perhaps, with the efforts he had made to
conquer adverse circumstances, he resigned
himself to destiny, and snored until late next
afternoon.

On the second morning of our voyage,
when the wind subsided, we had full leisure
to observe the snow-clad hills, and rocky
coast of Cape Matapan. We rounded the
cape at the distance of four miles; but
the rocks were so grand and the air
was so pure that the distance seemed
to be not more than half a mile. Later
in the day, still skirting an iron-bound coast,
we came to Cape San Angelo, on which
a pious hermit dwells, and prays for the
safety of the Greek coasters that brave the
peril of these waters. We saw his chapel, a
rude heap of stones, and his house, a cave in
the rock; and we saw, lastly, the holy man
himself, dressed in a long robe, with flowing
beard of venerable grey, and with a high-
plumed cap upon his crown. This hermit, I
understand, is the second resident saint of
the spot. His predecessor had begun life
as a Greek sea-captain, and also, according to
Greek fashion, pirate and assassin, as
occasion served. It so happened that this worthy
man had been twice shipwrecked off San
Angelo. So strange a coincidence caused him
to ponder on his life. Perhaps it was wrong
to cut throats and to plunder merchantmen.
Besides the good man—or at that period
of his life, the bad man—had become famous
in his generation, and fame is a fatal offering
to gentlemen of his profession. Indeed,
his frequent shipwrecks were dependent on
the fact that there were few harbours
wherein he could venture to seek shelter.
Considering such things the captain came to
the conclusion that he must give up the
business of the sinner, and cause his life and
independence to be respected ashore by
retiring as a saint. In the hermit's cassock
he was safe against the importunities of the
police, or the quick stroke of private
vendetta. The result proved that he calculated
wisely. He lived for about thirty years under
the care of San Angelo, well fed by pious
fishermen, traders, and pirates. When he
died a successor of like fortunes was
immediately found to don his cassock, and take
up his rosary; perhaps, also, in troublous
times, to serve the land-sharks as a signal
man, and to let them know when vessels in
distress were off the coast, drifting to
leewards.

We had scarcely done admiring the piety
of these hermits when the night set in. On
the following morning we were at anchor in
the harbour of Syra. The first intelligence
of this fact was communicated to us by a
loud screeching and stamping overhead,
intermixed with the angry voices and loud
curses of the captain and his mates. The
vessel had to discharge and take in cargo,
and a company of Syriotes had corne on
board to assist in the operation. They were
dressed in rags, and were very dirty; all of
them men of brown skins and scowling looks,
whom the mates, ignorant of their language,
ordered about by means of kicks and pushes.
Syra is a small and rocky island, as a friend
in Valetta had said, " not at all worth seeing."
Nevertheless I meant to see it; and as one
of the passengers—the young French
merchant—had some business to transact with
the Greek merchants of the place, I volunteered
to join him in his expedition. As
soon as we landed at the quay, which is at
one end flanked by the custom-house and at
the other by a café, it became apparent that
this quay is the Change of Syra, and that the
traders and sailors crowding it were all in a
high state of excitement. They walked to
and fro as if walking to and fro were
the sole object of their lives; they pointed
to the sea, vented their feelings in
violent exclamations, and shook one another
by the hand with frantic eagerness. But
what astonished us especially was that our
arrival in a boat—we being two travellers of
private station, and quite insignificant in
appearance—should produce a furious sensation.
Fingers and arms were directed at us; and
as our boat approached the landing stairs a
dense mass of persons gathered above to see
us step ashore. Murmurs loud and deep
from black-bearded lips followed us as we
made our way across the quay into the town.
Even the Greek dandies in their morocco
boots, ample trousers, embroidered jackets
and frilled shirts with ivory studs, shook
their gloved hands in the air as if invoking
the wrath of Heaven upon the two barbarians
who dared to set their feet upon the
soil of Syra.

Matters became worse in the town; where
many Greek children, boys and girls,
followed us hooting and calling names. To be
ignorant of a foreign language is a blessing
now and then.

The whole mystery was explained in a few
minutes, when we called on one of my friend's
correspondents, an Italian, settled on the
island. The news of the hostile attitude
which King Otho had thought proper to take
against Turkey and on behalf of Russia, had
on the previous day reached the Syriotes.
The Turkish ambassador had left Athens.
The Greek ambassador was about to leave
Constantinople. French vessels had touched
at Syra on their way to Athens, where they
were bent on threatening the king and nation
of Hellas with the wrath of France and
England. Hence the excitement. Hence
their manifestations of disgust at the
appearance of two strangers, landing from
an English vessel. All the men of Syra were
preparing to take arms. All the women
were shut up in-doors, tailoring and making
fustanellas, or white kilts, the distinguishing
garment of the Klepht, which in modern
Greek parlance stands at once for patriot and
robber. There were, moreover, Greek