OF all the Cyclades none is so bleak and barren as Syra, yet this island possesses an attraction of her own, and a curious history of modern development; future ages will quote this little spot as the brightest specimen of activity produced by the revival of the long dormant spirit of independence in Greece. Athens has been forced into a modern existence by the necessity of having a capital somewhere. Patras has flourished because the site of that capital was foolishly, through sentimentality, chosen on the eastern coast, whereas the existence of Greece to-day is due to the West, and all her interests lie in the West. But the flourishing commercial centre on the island of Syra is due to the spontaneous outburst of mercantile activity incident on the recovery of freedom. Thus in many ways Hermoupolis, on Syra, is one of the most interesting towns of the Levant. Whatever was left of vitality in Greece after long years of depression found itself drawn to rocky, ungainly Syra.

It is a night’s journey from the Piraeus to Syra by steamboat, and the effect of the place is curious as you peep out of your porthole on the busy harbour teeming with gay-coloured caïques and steamers from all parts of the world. It is apt to remind the traveller a little of Genoa, only Syra is almost entirely a white town, relieved now and again by a dash of yellow wash. Houses, one above another like the steps of a staircase, completely cover two hills and surround the bay in the form of an amphitheatre. One hill is crowned by the mediaeval town and its Latin church, the other by the modern Greek town and a Greek church. The background is formed by the rocky bleak mountains of the island, so barren and so treeless that one wonders if this can possibly be the spot which Homer describes thus —

Even the butter consumed nowadays at Syra is brought from Athens. In the town there are no wells; all water is brought in carts from some distance, except what each householder catches in his private tank. Little rain falls here, hence in summer the water-carts are the only means of providing a supply.

German critics have been inclined to question the identity of Syra with the above passage in the ‘Odyssey,’ chiefly because the poet called it by such fair names, but other writers besides Homer speak of the fertility of Syra. Anacharsis the younger calls it ‘a fertile island,’ and Tournefort, in 1699, mentions seeing the stems of great withered trees on the shore. Moreover, there are numerous traces of olive-presses, watercourses, and the like, and old coins of Syra have representations on them of Pan, goats, honey, corn, &c., and in many places the nomenclature points to bygone fertility. The fact is, Syra has a good harbour, and no island in the Aegean Sea with a good harbour escaped from the ravages of mediaeval voyagers, whether honest or piratical; they cut down everything that grew, and left the place as it is to-day — a rocky waste.

It was a brilliant November morning when I reached Syra, and everything was life and bustle around the egg-shaped harbour; all the boats were discharging cargoes, just now having run in with a favourable breeze. One highly-painted green brig with canvas bulwarks was unloading shaddocks from Naxos, and the island sailors with their blue baggy trousers, red fezes, and bare legs looked highly picturesque as they carried baskets of the freight along the plank which united the boat with the quay; another caïque was discharging small round cheeses from Crete, which were being arranged on long low barrows to be carried to the warehouses; another caïque, laden with lemons from Andros, was awaiting its turn. On every boat a mongrel was barking vigorously, men were chattering, and women were huddled up in corners looking the picture of misery. It is marvellous to see how wretched these island women are when on the water; though they have known no other mode of progression all their lives, they never get accustomed to the sea. The colouring of Syra harbour is especially pretty. Greek sailors love colour; their boats, their sails, and their dress are gaudy.

The quay, too, was gay with small hucksters’ shops. One man had a pile of eikons, or sacred pictures, wherewith to tempt the pious about to start on a voyage, pictures of St. Nicholas being most numerous on his stall, for he is the patron saint of the seafarer; another man had besoms, his neighbour sold Russian tea-bowls and large wooden spoons, whilst a third offered for sale brilliantly coloured handkerchiefs, which, though made in Manchester, are particularly Eastern in appearance. All amongst these stalls the water-cart was threading its way, to supply the huge amphorae which each householder produced as the cart went by with the daily portion. Far along the quay was the fish market, with strange sights for unaccustomed eyes. Advent was soon to begin — that is, the month’s fast before Christmas — so there was any amount of octopodia in the market ready to be dried and stewed for this period. Sea-urchins, too, and bright red pinna shells, the contents of which form a substantial part of a Syriote’s meal, this morning were plentiful, besides red mullet and haddock, which to us looked more tempting. In front of this market the boats of the Psariote and Hydriote fishermen, with their osier instead of canvas bulwarks, are lying. These men are the best fishermen in the archipelago; and if you desire to travel amongst these islands in spite of their treacherous winds, by all means choose one of them.

Syra boasts of two hotels, very passable for Greece, where travellers who venture beyond the capital do not expect luxuries. We were glad enough to rest in one after the voyage, and cast about us as to how we should pass our time.

‘Syra,’ wrote Tournefort in 1699, ‘is the most Catholic island of the archipelago,’ and singularly enough it is to Roman Catholicism that this spot owes its existence as a commercial centre. No one ever heard of Syra in classical times, except as a refuge for sailors. It was inhabited, it is true, and from time to time produces archaeological treasures, but it never had the name that ancient writers give to Andros, Naxos, or Melos; consequently the first pages of the history of Syra begin in mediaeval times, when it was chosen as a centre for Roman Catholic missions in the East. Under the Latin rule in the archipelago, Syra, doubtless owing to its good harbour and central position, recommended itself to the notice of the Capuchins, and on the top of the conical hill which is still covered by the old town they built a convent and a church. They were followed by the priests, and from this centre they sent out missions to all the neighbouring islands with such success that under the Turks, who treated the islanders always with consideration, there were in the Cyclades almost as many of the Western as of the Eastern Church. Naxos, Santorin, Tenos, Andros were almost subservient to the Papal See.

When corsairs and pirates disturbed them, the holy fathers of Syra made bitter complaints to the Roman Catholic powers in the West, and the end of it all was that Louis XIII. of France took Syra under his especial protection. From the convent on the hill the French flag was hung, and by this means the basis for the fortunes of Syra centuries later was laid.

From that time until the present day the Roman Catholic bishops of Syra have been elected by the Church of Rome, and from this rock they have made a desperate attempt to convert the Eastern world to their way of thinking; but since the war of independence Roman Catholicism has been unpopular, and must soon disappear under the present order of things.

Our friend Tournefort tells us of the prosperity of Syra even in his time, when only a few families lived in a cluster on the conical hill around the convent. He says he could not rest at night for the noise of the hand-mills for corn, or by day for the noise of the wheels which they used to thread cotton with; but it was refreshing, he adds, to see the French flag flying and to hear in churches, both Greek and Latin, this chant sung, ‘Domine salvum fac regem,’ to which they added ‘nostrum Ludovicum.’

This was the state of Syra at the beginning of the war of independence. According to Pasch van Krienen, who was sent to the islands by the Russians with a view to annexation, the inhabitants numbered only 1,000 souls about a century ago. The Turks knew them only by the name of taivshan or hares, for whenever a Turkish ship appeared in the harbour they would run up the hills, and could nowhere be found. What a contrast is this to the state of Syra to-day, being, as it is, one of the busiest marts in the Levant!

The freedom of Greece introduced an entirely new era into this island, and the circumstances occurred as follows: The great massacre of Christians in Chios and Psara drove from their homes some of the bravest and most commerce-loving of the Greek-speaking world. No tragedy in history is more thrilling than the story of this massacre; unfortunately it is too near our own times for any of us to know as much about it as we do about the Sicilian Vespers or the massacre of St. Bartholomew. However, historians of future ages will rank it with these, and it will be one of the deepest blots on the annals of the nineteenth century.

After innumerable adventures by sea and land the refugees from Chios, rich men who had been nursed in the lap of luxury, found their way on caïques to various parts of Greece proper, where the standard of revolt had been raised, and where for a time they would be safe. Some went to Spetzia and Hydra, others further afield in search of a livelihood; but eventually all these refugees found themselves gathered around a few of the more energetic spirits on the island of Tenos. The inhabitants, whose Roman Catholic, and hence neutral, proclivities were strong, did not receive them with favour; the plague broke out amongst them; commerce could not flourish, for the harbourage was bad in Tenos; so the refugees cast about in their minds for another asylum, and after mature deliberation settled on the island of Keos, the one of the Cyclades nearest to the Saronic Gulf, and the one which in all ages had been the commercial centre in the Aegean Sea, during classical and mediaeval times alike. To this island a deputation was sent, to make an offer for starting their commercial operations there instead of at Tenos. But the magnates of Keos, to their own detriment, flatly refused this offer; they feared lest their island should be made a special mark for revenge if the war of independence went against Greece. So Keos pusillanimously elected to lose its name as the commercial centre of the Aegean Sea.

The arrangements made between the refugees and the inhabitants of Syra will probably never be known. It is more than probable that the leaders of the revolution had something to do in persuading them to choose this place, and thereby establish themselves on neutral ground under the French flag. All that is certain is, that the refugees left Tenos in a body, and crossing over the narrow strait which divides the two islands, took up their abode on Syra, under the protection of the banner of France.

Before Greece was free, the town of Hermoupolis began to grow on the cliffs of Syra, holding, like Noah’s ark, those that were saved from the cruelty of the Turks — suffering Greeks from Chios, Psara, Crete, Macedonia, Smyrna, forty thousand in all, found here a refuge.

At first the exiles lived in a miserable state, having huts by the shore, where now the busy quay is, in which they stored their merchandise and transacted their business, retiring to the upper town, Ano Syra as it soon was called, by night, to sleep in churches, stables, or wherever they could find a covering for their heads.

Before the arrival of the refugees, in June, 1821, Demetrius Hypselantes, the great hero of the revolt, sent as his agent to the Cyclades one Themeles to inspire the islanders with the spirit which reigned on the mainland; but, with certain brilliant exceptions, such as Psara, Hydra, and Spetzia, the islanders were weak-minded, for the insular Greeks had for centuries had so easy a time under Turkish rule that they did not care to endanger themselves in the popular cause; at the time it was universally admitted that if the Chiotes had had any pluck in them they might have avoided the massacre and proclaimed themselves free. Some of the Cyclades at first flatly refused to join. Santorin, Andros, Tenos, urged by the Roman Catholic element in them, preferred to pay double taxes to both the Turkish and Greek fleets to declaring themselves on either side; and the inhabitants of Syra, advisedly perhaps, pointed to the French banner and replied that they were neutral.

It is not to be wondered at that these neutral islands were looked upon with suspicion by their fighting comrades; but when we learn that Syra received 40,000 refugees two years later, most of them incapacitated physically from bearing arms, being women, children, halt and maimed, we cannot blame them for inactivity. One of the colony, writing to the journal of Syra, in 1837, gives us the following account of this colonisation of Syra :— ‘Forty thousand Greeks, or eight thousand families, not being able to bear arms through physical incapacity, inhabited Tenos; of these some began to collect their goods together, with the aid of the ship “Hermes.” But the absence of a harbour in this island, the pestilence which took place in 1823, political causes, and the unsuitable position of the island, compelled some of them to seek an asylum elsewhere — a safer and more suitable spot for commerce — and for this they chose Syra. Its broad and safe harbour, its mercantile position, the protection which its inhabitants received from the French Government as Western Catholics, moved those remaining in Tenos to follow the footsteps of the first, and thus day by day they collected from all parts, and were compelled to build a new city.’

So now we find our commercial colony founded and flourishing under the French flag. If there were some hard remarks made about the Syriotes who stayed at home and practised the arts of peace during the great national struggle, it is at all events clear that the leaders of the revolution understood the position taken up by them; and in fact the neutrality of Syra seems to have been a part of the plan of the provisional administration of the revolution, as many Syriotes afterwards let out. Many of them, though neutral, belonged to the Friendly Society (i philikí etairía ^gr), a secret society which was the backbone of Panhellenism, and to Syra the Generals Miaouli and Mavrocordato sent their valuables for safety during the struggle. By correspondence which has come to light since, it is evident that the refugees in Syra were not at all unmindful of their struggling fellow-countrymen, and sent them frequent monetary assistance. For example, Andreas Miaouli wrote from the ship ‘Ceres,’ on November 15, 1823, to acknowledge having received 6,000 grosia from Syra.

All this time a town was growing up around the harbour and along the flat space between the harbour and the hill on which the old town was perched. The first two-storeyed house was built in 1825, and belonged to the first demarch, Petritzi by name, and it was considered a real phenomenon to look upon, for the island towns never indulge in two-storeyed houses as a rule, having flat roofs and ceilings, many of reeds, which they cover with seaweed, and on the top place a certain kind of clay which they trample down and then roll with marble rollers. After a rainfall it is a curious sight to see the inhabitants running about on their roofs to press down the mud, and kicking along with their feet the marble roller. But Syra has long since abandoned this style, and ever since Demarch Petritzi built his two-storeyed house in 1825 the town has adopted the Western style, and for all the world looks like a town of France or Italy.

It was in this year that Luke Ralli and others, foreseeing a future of greatness for the infant city, thought it was time to give her a name, and not allow her, like all the other islands of the Aegean Sea, to have a capital called after and frequently confounded with the island in which it was situated. So they met together and called her Hermoupolis, the city of Hermes, for was not Hermes the protector of commerce among their ancestors? and did they not owe much to the good ship ‘Hermes,’ which had collected together the earlier nucleus of their trade? Just before this a church had been built near the sea, the Church of the Transfiguration, the outer court of which was still used as a hospital for those who were obliged to live in tents; and, situated as it was amongst wretched hovels, it was a perfect beehive, where the inhabitants could swarm and sleep if they wished. In the nave of this church the magnates of the refugees held their first public assemblies, and here it was that Luke Ralli for the first time pronounced the name of the town — Hermoupolis.

But the bulk of the colonists in Syra never intended to stay there if the war terminated favourably for Greek independence; they only intended to make of this barren rock a temporary asylum, as the Athenians had once made of Salamis: so when, in 1829, the kingdom of Greece was established, there were many projects afloat for the re-colonisation of different parts of Hellas. Perhaps if Chios had been free the result would have been different, for the leading part of the refugees were merchants from Chios, and Syra might again have sunk into oblivion; however, as the Turks still held their home, the Chiotes elected to stay in Syra, and recognised Hermoupolis in Syra as the abiding centre of Greek commerce for the future. The position was good, being in the centre of the Aegean Sea, in the highway of traffic to and from the East; the harbour was good, with two islands across its mouth to protect it from the south winds, but the island itself is wretched. No wonder the Chiotes sighed for their lemon and orange groves, the Cretans for their forests and olive gardens; no wonder they were anxious to get away from those brown hillsides, where nothing save aromatic herbs would grow, where there was not a tree to shade them or water to drink a sufficiency of. It is curious to see the results of reckless cutting down of trees here in Greece. The rains wash away the soil from the mountains and make them barren, and then there is nothing to hold the rain, which rushes off in torrents as soon as it has fallen, and thereby creates a drought. But commerce is in no way dependent on land attractions, as Venice and Holland can testify, so the Greek refugees who elected to stay at Syra had no cause to regret their decision.

At first they suffered terribly from pirates in the early days of anarchy after the establishment of the kingdom. Old people in Syra will still relate to you the dread these early colonists had of one Nestor Phatzole of Cephalonia, how he seized their merchant ships, levied blackmail, and scoured the archipelago; but English, French, and Austrian ships year by year lessened the number of these marauders; and year by year, with the commerce of Western Europe passing through their hands, the Syriotes grew in prosperity, and their town of Hermoupolis sprang up with the rapidity of the mushroom towns of the western hemisphere.

It was just ten years after the naming of the town that Ludwig Ross visited Hermoupolis in his journeys through the islands of the Aegean Sea, and he speaks with astonishment of the growth and almost magical development of this merchants’ town.

Knowing the history of Hermoupolis during the last sixty years, we issued forth from our hotel with our interest keenly excited to behold, for here at least all around us was the work of modern Hellas. We hear much of the failure of Greece to carry out the hopes of the revivers of the nationality, but we learn, when studying the growth of Syra, that, given a fair chance, the Greek of to-day will always come to the front in the mercantile world. The Powers created a kingdom out of a barren, unproductive country, sparsely inhabited, and without any of the sinews of wealth; they expected this country to produce at once all the fine qualities for which their ancestors had been celebrated, and were naturally disappointed.

We might as well take Cornwall and Devonshire and call it the British Empire, as consider the narrow limits of the present kingdom in any way representative of the Greek nation. The most prosperous, the most intellectual of the nationality are scattered over the face of the globe, in all the great commercial centres of the world. Here at Syra we learn what they can do when the chance offers. But what chance did the Greek kingdom ever have? The government naturally fell into the hands of a few uneducated men who were returned as members for semi-barbarous villages. As of old, every Greek is a politician, and for want of a clear head to guide them they fell to squabbling amongst themselves, until the Greek kingdom, instead of answering the requirements of Panhellenism, became a byword and a scorn. Of late years matters have improved considerably, under the able direction of M. Tricoupis; but a journey through the islands and the outlying parts of even this little kingdom shows how rotten the whole concern is. But Syra is quite different; if all the Greeks were like those of Syra, there could be no question as to who should rule at Constantinople.

An excellent street, the street of Hermes, branches away from the quay, and leads into a vast square, where in the evenings the inhabitants promenade to listen to the band. One side of this square is to be taken up by a large Hôtel de Ville; but this edifice progresses only slowly; the town authorities are careful, and only do a little now and then to it, when they have a balance in hand. Steep tortuous streets lead up one of the hills which is covered by the new town; everything is white and clean, a great contrast to a town of corresponding size in France or Italy; the drainage is excellent, and not a smell affronts the nostrils. There are plenty of churches now — none of any interest, to be sure, except that of the Transfiguration, where the assemblies were held, and where Luke Ralli stood as godfather to this infant town, now grown to maturity.

Of course Syra is now the central point of insular Greece; here resides the nomarch of the Cyclades, who superintends the course of justice in the eight eparchies into which the islands are divided; the eparchs, in their turn, look after the demarchs, or mayors, of the various towns and villages. In Hermoupolis is the jail where insular defaulters are confined; the law courts are here; in short, Syra is the modern capital of the Cyclades, whereas in the middle ages Naxos was the seat of government and the residence of the Duke. All this is due to the refugees and their commerce.

I went to the university, which, after that of Athens, is the most reputed in Greece, and there I listened to the various classes, the lessons taking for me a curious and decidedly interesting form. The pedagogues were holding forth on Herodotus, Xenophon, Plutarch, &c. and the task of the scholars seemed to me marvellously simple, namely, to turn the ancient into modern Greek, parse the words, and collect the historical points. I could not help feeling what advantages these youngsters have over us, if a classical education is the only requisite, when a boy often can read and tell the contents of Xenophon with greater ease than an Oxford don.

On a subsequent occasion I paid a visit to the Archbishop of Syra, Methodios by name, a man of great liberal culture and enlightenment, who does all he can to combat the almost heathenish beliefs of the Greek peasantry. He has a large house, and wears a fine enamel, set in diamonds, and was very friendly, telling us as we sipped our coffee that he had seen our party returning on muleback from an expedition into the island, and added that we had called to his mind Christ’s entry into Jerusalem. This is a marked feature in the Greek Church; they are what we should call blasphemous. Curiously enough, a biblical comparison had occurred to us as to our appearance on the same journey, namely, that we resembled closely one of those many old pictures of a flight into Egypt.

There is, in spite of the newness of the place, a great reverence for antiquity in Syra, and a desire to keep up ancient associations; a newspaper here is called Pherecydes. At first I did not recollect that that eminent philosopher had been a native of Syra, and was astonished at the name.

Certainly Pherecydes was a man to be proud of, for many curious suppositions are attached to his name. He was born 598 B.C., and was master of Pythagoras. They say he had learnt from the Phoenicians, a colony of whom Homer speaks of on this island, the occult sciences of the East. To Pherecydes Cicero attributes the first idea of the immortality of the soul; others assert that he went in for the theory of transmigration. Altogether there is a halo of mystery about this man, so much so that bold theorists assert that he got his ideas from the secret books of the Phoenicians, which were no less than the books of Moses!

The story of his horrible death, and how Pythagoras came all the way to Delos to see his dying master, is told us by Diodorus Siculus; and curiously enough the Greek peasants of Syra have still a tradition that a great man called Pherecydes lived in the island, and was consumed by lice. Doubtless this tradition emboldened the publisher to name his newspaper Pherecydes.

Some of these traditions are very curious in the Cyclades, and busy, populous Syra is not without its own. It is a common belief amongst the peasants that the ghosts of the ancient Greeks come once a year from all parts of Greece to worship at Delos, and as they pass through Syra they are purified by washing; a cliff above Hermoupolis is still called Deli ^gr, where the country folks tell you this ablution takes place, and even to-day they will reverently speak of the ‘god in Delos.’

They are vaguely aware, too, of a game called Dískos ^gr, and say that their ancestors used two large stone olive-presses, which stand as reminiscences of ancient fertility in Syra outside a church, as quoits. How thoroughly Greek this is to believe in the superhuman strength of your ancestors; it is the survival of the idea which generated the myths of Hercules.

Passing on in our rambles, we came across the theatre of Apollo, than which no better theatre exists in modern Greece. Even Athens cannot boast of such. Curiously enough the piece advertised for that evening was The Pirates. I could not help thinking how short a time it was since the pirates had been a subject for more serious thought in Syra.

Beyond the theatre and the church is the west end of Syra, where stately mansions are built on the top of a cliff, overlooking the sea. These houses of Hermoupolis, like those of Athens, rejoice in a superabundance of marble. There are very few islands of the Cycladic group which do not produce marble, and at the north end of Syra there is abundance of it. Each balcony is supported by marble lions or griffins; the steps, the facings and window-cases of all the houses are of marble. A new road leading along the cliff beyond these houses forms the fashionable evening promenade for the Syriote ladies.

Though, perhaps, the rapid increase of Syra is now cooling down, nevertheless the place is still growing, and the small space of waste ground between the old town and the new is rapidly giving way to a mass of houses and factories; for with a central depôt for the Eastern Telegraph, and steamers of every company calling here, Syra cannot be expected to stand still. After a stroll through the factories and a visit to the centres of artisan life, there was little left to study in Hermoupolis the New; but Syra as an island, as we have seen, had a history long before its days of commerce, so to visit the various points of archaeological lore we made several expeditions about the island.

Alone of the Cyclades, Syra rejoices in the possession of roads, horses and carriages. Not that these roads lead you very far as yet, and only one may be said to have a destination; this leads you to the harbour Delle Grazie, where in summer time the Syriotes go to take sea baths, and here are the remains of two ancient cities, from which we can argue that the much criticised Homer was not so far wrong when he tells us that Syra had two cities, ‘Twain are the cities, and an equal share in all things is to either portioned well.’ — ‘Od.’ xv.

It is true that the existence of a third city is proved by the ruins which have been found whilst building Hermoupolis. One inscription tells us of the existence of a temple of Isis, where now stands a great pandopoleíon ^gr (general shop), but it is highly probable from these inscriptions that the city, on the ruins of which Hermoupolis has risen, was of a more recent date, and that the inhabitants of Homer’s two cities migrated at some time or another to the present site, for in Strabo’s time there was only one city, which had in it a temple of Poseidon in the grove. Now an inscription (Poseídonos Ásphaleíon ^gr) has been found at Hermoupolis, and at the ruins of the city near Delle Grazie another inscription has been found, which was put up to Miagnas, a priest of Poseidon, and Amphitrite in the temple there. It is very probable that the inhabitants deserted this spot and went to the better harbour, for the bay of Delle Grazie is shallow, and exposed to the western winds. There are numerous traces of walls and graveyards at this spot, which is still called Poseidonia, and beyond, on the other side of the bay, are the scanty ruins of another town still called Phoenichos. Here is a little solitary church, into the walls of which bits of marble have been let, and the flat land around is covered with bits of broken vases. In the sea, too, are ruins of some buildings, called now the little monastery, about which I can make no suggestion. It struck me as curious how this place got its name. Is it from the colony of Phoenicians here which Homer mentions? Ross calls it Grynche, and Pliny mentions a place in Syra called Eschatia; but Ross and Pliny are not always to be trusted. The former tells us that the silpressum used in dyes came from Syra, whereas it comes from the island of Scyros, or Skyros,^note and constant confusion in various authors has occurred between these two names.

All around the bay is barren, excepting where, here and there, like an oasis in the desert, the gardens of rich Syriote merchants relieve the eye. At one of these houses we were entertained hospitably by Mr. Tserlendi, and shown his garden and vineyards. On the way to Delle Grazie we saw many of these country seats, especially at Talanta, where money has had a veritable struggle with nature, and been fairly successful.

It is further presumptive evidence of the quondam ^note fertility of Syra, that from an inscription we gather that feasts of Dionysos with singing contests were held here, which would never have been the case had Syra produced no more wine than it does now, with which to honour the god. In fact, the existence of Bacchic revelry here in ancient times proves that they had an ample vintage.

One afternoon I strolled up the hill, to inspect the town of ‘Upper Syra,’ as it is now called, where the mediaeval Roman Catholic settlement still exists; here everything is old world, and the inhabitants seem utterly unconcerned about the busy life in the lower town. The houses are like steps, one above the other; and the steep narrow streets, foul with refuse and tenanted by pigs, lead up spiral fashion to the convent and church of St. George, which crowns the hill. From the terrace in front of the edifice a fine view is obtained over the sea, dotted with Cyclades as far as the eye can reach; to the right is a brown stony valley, characteristic of Syra, and on the brow of the opposite hill a newly-fledged Greek convent seems as if it looked with contempt on the Roman Catholic town, as much as to say that its reign is over. Between the Eastern and Western Church there is no kindly feeling. On my way down to the lower town I met some girls who had strolled upwards to take the air. They asked me my intention on seeing me enter a Greek church, and on my inquiring if they were Westerns or Orthodox, they affirmed so eagerly that they belonged to the latter persuasion, that I was constrained to question them further on their knowledge of the relation between the two creeds.

One of them, who said she was a niece of Canarios, one of the great heroes of the war of independence, regretted loudly that shortly she was to marry a rich Roman Catholic; her principal objection being, from what I could gather, a current belief that when a Roman Catholic has received the last sacrament and shows symptoms of recovery, the priest goes back and strangles him with a rope, for after this sacred event no one is permitted to live. She was a young lady of considerable sentiment I imagine, for she carried in her hand a pretty flower which grows on the hills under the acanthus bushes, called ‘patience’ by the Greeks (ipomoní ^gr), ‘For when I look at it,’ she concluded, ‘I feel strengthened to bear my lot patiently.’

By far the most interesting expedition we made into the remote parts of Syra was a weary long mile ride over the mountains to a spot at the north-west corner, where perhaps is the very place where Hercules was reported to have conquered the north wind. The goal of our ride was a point called Grammata Head, from the fact that it is covered with inscriptions. A wilder, bleaker ride I never had, even in the Cyclades. On leaving the town and ascending the hill of Deli, we were as out of the world as if no busy Hermoupolis existed at our feet. There was scarcely a mule track to guide us, and the rocks and stones by the way called for the exercise of all the agility our mules could display. All the way we never tired of admiring the ever-varying views over island and sea. Though Syra itself might be brown and arid, with occasional streaks of red from the nature of the soil, yet the halo of hazy blue islands around us, the sparkling of the sea, and the clearness of the air, dispelled all feelings of gloom, and made us realise that in those days when Syra was ‘teeming with fertility’ it must have been a paradise upon earth. No vegetation did we come across anywhere save aromatic scrub over the hillside, and the ungainly bulbous squilla marina, a source of considerable traffic in this locality. It was the 1st of December, and the sun was very hot. What must this shadeless place be in the dog-days?

We saw hardly any signs of habitation on our way until we came to a low whitewashed cottage, where lives, high up on the mountain-top, a tottering old man ninety-five years of age. He looks after a small garden, and whenever he wants anything he walks into Hermoupolis to do his shopping. Our muleteer called him out, and he came to welcome us: he was full of stories about the wonderful changes he had seen during his long, eventful life; how he had fought for his country’s liberties; how he had assisted in building the first house for the refugees down by the harbour. When we left him, I asked our muleteer if people frequently lived to be so old at Syra. ‘Yes,’ was the reply, ‘an old woman died at one hundred and thirty only a short while ago; in former years people lived so long that the aged had to be thrown down a mountain cliff which is still called Geronsi (géron ^gr).’ This tradition of longevity in Syra is curious, and more especially so in connection with the slaughter of the aged. On the neighbouring island of Keos it is well known that the old and useless members of society were obliged to swallow hemlock when a certain age was reached. The Abbé della Rocca, one of the Roman Catholic brethren in Syra, writing a century ago, tells us of the same tradition existing then about the great age and general healthiness of the Syriotes. Homer gives us the following testimony:—

We rode on for some time after bidding adieu to our old man, and then our muleteers manifested a doubt as to the way. Luckily we came across two herdsmen who volunteered to guide us; they refreshed us with dried figs and water, and were a pleasant addition to our party.

All here was stillness and solitude save for the bleating of goats and the tinkling of their bells; goat-bells interest one in Greece, they tend to show how conservative the Greeks are in preserving the customs of antiquity. A goat’s bell of to-day is of exactly the same shape and pattern as those the victims for sacrifice used to wear in ancient days. Turkish goat-bells and Albanian goat-bells are quite different; the Greeks still keep to their own old style. We passed close to a cave, reminding one of the habitation of a Cyclops, where 2,000 sheep and goats are kept at night, which wander over the mountain-side by day and gnaw the aromatic scrub.

The herdsmen were much quainter and more entertaining than our city-born muleteers. They had not deserted the ancient simplicity of accent and phraseology which Syra presumably possessed in common with the other islands of the Aegean before she was converted into a centre of commerce. They were at first hard to understand, and made use of words which are strange to the modern tongue. The frog of a mule's foot, for example, they called the ‘swallow’ (chelidóna ^gr), the word used in ancient times for the hollow of a horse’s foot, because it was forked like a swallow's tail. Furthermore, zéfgli ^gr is not the usual word for the yoke of an ox in other parts of modern Greece, and meroúpas ^gr for ‘birds’ is excessively curious, a word anciently used to denote being gifted with the power of articulation. It is in pastoral life that words still linger which are forgotten in aught but the pages of Liddell and Scott.

After a ride of four hours we came to our destination, a long strip of marble which runs into the sea like a bird’s beak, and shelters a little bay from the fury of the north wind; it is almost at the extreme northern point of the island, and was in ages long gone by a favourite resort of mariners during stormy weather. This tongue of marble is in three places covered with very neatly cut inscriptions placed on flat spaces of marble which slope down to the water’s edge. Some of them are very old, but most date from the Roman and Byzantine epochs; for the most part they are prayers for good voyages, and thanksgivings for safety made by those anchoring in this little bay in time of tempest, both for themselves and their friends. These writings on rocks are found in many parts of Greece; in Santorin or Mesa Bounó I saw lots of them, and likewise I hear they are common on the mainland. Those at Syra are interesting from their diversity.

Taking the pagan ones first, we find most of them to be simply names. Mithres of Sardis is the only one which conveyed anything to our minds, for Mithres is a name found on Sardian coins. Again we have the names of those who used this tongue of land as a point for observation (Skopi tou Áthinobíou tou navklírou ^gr) and various others, reminding us of the passage in Lucian which says, ‘It is necessary first before sailing to go to some point to observe if the wind is favourable.’ Then again we have epigraphs in memory of friends, perhaps those who had been lost at sea; prayers for good voyages for the writers and their friends; thanks for preservation from shipwreck, principally to Asclepius; for example, ‘We in the Milesian ship, thank Asclepius;’ and lastly, farewells to friends.

Many of these epigraphs refer to a temple of Serapis, which must have stood on this point, though all traces of it have been obliterated. Doubtless here many a hecatomb has been offered to propitiate this god, that he might send a favourable wind. Our herdsmen told us that quantities of coins were dug up here, and forthwith proceeded to dig. In a few minutes they produced some small defaced copper coins of no value, which they gave us. We next turned to consider the Christian writings, which are more minute in their information about men and ships, and are written in debased Roman characters, like those in use in the Byzantine school, and such as we see in use on the outside of Byzantine churches. Most of them begin with ‘Lord help us! Lord save us!’ &c., and then give the name of the supplicant, his father’s name, his country, sometimes that of his ship, and occasionally, though rarely, they mention the month and year. There are about 100 of these, affording a curious collection of names, occupations, and countries; sailors, captains, one novitiate, deacons, a soldier, a centarch, Commander Stephen, chiliarch of Asia with his aurarii, fellow-citizens, &c., showing what a popular place of resort once was Grammata Bay, now lost almost to the world, for hardly anyone in Syra has heard of it, and if he had heard of it would never think of riding four hours to see such a sight.

After a hurried lunch among the epigrams, we started on our weary way back across the mountains, returning, as our herdsmen affirmed, by a somewhat shorter way close to a church called Syringa, where is a fountain of healing water which is bottled and sent abroad. A popular distich of Syra, which our companions sang, tells us that for health all that is required is ‘some water from Syringa, grapes from Chryse, and a sprig of basil from Cyparyssa.’ Chryse and Talanta certainly seem at present to be the only places on the island where grapes will grow, and this with difficulty. Doubtless this distich is of a not very modern date, and may refer to the ancient fertility. As for the basil from Cyparyssa, I never saw any; but I have frequently realised how much prized the basil is in Greece for its mystic properties. The herb which they say grew on Christ’s grave is almost worshipped in the Eastern Church. On St. Basil’s Day women take sprigs of this plant to be blessed in church. On returning home they cast some on the floor of the house, to secure luck for the ensuing year. They eat a little with their household, and no sickness, they maintain, will attack them for a year. Another bit they put into their cupboard, and firmly believe that their embroideries and silken raiment will be free from the visitation of rats, mice, and moths for the same period.

Busy, populous Hermoupolis seemed horribly worldly after this wild ride. During our rambles in the Cyclades we visited it many times, and were always glad to get out of it, savouring as it did too much of this busy age.