the almost perpendicular crags of Montenegro, at the foot of which, with barely room to build on, so near does the mountain come to the edge of the water, stands the town of Perasto with the ancient fort of Santa Croce just above it.

This place must have been of considerable importance within late years, still I never saw such a picture of poverty and desolation. The houses are not in ruins, but look dilapidated; the windows are broken in, the jalousies hanging by one hinge and in pieces, while in many places the roofs are stripped of their tiles. The position of Perasto cannot be surpassed; built on a promontory facing the west, it has the lake-like expansion of the Gulf of Cattaro in front and does not consequently labour under the disadvantage Cattaro suffers from, by having a chain of mountains in front of it to the westward, which deprive it of the sun in Winter before two o'clock in the afternoon. The style of the houses in Perasto shows that not long ago it could boast of an opulent population, which is further exemplified by the fortress built at the expense of the town—by its lofty steeple and by its churches. One in particular caught my eye from the steamer, it had no faÇade, not that it had fallen into ruin, neither had it been shaken down by an earthquake, but was built so; open to the weather with a half cupola something like one of those little roadside shrines dedicated to the Virgin which we meet with constantly in Italy and other Catholic countries, only on a very much larger scale.

I felt quite interested in Perasto, it looked so picturesque, so noble, so poor! One house especially struck my fancy, but the word house does not convey its appearance, it was what an Italian would call a palazzo. The entrance was evidently from a back street, while the side which faced the water consisted of a loggia of many pilasters and arches, into which opened the rooms of the ground floor, while above it were tiers of large and handsome windows. In front of the loggia was a paved terrace, from which a series of steps, the whole length of the house, led down to the water. It was uninhabited and in fact going rapidly to ruin! I fancied to myself what a little paradise one could make of it; I saw in my mind's eye a row of orange trees growing on that terrace, a yacht moored close into those steps, and life and bustle in those chambers where all was now silence and decay. What can have brought such desolation on Perasto? I asked several people but I could get no satisfactory answer! some blamed Austria, some il commercio; I suppose I could have bought the fee simple of that house in Perasto for a £10 note.

In front of Perasto are two small islands—San Giorgio and La Madonna. In the church of La Madonna is to be seen an ancient picture of the Virgin, attributed as usual to the artistic efforts of the Evangelist Luke, who evidently, from what I have seen of his works of art in different places, was not possessed of much talent in that line. Tradition states that the picture was transported in 1452, by an unknown hand, from Negropont to this rock; and being seen amidst lighted candles by some fishermen, it was removed to the church of Perasto. The next night it returned to the island; and the same action having been repeated three times, it was presumed that the picture preferred remaining there; thus they built a church for it, which no doubt turned out a profitable speculation.