LITMIR.BIZ

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only buildings. It is an important position, however, as being the nearest point to Mostar, in Herzegovina, to which town the Government is now constructing a military road from here. Next we touched at the picturesque fortress of Curzola, on the island of the same name. It is surrounded by grand old Venetian walls and towers, which rise from the water's edge.

      This night we anchored for several hours off Gravosa, the northern harbour of Ragusa. The latter wonderful old city, perhaps the most interesting of all Dalmatia, we had time to explore in a rapid way.

      There was once a Republic of Ragusa. The fact that it successfully maintained its independence, when all the surrounding countries had been acquired by Venice, will testify to the strength of the little state. The chief street is broad, and contains lofty and noble houses—residences of the old merchant princes—strong-built, with elegant balconies and carved porticoes. From this street narrow streets ascend the mountain side, in steps of granite. Arches are thrown from house-top to house-top; there are some grand bits for a painter. The town is paved with broad, flat stones, which gives it a very clean appearance.

      The next was a glorious day. The gentle south wind once more brought summer back to us, and the lateen-rigged boats again shook out their reefs, and displayed all their gaudy canvas.

      It was early in the day when we steamed through the entrance of the Bocche di Cattaro.

      This magnificent fiord has often been described. It certainly contains some of the finest scenery in Europe.

      The deep gulf winds into the heart of the wild Montenegrin mountains. At first it is quite six miles in width, then it narrows to a few hundred yards, then again widens into an extensive lake as the fantastically-shaped, almost perpendicular masses of bleak rock jut far out into the deep clear water in rugged promontories, or retire from it in dark and profound chasms and ravines.

      Here and there houses and churches are seen perched on seemingly inaccessible ledges, thousands of feet above the blue water which reflects them. There are several small towns on the shores of the Bocche. Castelnuovo and Perasto have beautiful situations. Pleasant villages, half buried in olive gardens, are built on the lower slopes of the hills.

      But the first view of that extraordinary fortress, Cattaro, is never to be forgotten. At the very head of the last arm of the Bocche the dark blue masses of mountain, here higher and more precipitous than elsewhere, shut in a deep bay.

      BOCCHE DI CATTARO.

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      More than 4000 feet above, on the ridge, is the frontier of Montenegro—a country by the sea, looking down on the blue water, yet shut out from it by its big neighbours.

      

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      A bold bluff of rock, a thousand feet or more in height, slightly projects from the main mass, perpendicular, bare, cleft into profound chasms. This extraordinary site has been chosen for the most wonderful fortress in Europe. Below, on the narrow margin between rock and sea, is built the town. Along the water's edge is a quay, to which are moored the beautiful craft of the country. This has been converted into a pleasant walk, fringed with trees. Behind this is the old Venetian wall of the city, with its fine solid towers and broad battlements; the time-darkened stones in places luxuriantly overgrown with the lovely flowers and creepers of the sunny South. Passing through the portcullised gate, one enters into a strange, quaint city. The streets are narrow, the houses lofty, and covered with grotesque carvings. No carts, carriages, or horses, are permitted to enter the town. This, by-the-bye, is the case in most Dalmatian cities. The whole is paved with large flags. Cattaro is of some length, but very narrow, for it is shut in by the steep cliff which rises immediately from behind it.

      Now the walls of the town, after bounding it on the sea front, zigzag up either side of the bluff I mentioned, till they meet on its crowning point, a thousand feet above the sea, where stands a formidable-looking castle.

      On observing how they rise and dip, adapting themselves to the little ravines and irregularities of the rock, one is irresistibly reminded of the pictures of the great wall of China one was so much impressed with in the spelling-books of childhood.

      Very old the town and fortifications are. No improving Goth has yet taken aught away from their grotesque grandeur.

      It is very difficult to describe the effect of all this, for the scenery in and around Cattaro is such as is not to be found elsewhere, quite sui generis. The most blasé traveller would utter an exclamation of surprise when that wonderful fortress suddenly appeared before him, like some great city of the genii that one has read of in fairy tale, or seen in some half-remembered nightmare. The high cliff, with its grey fortress, seems ready to topple down on the town any moment. Some of the huge masses of overhanging rock have at times been dislodged, and fallen below; many of these are chained to the mountain, to prevent this catastrophe.

      So lofty and steep are the surrounding heights that Cattaro does not enjoy much of the light of the sun; the shadows depart late, and soon set in. But during the few hours in the middle of the day that the sun's rays do fall on it, this place is like an oven—possibly the hottest town in Europe.

      About four o'clock in the afternoon our steamer was alongside the quay. We marched off to the Hotel Cacciatore, a very decent place, whose proprietor is a quaint fellow, with a perpetual smile, who imagines he can speak French. The restaurant is fair, and frequented by the officers of the garrison. The custom-house officers did not trouble us, but the mosquitoes did; so, too, did certain insects that inhabited our beds.

      Brown is one of those unfortunate people whose blood is exceptionally sweet and palatable to insect life, and to whom, consequently, the hours of darkness in these lands bring no peace, but sleepless torments worse than the guiltiest, liveliest conscience could inflict. He brought with him from England a large packet of insecticide, and every night, before he retired, made careful preparations to withstand the usual siege. He was not contented with dusting himself all over so freely that he set the whole Albanian expedition sneezing for an hour, but he would also build around his body, on the bed-clothes, an impregnable rampart of the powder so broad and lofty that the most active flea would fail to leap it.

      The next day was Sunday—a warm and delicious day. We attended the service, and enjoyed the fine music in the old Venetian church. In the evening we visited the public promenade on the quay outside the walls, which was crowded by the population and the country people in their Sunday best.

      At the end of this promenade there is a public garden, and a café under the ramparts. The marble tables are placed out of doors, among the bright flowers and creepers. Here we sat lazily smoking our cigarettes, and listening to the music of the Hungarian military band that played just in front of us. There is no gas at Cattaro; the town is lit with petroleum. The band carries its own lamps. It was curious to see the men troop into the garden, each with a pole over his shoulder, to which hung his lit lantern. This place is really delightful on such an evening as this. The scene was exactly like some great scenic display on the boards of a large theatre—some dream of fairyland. One could not help half expecting to see some bright Eastern ballet trip in the next moment. The promenade in front of the walls was the stage and proscenium. The lovely Eastern night, the moon hanging over the great hills, the blue waters and the fantastic shipping, the giant walls and towers, the grand mountains behind all, the picturesque crowd, and the lively music, all combined to form a perfect spectacle, magic-like—to say theatrical would be an unworthy adjective—that I, for my part, never imagined could be found within a week's journey of practical, ugly London, dear old place though it is.

      Costumes flitted by us as brilliant and strange to the eye as those of an Alhambra opera bouffe. The Morlak, the lithe and bright-eyed Greek, the turbaned Turk of Bosnia, with glowing robe, solemn and haughtily-looking; the Montenegrin mountaineer, with his white coat tied on with

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