powers in turn, till in 1419 Cattaro finally became Venetian.  At the fall of the republic it became part of the Austrian share of the spoil.  When the spoilers quarreled, it fell to France.  When England, Russia, and Montenegro were allies, the city joined the land of which it naturally forms the head, and Cattaro became the Montenegrin haven and capital.  When France was no longer dangerous, and the powers of Europe came together to parcel out other men’s goods, Austria calmly asked for Cattaro back again, and easily got it.

In the city of Cattaro the Orthodox Church is still in a minority, but it is a minority not far short of a majority.  Outside its walls, the Orthodox outnumber the Catholics.  In short, when we reach Cattaro, we have very little temptation to fancy ourselves in Italy or in any part of Western Christendom.  We not only know, but feel, that we are on the Byzantine side of the Hadriatic; that we have, in fact, made our way into Eastern Europe.

And East and West, Slav and Italian, New Rome and Old, might well struggle for the possession of the land and of the water through which we pass from Ragusa to our final goal at Cattaro.  The strait leads us into a gulf; another narrow strait leads us into an inner gulf; and on an inlet again branching out of that inner gulf lies the furthest of Dalmatian cities.  The lower city, Cattaro itself, seems to lie so quietly, so peacefully, as if in a world of its own from which nothing beyond the shores of its own Bocche could enter, that we are tempted to forget, not only that the spot has been the scene of so many revolutions through so many ages, but that it is even now a border city, a city on the marchland of contending powers, creeds, and races....

The city of Cattaro itself is small, standing on a narrow ledge between the gulf and the base of the mountain.  It carries the features of the Dalmatian cities to what any one who has not seen Traue will call their extreme point.  But, tho’ the streets of Cattaro are narrow, yet they are civilized and airy-looking compared with those of Traue, and the little paved squares, as so often along this coast, suggest the memory of the ruling city.

The memory of Venice is again called up by the graceful little scraps of its characteristic architecture which catch the eye ever and anon among the houses of Cattaro.  The landing-place, the marina, the space between the coast and the Venetian wall, where we pass for the last time under the winged lion over the gate, has put on the air of a boulevard.  But the forms and costume of Bocchesi and Montenegrins, the men of the gulf, with their arms in their girdles, no less than the men of the black mountain, banish all thought that we are anywhere but where we really are, at one of the border points of Christian and civilized Europe.  If in the sons of the mountains we see the men who have in all ages held out against the invading Turk, we see in their brethren of the coast the men who, but a few years back, brought Imperial, Royal, and Apostolic Majesty to its knees ...