numbering as many as nine considerable towns.
It was subjugated by the Athenians; but
revolted during the Peloponnesian war, and
again during the Social war. The ancient
Lesbos was celebrated for its wines; and
its inhabitants were renowned for their
beauty and musical talents; but they were
very corrupt. Mytilene was the birth-place
of Arion, Terpander, Sappho, Erinne, Alcæus,
Pittacus, and the philosopher Theophrastus,
whom I cannot help considering as one of
the most remarkable men of antiquity.
St. Paul also " sailed thither from Assos."
Among its more modern celebrities it
numbers the famous brothers Barbarossa, who,
together with Doria, shared the reputation
of being the greatest navigators of their age;
and who seized upon Algiers, and braved the
power of the Emperor Charles the Fifth for
a long time with impunity. The younger
of them, surnamed Hariadim, finally
acknowledged the suzerainty of the Sultan,
and added the rich possessions of Algiers,
Tunis and Biserte to the dominions of the
Porte.

So much for the antecedents of Mytilene,
which I have given that the reader may have
some interest in it and contrast the past with
the present, as he will have an opportunity
of doing from the following sketch of the
Feast of St. Demetrius.

It is the seventh of November, the feast of
St. Demetrius. It is, therefore, with a feeling
of very considerable satisfaction that I open
my eyes in the morning upon a cloudless sky
and a most coquettish streak of sunshine just
rising above the sea, which lies glittering so
beautifully beneath my open windows. I
propose to pass an idle day, and the weather
is of consequence to me. I am going for a
ramble, and I do not like wet boots, or wind,
or clouds, or anything but sunshine. I love
to see the shadows lie still upon the valleys;
and the tops of the hills stand out clear
against the sky of blue and gold to which I
am growing accustomed.

The difference between a fine day and a
dull one is often that between light spirits
and a heavy heart. If we are busily
employed we can overcome the influence of
the weather; but when we are idle we
feel it.

There is a breakfast of new bread, and of
goat's milk, of fragrant honey from Mount
Hymettus, and of kid chops, fresh mullet,
and anchovies, awaiting me in the next room.
I hear the cheerful clatter of the plates as I
am shaving, and the stealthy step of the
Greek—who is to be my companion—as he
comes creeping up the stairs. I hear, too, the
loud neighing of our horses as they come
down our mysterious street, with its lattices
all closed and barred by jealous trellis work.
In five minutes I shall be doing my duty as
a trencherman: and then up and away for
the pretty village of Moria, which lies yonder
on the brow of the hill. In that village—
and there only—is the festival of St.
Demetrius to be celebrated; for the festivals of the
Greek Church are so numerous that the
countries where it is supreme would be
constantly in a ferment were it not for
this arrangement, and that one feast is
seldom celebrated in more than one place
at a time. To be sure these feasts put a
complete stop to business everywhere; but
with this question we have nothing to do just
now.

Breakfast is over, and while we are lighting
our cigars the girths are tightening and
the servants shouting below. It is impossible
to start in the East without a large allowance
of shouting; and the Greeks have the
strongest lungs I ever heard exercised. Then
there is one horse short, a dogged mule
supplies his place; we shall have a discussion on
this subject which will.last an hour. I do
not love discussions. I will cut it short, and
take the dogged mule myself; perchance I
may have learned from Doctor Keith, in my
youth, that there is a remedy for doggedness.
So, Abdallah, reach me a stout stick—and
away.

The road is narrow, and I give place to my
companion. He is a small, thin, angular
man, with undecided eyes and an anxious
unpleasant smile always upon his face. He
is stealthy and catlike in his movements.
He seems to walk with muffled feet. In
dress he is something like a farce idea of
an elderly Frenchman of the old school;
except that he wears the red cap, or fez,
which is worn by all Turkish subjects as
a mark of their nationality. He has a long
straight frock coat of an undecided colour,
trowsers, and delicate grey jean boots with
varnished tips. He has also a superfluity
of watch chain. Upon the whole he is a
very frequent specimen of the modern Greek.
He is not of the race of Polychronopolos,
who scudded before us on his wiry horse,
over the plains of Corinth. He is not the
Greek of the loud voice and ready hand; of
the brave apparel and the twirled moustache.
He is unhappily of another school far more
common. He is of the race which assassinated
Capo D'Istrias, and would have broken
Byron's heart if he had lived. Who have
no sympathy with the learning and
honesty of Wyse, or gratitude for the services
of the brave and gentle Church. He is of
the Greeks who are so proud of the ancient
glories of the land they are bringing daily and
hourly to shame. He is of that plausible and
clever race who have by turns won every
statesman in Europe to what is called the
Greek cause, only that he might add another
to those who have abandoned it with deep
disgust. Of the race who would rather live
despised on a pittance obtained by intrigue
and roguery, than make one single effort for
honourable independence. They are the sons
of men who were oppressed for many generations,
of Turkish Rayahs, of slaves. What