by the author of "Lady Flavia" [John Berwick Harwood].
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.2 #8 (Jun 1867).
"Good-bye, Green! I envy you your trip, old boy, or rather, I wish you joy of it and of your promotion with all my heart, I'm sure"—had been Stodgemore's last words as I crossed the college quadrangle; and Stodgemore, senior tutor of St. Crosier's, was a thoroughly good fellow and meant what he said. As for myself, I got into my fly with a light heart, and took my railway-ticket with much buoyancy of spirits and the brightest anticipations for the future. The fact was that the last few weeks had been singularly eventful ones to me, and that my sombre professional prospects had been suddenly irradiated by the gay iris of hope. Hitherto the career of the Reverend Plantagenet Green, M.A., had been dull enough. The eight or nine years since I had taken orders had been spent in hard work, poorly paid, and leading to no visible result. That curacy at Sokenham-in-the-Fen was but a shade better than the awful post of bear-leader to young Swagmore, the conceited son of a purse-proud old sugar-refiner, who knew of no refinement save that of sugar. I had borne much in both capacities, and had been very glad to undertake the duty of junior tutor at our little college of St. Crosier's, Oxford, with the hypothetical chance of a living not worth the acceptance of Stodgemore, Dewsbury, Poundworth, and the rest of the seniors of our common room.
I had elderly female relatives who, good souls, had all my life long been confident in their predictions that, "one of these days," Lord Kilmallock would be certain to do something for me. This Irish peer was my godfather, and he had, I believe, been munificent in promises whilst I was still of tender years. But, alas, as I grew older, my hopes of advancement by help of the Kilmallock interest faded and grew dim. His lordship was good enough now and then to write oracular assurances that when "we" came into power, Plantagenet should not be forgotten; but while the grass grew the steed starved, and I had almost outgrown my childish reliance on my titled sponsor, when, on a sudden, "we" did come into power. There was a change of ministry, and Lord Kilmallock's recommendation, for the first time for years, carried weight with it.
My patron was as good as his word. There was a vacant canonry at Slochester, the filling up which of course belonged to the new Prime Minister—a nice little titbit of preferment, only five hundred a year, to be sure, but with a capital house and a walled garden famous for its peaches; and Lord Kilmallock had obtained some promise or half-promise that this snug ecclesiastical shelf should be placed at my disposal. He wrote to me from Ireland, telling me that if I would call on him in Park-lane on a certain day in January, he would introduce me to the Premier, and I might then consider the business as settled. At the same time he cautioned me that, should I fail to keep my appointment in Downing-street, Lord Epsom would no doubt feel himself at liberty to oblige some other supporter of government. Of such unpunctuality, however, I had no apprehension. What, short of a cataclysm or a Red Revolution, could prevent my accompanying my distinguished friend to Downing-street on the day indicated?
In the mean time I had the fairest chance of a pleasant holiday trip that had ever presented itself to me. It was the Long Vacation. Oxford was deserted; and except Stodgemore (who could not tear himself away from his comfortable rooms and the vicinity of our college kitchen, the presiding culinary officer of which knew his constitution to a nicety, as the senior tutor often solemnly informed me), there was no one in residence at St. Crosier's. It so happened that I had no private pupils to read with; and there was not the slightest reason for my remaining on the neglected banks of the Isis and Cherwell, while my late companions of the common room were hooking salmon in nameless rivers, far among the fjelds of Norway, or were getting sunburnt faces and blistered hands among the glaciers of Switzerland.
Now was the time to realise a day-dream of my own, a cherished hope that I had often and often been compelled to renounce or adjourn. I was always, from boyhood, somewhat of a classical enthusiast, and had longed for years to tread the ground and breathe the air of old Hellas, to see with my own eyes the actual plains and streams where Miltiades routed the Persians, the shattered temples, the groves where Socrates taught, and the Agora where Paul preached. I have often felt as if it would have been worth a year of common life to have had one glimpse of Troy—of that bare scorched waste, dotted with a few stunted olives, through which the Scamander flows rippling over a pebbly bed, and to people the desolate landscape with, on one hand, the camp of the Greeks, gay with white tents and glittering arms, and on the other, with a swarm of mailed Trojan warriors, sallying forth from the ramparts of the beleaguered city. In a word, Eastern travel—a tour among the ruined glories of the ancient world—had been a pleasure for which I had hitherto sighed in vain.
The canon-expectant of Slochester, however, was able to permit himself a pleasure for which the junior tutor of St. Crosier's had long sighed in vain. Accordingly I set off for the Levant, taking leave of Stodgemore in the manner already recounted, and made the best of my way, viá Marseilles, to Athens, which I meant to make the first stage of my journey. My plan was, after exploring such parts of Greece as lay within easy reach, to proceed to Asia Minor, and there to have my fill of ruined cities and famous sites before going on to Constantinople, whence I purposed to return by the Danube route, and, crossing Italy, to have one hasty peep at Rome. My time and money—for my purse was slenderly supplied—would, I thought, just hold out through this projected scamper.
I had, to use the slang of the day, "done" Athens very completely, and had seen Salamis, and Hymettus with its myriad bees fed on the sacred heather, and the old battle-fields, and the broken stones of the glorious old shrines, and the shrunken brooks beside which mighty poets and sages had mused, and the shallow waters of which had once been crimsoned with Medish blood. I began to think of my departure, and to this end I took counsel with an intelligent young Greek, one of the commissionnaires of the Hôtel des Quatre Vents, where I lodged, and who knew every maritime city of the East, and every dialect spoken from Malta to the Caucasus or the Cataracts. Indeed Demetri—that was the name of the young valet de place who had acted as my guide and interpreter since my arrival, and who was called a dragoman in compliance with traditions of the Turkish rule—was apparently superior to most of his colleagues. I had found in him an adroit, patient, and most good-humoured cicerone; and although I suspect his scholarship was not very profound, he evidently knew something about the great deeds and great men of the past, and seemed to take a sincere interest in conducting me to the most celebrated spots in and near Athens.
I liked Demetri all the better because he possessed a virtue not too common anywhere, and especially rare among his grasping country-men—he was not greedy for money; and although, as he said with perfect truth, I paid him but sparingly for his trouble, while the majority of English and American travellers scattered their dollars broadcast, he served me with much willingness and respect, and appeared always grateful for a kind word. He was, for a Greek, well educated, and had a Greek's aptitude for making the most of his acquirements. He was no Athenian by birth, but a Fanariote; one of those descendants of ancient Byzantine families who are reared in the gloomy Fanar of Constantinople, whence the sultans were once accustomed to select the vassal princes of Moldavia and Wallachia. Many of these races have, as I have heard, considerable pretensions in a genealogical point of view; and Demetri once told me, laughingly, that his nurse used to assure him that he had the blood of Comneni and Paleologi in his veins, but that no one cared for such sayings now. He was a dark, smooth young fellow, of good address, and, so far as looks went, did no discredit to his ancestry.
"Si, signor; it is so. The Messageries Impériales boat—the French mail-steamer—is the best for your purpose. She calls at the Piræus on Thursday, and we can take your passage beforehand, if you please," said Demetri.
I was going to Smyrna; and as my fidus Achates agreed with me in the choice of a packet, there was nothing to be done but to drop in at the office, situated in the "Street of the Winds," and secure a berth. I had very nearly exhausted the lions of Athens—of the old Athens, that is to say,—and was ready for a start. As for modern Athens, dull, dusty, and feverish, I was heartily sick of its lounging, greasy population, sham Palikars in dirty-white kilts, red-capped patriots smoking vile cigars in dingy cafés, ugly women in second-rate French finery, mosquitoes, and jingling frowsy flies bowling at rare intervals along the wide white streets. I fancied that Demetri, honest lad, seemed really sorry that I was going. I had chatted with him a good deal, telling him much about England, and hearing in return something about the East. But perhaps it was the loss of his occupation, I bethought me, that threw a shade of melancholy over the young Fanariote's dark face. Business was certainly drooping; for, besides myself, there was but one other Englishman, a client of Demetri's, as I was, staying at the hotel.
This was a young gentleman who had once been a gentleman commoner at St. Crosier's College, though his velvet cap had long been laid aside, and with whom I had therefore some acquaintance. His name was Forster, and he was rich. He had just succeeded to the property of his father, a great brewer in the Borough, and he was out in Greece with all sorts of romantic projects for helping on the cause of that phantom Greek empire which dances like a political will-o'-the-wisp before the dazzled eyes of all King George's subjects. I rather fancy that young Mr. Forster was privately of opinion that his services to the Greek cause might win for him an English peerage, or a baronetcy at any rate. He had heard and read of other Britons who had been similarly rewarded for feats performed in pushing on the liberties of Spain and Greece; and he was not unnaturally eager to secure the one distinction that his money could not purchase for him at home. There he was, then, at Athens, ready to back the Greek insurrectionary cause with all the weight of his well-filled purse; and, as a violent Philhellene, he was of course hand-in-glove with some of the most fiery spirits of the Grecian capital.
The acquaintance between Mr. Forster and myself was, as I have said, but a slight one, yet the ex-gentleman commoner, who was an outspoken sort of person, was communicative enough, in a rough boastful way, when we did meet. The handsome suite of apartments which he occupied on the first floor of the hotel (the Rev. P. Green being simply lodged much higher up, in a dormitory at which a stoic philosopher could scarcely have cavilled on the score of over-luxurious accommodation) was seldom free from the presence of several dingy and garrulous conspirators, whose talk was of Crete and Thessaly, and who flattered and toadied the rich English milordo in due proportion to the five, or, if need were, the ten thousand pounds that he was ready to lay down for the advancement of their projects. I think that Mr. Forster must have been advised by some of his Athenian friends to practise the virtue of discretion; for of late his utterances, always boastful, had become darkly oracular, and it was in a mysterious fashion that he hinted at the great events in which he was shortly to bear a part.
I had often talked with Demetri on the subject of Mr. Forster, his wealth, and the vague ambition which was the real source of his ardour for the cause of a set of people who, I shrewdly suspected, meant to use him as a catspaw for the furtherance of their own ends. My only anxiety on behalf of my young countryman was that his sacrifices on behalf of Greek independence should turn out to be merely of a pecuniary nature, and that he should not be beguiled into trusting his person within reach of the fire of Turkish cannon and the yataghans of Turkish irregulars. But Demetri could not be brought to see the matter in the same light. He was very patriotic in his quiet, modest way, and I have often seen his fine eyes fill with tears as he spoke of Ottoman oppression, and of the desperate efforts which his co-religionists in Crete were making to break the Mahometan yoke. He was seldom in communication with Mr. Forster, who cared nothing for antiquities, and who would hardly have turned his head to look at the Parthenon; but he was always an attentive listener to what I had to say regarding my former pupil. I had no suspicion then, but I have no doubt now, that Demetri was artfully pumping me for information respecting the young Englishman and his plans.
Thursday came round at last, and the hot autumn sun threw a lengthening shadow across the dusty square in which, tall, stuccoed, and pretentious, stands the Hôtel des Quatre Vents.
"No boat yet, signor; and when she does come into the roads she has coal to take in," said Demetri, entering the salle of the hotel, where I sat sipping my white Hymettus wine, after the conclusion of the sparely-attended table d’hôte. "You will do well to drive down to the Piræus in the cool of the evening, and get on board after dusk. Athens will be quieter then too, for there are some of our Greek hotheads abroad to-day."
And indeed I had noticed that, ever since noon, bands of able-bodied young fellows, in the national garb—fustanelle, greaves, gaudy jacket, and scarlet skull-cap—had been marching about the city to a discordant accompaniment of drum and cowhorn, and heralded by the cheers of a noisy rabble. Such demonstrations were, however, only too frequent, and I had thought little of the matter; but now I asked my cicerone what the huzzas and drumming portended. He shrugged his shoulders: "Something about Crete," he said, and turned away. But I quite agreed with him that it would be pleasanter to embark when the mob should have shouted themselves hoarse, and the road to the Piræus be clear of quasi-military processions.
Presently the short twilight died away, and was succeeded by the usual pure dark sky, spangled thick with golden stars, and a fresh breeze sprang up to seaward, warning me with its grateful coolness that the hour for departure had arrived. My preparations were soon made, my bill paid, and my portmanteau packed; and as I collected my guide-books, umbrella, and walking-sticks, Demetri came with a hurried step along the passage to my room.
"Signor, it is time."
The voice in which the young Fanariote spoke was strangely husky, and his manner was odd and excited, as it seemed to me.
"One moment, Demetri," said I, as I buckled the strap around my rugs and greatcoat; "I must wish Mr. Forster good-bye. Do you know—"
"The milordo is not here. The milordo is gone—this very day," said Demetri abruptly. "His rooms are empty. Let us not lose time; the carriage is at the door."
All this was said in a very peculiar manner, bluntly, and almost rudely when compared with the bland gentleness of the man's ordinary demeanour. I set this disagreeable alteration down, however, to Demetri's vexation at the unexpected loss of an employer, who, if he needed no guidance to ruins and battle-fields, at any rate was liberal in remunerating his dragoman for the trouble of fetching him opera-tickets, prime cigars, and saddle-horses; and my only wonder was that Mr. Forster should have gone away so suddenly, and without a word of adieu to his former tutor.
The carriage of which Demetri had spoken was in effect at the door—an open calessina, lined with cotton velvet of some bright colour, and drawn by two raw-boned horses tawdrily decked out with scarlet tassels, peacocks' feathers, and brass ornaments that rattled at every movement, while the driver had very much the air of a theatrical brigand. This picturesque equipage at any rate possessed the merit of speed; for the lean horses, severely lashed, went at a surprisingly rapid pace down the darkling road—bordered here and there by wine-shops, whence came the sounds of brawling voices or the twanging music of the Greek guitar—that leads to the Piræus. I found the quay more crowded than I had supposed probable at that hour, and in the roads lay a steamer, a blue light burning on board of her, from the funnel of which gushed a fiery crown of ruddy flame, while the groaning and hissing that reached my ears plainly indicated that the packet had got up steam and was on the eve of starting.
"Yes, that is the French boat; your boat, Mr. Green," said Demetri, in a voice that was strangely harsh and hollow.
Meanwhile my eye was attracted by the lights burning on board another vessel at some distance from the shore. Demetri noticed in which direction I was gazing.
"That is nothing," he cried, with a petulance for which I could see no reason. "That is a strange ship, an Austrian corvette. Make haste and jump in, or you will be left behind."
And he almost dragged me to the landing-place, where a small boat, manned by four rowers in the loose, dark Hydriote dress, lay waiting. My luggage was already embarked, and I found myself thrust down into the stern sheets, while the coxswain cast off the moorings, and, scrambling over the thwarts, took his seat and grasped the tiller-ropes. All was so rapidly done as to reduce my part in the transaction to a passive one. Somebody cried out something which I took to be Romaic for "all right," and instantly the rowers bent to their oars. I looked round for Demetri, but he was already lost in the crowd; and this odd behaviour of the young dragoman's seemed to me the more remarkable because I still was in his debt a scudo or two, and he had given me no chance of slipping a parting "gratification" into his hand. For such reflections I had not much leisure, for the boat was already bounding over the purple waves, and in a very short space of time we were alongside the steamer. Scrambling on board as nimbly as I could, while my baggage was handed up to the gangway, I was at once received by a smiling officer, with a gold band encircling his naval cap, and who welcomed me with a lengthy speech in Italian, five-sixths of which were lost to me, but which was evidently most politely intended, and which ended by an offer to conduct me to my cabin at once. I was agreeably surprised to find that the cabin allotted to me was on deck, generally the most pleasant part of a Mediterranean steamer, and that I was to be its sole occupant, whereas, having taken but a single passage, I had of course expected to have a mere berth, and no more, for my money. I could not forbear mentioning this to the ship's officer who was my guide; but he merely bowed and smirked.
"Whoever else may be ill-off for elbow-room," he said—"and I must admit that we are somewhat scant of space sometimes,—we are proud to accommodate you, Signor Inglese!" And with an apology for leaving me he returned to his duty.
What he had said was very flattering, if not quite intelligible; and at any rate, if the Rev. Plantagenet Green was highly appreciated as an English traveller on board the French mail-packet, it was not for that individual to find fault with what, after all, was perhaps a graceful compliment to my cloth.
I must confess myself, like most men who have led a studious and stay-at-home life, a wretched sailor, and a sea-voyage has always been to me a period of unmitigated suffering and helplessness. There was a brisk breeze blowing, and the sea, if not rough, was sufficiently disturbed for the motion of the vessel to suggest to me that a recumbent attitude would be preferable to any other, and that until I acquired my "sea-legs" by familiarity with the normal rolling and pitching of my temporary home, I had better keep strictly to my cabin. I lay down accordingly on my little bed, and listened to the trampling on deck, the hoarse word of command, and the roar and splash of the paddle-wheels as they went round, while the engines worked vigorously, making every plank in the ship vibrate to their quick stroke. We were fairly under way, and on our eastward voyage.
The next eight-and-forty hours were spent in such black, blank, hopeless misery as none but the sea-sick can endure or appreciate. The wind Euroclydon, which from my classical recollections I knew to have always been potent in those waters, was loosed from the halls of Æolus and as mischievous as of old. The breeze had freshened to a gale; and the once-smiling Mediterranean, rough and furious, tossed our vessel about like a cork or a feather, and the timbers creaked and groaned, and the engine laboured, as we fought our way through the surges. I was very ill, wretched, and weak; and I believe I should have been rather gratified than otherwise if it had been suddenly announced to me that the ship was sinking; when, in the course of the third night, the wind lulled, and the waves abated their anger with that quickness of transition from rage to calm, or again from gentleness to wild wrath, that characterises the wayward moods of that land-locked southern sea. The heaving and tossing ceased, and I was able to stand and gaze from my cabin-window at the quiet beauty of the unclouded night, with all its million golden lamps dotting the violet sky; while shooting-stars, of a brilliancy unknown to us in England, fell flashing again and again across the dark horizon.
"My troubles are over now," said I to myself, as I lay down contentedly to rest. "I shall go on deck to-morrow, and shall, for the first time, be able to hear Sip talk of breakfast without feeling envious and disgusted."
This Sip, whose monosyllabic name was a corruption of Scipio, was the black under-steward of the steamer, and was the only person on board, as he told me with a becoming pride, who spoke English. He was an American negro, who had been brought out from Baltimore in some merchant clipper trading with the Levant, and had either deserted or been sent adrift. He was a good-humoured creature, as these sea-going sons of Ham often are, and he had been kind and attentive to me while I was helpless in my berth. On the morning succeeding the calm he came into my cabin with an air of unusual self-importance.
"Massa better? Dat right! Gentlemen in chief cabin send him compliments, and will pay massa visit directly soon."
And before I could conjecture the precise purport of this communication, there was a tap at the painted door, and in came two tall men, one of whom, to my surprise, was in the blue military uniform of the Greek army; while the capote worn by the other falling back showed the red flannel shirt of a Garibaldian, braced by a black belt, from which protruded something very suspiciously like the brass-mounted butt of a revolver.
"Buon giorno, noble comrade," said the gentleman in the red shirt, speaking a mixture of bad French and Italian. "We should not have intruded but that we heard you were suffering no longer, and that, now we are almost in sight of land, we had better all consult together. If you will join us at breakfast, the council of war can—"
"The council of war!" exclaimed I, with an expression of amazement that I daresay was ludicrous enough, and staring first at one and then at the other of my visitors. They stared at me in return. The hero of the red shirt was again the spokesman.
"Signor," he said, with a ceremonious stiffness very unlike his recent hearty frankness of manner, "I crave pardon of your excellency for presuming to act as my own introducer. I am Giuseppe Minetti, of Brescia, late an officer on General Garibaldi's personal staff, and once brigade-major of the Piccolini, as we called our Sicilian recruits in the old anti-Bourbon war. This is Captain Draganopoli, of the Greek army, on furlough. We command on board, and the Cretan Committee—"
"Do you wish to drive me mad!" I said distractedly; "or is this a practical joke? What on earth can be the connection between my affairs and those of the Cretan Committee? Some mistake—"
But here in my turn I was interrupted.
"Do you mean to tell us, sir," cried the Greek captain in a voice that actually trembled with passion, "do you mean to tell us that you have changed your mind, or that your promises were made only to mislead us? Have a care, Englishman! This venture is no child's-play. Our lives and honour are at stake; and as for your paltry gold, if you have dared to deceive us, I swear by the Panagia to—"
"Land, ho!" sang out Scipio in English; and the cry was taken up, in Greek, Italian, and Maltese, by several voices on deck.
"Land!" said the Garibaldian, smiling; "then Signor Forster will, I hope, see cause to put an end to this useless mystification, since it is Crete that lies before us, and we must conquer or die!"
Then, with many words and much gesticulation, the whole imbroglio was by slow degrees unravelled. To my horror, I discovered that, instead of being a passenger in the French mail-steamer of the Imperial Messageries, bound for Smyrna, as I had in my innocence believed, I was on board the famous blockade-runner, Panhellenion, on her sixth trip to Crete with volunteers to aid the insurrectionary forces. But this was by no means the whole of the complication. It appeared that I had been received on board the steamer in the full belief that I was no other than Mr. Forster, and that I was thought to have come provided with a very considerable sum in specie, the use of which my former pupil had promised to the revolutionary agents at Athens, and which was destined to purchase provisions for some three hundred armed men, Greeks under Captain Draganopoli, and Italian sympathisers led by Giuseppe Minetti, who were on board the vessel, and who were about to do battle with the Turks for the liberation of Crete.
It must not be supposed that this result was arrived at by dint of quiet and patient inquiry. On the contrary, the excitable southern natures of the two chiefs of this hare-brained enterprise were all on fire with indignation and excitement; and I, the involuntary cause of all this fury, had to endure much undeserved reproach, and what I am certain were a plentiful store of opprobrious epithets, but which, being couched in modern Greek and the Lombard patois, were fortunately unintelligible. In vain I protested my own blamelessness in the matter; I could get no hearing; and before long the Garibaldian and the Greek flung out of the room, and I heard their outlandish oaths and vehement adjurations die away in the distance. In about half-an-hour Sip came in with a very frightened expression on his black face, and rolling his opal eyes fearfully.
"Gentlemen yonder," he said, pointing with one dusky finger towards the great cabin, the skylight of which was just visible as the door of mine stood ajar, "gentlemen say, shall we shoot Massa Britisher, cause he betray us? Some say, toss him overboard; some tink massa not to blame. Dey berry angry. Sip come back soon, tell massa more."
And he went, leaving me to reflections and anticipations of anything but an agreeable character.
Luckily, after a stormy debate, the council of war was kind enough to take a merciful view of my undesigned traversing of their projects. The Italian officer, who was the more civilised of the two leaders, came back to assure me that I ran no immediate risk of personal injury, although, as a friend, he must advise me to keep out of the way of the volunteers, some of whom were hot-headed lads, who might possibly be inclined to treat me as a Jonah, since unfavourable reports concerning my errand were prevalent among the crew and the fighting men.
"My own voice," said the Italian, as he rolled up and lighted a cigarette, "was decidedly against hanging you."
"You are very kind, I am sure," I answered, with a ghastly effort at being light-hearted and jocular.
The Garibaldian went on: "And I am happy to say that my arguments prevailed. I don't believe, Mr. Green, that you have played any part more culpable than that of a dupe. That rascal Demetri, the dragoman of the Hôtel des Quatre Vents, who was no doubt aware that Mr. Forster, with a large sum in gold, was to embark and share our expedition, has evidently deceived us all. He has probably caused Mr. Forster to go on board the French steamer, while you took possession of his cabin here, and our rich English ally and his treasure are thus lost to us. It was a bold and crafty stratagem, and—"
"But to what end? Why should Demetri, a respectable young man, and really a sincere patriot, play so senseless a trick?" interrupted I; "it is incomprehensible, and—"
"He is a Turkish spy!" coolly returned the red-shirted Italian, tossing his half-burnt cigarette into the sea.
The whole mystery was now made clear to me.
The committee which, from its head-quarters at Athens, directs and assists the efforts of the Porte's Rayah subjects to overthrow the Mahometan rule had for some weeks past seen cause to entertain suspicions that Demetri was playing a double part. The young interpreter, whose knowledge of Constantinople and of the Ottoman bureaucracy had enabled him to render occasional services to the Hellenic cause, was thought, and not groundlessly, to be in the pay of the Turkish Cabinet. This view of the Fanariote's artful and dangerous character was confirmed by the adroit and daring feat which he had at length performed in sending Mr. Forster and his gold by the French boat, while he had shipped me, an unworthy substitute, in his place. Minetti informed me that the steamer, the red lights of which I had observed, was the Messageries packet, and that she was to sail at the same hour as the Panhellenion. The scheme of the treacherous dragoman was simple in its execution as well as wily in design, and doubtless Mr. Forster had proved as easy a dupe as myself, and had gone on board the French packet without a single misgiving.
But what was now to be done? We were rapidly nearing the iron-bound coast of Crete, and the peaks of the great Sphakiote range of mountains, crested by early snow, frowned upon us as we approached the precipitous cliffs that seemed to bar all hope of landing. Far at sea, too, gleamed certain specks of white that a poet's fancy might have pictured as albatrosses resting on the waves, but which Minetti, who like many Garibaldians was half a sailor, and had been mate and super-cargo of merchantmen in both hemispheres, gruffly pronounced to be "Turkish frigates of the blockading squadron." Here was a pleasant state of things! Not only was I carried out of my way; not only was I off the Cretan coast when I ought to have been preparing to go ashore at Smyrna,—but there was an imminent risk of being sunk, blown up, burned, or otherwise disposed of, since there is no limited liability in insurrections, and a Turkish cannon-ball could not be expected to respect the neutrality of the junior tutor of St. Crosier's. We landed, however, without accident. I say "we," for, in spite of my entreaties, I was forced to disembark with the rest; and the only indulgence that I could obtain was the permission to remain among the Sphakiote villagers, at whose hamlet the volunteers halted for their first bivouac, instead of following the fortunes of that desperate band through the almost incredible hardships and perils of a campaign, among stony mountains, where hunger and fatigue did more to thin their ranks than was effected by the shot and steel of the enemy.
As for me, after nearly three miserable months of semi-starvation spent among unwashed barbarians, in a village little better than a Hottentot kraal, where I had to part with my last dollar for black bread and sour wine, vended at prices that would have commanded the choicest dainties of a Palais Royal restaurant; after being baited by hungry fleas, to whose palates a succulent Englishman was a novelty; and after many alarms from the Turkish Bashi-Bazouks, who were reported to be massacring man, woman, and child, throughout the disturbed districts,—I was at last taken off the island by an English man-of-war, landed penniless in Athens, and was sent home in the character of a "distressed British subject" by her Majesty's Consul. I was hardly surprised to hear that the young scoundrel to whom I owed my present position had decamped to Stamboul without beat of drum, not caring to trust himself to the tender mercies of the fierce Athenian mob. I reached England on the first day of February, and made the best of my way to my patron's town house. He was out; but there was a note for me: "Lord Kilmallock's compliments to the Rev. Plantagenet Green, and regrets that, in consequence of Mr. Green's failure to keep his appointment," ∓c. &c. In fact the canonry had been given to another applicant; and I am still a poor and struggling man, with my way to make in the world, if ever a second chance should present itself of repairing the consequences of that awkward mistake.