I looked from my open window across the hot, dusty street, and there, clearly defined in the light of a shaded lamp that stood upon the mantleshelf, I saw those three who had grown to me like well-loved friends. They had pulled out the bed on which the child lay, and set it in the centre of the room, in hope, no doubt, of some refreshing waft of air getting to him as he lay there, gasping his little life out, tossing the weary, weary golden head from side to side, or lying in that awful motionless exhaustion that is the "shadow of death.” The mother was kneeling by the bed, close beside her darling; and a little apart from these two, his arms resting on the table, his face hidden on his arms, sat the father. Twice I saw the kneeling figure rise and go across to him, bending tenderly down to the bowed head, and laying a loving touch upon his shoulder. "Janet," I said, "put my chair by the window, and take away the candle; I shall not go to bed yet." Janet opened her eyes wide, and her mouth too; but something in my face must have stopped the flow of her speech, for with a dazed look at her mistress she obeyed orders and then beat a hasty retreat. So we kept our vigil; they and I. Once I saw an awful granny shadow on the wall of the sick-room, and knew that the black bonnet was to the fore; but the shadow quickly disappeared, and twinkling down past the landing window came the faint light of a candle. Then the faithful retainer of that humble household appeared in the parlour below, where the blind was still undrawn. She set her candlestick down upon the table, deliberately took the black bonnet off, laid it tenderly upon the floor, and cast her apron over her head. The candle burnt down in the socketflickered-flared-went out; but the odd figure never moved, and in the now dark room could only be distinguished as some brooding shapeless shade. Eleven, twelve, one, had been tolled out by the clock of the church hard by. The "turn of the night" had come, and brought with it a faintly stirring breeze, a breeze that crept in and out of the narrow streets, softly swayed the curtains at the window of the room where the dying boy lay, and moved the leaves upon a solitary tree that was the only one in Green Street, and much thought of by us all. Was that soft breeze the stir of angel wings? Had God sent His messengers for little Lennie? I saw the mother lift the poor wasted form in her arms; nay, so still was the sleeping world just then that I could even hear the cry she gave as the golden head fell back against her breast. Her husband started up and hurried to her side. Then they were quite still, just like the figures in a picture; only for a few minutes though. And I saw him take the dear, light burden from the mother's arms and lay it reverently and gently down-not little Lennie-oh, not little Lennie any more! She flung her hands up towards the heaven where her child had fled, and fell upon her knees, and the man knelt beside her, clasping her. After that I could not look any more. The hot weather, and the strain and excitement of watching to its close the sad drama in which I had taken such a strange interest, must have over-tried my always feeble powers-for a spell of suffering, such as now and again lays me low, followed the night when little Lennie died; and for weeks life to me was only one long pain, days and nights mingling and merging into one another with strange indistinctness. Then the cloud passed, and once more Janet helped me to my place by the window. "Pull up the blind," I said irritably. (Alas, how irritable sickness often makes even the best of us!) But my hand-maiden hesitated; played with the blind-cord; and at last, with a sort of spasm, blurted out the news that had evidently been a burden on her mind for some time past— "Please, ma'am—they've flitted!" Yes, the house opposite was empty once more, and the old board leant up against the railings, informing the passers-by that No. 27 was To Let, and "please apply to Samuel Applethwaite." So they were gone, and I had never known, and never should know, whence they came or whither they had departed. No. 27 is empty still. Yet to me the window over the way can never be empty; for in my fancy I see those two loving faces, mother and child, watching in the gloaming for some one coming home! IT T has become so easy a journey to visit | the East, that after Italy-the first stage of the travelling Englishman-is reached, he seems at the very gates of those mysterious countries once called the Cradle of the World -ancient shores consecrated by the remembrance of heroic deeds, a grand literature, and above all the birthplace of Him who has redeemed the human race. If, however, there be little difficulty in seeing the country, the people who inhabit it hide themselves carefully from close inspection. At the first glance it may be asserted that they are idle, heavy, uncommunicative; but all their character is not summed up in those three words. The towns do not afford an insight into private life, for foreigners have greatly modified them; but to know the people they must be studied in the country, and in the villages. So far as Greece is concerned, the unsettled state of the interior, with the bands of brigands ever on the watch for plunder, makes travelling dangerous; but a residence on the coast is safe, and from a small town in the Peloponnesus these observations are made. It is well to remember that this classic land must not be compared to Europe, but to its own state fifty years ago, when it existed only in name, down-trodden by the crushing yoke of Turkey, and after it had passed through that bloody period of 1821, when it gained its independence. Since then it has acquired a semblance of self-government, and a social existence has been raised out of the ruins of a country where the soil is an obstacle to every kind of progress. It needed the formation of an administration, roads, schools, and an army; it was only after these successive reforms, or as they may more truly be styled creations, that the patriots could hope for the improvement of morals in a half-savage people, scattered in small hamlets, living among high mountains or on islands. Now it can point to Athens as a capital and a port, flourishing commercial towns such as Syra, Patras, and Corfu, a university granting degrees, schools, churches, a national bank, a line of packets communicating with all the towns on the shore, and a post which does carry letters, but about the regularity of delivery it is better to say nothing. In every town municipal institutions prevail, a mayor and corporation manage the business. There is a telegraphic office, a branch bank, a school, and a prefect. The Greeks are the first to agree that all this apparatus wants perfecting; but the first step has been taken, and when instruction, and we must add religious principle, are more widely spread, the middle classes will be raised to a higher level and the fruits of these reforms may be traced. One of the greatest misfortunes for the country people is the extreme ignorance of the clergy. It was said by an English traveller some years ago that there are some in the monasteries who cannot even read the daily liturgy, but hire a man to do it for them. Singing is, however, held in great honour among the monks; it is a pious amusement which they use immoderately. One of their occupations is to bring up young children, to whom they teach the principles of harmony, and thus train the long-haired deacons who sing mass in the towns. For a long period the inmates of the monasteries were the only people initiated into the secret of preserving music in writing; they have invented special characters with which it would be impossible to render a good effect, but which suffice to express their recitatives. It must not be imagined that anything approaching our exquisite church music is attempted; those who have heard Eastern voices will know that the sweetest sound to a Turkish ear consists in singing through the nose. The Greeks are essentially Oriental in this particular, and their singing is really disagreeable. It is a plaintive, monotonous, sad measure, beginning with a long-drawn sort of groan; from time to time a shock of fantastic sounds awaken the attention, then the cadence hurries along, returning to the same note repeated ten times over, and dying out with a trill indefinitely prolonged. The only time when their music can be admired is in the evening, when the workpeople return home over the mountain-paths, men and women singing together. The slow, plaintive airs are heard through the hot still atmosphere, deprived by distance of their harshness, and harmonizing with the wild scenes of nature around. The echoes of the hills repeat the strain; the sun setting behind them makes the sky seem on fire with bands of gold and crimson. Far away rise the mountains of Corinth, with their brown profile against the resplendent heavens. Parnassus above all, a real home for the Muses at this time of the day, reflects the golden light, whilst the blue waters of the gulf roll in their long streaks of silver waves to bathe the feet of the rocky shore. It is a scene which recalls the days of ancient Greece, when the inhabitants lived all the day in the open air, "spending their time in nothing else but either to tell or to hear some new thing," preferring the blue vault of heaven to their small cells of houses. In the midst of this loveliness the peasants come in sight with their handsome faces and picturesque costumes. Here are the men : the waistcoat, jacket, and gaiters of white flannel embroidered with red and blue silk; instead of boots they wear the old Greek covering for the feet, the tsarouchia, a kind of shoe of Russian leather worked with bright-coloured silks, three tassels of which adorn the front and the sides. There is the useful and indispensable belt of leather, very broad in front and divided into several pockets, where rest their pistols, long poniards, and any other arms they are rich enough to possess, with the powder-flask and necessaries for smoking. The arms are bare, owing to the wide sleeves of the vest; and often, instead of a fez, they adopt a silk handkerchief. In winter this dress is covered with a thick, long-haired, grey mantle, coarsely embroidered with a coloured border. The women's costume is by no means so tasteful, composed of a long, wide silk petticoat, a vest, and fez similar to those of the men, which has not at all a pleasing effect. Brought up in the midst of many degrading superstitions, it is scarcely necessary to say that the Greeks hold saints and saints' days in the highest reverence; few nations strive more to give each its peculiar character and special ceremonies. When Holy Week arrives, the fasts, which have been well observed during Lent, become more austere; and it is a sacred duty with the most careless and unbelieving Greek, as well as the religious, to attend church every evening. On Thursday the twelve Gospels are read, and the ceremonies are prolonged far into the night. On the morning of Good Friday they all throng into the church to kiss the cross; the scene penetrates the heart with sadness. In the cold, silent, scarcely lighted aisles it is as if each had lost the dearest friend-and let us hope that there are some who have learned to know that Jesus is that Friend; for there is this redeeming trait in the Greek Church, when compared with the Romish, that the laity are permitted to read the Word of God for themselves. The evening draws on, and a procession is formed to carry the sacred ark through the streets. The scene now becomes riotous, reminding the spectator of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusa lem during Easter, for the young men of the highest families in the town post themselves in the church to gain the honour of carrying one of the poles on which the ark is fixed. A struggle begins, excited by political faction and pride of rank; sometimes even revolvers are pulled out. The conquerors in this disgraceful tumult go out in triumph, the others following, humiliated and angry, whilst the voices of the priests and people drown the noise. Through the dark irregular streets the cortège winds along; a thousand waxlights are carried by the spectators; women and old men kneel on the pavement, singing the solemn hymn of Christ in the tomb. The procession returns to the church, where perfect silence is maintained; one by one the people depart, and the town settles down to tranquil sleep. On Saturday the church is filled before midnight; the monotonous voice of the priest at the altar scarcely reaches the silent crowd, lost in deep shadow. Suddenly at twelve o'clock a joyful chaunt resounds through the vaulted roof; each voice takes up the melody and kindles his wax light, making the reechoing church one immense blaze; it is the hour of the Resurrection. "Christ is risen from the dead," repeats the priest; each one kisses his neighbour, the two words on every lip, "Christos anesti." Outside a feu de joie is heard with cries and bravos; and the people, before so calm, go out in crowds intoxicated with gaiety and delight. The shepherds have come down before from the mountains, bringing flocks of lambs and sheep into the town; all heads of houses, however poor, buy one, which is slaughtered in the courtyard of his house, or in some places, should the weather permit, in the open field, an old usage and superstition believed to bring happiness during the year, a remembrance also of the Passover feast. On Easter Sunday a large fire is lighted in the court; for a spit, a long straight branch of a tree is cut, and the sheep is thus roasted whole. The town is as silent and deserted as if it were the abode of the dead, every one is at home feasting, the houses are closed, and not a child is in the streets. For three days the festival is kept; no one thinks of working. On the following Friday a curious local festival is kept at the town of Aigion. In the hollow of a rock near the seaside is a small chapel, called Tripiti; early in the morning men, women, and children go thither as pilgrims, returning in crowds firing guns. Stopping on the promenade, the young men of the cathedral parish, dressed in their most brilliant costumes and finest arms, traverse the town with drums beating and the banner of the parish waving. During the past few days they have collected money from the houses, and made small fireworks called varellota. Well supplied with these, they go through the streets until they meet with a second band belonging to another parish. Then the fight begins; each pulls the varellota from his belt, lights it, and throws it to his adversary; the air is filled with a storm of these explosives, which burst with a louder sound than that of a gun. It will easily be believed that this barbarous game is the source of many serious accidents; occasionally it degenerates into a real fight, the two sides, enthusiastic for their flag and their church, draw knives and pistols. Sometimes an arm has to be cut off, the hands are torn, and eyes are put out by the bursting of the varellota. The feast of Epiphany is kept with much rejoicing, and is commonly called Phota, or light, because it is, according to their legend, the day when the baptism of Christ enlightened the world. It is always the one appointed for the blessing of the sea, as that of St. Peter and St. Paul is in France, and scrupulously observed by all those of the Greek Church who live on the sea-shore. A grand procession is formed, the priest throws a cross on to the waves, and then returns to the church to bless some water, which they carry to every house in the town, pronouncing a benediction at each. There is a very ancient custom, as old as the Greek race, which is still perpetuated on the first Saturday in Lent, called Psycho-sabbaton, or the feast of souls. Everybody goes to the cemeteries, the last resting-place of those they have loved. Each church has already distributed to the people who press round the doors a mixture of boiled wheat, raisins, almonds, and pomegranate seeds, named kollyra, which they carry to the grave and offer to the dead. This is also sent round in a letter to all the friends the evening before a funeral. It is a rite peculiar to the people living between the shores of the Adriatic and the Ægean Sea. M. Dumont, writing on the bas-reliefs representing funeral banquets, gives this explanation :-" The meaning of the banquet is, that nourishment is given to the dead that he may restore his strength; since he retains in the tomb the appetites and requirements of terrestrial life, his real and tangible shadow would lose what little strength remains if aliment were wanting." It is sad that any Christian |