cloth manufactory, and then the little harbour of Munychium, lying between the Piræus and the roadstead of Phalerum. Along a considerable part of this little promontory, which is broken by two picturesque basins, are visible remains of the long walls which protected them in the days of Athenian greatness; and similar remains may be seen close down to the shore, and even under the water outside the Piræus. Between three and four o'clock we at last weighed anchor, and soon left behind all trace of the city, which, as I have said before, is a very insignificant object in the landscape. Our eyes, however, were fixed on it so long as anything at all was visible, and then rested on the stronger features of the surroundings,-on Salamis, Parnes, Pentelicus, and Hymettus, and rugged Egina, lying nearer to us on the left hand. The sail was really most delightful. A fresh breeze was blowing off the Peloponnesian coast, and lashing the blue waters into foam. Then the coast itself was full of interest and picturesque beauty, especially when later on the sun set behind the hills, and gorgeous colours came out in contrast with the deepest shadows. The sunset was followed by a brilliant moon, which added fresh beauty to the scene and lightness to our hearts. Of the rest of our voyage of the storm to which we awoke on the following morning, and which would have driven us, like St. Paul, right down on to Malta, had we not run for shelter into the Gulf of Messenia (for the wind was that self-same Euroclydon named in Holy Writ,-the same "Auster, dux turbidus Hadriæ," familiar to us in Horace); of the lovely sail through the Straits of Messina, with sea and sky a brilliant blue, the coast of Italy gorgeous in colour of soil and vegetation, and Etna sparkling in front like a pyramid of molten silver,—of these and other sights this is not the place to speak. For Athens is our present text, and Athens is now far behind. Conclusion. And now to sum up in a few words the impressions of "A Week in Athens." Had our expectations been realised? Could we feel that the dreams of past years had not been mere illusions, to be dispelled at first sight of the reality? Would the name of Athens still have the same indescribable charm for us, or would familiarity have deadened its magic influence? To such questions I can, for my own part, looking back across an interval of three years, emphatically answer, No! In some points, of course, the place was not exactly as we had imagined it, when did imagination, unaided, ever call up a true picture either of nature or of man? But in no respect did Athens fall short of my ideal, while fresh and quite unimagined charms revealed themselves. Among these not the least was the quality of the atmosphere, its extraordinary radiance and delicacy, which seems to give poetry to objects in themselves neither striking nor picturesque. The hills of Attica, Hymettus, Ægaleos, Parnes, and Pentelicus, present no very remarkable features, save certain noble simplicity of form, but as they glitter in the noonday sun, or take the rich colouring of sunset, their beauty is quite fascinating. There is a very curious and interesting testimony to their attractiveness in Thackeray's Cornhill to Cairo,' which is the more valuable that the writer's attitude is distinctly not that of a worshipper. He seems indeed to find difficulty in summoning up the proper enthu a siasm; yet these hills are too much for him. This is what he says:— "Round this wide, yellow, barren plain-a stunt district of olive-trees is almost the only vegetation visible there rises, as it were, a sort of chorus of the most beautiful mountains; the most elegant, gracious, and noble the eye ever looked on. These hills did not appear at all lofty or terrible, but superbly rich and aristocratic. The clouds were dancing round about them; you could see their rosy-purple shadows sweeping round the clear serene summits of the hills." Another pleasant surprise was the rich orange tone of such buildings as the Parthenon and the Propylæa; and of the very rock of the Acropolis, contrasting so finely with the blue sky, and also giving one an idea of the advantage of adding colour to marble buildings in such a brilliant atmosphere. The country is rather wanting in colour, the scanty soil producing little foliage but olives and poplars and cypresses, so that the value of this tone in the prominent buildings is more marked. I have al ready spoken of the important part played by Mount Lycabettus in every view of the city. This is a point that strikes one at once, and yet quite unexpectedly. The hill is too steep and inaccessible to have ever been available as a fortress, or indeed in any way, so that its name hardly comes into history-and it did not occur to the ancients that a hill was worth mention merely for its picturesqueness. vellers eager to learn about the antiquities, the professors of the university and other learned men are both able and willing to render assistance. In fact, now that the Germans and French both have flourishing schools of archæology established in Athens (an example soon, we trust, to be followed by ourselves), while the Greeks themselves are taking a keen and intelligent interest in such matters, scholars and men of culture are beginning to flock there, and Athens. bids fair to become, as Rome was at the beginning of the century, a centre of attraction and a meetingplace for savants of all lands. Of the surroundings of the city a week's stay hardly allows one to form an adequate impression. Eleusis, Phylê, Sunium, and other places of interest, we had no time to see. The city itself needs at least ten days or a fortnight to do even scanty justice to its wonders especially to the unexpected richness of the museums. At the same time, let not this deter any one, with limited time at his disposal, from making the journey. Two days will give you a very fair impression of the whole place, and enable you to see the Acropolis and its surroundings with perfect ease. Go to Athens, if only for two or three days, is my advice to all who can find an opportunity. Don't mind the journey. By travelling down through Italy to Brindisi, and thence by steamer past Corfu and Zante up the Gulf of Corinth, I have spoken very little of the across the isthmus and the Saronic modern town, because space obliged gulf, you may reach the Piræus in me to dwell only on what was of eight, or at most nine, days from the highest interest. I may say, London. The very journey is full however, that it is bright and at- of beauty and interest. Athens, at tractive, and daily becoming more any rate, will reward you for your So as the number of travellers, pains. Go, then! in the spring if usually of the more cultivated kind, you can, or in the autumn, or at increases. The people are most Christmas; but goat whatever courteous and kindly, and to tra- time-go to Athens! Crede experto. A LASTING MEMORY. THE night of my return I went to the Haymarket Theatre. After my long wanderings myar rival had disappointed me. It was a dull November Saturday. London was not full, and I found scarcely any of the greetings I had longed for and expected. My few relatives were absent; in the clubs I belonged to I only found strangers. Time hung heavy on my hands after the strange scenes of the past five years. So I went to the Haymarket. The little theatre had always been my fancy. I remembered it from very early youth- Farren, Webster, Buckstone, Howe, Holl, Mrs. Nisbet, Mrs. Glover, Julia Bennett, and Miss P. Horton. I have never been a great theatre-goer or devotee of the drama, and my knowledge of theatrical history is pretty well confinedto the Haymarket. There was rather a long entr'acte, and my mind by instinct but mistily went over different occasions of play-going. Here I had been with A, and B, and C, in days when the end of the play was the beginning of the evening. Nearly opposite once existed a kind of hell upon earth called Bob Croft's, whither young men went merely because it was disreputable. Once or twice in early youth I had been taken there, and I had not fancied it, for rough amusements had never been to my liking. At Mr. Croft's an ordinary evening generally ended in a fight, and a not very extraordinary one in a police invasion. Here I had been kept from harm's way by Jock Campbell since dead. Önce the remembrance followed quick-I had come to the theatre in a box with Jock Campbell and others. Among them was Lydia Mainwaring. The play was the same as that now being acted-the School for Scandal.' I glanced at the box we had occupied. It was empty. The curtain again drew up. Another entr'acte. The was still empty. I sighed. I. longed - for return had been such a disappointment. I had almost expected to see some friend in the box. Curious-in a box near it two hands in black gloves are holding an opera-glass directed towards me. The wrists seem familiar, small, but with hard wiry sinews expressing power and strength. The next time I look up, the hands and the glass are there no longer, and their owner has retired to the back of the box. The play was over, and a wellknown farce was about to commence. The stalls were half emptied, when a well-known face came and greeted me. It was Sir Esmé Egerton, once a schoolfellow, then a clergyman-a vocation he had renounced on succeeding to a baronetcy and a property. He was a kindly, dull Westerham," he said, "I had no idea you were in London." "I have only just returned after nearly five years' wandering in the two Americas." "I knew you were travelling box somewhere, but no one ever heard My from you." My "I have so few people to write to," I answered, "and no one wrote to me. I have often been beyond the range of all news, public or private.' "Then, I daresay you never heard of my marriage? Come up and make the acquaintance of my wife." But to me Lydia Mainwaring showed no sign of recognition. "I was surprised to hear of Sir Esmé's marriage just now. I have had no letters for months, and have seen no newspapers except in the last few weeks." "Won't you ask the wanderer to dine to-morrow?" suggested the He took me to the box in which husband. I had seen the black gloves. you "My dear, I don't think ever knew my old friend Lord Westerham, though I believe you come from the same country and bear the same name. He has just returned from South America." Lady Egerton bowed for a moment without a word. Then, as though to make reparation, she said, "I am always glad, Esmé, to see your friends. Welcome home, I should say, Lord Westerham. know you already from Esmé and others." I It was the same voice and the same gesture as before-a mixture of defiance and submission, of resentment and fear. To Esmé her bearing was affectionate and caressing, almost compassionate and full of gratitude. "I hope you will come, Lord Westerham. Esmé will long to hear your adventures; and," she added more slowly, and with an emphasis perceptible only to myself-" and they will interest me too." She continued-"I feel a little chilly, Esmé, and should like to go home." He begged me to escort his wife down-stairs while he looked out for the carriage. When alone she said no word of recognition or reminiscence. "You must have seen the play before, Lord Westerham." "Once," I replied, "a long time ago, from the box next to this one." "Then you will remember tomorrow," she said, as she entered the carriage. "I know your promises are sacred. Good night." My youth was most unhappy. My mother had married a second time a Welsh clergyman, who had speculated on her family. She was the sister, and later the heir general, of Lord Westerham, who, having two boys and an encumbered estate, could do little for her, even if so inclined. The death of his two boys made but little change in his inclination, as it seemed to embitter his wife, a hard Scotch Puritan, towards those who were to succeed to the inheritance of her sons. Nor did it improve the disposition towards me of my step II. father. Small as were my prospects, they stood in the way of his son, my step-brother-an impulsive, choleric, sickly boy, who died before his father. But my early life and home were unhappy. My small patrimony were seized on by my step-father, who grudged me the food and shelter me from my own money. Things could not last thus. At an early age I therefore found myself living in London with a distant cousin, a conveyancer, who gave me a latchkey, and allowed me to have my own way, under the guidance of he gave was another distant relative, a sporting man and a scapegrace. It under his patronage that I became acquainted with the establishment of Mr. Robert Croft. It is a wonder to me now that I was not ruined in purse and reputation before I reached the age of nineteen. Fortunately, I disliked the society into which I was initiated, and after the first flattering assurance that I was "seeing life," I backed out of Mr. Croft's intimate circle. Indeed I never entered into his establishment above two or three timesonce with my cousin, who, having secured me the entrée, allowed me alone to improve the occasion. It was on my third and last appearance that I made the acquaintance of Jock Campbell. After dining alone with the conveyancer, I left him to his work, went to the theatre, and sat in the stalls next Jock. I looked much younger than my age, which was not more than seventeen. When I left the theatre I crossed the Haymarket and passed up the little court which led to Croft's. I had engaged to meet my scapegrace cousin there. He had dazzled me with the promise of taking me to a scene of even greater bliss. At the door of Bob Croft's, waiting for it to be opened at the necessary signal, stood the tall, heavy, but well - proportioned form that had sat next me at the theatre. Looking at me as we entered, he said, in a tone of compassion, "Hillo! young man, you are beginning early." I half resented his remarks, and with an air of superiority I asked the waiter if Mr. Alan M'Tavish had arrived. "Alan M'Tavish!" Jock Campbell murmured to himself as, on learning that my cousin had not arcousin had not arrived, I walked into the first room. The were small and crowded. The gas flamed, but the rooms VOL. CXXVIII.-NO. DCCLXXIX. floors were sanded. The space was divided into boxes, of which only two sides were fenced off. The atmosphere was thick with smoke; and there was to be found the refuse of race-courses and singing-halls, with a large sprinkling of young men of the upper and middle classes, Guardsmen, and others who, like myself, imagined they were enjoying life. Jock Campbell entered as a king, and was rapturously greeted by all the assembly. He was a splendid fellow-tall, at least six feet four, muscular, with great breadth of shoulders, powerful arms, and a handsome, high-bred, fair-complexioned face, on which he wore a moustache-an ornament only known in those days to men who, like himself, were in the cavalry. "Good night, Jock," the mob cried out. 66 Good night," he responded, cheerily; and notwithstanding the vile surroundings, his presence and his voice showed the good there was in the man. He was not more than four-andtwenty, and the days had not died out, now almost forgotten, when coarse debauchery was deemed the extreme of wit and good company. Spring-heeled Jacks wrenching off door-knockers, midnight surprises, fights in the street, attacks on the police, these were the pleasures of many young men of the world, now staid grandfathers and lights in their generation. Jock Campbell had fallen into these ways from high spirits rather than from depravity. He was full of energy, strong, handsome, and beloved-beaming with sympathy, which was enlisted by his companions for the moment, whether these were innocent or the reverse. Belonging to a regiment in which such pursuits were the vogue, he 2 A |