It was the eve of St. Basil — New Year’s Eve in Greece, according to the old style — so the village was en fête. The great amusement on these occasions is the ‘calends,’ or songs called kalándai ^gr, ‘the Greek calends,’ which though twelve days late, according to our notion, really had come. Companies of children and young men club together and wander from house to house singing their ‘calend song,’ carrying with them an ornament somewhat like a Christmas tree, a round thing covered with green and hung with flowers and lanterns.

Their songs consist of long, chanted stories, beginning thus, ‘To-day we celebrate the circumcision of our Lord and the feast of the blessed great Basil;’ then follow accounts of Christ and of Basil, and they finish up by saying, ‘Many years to you!’ and receive each a glass of mastic or some coppers in exchange for their good wishes. Similar festivities are carried on on March 1 and on May 1; also on Good Friday, Christmas, and other feasts children go round and sing, getting eggs, bread, and other gifts in return for their songs.

All round Akroteri are vast caves in the volcanic rocks, which are used as stables for cows and goats; we entered one, and terrified an old woman who was looking after her cows. She darted out past us screaming for help, saying strange robbers had come to steal her cattle; neither was she pacified when told we were, English (Ángloi ^gr). ‘Angels!’ shrieked she, ‘from the infernal regions, I should think;’ whereat all laughed and we thought the old woman not so discerning as Pope Gregory. The inhabitants of Akroteri were very busy visiting to-day; each housewife had put on her best, and had adorned her table with glasses and delicious sweets.

I should be ashamed to say how many spoonsful of rose leaf or orange flower jam, or how many glasses of liqueur we swallowed that day, being careful to remember to wish ‘many years’ to all around us before touching the beverage with our lips.

Amongst other delicacies peculiar to Santorin is tyropita, which, literally translated, means cheesecake. It is a curious composition, the first ingredient being a curd of sheep’s milk (chloró ^gr), then some eggs, cheese, barley, cinnamon, mastic, and saffron. The impression left upon us when tasting it was that it was horrid, but the Santoriniotes are wild about it, and at Easter time, sooner than be without his cheesecake, a peasant will go through any privation. At this time they bake as many as fifty or sixty for each family, and what they cannot eat, when it is the consistency of a poultice, they dry and soak in their coffee on other feast days.

After visiting the prehistoric remains at Akroteri we mounted our mules and returned to Pherá. About half a mile on this side of the capital is the leper hospital, said to be the best in Greece. There is a white pyramid near it to warn people off, but in spite of this we went in. There are only seven inmates now, and each has a cell cut in the volcanic cliff, very tiny but clean. Poor things! they were very surprised to see us, and showed us their misfortunes — their withered hands and limbs — with an eager wish for compassion. They have their little chapel, too, with a glass partition to shut them off, and through which they may see their friends; they pressed us very hard to go into the cells and see their possessions, but we preferred to inspect them from outside. They may walk on the cliff within certain limits from time to time, but are never allowed to approach the town. All were old except one poor lad of eighteen, and I could not help wishing him a companion of his own age, for it must be very dull for him with four old women and two bedridden old men.

There are a great number of blear-eyed people in Santorin, dating their troubles, doubtless, from the last eruption, and a painful number of idiots and lunatics, and no asylum for them. One poor fellow I was pointed out at the cafe as being very dangerous at times, for when his fits are on it takes five men to hold him; they just run him into the jail till the paroxysm ^dnote is past, and then let him out again.

There is something very sombre about the dress of the women here — you seldom see one out of mourning. Their heads are tightly enveloped in a black handkerchief, and when the north wind blows, and raises the thin, small dust, they cover up their faces altogether, and the north wind can blow with a vengeance at Pherá.

We had a biting northern blast for three whole days, accompanied by drifting small snow-weather such as we rarely have in England for misery; and when the only available fire is a brazier with charcoal ashes, which gives you a headache if you stoop over it, the only alleviation to your misery is to stay in bed or take exercise of an exceedingly active nature.

Deciding on the latter course on one of these days I set off for the northern town of Epanomeriá ^dnote. The snow and wind cut our faces terribly — at times it was almost impossible to struggle against the blast. Up at Meroviglia the ground was hard with frost; we felt perished, and decided to return to our brazier and our beds, but our friend the demarch put new life into us by another dose of hot tea and rum; so we plodded on till Epanomeriá was reached. The road thither is very uneven — now you climb a rock, and are perished by the wind; now you are in shelter, and the sun scorches: such is the winter climate on a volcano in the sunny south.

As we approached Epanomeriá the volcanic rocks grew redder, and at the town itself all the formation of the rocks is red. This the inhabitants have utilised to make their houses gayer, and here there are many fine large houses, built of stones hewn out of these red rocks, set together firmly with cement, and into the cement are inserted little red stones by way of ornament.

It is a flourishing place, where most of the sea captains and pilots dwell; by one of these we were hospitably entertained on fried eggs, with pork sausages cut up with them. The captain was very talkative, asking innumerable questions about England and far-off lands.

He told us much, too, about the shipping of Santorin that interested us — how when they have built a new vessel they have a grand ceremony at the launching, or benediction, as they call it here, at which the priest officiates; and the crowd eagerly watch, as she glides into the water, the position she takes, for an omen is attached to this. It is customary to slaughter an ox, a lamb, or a dove on these occasions, according to the wealth of the proprietor and the size of the ship, and with the blood to make a cross on the deck. After this the captain jumps off the bows into the sea with all his clothes on, and the ceremony is followed by a banquet and much rejoicing. I must say that the aspect of Epanomeriá is more cheerful than that of the other villages, for here all the houses are above the ground, and the Venetian fort on the headland forms a pleasing addition to the gay red houses.

On our return journey we went to visit a spot called Kolombo, on the north of the island, off which, in 1650, the island which bore the same name appeared in the sea. There are lots of Roman tombs here cut in the rocks, which bear a remarkable resemblance to the present style of dwelling-house in Bothró and other villages, having a low door and a window on either side; traces of ironwork are seen, and in some of the tombs there are places for three, five, or seven bodies. Close to here was once a Roman town, and into the walls of a neighbouring church is let a Roman statue.

Next morning was Sunday, and though the wind was still very cold, and occasional snowstorms passed over us, yet we could not afford to stay in bed, nor could we walk far, for we were bidden to a wedding — that of the daughter of our muleteer, who lived, not far from Pherá, in one of those rock-cut dwellings.

We had heard much about weddings in Greece, strange customs having been collected by various travellers from various points of Hellas ^dnote, and the union of them all had given us a confused idea of what a Greek peasant wedding in a remote island would be. I will now simply relate what I saw at Santorin; it had its own peculiarities, but many of those peculiarities which we were accustomed to associate with Greek weddings were absent.

We arrived at the house about two o’clock in the afternoon; it consisted, as usual, of two rooms excavated out of the rock. The outer one was fitted up with divans and chairs for the guests, and in the inner one, a dingy dark hole, we saw the bride being dressed by her lady friends by the light of a candle. She was a tall, handsome girl, and the first view we got of her was with her face all covered with powder, and her body concealed only by a mysterious white garment; but when she came forth to greet us the powder had been wiped off her face, and she was dressed in a blue Japanese silk trimmed with drab satin and cheap lace. She had an orange blossom wreath on her head and a veil over her face, which she raised as she kissed her guests in turn. And then she sat on a divan with her bridesmaid (kombára ^gr) on one side, equally gay in trumpery European finery. Lots of female guests were assembled now in the cave — for it was no more or less than a cave — and was getting insufferably hot, and the ordeal for me was trying, for I became conscious that only women were admitted to this part of the ceremony, and I had seen more than I was intended to.

At length the firing of guns from outside announced the approach of the bridegroom, and the strains of sabouna and syravlion accompanied him. This firing of guns and playing of music are inseparable from a Greek wedding, so that it has given rise to that strange saying when it thunders, ‘God is marrying His Son.’

When the bridegroom reached the doorstep the bridesmaid met him with a saucerful of honey and comfits, and a towel. He dipped his finger into the honey, and made three crosses with it on the door, one on the lintel, and one on each post. After this he ate a mouthful, which the bridesmaid put into his mouth with a spoon, wiped his fingers on the towel, and sank into a retired corner. Poor man! he looked very nervous, and, by the side of his fine, tall bride, looked a miserable specimen of humanity. Following the bridegroom came the bride’s father, our muleteer, with two priests. The father had on a bright yellow coat and a red fez to-day in honour of his daughter’s nuptials; we hardly recognised him as the man who had trudged by our side over so many miles of Santorin. He had just returned with the two priests and the best man (kombáros ^gr) from his vineyard, where they had gathered the vine-tendrils, which were to make the crowns for the young couple; and now the pretty ceremony of making these crowns began.

Several girls were called upon to officiate at this: a table was put in the middle of the room, and a basket on it covered with a bright calico handkerchief; this basket contained the materials for making the crowns. First of all, there were two vine-tendrils twisted round and round till they formed a circle about five inches in diameter; on this foundation the crown-makers twisted cotton, with the husks and seeds still sticking to it. Over that they twined pink and blue ribbons, the ends of which were left to hang in streamers behind, and on the top of this they fastened artificial flowers with gold thread, which also hung down behind.

As they made the wreaths the maidens, two on either side of the table, sang songs; the eldest began and sang one verse, then another answered, and so on. And in these songs they wished the young couple every good wish, as follows: ‘May holy Procopius be with you to-day. May holy Tryphon grant you a life of pleasure and peace together. May holy Polycarp grant you many teeth in your house.’ Then another of the maidens sang as she works —

She is answered by another on the opposite side of the table:–

A third then sang a couplet:–

The allusion to Venice is interesting, as proving how the custom has been handed down from generation to generation, surviving the jealousy of the Italians, and Turkish changes.

When the crowns were finished, and the singing over, they placed these symbols of matrimony again in the basket, and handed them to the priests, who headed the procession to the neighbouring church. It was piercingly cold when we came out of the warm cave, and snow was falling, but my neighbour pointed to it and said, ‘This is lucky’ with an emphasis which at first I thought to be intended for a sarcasm, but on reflection the Greek saying occurred to me, ‘Happy is the bride that it rains upon,’ and if the greater rarity of snow occurs it surely must indicate some great good luck. We in England have chosen the sun as indicating prosperity to the bride; in Greece they have chosen rain, the result of difference of climate, no doubt.

We went to church two and two, the priests leading the way, then the bride with the bestman, followed by the bridegroom and the bridesmaid; musicians playing vigorously brought up the rear. The rest of the ceremony is, of course, religious, and to those who have not seen a Greek wedding it is odd enough. The altar was placed in the middle of the church, the basket with the crowns upon it, and before this the wedding party solemnly stood in a row. The chief priest then bound the young couple’s wrists with a belt preparatory to reading the gospel and the necessary injunctions. Then they were given candles to hold, and kissed the priest’s hands as they got them. After this came the ring ceremony, both bride and bridegroom being signed three times with the sign of the cross with the rings before the priest put them on their fingers. The bestman then changed them from one hand to the other, as an earnest that each was bound by the vows of the other, and the bridesmaid changed them back. More gospel was then read before producing the crowns; with these the bride and bridegroom were signed three times more with the sign of the cross before they were put on their heads, and again, as with the rings, the crowns were changed from one head to the other. After this the sacramental wine was administered, three sips each to the young couple and one sip each to their attendants, and then the newly made man and wife, bridesmaid, and best-man, with the three officiating priests, joined hands and literally danced the syrtos round the altar, quickening their steps as the bystanders pelted them, priests and all, with comfits until they winced again.

The last part of the ceremony was a trying one to me, for it was intimated that I must take a part therein. Before the altar stood man and wife, behind them their attendants holding on the crowns on the top of their heads. Each guest was expected to pass before them in turn, and administer a kiss first to the bride and then to the bridegroom; my turn came at last — there was no escape for me.

After the religious ceremony was concluded we were all invited to return to the house of the bride’s father, where in the most limited space possible they danced a syrtos abominably and administered refreshments — divers kinds of jam, mastic, liqueurs, and plates of honey and almond, which last delicacy had to be eaten with a knife.

In Santorin they do not keep up marriage festivities so long as those we saw at Sikinos or as in Mykonos, in which island ten or fifteen days of festivity are considered usual, and at a peasant wedding, which was concluded the day we arrived, they told us that no less than twenty lambs had been slaughtered, not to mention other food. But most of the quaint old customs relative to marriage in Greece have been abandoned for exactly the same reason that they are abandoning the costumes — because they are too expensive to keep up.

In Mykonos they still keep up the custom of the proxenia; the man does not propose in person, but, having settled the preliminaries to his satisfaction, he sends an old female relative of his to seek the hand of the girl; this old lady must have one stocking white and the other brown or red. In a poem by Valetta entitled the ‘Shepherdess of Mykonos’ this custom is alluded to thus:–

If the sender of the offer is not ‘made to eat gruel,’ as the Greeks neatly express a refusal, then on the following Friday the parish priest and the two families assemble for the discussion of the settlement, which is in itself a religious ceremony, almost as impressive as the marriage one. Greek girls are usually well endowed, for the father, if he is able, provides his daughter with a house; sons are not supposed to want anything, and rarely inherit their father’s home.

Such was our wedding at Santorin; from this and others I saw in my travels through the islands I cannot say that I think modern Greek weddings deserve the colour that has been given to them by various writers. Elaborate accounts of strange ceremonies long obsolete are compiled and supposed to be in use to-day; the real thing is quaint and pretty enough in itself, and requires no romantic colouring.

Our muleteer was ready for us next morning in his plain clothes, just as if nothing had happened the day before; and we started on our longest expedition on the island to the south-eastern end, where on the slopes of the limestone mountain are the chief remains of Grecian antiquities. Our road led us through the large village of ‘great place’ (megaló chorió ^gr), with evidences of Venetian splendour, and then on to a spot called Emporión, which name testifies to the trade that was once carried on here in days now long gone by; yet still it is a well-to-do place, and we were by no means badly housed with the demarch. At the entrance to the village is a mediaeval tower, planted against the mountain side, and near it a tall, waving palm-tree; vineyards are all spread around, and the spot looked very picturesque as it climbed up a cleft of the mountain, down which cleft during the recent rains terrible torrents had poured, drowning men and cattle, and ruining houses and vineyards in its rush towards the sea.

The church of Emporión is interesting: four pillars of an ancient temple stand in the courtyard outside, and inside the pillars of the nave have belonged to a Corinthian temple which probably came from Eleusis ^dnote, the city which once stood near here, but almost all the traces of which have been washed away by encroachments of the sea. The church bells were all clanging and pealing that evening, for the morrow was the day of the Epiphany, the baptism of Christ, the day on which the priest blesses water in the church and prepares his holy oil, and all good people were to be in church by 4 A.M. It was an effort, but I was very desirous of seeing this ceremony in this quaint old church, so I arose in time, and was rewarded.

Very quaint indeed it looked as we went out of the cold darkness into the brilliantly lighted church, and saw the pious populace kneeling all around as the litany was being chanted prior to the blessing of the waters. There was the font, an ancient marble altar ornamented with garlands and rams’ heads, placed before the picture of the baptism of Christ; it was full of water, and illuminated with candles stuck around the edge with their own grease, whilst pots and jugs full of water of every description covered the floor near this font.

After the litany was over the priest in his gold brocaded stole went around with his cross and a sprig of basil in his hand, accompanied by two acolytes, with censers, who assisted in groaning the responses. Everyone knelt, when the priest threw the basil into the font, read the appointed portion of the Scriptures, and signed the water in the font and in the jugs with the cross. No sooner was this ceremony over than there was a regular rush from all sides with mugs and bottles to secure some of this consecrated water. Everybody laughed and hustled each other, even the priest with the cross in his hand stood and watched them with a broad grin on his face; it was a striking contrast to the solemnity which had reigned a moment before. The font was soon emptied of its contents, and an orange which had been floating in it was presented by the priest to one of his acolytes.

Before leaving the church with their bottle of water everybody went up to kiss the cross which the priest held and to be sprinkled with water from the sprig of basil, after which he dropped as his exchange gift for such favours a coin in the plate held by an acolyte. Then they dispersed to their homes, carrying their bottle of water with them and a sprig of basil, which the priest had blessed, to hang up in their homes.

It was a lovely warm day, for a change, and we set out on our duties of seeing the ancient ruins of Santorin as soon as breakfast had restored us from the fatigues of the early mass. That evening found us again at Pherá, after a hard day’s work, amongst ruins which I will describe in a note.

We reached our house belated and drenched with rain; the lovely morning had been treacherous and our paths were torrents, for the paths were the beds of torrent. Hitherto we had had a contempt for the dry torrent-beds, but they had at last asserted their use.

Before the rush of the water the stalks of the water willows ^note (ligariá ^gr) bent and swayed. Out of these willows the Santoriniotes make capital baskets, and drive a good trade by selling them to their neighbours. Why they are more energetic than the other islanders I cannot say. Barren and dry as Santorin looks by the side of its neighbour Naxos, its inhabitants are energetic and prosperous; whereas in Naxos, where nature has done all for them she can, idleness and poverty prevail.

One more journey remained for us, namely, an expedition to the lost limb of Santorin, the island of Therasia — an expedition which will be to me an ever-memorable one. It was only a short sail across the harbour, an hour’s run with a good breeze, but our breeze to-day was rather too good, and we were drenched to the skin before we set foot on this inhospitable shore. Everything here is the same as at Thera, only on a smaller scale; a few boathouses form the port, a wretched zigzag path leads up to the row of white houses eight hundred feet above, each with a vaulted roof, which form the Chora.

It was St John the Baptist’s Day, a universal holiday, for St. John the Baptist follows next after the Epiphany in the Byzantine calendar. And, despite our drenched condition and the biting north wind, we enjoyed participating in the blessing of the sea which happened to be taking place. Down the zigzag path the procession wended its way, headed by priests carrying crosses, and two acolytes carrying lanterns; after them came all the inhabitants of the town, a hardy seafaring race. On the seashore a litany was sung, during which all the people knelt around, and with his cross the priest blessed the waves and then threw it into the sea. There was a general scramble now to get the cross, for the man or boy who secures it gets as a reward for facing the cold and the wet some coppers from the bystanders, which later in the day will buy him enough wine to make him very drunk and drive out the chill.

With the crowd returning from their devotions we climbed the hill and went straight to the demarch’s house, where breakfast was shortly afterwards spread for us according to the abilities of our host; hard-boiled eggs, fish, and curious cakes (kserotiá ^gr) made out of flour and oil, twisted into shapes to represent flowers, baked, and then covered with honey; this meal was quite as good as we could expect on Therasia, for the demarch himself was little better than a labourer. The landlords of Therasia are, for the most part, absentees; that is to say, they live over at Epanomeriá ^dnote or Pherá, and only their inferiors remain on the spot. Whilst we sat at our meal men came round with dishes begging for a subscription for a new church. I asked them what they could want with a new church on an island which had more churches in it than houses. They smiled and said it was a vow made to St. Nicholas in time of storm; and I thought how useful a church had been to us at Anaphi in time of need, so I gave them a trifle.

After breakfast we set off across the island to visit the mines, where the best pumice stone is found and exported, and where the prehistoric remains were unearthed two years ago. On our way we passed through Agaliá; quite the quaintest village I ever saw, surpassing even those of Bothró and Goniá, for here the gulley in the volcanic rock is extremely narrow and deep, so there is no room for gardens; in fact, it is a natural street in which every house, without one exception, is hewn out of the rock; here even the church is cut in the rock, having only on one side a wall, and in a corner has been constructed a small bell tower, which is positively the only means by which you can identify the existence of sacred precincts; until you have entered the gulley and walked up it a little way there is not a vestige of anything to lead one to suspect the presence of habitations.

Therasia is more pastoral than Thera. On the southern slopes a good deal of grain is grown, and women with their faces enveloped in white handkerchiefs were tending their goats, walking about with huge sacks on their backs in search of fodder for their mules. I remarked that here nearly every woman wore white, whereas in Thera black was the fashion. Beyond this point there was nothing whatsoever to lead us to believe that we were on a different island.

On our return to the Chora there was not much to detain us at Therasia — only the unpleasant fact that our three sailors, having been too hospitably treated by their hosts, were drunk, two of them hopelessly so, and loath to leave.

In our search for the delinquents we entered into several houses, and saw the good people all giving themselves up to the delights of the table. One we entered consisted of only one room with no window, no light except from the door. There was a round table in the middle of the room, at which a dozen men were singing and roaring at the top of their voices round the remains of their feast; and as we appeared at the door the host would not hear ‘Nay,’ we must drink to our welcome and our happy return home.

All the women stood meekly in a corner contemplating us and their uproarious lords. These feast days in modern Greece are regular symposia: there was the board surrounded by men; there were the women serving and shrinking from observation; and there was the bard, who had done his duty earlier in the feast by singing and playing the syravlion until he had impressed music and hilarity into his listeners. These are lineal descendants of the feasts of Dionysia, at which all got drunk, and were held blameless; nay, even now it is thought a crime to remain sober at these feasts, an insult to your host. As a rule, they are not a drunken race, but they have a good many exceptional days, and St. John the Baptist’s Day is one which proves this rule.

Meanwhile we were very unhappy about our sailors, for return to Thera we must that evening to catch the steamer on the morrow; and the wind was blowing a perfect hurricane. We could see little waterspouts, or syphons, as they call them here, all over the basin of Santorin; they are gathered wreaths of spray, which the sailors look upon with great awe, and say, ‘The Lamia of the sea is travelling.’ We, however, were determined to get across, and thought we had as much right to travel as this mysterious personage. I could not help admiring these little whirlwinds as they scudded along the sea, resembling wreaths of smoke issuing from a chimney. To drive them away the island sailors will shoot at them. A plan they have in Santorin, which is deemed most effectual, is to thrust the point of a knife into the mast.

Outside the harbour it was blowing a fearful hurricane, a regular anemostróvolos ^gr, as they call it, caused by demons rushing from place to place. So associated in these islands are all horrors connected with the wind with the idea of demons that the devil is often called o ánemos ^gr (the wind), and old women mutter ‘honey and milk’ to exorcise these demons in the air, as in ancient times they offered honey and milk to the nymphs who were supposed to raise these storms. In other places they attribute storms to a marriage among the Nereids (i pómbi ton Neraídon ^gr), and the attendant festivities.

As for ourselves we felt that we were in danger, not so much from the demons of the air as from the demons of the earth; for two of our sailors, a father and son, fought like demons in their drunken madness, biting each other on the cheeks and hands until the blood gushed out on the shore. The third sailor was not so drunk, only furiously angry with his associates; he cursed them again and again with that effectual Greek curse, the fáskelon ^gr, done by shaking five fingers at the object of your imprecation and hissing ná ^gr through your teeth: it is the most deadly insult you can offer to a person, and if you dare not do it to his face, do it behind his back, and it will be equally effectual.

With great difficulty we got into our boat and began our homeward journey, and as we rounded the point which shelters the little bay of Therasia the demons of the air snatched our sail out of the hands of our soberest sailor and unshipped our rudder, causing us infinite trouble and danger of being driven on the rocks. The pugnacious father and son had to be held at opposite ends of the boat by our servant and myself until kindly nature closed their eyes in sleep, and thus we crossed over to Thera. It will be long before the adventures of this voyage will be effaced from our memories, and we shall in future avoid a voyage in a caïque on the occasion of a symposium in honour of St. John the Baptist.