On the Eastern shores of the Adriatic, is a place called Messaline. It will not be found in the map. But we have great (poetical,—not geographical) authority for its being there—somewhere on those shores—not far down beyond the coast of Illyria. It is,—or rather was,—a fine stately place; with noble shipping, and handsome buildings. It had a goodly harbour, and commanded a grand expansive view of the broad, blue, sparkling sea. Its inhabitants were of Greek origin, and maintained many of their Grecian peculiarities of custom, speech, and dress; although they had become much Italianized by their vicinity and association with their neighbours on the opposite shores of Italy. There were many beautiful islands clustered close about; fertile, luxuriant green spots, embosomed in the glittering azure of the waters; looking like portions of the shore, parted in some giant freak of Nature's, from the parent land, which wound in deep undulating indentations, forming lovely bays, and sheltered recesses, along the edge of the sea.

In this Messaline, dwelt a young man, named Sebastian. He was a scion of a noble house; but it had many scions, and there was not enough of the vital sap,—money—in the whole of the parent tree, to nourish its multitudinous branches.