towns were thronged with nobles as well as burghers; the narrow streets were bright with the movement of gorgeous retinues; the markets were filled with rare and costly delicacies, with choice wines, with ice in the heats of summer, and with fish and game from a distance; in the merchants' shops were jewels, unrivalled in the world. Castles assumed the aspect of country houses, embowered in verdure and watered by long drawn aqueducts; or even where, perched on some lonely mountain pinnacles, they still retained the air and the reality of fortresses, the courts were filled with a pomp of slaves and camels, and silken hangings flickered at the carved windows. And what is Cyprus now? What traces are left in it of all this storied past? And how does it justify the old renown of its beauty?

I will speak of the last point first-of the character and disposition of its scenery. Oblong in shape, the island may be said, roughly speaking, to consist of an immense plain which runs lengthways through the middle of it and is bounded on the north by a continuous range of mountains, and on the southwest by an entire mountainous district. In former ages mountain and plain alike were covered with luxuriant vegetation. Forests of pines and processions of spire-like cypresses climbed literally into the clouds; while the level roads below wandered through one great garden, by lines of poplars, olive groves, and clusters of date palms. This is no fancy picture what has been is at once

:

evident. But the Cyprus of to-day is greatly changed from this. For centuries and centuries the axe has been at work upon its timber; and its forests

Street Scene in Nicosia.

in most places have now utterly disappeared. Not only is this an incalculable loss in itself; there has in consequence of it been a great diminution in the rainfall. The extraordinary qualities still possessed by the soil, far and wide, are imprisoned in it simply for want of water; and the lower lands like the mountains have been comparatively treeless.

But though the ruthless improvidence

of man has accomplished this metamorphosis, nature here has refused to suffer disfigurement. She has been stripped of one set of beauties only to reveal others, and even of the old beauties she has by no means lost all. There are districts even now where the forests still survive; there are valleys tremulous with acacia trees, and gorges thronged with oleanders. Whenever on the plain a stream of water is constant, the ground surrounding it shows as a blot of the deepest green; the dwellings sure to be near it are all embowered in branches; and a towering sycamore will be seen standing over it serene like a sentinel. But there, it is true, are exceptions; let me speak of the landscape in general. The mountains denuded of their foliage have been clothed by the Isun and air with a living garment of constantly changing colors, which sometimes hides their loss, sometimes more than atones for it. The plains, in spite of a certain general bareness, are checkered with tracts of asphodel, and in February glitter with wildflowers. But here, as on the mountains, it is the air which is the great enchantress. It is fresh as the moving sea; it is clear as crystal; in a special and emphatic sense it must be described as liquid. It brightens and softens what it touches, just as water does; rocks and plants seen in it are like the rocks and plants in an aquari

um.

land seems to mix with them and melt into something sea-like. I have felt the charm of the air in many places, but nowhere a charm equal to what it holds in Cyprus.

A general idea of the aspect of the barer scenery may be easily conveyed to anyone who is acquainted with the Scotch Highlands. Standing on one of the elevations which are to be found in the plains about Nicosia, and looking round one at the wide encircling panorama, one might for a moment fancy one's self in parts of Sutherland or Inverness-shire. But then, such a fancy would inevitably, as it was in my own case, be succeeded by a sense of difference. It would be seen that everything was

In the distances, mirage and bars of violet mist are constantly floating in it, low over the level land, so that the

on a more ex

tended scale, that the crests of the mountains were more various and fantastic, the levels immeasurably vaster, and the tints more gorgeous. The long ranges would reach away into the distance in undulating lines, ultramarine and rose color, while here and there a summit would glitter like frosted silver. And then another peculiar feature would be noticed-enormous isolated rocks, with steep sides and entirely flat tops, rising far off out of the dead level, like so many huge fortresses: and these, if the day were declining, would seem to be half transparent, as if, with all their scars, they were cut out of solid amethyst, and might almost pass for the beauties of the New Jerusalem. Meanwhile the breeze would be breathing with a suavity alien to northern regions;

ness would be felt to pervade everything. Farther strange impressions also would not be wanting. Over the ground below, which had just been suggesting a grouse moor, gillies, shooting lodges, kilts, whiskey, and bagpipes, there would suddenly be discovered moving a long caravan of camels-in other quarters

parties of white veiled women, and travelling groups curiously like the Flight into Egypt-so many pictures that might have stepped out of a family Bible. A new sentiment is thus borne into the landscape, and the consciousness of the East mixes itself with a consciousness of the South.

It is true that in making these last remarks I am straying from the consideration of mere natural scenery, and beginning to enter the region of human interests. But indeed the scenery itself, as it affects the mind, cannot be understood apart from these; and what I have just said about air and plain and mountain will acquire a clearer meaning when I have given a few pictures of the life that is connected with them to-day, and the traces of the life that has been.

Speaking, however, of what has been, it will be well to say at once, that of classical and preclassical times though innumerable traces remain, very few are above ground or affect the aspect of the surroundings. For the traveller, as distinct from the student, Phoenicia has left next to nothing; and what Greece and Rome have left consists principally of traditions and memories, and certain most singular customs and beliefs among the people. The case is very different when we come to a period a little later.

mountain crowned by a monastery that was founded by the mother of Constantine, and whose chapel every year is still crowded with pilgrims. Indeed from the times of the Empress Helena onwards, every age has left buildings, which yet exist, behind it and some of these not only recall the past, but are also parts of the actual life of the present.

The completest illustration of this is to be found in the city of Nicosia, which of all towns in the world is perhaps the most composite in its character, and surprises the mind with the strangest medley of impressions. We just now imagined ourselves to be standing not far from it, surveying the plain in which it lies, and the mountains which stretch along its horizons. From the same sort of position let us now look at it itself. What we see is a girdle of walls, enclosing flat roofed houses, above which rise a forest of palms and minarets, with here and there a dome like a white soapbubble; and in the middle of all there is one enormous structure which looms over all the others, as if only knee deep in them. The spectacle is entirely oriental; it has often been compared to Damascus : indeed the picture of Damascus in Baedeker's Guide to Syria might almost do duty as a picture of Nicosia.

But when we come to examine this alien looking place more nearly, facts reveal themselves of the most incongruous kind. The walls that enclose it were built by the Republic of Venice; the great structure in the middle of it is a mediæval Gothic cathedral; and the palace, dating from the days of Byzantine dukes, altered and occupied by a line of crusading kings, and eventually submitting to receive the lion of St. Mark above its gateway, contained till yesterday the offices of the Turkish government. These particular points would be apprehended in an afternoon's ramble; but there are others, even more curious, of which one only grows aware gradually, and after days of exploration. They are not the less interesting because they come upon him one by one.

In shape the town is very nearly a circle, something over a mile in diameter; and its plan is as intricate a maze as an old French garden. The houses, which rarely have more than two stories, are mostly built of wood, resting on stone foundations; and their prevailing color is a monotonous dusty brown. Except in the quarter of the bazaars, there are

no shops or places of business; and everywhere else in the streets there is an almost cloistral quiet. Near the ground hardly any windows are visible; and the blind wall is only broken by doors at considerable intervals. Above, there is more variety. There are windows there in plenty, many of them projecting, hanging over the head of the passenger, and protected with quaint lattice work; while the roofs on either side, which project still farther, sometimes nearly touch each other. In many places, however, there are no houses at all-nothing but reaches of wall, from ten to fifteen feet in height.

The description thus far may not sound very attractive; but these streets in reality are full of fascination. They have innumerable turns and windings, which amuse and perplex the wanderer; and for days, even for weeks, they seem to him to be themselves innumerable. Wheeled vehicles rarely pass along them, nor are they ever crowded in any way; but isolated groups and figures glide to and fro continually. An old Turk, with a turban and flowing robe, goes slowly by, seemingly in deep meditation; a

brisk Armenian passes him, in a fez and a black frock coat; while a bronzed shepherd, with a shaggy capote upon his shoulders, casting a wild, half civilized glance at both of them, brings a breath with him of the open plains and mountains. These disappear down side alleys or into doorways, and their place is taken by a new set of apparitions-a Greek priest surrounded by a group of neophytes, a slow camel with its attendant, a small cavalcade of mules, meeting or succeeding one another at leisurely intervals; while more frequent than any of these are the muffled forms of women, some a ghostly white, some purple and scarlet, showing above their veils glimpses of their dark eyes. Watching all this, one is constantly reminded of the Arabian Nights. Nor are other things wanting to stimulate the imagi

bazaars, which are a labyrinth in themselves. The change is singular. The throng and the bustle in which one finds one's self is as remarkable as the quiet one has left: and the elements of the scene are even more picturesque and various. The buildings are of one story only. The streets are nearly all of them covered, some by arches, some by battered awnings, some by a trellis-work of vines; and the light that filters in from the luminous sky above is subdued and brown, like an interior of Teniers or Van Ostade. Certain of the shops are little more than booths; but most of them are of stone with roofs of pointed vaulting, so that they look like a series of chapels with an end wall wanting. Other oriental bazaars-that of Cairo, for instance, or even Beyrout, are incomparably richer and more interesting