No seaboard of the Mediterranean, save only the coast of Greece, is so deeply indented as the Dalmatian littoral, with Its unending succession of rock-bound bays, as frequent as the perforations on a postage-stamp, and its thick fringe of islands.  In calm weather the channels between these islands and the mainland resemble a chain of landlocked lakes, like those in the Adirondacks or in southern Ontario, being connected by narrow straits called canales, brilliantly clear to a depth of several fathoms.  As a rule, the surrounding hills are rugged, bleached yellow or pale russet, and destitute of verdure, but their monotony is relieved by the half-ruined castles and monasteries which, perched on the rocky heights, perpetually reminded me of Howard Pyle’s paintings, and by the medieval charm of Zara, Sebenico, Spalato, Ragusa, Arbe, and Curzola, whose architecture, though predominantly Venetian, bears characteristic traces of the many races which have ruled them.

Just as Italy insisted on pushing her new borders up to the Brenner so that she might have a strategic frontier on the north, so she lays claim to the larger of the Dalmatian islands—­Lissa, Lesina, Curzola, and certain others—­in order to protect her Adriatic shores.  A glance at the map will make her reasons amply plain.  There stretches Italy’s eastern coastline, 600 miles of it, from Venice to Otranto, with half a dozen busy cities and a score of fishing towns, as bare and unprotected as a bald man’s hatless head.  Not only is there not a single naval base on Italy’s Adriatic coast south of Venice, but there is no harbor or inlet that can be transformed into one.  Yet across the Adriatic, barely four hours steam by destroyer away, is a wilderness of islands and deep harbors where an enemy’s fleet could lie safely hidden, from which it could emerge to attack Italian commerce or to bombard Italy’s unprotected coast towns, and where it could take refuge when the pursuit became too hot.  All down the ages the dwellers along Italy’s eastern seaboard have been terrorized by naval raids from across the Adriatic.  And Italy has determined that they shall be terrorized no more.  How history repeats itself!  Just as Rome, twenty-two centuries ago, could not permit the neighboring islands of Sicily to fall into the hands of Carthage, so Italy cannot permit these coastwise islands, which form her only protection against attacks from the east, to pass under the control of the Jugoslavs.

“But,” I said to the Italians with whom I discussed the matter, “why do you need any such protection now that the world is to have a League of Nations?  Isn’t that a sufficient guarantee that the Jugoslavs will never attack you?”

“The League of Nations is in theory a splendid thing,” was their answer.  “We subscribe to it in principle most heartily.  But because there is a policeman on duty in your street, do you leave wide open your front door?”