take our stand on the northern ramparts of Nicosia, and look across the plain at the range of mountains opposite us. Here and there the eye will be at once arrested by some solitary peak, rising higher and more rugged than its neighbors; and on the highest of these we shall detect, if the day is clear, an odd white line that falters across the ways. This line is the outer rampart of Buffavento-a castle perched in mid air like a bird's nest, guarded by precipices except at a single point, and accessible only by hours of arduous climbing. East and west of it on two other peaks are two other castles, whose situation is nearly as extraordinary; and these three castles were renowned and ancient when they surrendered, for they could not be taken, to Richard Cœur de Lion. Buffavento, though the one most widely visible, has been left with less of its structure. The one which will best repay our attention is St. Hilarion, which is the most perfect, the largest, and also the most romantic in aspect.

Romantic indeed is the epithet which the sight of it first suggests to one. It looks less like a reality than a dream of Gustave Doré's. The isolated eminence on which it stands, itself like a huge tower, projects northwards from the main chain of the mountains. From the ground connecting it with these, it rises some hundreds of feet, and its northern face is a precipice of two thousand. Far down at its foot lies a belt of fertile country; and then, after a mile or two, comes the blue sheet of the sea, reaching away to the mountains of Asia Minor. On this eminence the castle is built at various levels. It crowns the summit, it projects on to rocky promontories; and its courts and guard rooms descend over the side which is less precipitous. Low down on this side we enter. We pass under an arch and through a cluster of ruinous towers, and find ourselves in an enclosure, strewn with rocks and masonry, which seems to slope upward at an angle of 45°. Beetling over us is a perpendicular crag, toward which, on our left, a wall with a series of turrets climbs up-in outline like a section of a flight of stairs. To the right, half way between the entrance and the summit, on a shoulder of rock

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is an irregular pile of buildings, with its walls clinging to the ledges of the sheer northern precipice. It is pierced with windows and loopholes, and is plainly of considerable extent. Towards this instinctively one at once makes one's way but it is a steep scramble to reach it, and one is also continually arrested by remains which at first were hidden by heather bushes and by a chaos of boulders. Close to the entrance one sees in the springing turf two black openings, perhaps two feet in diameter; and on peering into these one finds he is on the roof of a series of vaulted water tanks, of which one at least is perfect. The original red paint still tinges its cemented sides. Its shape is a perfect hexagon; and its graceful groining gives it the appearance of an oratory. Inwardly other and larger openings show themselves, some of which lead into subterranean vaults, some into chambers cut in the rock, partly constructed out of masonry; and one of these last, by the holes in the walls for rings, is seen to have been originally a long stable for camels. At length we reach a number of lofty walls—the remains of halls and passages, built against the perpendicular cliff: and picking our way along the passage that still exists, we reach the cluster of buildings a moment ago alluded to. Here we find ourselves in a labyrinth of vaulted chambers and vestibules-among them chapel, with fragments of fresco on the walls, and a priest's room on either side of the chancel; also a loggia with large circular arches, which the opposite mountains fill like a living picture. After much climbing and descending of broken stairs, we emerge from these buildings on the farther side of the grotto, and find ourselves standing on a small grassy platform, with air below and with towering crags above. This small platform was apparently once a garden and on every ledge of the dizzy rocks adjoining it are walls, windows, and even entire chambers. Of these last there is a suite of six, still almost perfect, except for the wooden floor, which has fallen in, leaving traces round the walls of the mosaic that originally covered it. Standing on the roof of these, which is flat and overgrown with grass, and looking up at the

a

heights above, one almost feels that they are pushing him from his narrow resting place. Nowhere can be seen any means of scaling them, except a shelving track, which seems hardly practicable for goats. Up this track, however, with hands and knees, and frequent clutching at twigs and projecting rocks, it is found possible to scramble; and arrived at the top, a fresh surprise awaits us, for there we pass through an archway into a large quadrangle, with a wall of rocks on two sides, and on the two others buildings-the buildings facing us being the ruins of a marble hall, seventy feet in length, with other chambers over it. The two ends of the hall still have the roof intact; and a flight of external steps with characteristic mouldings leads to the level of the floor above. There the ruin is complete: but deep mullioned windows here and there fret the sky with their tracery; and the stone seats in them are as perfect as in the days of the forgotten queens who once looked from them down at the world below. We have not, however, arrived at the top yet. Seated in one of these windows, we can see through a doorway near it the daylight glimmering on the remains of ascending steps; and looking up we realize that still there are heights above us, to which the steps lead, and that these are covered with yet loftier walls and watch-towers. The spectacle, as I saw it, was one to remain long in the memory. Looking from the sill of one of these aërial windows, far below me, like a submerged world, lay fields and olive gardens and glimmering villages and, jutting into the sea, the white town of Kerynia. Human voices and the tinkling of sheep bells rose up from the depths with a startling clearness, and far off, like a line of gigantic clouds, beyond the sea were the mountains of Asia Minor. And around me were the fantastic remains of strength, luxury, and dominance, which carried the imagination back into the dimmest recesses of history, till it peopled the courts and halls and towers with the silk-robed forms of women, the flashing of knightly armor, and a coming and going of dusky slaves and camels. Close at my feet lay the bleached bones of a kid, and overhead a vulture was wheeling in slow circles.

Such is a Cyprian castle, of the ideally medieval type. Let us now look at another, in which the Western model has been completely changed by the climate and the conditions of the East. Aga Napa, as this building is now called, is at present used as a farm, and for some centuries it was a monastery; but it was originally the country house of one of the Frankish nobles, whose coat of arms remains untouched over the entrance. Though the upper rooms except two have disappeared, most of the lower part is in very good preservation, and as it may be considered a typical specimen of its kind, it throws considerable light on the life and civilization that produced it. It stands about a mile from the sea, in a wide, open country, and on one side of it is a cluster of magnificent trees, which are probably the remains of a wood that surrounded it. In plan it somewhat resembles the houses of Nicosia. It is built round a quadrangle; and, except where the upper walls remain, externally the windows are small-some of them mere loopholes. Above they were larger, as one that is left shows; and this is enriched by peculiar mouldings and pilasters. Of the quadrangle one side is occupied by a chapel, and one by stables. The two others are surrounded by deep cloisters, with high pointed arches of the kind already alluded to; and one of them faces a series of vaulted rooms. In the middle is a marble fountain, ornamented with carved festoons of flowers, which is approached by steps and covered by a slim cupola.

It is a significant fact, however, that though the domestic architecture of the West was thus transformed by the conditions of life in Cyprus, the religious architecture suffered but little change, except such as came from a larger and more liquid sunshine, and from the crisper shadows that emphasized its exotic arches. We must add also the change in scenery and surroundings, which, not a part of the architecture itself, yet curiously influences the effect produced by it on the observer. The finest example of this is the Abbey of Bella Pais-of Happy, or Lovely, Peace. This, like St. Hilarion, is situated on the northern range, facing the coast of

Asia Minor; hid, instead of being perched aloft on a rugged pinnacle, it lies on the lower slopes, where the banks are fledged with vegetation, where the mule-paths wander under the shade of branching olives or dark-leaved carob trees or slanting pine woods, and the deep gullies are almost hidden with leaves. One sees as one travels toward it, on either side of one, terraced vineyards, or fertile patches of plough land, or under the olives emerald grass flickering. The abbey itself stands on the brink of a steep rock, and overlooks a hollow filled with acacias and oleanders, among which, sharply distinguishable, are poplars and groups of date palms. Behind it a village rises, unusually clear and near, the white houses shining among a crowd of slender cypresses; cottage gardens, with vines and wells, creep up to its walls; and high overhead silvery crags look down on it, whose sides are dotted with dark trees and shrubs, like multitudes of green sheep. The main body of it was built round a cloistered quadrangle, and was arranged on pillars. On one side was the abbot's lodging; opposite to that was the kitchen, the chapter house, and above, the monks' dormitories; and the two other sides were respectively entirely occupied by the church and by the refectory. The abbot's lodging has wholly disappeared; but the church and the refectory are as perfect as on the day when they were built, though a row of upper chambers has since filled each. But perhaps the most striking and fascinating feature of the church is the cloisters. They remind one of those of Magdalen College, Oxford, except that through their tracery one looks at such a different scene-at oranges, lemons, cypresses, and the silvery summits of the mountains, and the sky, the like of which has never been seen in England. The Abbey of Happy Peace -it is indeed named appropriately. This magnificent pile was built during the thirteenth century: and its present condition is due to the barbarity of the Turks during the period of their conquest.

From this picture let us turn to what may be called its counterpart-a monastery of the Greeks. A good specimen is to be found not far from Nicosia; and

it presents a curious contrast to what we have just been considering. It stands in a fertile part of the great central plain, with a grove of trees close to it and a wooded village in its neighborhood. In appearance externally it is certainly picturesque, but suggests to our minds a farm rather than a monastery. The church alone has any architectural pretension, and this is bold and forbidding in its antique simplicity: while there is little but mud and whitewash. Now the life of the place is oddly in keeping with its aspect. Brown monks with long dangling hair, and faces kindly but altogether illiterate, hang about in desultory groups, ready to flock round a stranger with a curiosity that would be annoying if it were not so childlike. Mixed with these, too, in the most fraternal and sisterly way, are wrinkled old crones and farm laborers, all apparently a part of the establishment; one of which last will perhaps put a new life into the scene by suddenly leading from the stable a troup of unsuspected camels. The impression of a farm grows on one; the whole scene is redolent of the furrows. But we have not understood its full character until we enter the church. Then the religious element for the first time steals into the mind, in a scent of stale incense; and one of the monks who is sure to enter with us will softly accompany us to the screen at the east end. This, as in most Greek churches, is a mass of florid gilding, panelled with grotesque and gaudy pictures of saints. One panel amongst the rest will instantly catch the eye, which not only seems to be in itself peculiar, but is also signalized by tapers burning before it. On nearer inspection we shall see that this is not a picture at all but a relief in beaten gold of the Madonna and Child, studded with jewels and almost half concealed by a curtain of antique tapestry. We have here one of the most sacred relics of the East— an object of pilgrimage to the Orthodox from every quarter. For behind the gold-too precious to be exposed itself

is the picture of the Virgin Mother painted by St. Luke the Evangelist, and brought to Cyprus from Byzantium 900 years ago. As to its authenticity we