"Yes," replied the Monk, "it is not generally known that it was on the rocks of Lachroma that Cœur-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 Cœur-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."
