ATTRACTIONS OF DALMATIA—INTERESTING EXCURSION—ISLAND OF LACHROMA—CLIMATE—A. A. PATON, ESQ., FORMERLY CONSUL-GENERAL AT RAGUSA—AN ITALIAN DINNER—EPIDAURUS—THE CANAL OF CATTARO—TERRITORY OF RAGUSA—TOWER OF PERASTO AND FORT OF SANTA CROCE—STRANGELY BUILT CHURCH—A PALAZZO—SAN GIORGIO AND LA MADONNA—PICTURE ATTRIBUTED TO ST. LUKE.

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 142 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 143 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 144 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 145 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 146 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 147 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 wen............