The Queen’s Pleasure
Iam writing to you from a lost corner of the far south-east of Europe. The author of my guide-book, in his preface, observes that a traveller in this part of the world, "unless he has some acquaintance with the local idioms, is liable to find himself a good deal bewildered about the names of places." On Thursday of last week I booked from Charing Cross, by way of Dover, Paris, and the Oriental Express, for Vescova, the capital of Monterosso; and yesterday afternoon—having changed on Sunday, at Belgrade, from land to water, and steamed for close upon forty-eight hours down the Danube—I was put ashore at the town of Bckob, in the Principality of Tchermnogoria.
I certainly might well have found myself a good deal bewildered; and if I did not—for I’m afraid I can’t boast of much acquaintance with the local idioms—it was no doubt because this isn't my first visit to the country. I was here some years ago, and then I learned that Bckob is pronounced as nearly as may be Vscov, and that Tchermnogoria is Monterosso literally translated—tchermnoe (the dictionaries certify) meaning red, and gora, or goria, a hill, a mountain.
It is our fashion in England to speak of Monterosso, if we
