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may each have our own opinion: but for 900 years, at all events, this treasure has a plausible history. It is kept usually not here, but in the parent monastery of Cicco, far among the mountains; and it was brought down, last year, during a drought, to its present station among the plains in order to procure rain for the neighborhood, which was specially in need of it.

Such is a Cyprian monastery, which is in many ways typical. Outside is a farm-yard, swimming with puddles; inside, hidden with gold and jewels, is one of the chief objects of the faith and the devotion of millions. But in Cyprus that faith and devotion have peculiar characteristics of their own. Though the Hellenic temples have fallen, and the earth covers their columns, the Hellenic religion still lives to-day-persistent through all these ages-in the religion of the Christian peasantry. The birth of Venus from the foam of the Cyprian sea is celebrated annually at Larnaka, under a thin disguise, by a marine festival, half fair and half regatta; and one favorite name of the Madonna is Aphroditíssa.

But space will not permit me to linger over the Greeks. I can introduce the reader to but one scene more, and that scene will be essentially Western. To me it was the most impressive and interesting thing in Cyprus. I am speaking of the city of Famagosta. Famagosta to most people is hardly so much as a name to very few is it more. Those whose attention has been turned to these localities are aware that it was a place of importance from the days of the Ptolemies and of Augustus; that it subsequently rose to a fresh importance under the Lusignans; that under the Genoese it was one of the richest trading towns in the world; that the Venetians recognized and treated it as the key to Cyprus; that against it was directed the first Turkish attack, and that here the Turks encountered the most desperate and heroic resistance.

It is situated on the sea, on the eastern coast of the island, at one end of the great central plain. The harbor, which is now nearly filled up, was in former days capacious; and by the ex

penditure of no exorbitant sum it might be made capable of holding the entire Channel fleet. To the north and west it is surrounded by sand-swept wolds, which are bounded far off by a line of purple mountains. To the south the ground is more fertile. Approached from the land, it looks less like a town than like one enormous fort. Here and there at a distance we see a tower or an elevated battery; but the long lines of the walls, brown and melancholy, only just peer over the slope that swells toward them. It is from the south side that one enters. My first visit was in the morning, and the day was soft and blue, with a beauty passing even that of the Riviera. The road ran through a deep-green meadow of asphodel, across which was moving a bevy of Turkish women, who, in their white yashmaks, shone like a bed of lilies. Before me the asphodel rose toward the length of the fortification, while the road lost itself in a cutting under a dark cluster of towers. Arrived at this cutting, one realized the character of the place better. One saw that it was surrounded by an enormous moat or trench cut in the solid rock; and that the walls were really some fifty feet in height. The road crossed the ditch on a causeway of nine arches and entered a gate, before which a drawbridge once descended. What struck me most, at first, was the wonderful preservation of the masonry. The stains of the weather left a frown upon everything; but there was no decay or crumbling. On entering, this impression deepened. Dark, unbroken arches were sharp and solid over my head, and the passage ended with an open vaulted space that seemed like a baron's hall. Close behind it, yawning and shadowy in the sunshine, was another open vault similar to it, facing the interior, and hollowed in the thickness of the ramparts; and in the shadow of this were other vaulted openings leading away into black, mysterious passages.

And what of the town? I had heard that it was ruinous, but I was quite unprepared for the peculiar aspect of its desolation. Immediately facing one on entering, was a dilapidated Turkish café, built against the fortifications; to the left was a roofless Turkish hut,

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and to the right a lane of cottages wandered away fortuitously; but through a wide gap was visible an open space beyond, and making my way to this, the whole of Famagosta burst upon me. was in the midst of a desert. The great walls ran on unbroken on one side of me, but on the other were grassy expanses littered with huge heaps of stones and crowded with ancient churches. Many of them stood within fifty yards of one another, and my eye and my arithmetic were quite bewildered by their number. I made my way toward one, across a small field, climbing over a rude enclosure and stumbling now and again over some broken pieces of carving. I entered the door, and found myself in the hollow gloom of those vaulted isles, with sand and refuse strewing the uneven floor and everywhere on the walls around me the remains of gorgeous frescoes. I mounted the ramparts to obtain a wider view; and a wide desolation was before me with more churches standing in it.

The Turkish cottages, with their flat mud roofs, and one or two larger buildings used for government purposes hardly broke the impression of perfect solitude. The few figures to be seen and the few sounds to be heard only added to it. Here and there a shepherd was sitting under a palm tree; a group of children played on a ruined wall; sometimes a voice called; sometimes a sheep-bell tinkled; and ever and again over the heaps that once were palaces, faint yet crisp, came the long plash of the sea. As I examined the scene, three objects struck me specially. One was a cluster of low towers, at an angle of the town toward the sea. Another was a ruined chancel, whose tall, slender arches showed like a skeleton in the sky. The third was a church larger than all the others. I at once recognized it as the cathedral, which I knew existed there. I made my way toward this last through a network of sunken lanes, along which were built some of the poor habitations I have mentioned: and my first near view of it was through the wicket of an old woman's garden. In many ways it is like the cathedral of Lichfield, only more florid in carving; the stone is of a peculiar tawny color, something like

a lion's skin; and instead of its two towers it is spiked now with a tall minaret. I entered the garden. This, over half its little area, was rank with luxuriant green-stuff: but half was bare, for the simple reason that half was occupied by the stones of ruined mediæval buildings. In one corner of it was a dilapidated Persian water-wheel, for a wall on one side it had the ruin of a small church; the path at my feet was strewn with fragments of pottery; and above all these, itself no longer Christian, the forlorn cathedral lifted its English outlines. Before me, visibly and materially, were the very images that were in the mind of the preacher when he wrote the verses by which so many best remember him. The pitcher was broken at the fountain, and the wheel was broken at the cistern, and everything in the stillness seemed to be saying of man that he was gone to his long home. The sentiment was in the air; it breathed like "an unheard melody;" it was drawn out and repeated on all sides as if by some soundless orchestra.

I could not, however, remain there listening to this indefinitely; so presently made my way to the ruined chancel, through whose arches the brilliant sea was glimmering, and under whose shadow some Turkish children played. Thence across a perfect waste I passed to the solemn-looking castle, which stood like a bastion at the northeast angle of the walls, and projected partly into the sea. There was nothing beautiful in its appearance, but it was impressive for its antiquity, its preservation, and its forbidding strength. Externally there was not a single window-nothing but blind walls and huge bulging towers. But, for all that, it was in many ways interesting. Over the gate, let into the ancient stonework, was the lion of the Venetian Republic; and mounting to the battlements by an external stair, I saw, standing in the sea and approached by a neck of masonry, a circular building which is named Torre del Moro. There tradition says were the quarters of a Venetian governor, Christoforo Moro; and he was none other than the prototype of Othello. This made the remote and rarely visited walls at once seem

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A JAR OF ROSE-LEAVES.

By Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

Life has jars of costlier price
Framed to hold our memories.
There we treasure baby smiles,
Boyish exploits, girlish wiles,
All that made our childish days
Sweeter than these trodden ways
Where the Fates our fortunes spin.
Memory, toss the rose-leaves in!

which I have not even glanced. I have written-if I may so express myself— as an impressionist, not as an antiquarian. The scenes and impressions I have described are few; but so far as they go they are typical: and if anyone finds a charm in remote and neglected beauty, and cares to bend over the face of the past rather than dissect its body, I hope I may have conveyed to him some idea of the charm which is still to be found in this famous but neglected island.

5.

3.

What the jar holds, that shall stay;
Time steals all the rest away.
Cast in love's first stolen word,
Bliss when uttered, bliss when heard;
Maiden's looks of shy surprise;
Glances from a hero's eyes;
Palms we risked our souls to win;
Memory, fling the rose-leaves in!

4.

Now more sombre and more slow
Let the incantation grow!
Cast in shreds of rapture brief,
Subtle links 'twixt hope and grief;
Vagrant fancy's dangerous toys;
Covert dreams, narcotic joys
Flavored with the taste of sin;
Memory, pour the rose-leaves in!

Quit that borderland of pain!
Cast in thoughts of nobler vein,
Magic gifts of human breath,
Mysteries of birth and death.
What if all this web of change
But prepare for scenes more strange;
If to die be to begin?
Memory, heap the rose-leaves in!

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MEMORIES OF SOME CONTEMPORARIES.

By Hugh McCulloch.

I

IN April, 1833, I left my New England home to make my start in life in the West. Fifty-four years are a long time to look forward to, but a short time to look back upon. Crowded as these years have been, in the United States, with events of surpassing interest and importance, they seem too wonderful to be real. What advances have they recorded in the extent of our cultivated lands, in manufactures, in mining, in facilities of social and commercial intercourse! What changes have they witnessed in our domestic institutions, in the character and in the political and religious sentiment of the people!

churches of England, and was regarded by many as not being inferior to the finest of them in symmetry and grace. The long row of dwelling-houses in what was then upper New York, Lafayette Place, had just been completed. They were the show houses of the city; I was taken to them that I might see what elegant, commodious, and expensive houses the New Yorkers were building. My visit to New York was very agreeable-made so chiefly by the kindness of Mr. Emerson, who, less distinguished than his brother Ralph Waldo, possessed many of his admirable qualities, with simple manners and ripe scholarship. From New York I went by steamboat to Amboy, by railroad to Bordentown, and from Bordentown to Philadelphia by steamboat. The only thing in this part of my journey that I especially recollect was the beauty of the Delaware. The journey from Philadelphia to Baltimore was made by railroad and steamboat. spent but a single day in either city, but long enough to see the charming parks in the former, and the monuments-the finest I had ever seen-in the latter. From Baltimore I went by rail to Frederick, in Maryland, and thence by stage-coach, two days and one night, over the Cumberland (National) road to Wheeling.

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A reference to events that have left a lasting impression upon my mind, and to a few of the persons whom I have known in the course of a long life, and to others whom I did not know personally but who were conspicuous in my early days, may be interesting, and perhaps of some value as the recollections of a contemporary of many notable men in a critical period of our history.

I started for the great and (compared with what it is now) unsettled West, by railroad from Boston to Providence, thence by steamboat to New York, The Ohio was in good boating condiwhere I remained a couple of days to tion, and the journey down the river see something of what was rapidly be- was charming. It then deserved the coming the great commercial city of the reputation it had, of being one of the Union. Here I renewed my acquaint- most beautiful rivers in the world. ance with William Emerson, brother of There was nothing but a few straggling Ralph Waldo, who, some years before, villages to mar its original beauty. had been my teacher in Kennebunk. The magnificent forest through which With him I went to the Battery, then in it flowed had been quite untouched by its old-time in the neighborhood the great destroyer, the woodman's axe. of which residences of the The banks of the river had not then ; the City Hall, been stripped of their beauty, as they changed, and have been since, by the destruction of has not the magnificent trees that covered them, ilding and disfigured by the inroads which, in had consequence thereof, the waters have Vren made upon them. For miles upon

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familiar, and peopled them with wellknown figures; and I pleased myself by fancying that, in a sombre Gothic hall, with heavy pillars and vaulting of enormous thickness, I had discovered the place where Iago made the " cannakin clink."

And here I am compelled to end. Those who are acquainted with the writings and the discoveries of Di Cesnola will of course be aware that there are aspects of Cyprus and its history on

1.

2.

A JAR OF ROSE-LEAVES.

MYRIAD roses fade unheeded

Yet no note of grief is needed;
When the ruder breezes tear them,
Sung or songless, we can spare them.
But the choicest petals are
Shrined in some deep orient jar,
Rich without and sweet within,
Where we cast the rose-leaves in.

By Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

which I have not even glanced. I have written-if I may so express myself— as an impressionist, not as an antiquarian. The scenes and impressions I have described are few; but so far as they go they are typical: and if anyone finds a charm in remote and neglected beauty, and cares to bend over the face of the past rather than dissect its body, I hope I may have conveyed to him some idea of the charm which is still to be found in this famous but neglected island.

Life has jars of costlier price
Framed to hold our memories.
There we treasure baby smiles,
Boyish exploits, girlish wiles,
All that made our childish days
Sweeter than these trodden ways
Where the Fates our fortunes spin.
Memory, toss the rose-leaves in!

5.

3.

What the jar holds, that shall stay;
Time steals all the rest away.
Cast in love's first stolen word,
Bliss when uttered, bliss when heard;
Maiden's looks of shy surprise;
Glances from a hero's eyes;
Palms we risked our souls to win;
Memory, fling the rose-leaves in !

4.

Now more sombre and more slow
Let the incantation grow!
Cast in shreds of rapture brief,
Subtle links 'twixt hope and grief;
Vagrant fancy's dangerous toys;
Covert dreams, narcotic joys
Flavored with the taste of sin;
Memory, pour the rose-leaves in!

Quit that borderland of pain!
Cast in thoughts of nobler vein,
Magic gifts of human breath,
Mysteries of birth and death.
What if all this web of change
But prepare for scenes more strange;
If to die be to begin?
Memory, heap the rose-leaves in!

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