"Let her alone! she weeps!" To which she
must make answer, "Lead me away, but let
me weep!" After the cortège has borne the
bride to the house of her husband, the whole
party adjourn to church, where the religious
ceremony is performed. Then they return to
the dwelling of the bridegroom, where they
all sit down and feast; except the bride, who
remains veiled, standing alone, until the
middle of the banquet, when the paranymph
draws near, unlooses the veil, which falls
down, and she stands blushing, exposed to
the eyes of all the guests. The next day is
given up to the performance of dances
peculiar to a wedding. The third day the
relations and friends meet all together, and lead
the bride to the fountain, from the waters of
which she fills a new earthen vessel; and
into which she throws various provisions.
They afterwards dance in circles round the
fountain.

At every one of the ceremonials which I
have thus briefly recounted, a song
appropriate to the occasion is chanted; they
explain the motive of each particular act—of
what event in human life it is to be considered
the type. Even the shaving has its song, set
apart. But many of the forms I have
described are very poetical, and full of meaning
in themselves. The character of the marriage
songs is tender, yet gay and hopeful; but the
character of the "myriologia," or funeral
songs, is altogether despairing and sad. When
any one dies, his wife, his mother, and his
sisters, all come up to the poor motionless
body, and softly close the eyes and the mouth.
Then they leave the house, and go to that of
a friend, where they dress in white, as if for
some glad nuptial occasion; with this sole
difference, that their hair is allowed to flow
dishevelled and uncovered. Other women
are busy with the corpse while they change
their dress in a neighbour's house; the body
is dressed in the best clothes the dead
possessed; and it is then laid on a low bed with
the face uncovered, and turned towards the
east; while the arms lie peacefully crossed
on the breast. When all these preparations
have been made, the relations return to the
house of mourning; leaving the door open, so
that all who wish once more to gaze on the
face of the departed may enter in. All who
come, range themselves around the bed, and
weep and cry aloud without restraint. As
soon as they are a little calmer some one
begins to chant the myriologia—a custom
common to the ancient Hebrews, as well as
to the more modern Irish—with their keenes
and their plaintive enumeration of the goods,
and blessings, and love which the deceased
possessed in this world which he has left. In
the mountains of Greece, the nearest and
dearest among the female relations first lifts
up her voice in the myriologia; she is followed
by others, either sisters or friends.

M. Fauriel gives an instance of the style of
dramatic personation of events common in the
myriologia. A peasant woman, about twenty-
five years of age, had lost her husband, who
left her with two infant children. She was
extremely uneducated, and had lived the
silent self-contained life common to the Greek
women. But there was something very
striking in the manner in which she began
her wail over the dead body. Addressing
herself to him, she said, "I saw at the door
of our dwelling, yea, I saw at the door of
our house, a young man of tall stature and
threatening aspect, having wings, like the
clouds for whiteness. He stood on the
threshold of our home, with a naked sword
in his hand. 'Woman,' he asked, 'is thy
husband within?'—'He is within,'
replied I; 'he is there, combing the fair hair
of our little Nicholas, and caressing him the
while that he may not cry. Do not go in, O
bright and terrible youth, thou wilt frighten
our little child!' But the man with shining
white wings heeded not my words. He
went in. I struggled to prevent him, O my
husband! I struggled; but he was stronger
than I. He passed into our home; he darted
on thee, O my beloved! and struck thee
with his sword. He struck thee, the father of
our little Nicholas. And here, here is our
little son, our Nicholas, that he would also
have killed." At these words she threw
herself sobbing on the corpse of her husband, and
it was some time before the women standing
by could bring her round. But she had
hardly recovered before she began afresh, and
addressed her dead husband again. She asked
him how she could live without him; how
she could protect his children without his
strong arm to help; she recalled the first
days of their marriage, how dearly they had
loved each other; how, together, they had
watched over the infancy of their two little
children; and she only ceased when her
strength utterly failed once more, and she lay
by the corpse in a swoon like death itself.

Occasionally there is some one among the
assemblage of mourners who has also lately
lost a beloved one, and whose full hearts yet
yearn for the sympathy in their griefs or joys
which the dead were ever ready to give,
while they were yet living. They take up
the strain; and, in a form of song used from
time immemorial, they conjure the dead lying
before them to be the messenger of the
intelligence they wish to send to him, who is
gone away for ever. A similar superstition
is prevalent in the Highlands, and every
one remembers Mrs. Hemans's pathetic little
poem on this subject.

It is rather too abrupt a turn from the deep
pathos of the faithful love implied by this
superstition, to a story of something of a
similar kind, which fell under the observation
of a country minister in Lancashire, well
known to some friends of mine. A poor man
lay a-dying, but still perfectly sensible and
acute. A woman of his acquaintance came
to see him, who had lately lost her husband;