Greek with whom I chiefly pass my evenings
when not engaged in these councils. He
is one of the forgotten celebrities of a far
different world, and in his youth took a gallant
part in the Greek War of Independence. Cast
down by the ungenerous forgetfulness of his
countrymen and too proud to reproach them,
he talks to me of the old times of Capo
D'Istrias and General Church. He remembers
Lord Byron and Mr. Stanhope, as if he
had parted from them yesterday. When
once fairly warmed by these memories—and I
love to set him on his noble old hobby-horse—
he smokes away at his chibouque with such
enthusiasm, and I at mine so thoughtfully,
that we often seem to fall into a sort of
cloudy trance. At the end of an hour or
two the old gentleman appears to fade away.
Then, clearly from out the mist, are marshalled
names which will be remembered long,
the patriot bands of modern Greece: and
Byron is again dying, amid the poisonous
swamps of Missolonghi. Thus do I seem
to know, as if I had dwelt among them, the
men who thought and fought, and wrought—
for what?

We have our wise men and our reprobates.
There is Kyrios Bamba, who is supposed to
possess many extraordinary attainments, and
a wisdom altogether remarkable; who says
nothing with such dignity as will cause the
most indifferent beholder to be impressed
with respect and awe. If, after the example
of most sages in small places, he keeps his
wisdom very much to himself, we are not at
all disposed to disparage it on that account.
Like the rest of mankind we are always ready
to admire what we do not know; for, with
the best will in the world, it is perhaps
impossible to admire what we do know.

On the other hand, among the chief of the
good-for-nothings on whom our little society
is disposed to look severely, is the
carpenter, who has been, twice during the past
year observed publicly in such a state of
emotion, from the effects of liquor, as even to
be unsteady on his legs while walking along
the street. It is true that he has exhibited
many signs of contrition, and that he several
times took refuge in flight rather than meet
the scrutinising glance of Miss Peabody, a
lady with a swift and arrowy sharpness of
tongue, lately on a visit from Smyrna to a
relative who has married and settled in our
little colony. I remember, however—for it
was not more than nine days ago, and at
about the hour when I am now writing these
lines—that is, in the dusk of the evening—
that, the carpenter being ill, I discerned
Miss Peabody coming stealthily up the
street with something hidden under her
cloak. She stopped at the carpenter's door
and knocked softly; but before it was half
opened she took the something from under her
cloak and thrust it through the aperture,
after which she disappeared with great
precipitation lest she should be observed. At first
I was disposed to apprehend that she had
translated one of Dr. Thwackcushion's (Dr. T.
is our Chaplain at Smyrna) sermons into
Greek for his edification, and had chosen the
present occasion as a favourable opportunity
of effecting the carpenter's reform by those
means: but going out in the evening to fulfil
my duties towards society (which is our
phrase for taking tea in these parts) I learned
indirectly that Miss Peabody had been
informed of the carpenter's illness, and had
carried him a dish of arrowroot of her own
making. I afterwards learned also that the
carpenter, not knowing what to do with it,
and yet having a great belief in Miss Peabody,
had supposed that the arrowroot was
intended to fix together the parts of a little
work-box which he was making for her, and
had applied it to this purpose; but finding
the composition did not hold as he expected,
was much confounded.

I do not know that there is anything else
about us by which we differ from the great
family of mankind. I have seen something
of the world, and I have found men nearly
alike in all places and conditions. The
scene and dresses may be different, in a court
and in a village, but the actors are very much
the same.

ONE OF OUR LEGAL FICTIONS.

THE prayers were made, the benediction
given, the bells rang out their lusty
epithalamium, and by the law of the Church and
the law of the land, Charlotte and Robert
Desborough were henceforth one—one in
interests, one in life. No chill rights or
selfish individuality to sow disunion between
them; no unnatural laws to weaken her
devotion by offering a traitorous asylum
against him; but, united by bonds none could
break—their two lives welded together, one
and indivisible for ever—they set their names
to that form of marriage, which so many
have signed in hope, to read over for a long
lifetime of bitterness and despair. Yet what
can be more beautiful than the ideal of an
English marriage! This strict union of
interests—although it does mean the
absorption of the woman's whole life in
that of the man's—although it does mean
the entire annihilation of all her rights,
individuality, legal existence, and his sole
recognition by the law—yet how beautiful it
is in the ideal! She, as the weaker, lying
safe in the shadow of his strength, upheld by
his hand, cherished by his love, losing herself,
in the larger being of her husband: while he,
in the vanguard of life, protects her from all
evil, and shields her against danger, and
takes on himself alone the strife and the
weary toil, the danger, and the struggle.
What a delightful picture of unselfishness and
chivalry, of devotedness, and manly
protection; and what sacrilege to erase so much
poetry from the dry code of our laws!