are said to be peculiarly malignant there;
and, whether from the glare of light, the
white houses, or some other cause, every third
person we met had a decided squint.

We stopped between two and three hours;
and then our guide reminded us that the
Austrian steamer would probably have
arrived by this time at Calamaki; and, he
observed, as we appeared to have a dislike
to fleas, we had better return to her instead
of going on by land to Athens, and sleeping
at Megara as we had at first proposed; for
he assured us that this lively people of colour
were in even greater force at Megara than at
Corinth, and would probably eat us up if we
resigned ourselves, during a whole night, to
the full ferocity of their voracious appetites.
I felt so strongly that there might be truth
in this, that I hastened to persuade my
friend—who is of fair complexion—that he
might be easily mistaken in the dark for
one of my digestible countrymen, and we
therefore agreed to return to the steamer.

It was a pleasant ride to Calamaki, over
ground every inch of which is historical; and,
letting my guide and companions scamper on
as they listed, I pulled resolutely up and
sauntered thoughtfully along till I came up
with them. A little way along the road and
about a hundred yards to the right of a few
houses it would be almost mockery to call a
village (and of which I was unable to learn
the name), some considerable ruins attracted
my attention. I also observed a curious old
well and a subterraneous passage, apparently
of some length, which are not mentioned in
the guide book. I should have been glad to
examine them more closely, for the ruins
hitherto discovered in Greece are lamentably
few.

Travelling in Greece is thus rendered
altogether unsatisfactory, and the traveller is
placed in the position of the marchioness who
was obliged to make believe very much
indeed, to fancy her orange peel and water
was wine. Here and there a stone or a
solitary shattered column is all that stands
on the sites of the most famous cities of the
ancient world; and sometimes not even this;
while—although the climate is naturally
perhaps the most beautiful in the world—
every town in Greece is rendered a stronghold
of fevers by the undrained marshes in its
neighbourhood, and the insupportable filth,
squalor, and neglect of every thing and
everybody about it. Greece ought to have been,
and would have been, a most flourishing
kingdom by this time had it been only moderately
well managed. As it is, let us state how the
case stands. Most of the lands are in the
hands of the crown, and numbers of able and
intelligent Greeks in foreign countries would
proudly flock to settle upon them were they
properly encouraged. Instead of this,
however, a petty system of jobbing and
favouritism is carried on which is destructive to
colonisation or improvement.

Modern Greece, indeed, is in a very
singular position. She has a free constitution;
yet every thing has been gradually made to
depend upon the King. Virtually there is no
ministry; and opposition to the Government
would be looked upon as a personal affront
to the Sovereign. The press is free also; but
is bought, or cajoled into silence; and the
deputies have found out the means of
prolonging their useless sittings, not only during
the whole year, but find out that there are
thirteen mouths in it, in order to increase
their salaries. The elections are worse than
the worst things that have been written about
French elections.

The seat of government, Athens itself, is a
poor place; importing from foreign countries
many of the commonest necessaries of civilised
life. It is without wealth, without commerce,
without society. Even the number of travellers
in Greece has fallen off very much of late years,
and Athens almost depends upon them.
Travelling in Greece is next to impossible to
ladies and invalids, for there is not a decent
or clean hotel in the country, and whoever
wishes to see it, must make up his mind to
suffer positive hardships; compared with
which roughing it in tents among the Arabs
is luxury. The old-fashioned virtue of
hospitality is still happily in full force; and
the traveller, who has made up his mind
to sleep on the floor of some miserable khan,
will often be agreeably surprised to receive
a message from some person he never heard
of, inviting him to bed and board. Should
the invitation be refused, the host is nearly
certain to come personally to enforce it; and
he may do so gracefully enough, considering
from what he is rescuing his guest.

Roads there are none, so that the whole
journey whether long or short must be
performed on horseback. It is therefore
better to make Athens the head-quarters,
and from thence take short journeys into the
interior. The horses are good, and the guides
as a class civil and intelligent. Ours (Elia
Polychronopulos) is the most cheery fellow
possible to travel with; full of wit, story,
and good humour enough to enliven the
dullest plain that ever weary wanderer
plodded over, and to make a noonday halt
beside a running stream as pleasant as a
breakfast at the Café Riche. I never saw
such a fellow. His invention, attention,
cookery, jollity, and sheer hard working
strength were inexhaustible. It is rather a
favour to get him, however; for a man who
owns the two best hotels in Athens will
hardly act as a guide to everybody. Elia
Polychronopulos is quite as much one of the
curiosities of Athens in his way as the
Acropolis is in its way. He knows this, and his
naïve vanity is one of the most amusing
points about him. It is very amusing to
watch our estimable acquaintance in a Greek
costume elaborately varied every day,
patronising the world, and sunning himself with