Diocletian, in short, in building a house, had built a city.  In the days of Constantine Porphyrogenitus it was a “Kaotpov”—­Greek and English had by his day alike borrowed the Latin name; but it was a “Kaotpov” which Diocletian had built as his own house, and within which was his hall and palace.  In his day the city bore the name of Aspalathon, which he explains to mean “little palace.”  When the palace had thus become a common habitation of men, it is not wonderful that all the more private buildings whose use had passed away were broken down, disfigured, and put to mean uses.

The work of building over the site must have gone on from that day to this.  The view in Wheeler shows several parts of the enclosure occupied by ruins which are now covered with houses.  The real wonder is that so much has been spared and has survived to our own days.  And we are rather surprised to find Constantine saying that in his time the greater part had been destroyed.  For the parts which must always have been the stateliest remain still.  The great open court, the peristyle, with its arcades, have become the public plaza of the town; the mausoleum on one side of it and the temple on the other were preserved and put to Christian uses.

We say the mausoleum, for we fully accept the suggestion made by Professor Glavinich, the curator of the museum of Spalato, that the present duomo, traditionally called the Temple of Jupiter, was not a temple, but a mausoleum.  These must have been the great public buildings of the palace, and, with the addition of the bell-tower, they remain the chief public buildings of the modern city.  But, tho’ the ancient square of the palace remains wonderfully perfect, the modern city, with its Venetian defenses, its Venetian and later buildings, has spread itself far beyond the walls of Diocletian.  But those walls have made the history of Spalato, and it is the great buildings which stand within them that give Spalato its special place in the history of architecture.

RAGUSA[12]

BY HARRY DE WINDT

Viewed from the sea, and at first sight, the place somewhat resembles Monte Carlo with its white villas, palms, and background of rugged, gray hills.  But this is the modern portion of the town, outside the fortifications, erected many centuries ago.  Within them lies the real Ragusa—­a wonderful old city which teems with interest, for its time-worn buildings and picturesque streets recall, at every turn, the faded glories of this “South Slavonic Athens.”  A bridge across the moat which protects the old city is the link between the present and past.  In new Ragusa you may sit on the crowded esplanade of a fashionable watering place; but pass through a frowning archway into the old town, and, save in the main street, which has modern shops and other up-to-date surroundings, you might be living in the dark ages.  For as far back as in the ninth century Ragusa was the capital of Dalmatia and an independent republic, and since that period her literary and commercial triumphs, and the tragedies she has survived in the shape of sieges, earthquakes, and pestilence, render the records of this little-known state almost as engrossing as those of ancient Rome.