CHAPTER V: A DAY IN ALEXANDRIA
In the meanwhile, Philammon, with his hosts, the Goths, had been slipping down the stream. Passing, one after another, world-old cities now dwindled to decaying towns, and numberless canal-mouths, now fast falling into ruin with the fields to which they ensured fertility, under the pressure of Roman extortion and misrule, they had entered one evening the mouth of the great canal of Alexandria, slid easily all night across the star-bespangled shadows of Lake Mareotis, and found themselves, when the next morning dawned, among the countless masts and noisy quays of the greatest seaport in the world. The motley crowd of foreigners, the hubbub of all dialects from the Crimea to Cadiz, the vast piles of merchandise, and heaps of wheat, lying unsheltered in that rainless air, the huge bulk of the corn-ships lading for Rome, whose tall sides rose story over story, like floating palaces, above the buildings of some inner dock—these sights, and a hundred more, made the young monk think that the world did not look at first sight a thing to be despised. In front of heaps of fruit, fresh from the market-boats, black groups of glossy negro slaves were basking and laughing on the quay, looking anxiously and coquettishly round in hopes of a purchaser; they evidently did not think the change from desert toil to city luxuries a change for the worse. Philammon turned away his eyes from beholding vanity; but only to meet fresh vanity wheresoever they fell. He felt crushed by the multitude of new objects, stunned by the din around; and scarcely recollected himself enough to seize the first opportunity of escaping from his dangerous companions.
‘Holloa!’ roared Smid the armourer, as he scrambled on to the steps of the slip; ‘you are not going to run away without bidding us good-bye?’
‘Stop with me, boy!’ said old Wulf. ‘I saved you; and you are my man.’
Philammon turned and hesitated.
‘I am a monk, and God’s man.’
‘You can be that anywhere. I will make you a warrior.’
‘The weapons of my warfare are not of flesh and blood, but prayer and fasting,’ answered poor Philammon, who felt already that he should have ten times more need of the said weapons in Alexandria than ever he had had in the desert.... ‘Let me go! I am not made for your life! I thank you, bless you! I will pray for you, sir! but let me go!’
‘Curse the craven hound!’ roared half a dozen voices. ‘Why did you not let us have our will with him, Prince Wulf? You might have expected such gratitude from a monk.’
‘He owes me my share of the sport,’ quoth Smid. ‘And here it is!’ And a hatchet, thrown with practised aim, whistled right for Philammon’s head—he had just time to swerve, and the weapon struck and snapped against the granite wall behind.
‘Well saved!’ said Wulf coolly, while the sailors and market-women above yelled murder, and the custom-house officers, and other constables and catchpolls of the harbour, rushed to the place—and retired again quietly at the thunder of the Amal from the boat’s stern—
‘Never mind, my good follows! we’re only Goths; and on a visit to the prefect, too.’
‘Only Goths, my donkey-riding friends!’ echoed Smid, and at that ominous name the whole posse comitatus tried to look unconcerned, and found suddenly that their presence was absolutely required in an opposite direction.
‘Let him go,’ said Wulf, as he stalked up the steps. ‘Let the boy go. I never set my heart on any man yet,’ he growled to himself in an under voice, ‘but what he disappointed me—and I must not expect more from this fellow. Come, men, ashore, and get drunk!’
Philammon, of course, now that he had leave to go, longed to stay—at all events, he must go back and thank his hosts. He turned unwillingly to do so, as hastily as he could, and found Pelagia and her gigantic lover just entering a palanquin. With downcast eyes he approached the beautiful basilisk, and stammered out some commonplace; and she, full of smiles, turned to him at once.
‘Tell us more about yourself before we part. You speak such beautiful Greek—true Athenian. It is quite delightful to hear one’s own accent again. Were you ever at Athens?’
‘When I was a child; I recollect—that is, I think—’
‘What?’ asked Pelagia eagerly.
‘A great house in Athens—and a great battle there—and coming to Egypt in a ship.’
‘Heavens!’ said Pelagia, and paused.... ‘How strange! Girls, who said he was like me?’
‘I’m sure we meant no harm, if we did say it in a joke,’ pouted one of the attendants.
‘Like me!—you must come and see us. I have something to say to you .... You must!’
Philammon misinterpreted the intense interest of her tone, and if he did not shrink back, gave some involuntary gesture of reluctance. Pelagia laughed aloud.
‘Don’t be vain enough to suspect, foolish boy, but come! Do you think that I have nothing to talk about but nonsense? Come and see me. It may be better for you. I live in—’ and she named a fashionable street, which Philammon, though he inwardly vowed not to accept the invitation, somehow could not help remembering.
‘Do leave the wild man, and come,’ growled the Amal from within the palanquin. ‘You are not going to turn nun, I hope?’
‘Not while the first man I ever met in the world stays in it,’ answered Pelagia, as she skipped into the palanquin, taking care to show the most lovely white heel and ankle, and, like the Parthian, send a random arrow as she retreated. But the dart was lost on Philammon, who had been already hustled away by the bevy of laughing attendants, amid baskets, dressing-cases, and bird-cages, and was fain to make his escape into the Babel round, and inquire his way to the patriarch’s house.
‘Patriarch’s house?’ answered the man whom he first addressed, a little lean, swarthy fellow, with merry black eyes, who, with a basket of fruit at his feet, was sunning himself on a baulk of timber, meditatively chewing the papyrus-cane, and examining the strangers with a look of absurd sagacity. ‘I know it; without a doubt I know it; all Alexandria has good reason to know it. Are you a monk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then ask your way of the monks; you won’t go far without finding one.’
‘But I do not even know the right direction; what is your grudge against monks, my good man?’
‘Look here, my youth; you seem too ingenuous for a monk. Don’t flatter yourself that it will last. If you can wear the sheepskin, and haunt the churches here for a month, without learning to lie, and slander, and clap, and hoot, and perhaps play your part in a sedition—and—murder satyric drama—why, you are a better man than I take you for. I, sir, am a Greek and a philosopher; though the whirlpool of matter may have, and indeed has, involved my ethereal spark in the body of a porter. Therefore, youth,’ continued the little man, starting up upon his baulk like an excited monkey, and stretching out one oratorio paw, ‘I bear a treble hatred to the monkish tribe. First, as a man and a husband;.... for as for the smiles of beauty, or otherwise,—such as I have, I have; and the monks, if they had their wicked will, would leave neither men nor women in the world. Sir, they would exterminate the human race in a single generation, by a voluntary suicide! Secondly, as a porter; for if all men turned monks, nobody would be idle, and the profession of portering would be annihilated. Thirdly, sir, as a philosopher; for as the false coin is odious to the true, so is the irrational and animal asceticism of the monk, to the logical and methodic self-restraint of one who, like your humblest of philosophers, aspires to a life according to the pure reason.’
‘And pray,’ asked Philammon, half laughing, ‘who has been your tutor in philosophy?’
‘The fountain of classic wisdom, Hypatia herself. As the ancient sage—the name is unimportant to a monk—pumped water nightly that he might study by day, so I, the guardian of cloaks and parasols, at the sacred doors of her lecture-room, imbibe celestial knowledge. From my youth I felt in me a soul above the matter-entangled herd. She revealed to me the glorious fact, that I am a spark of Divinity itself. A fallen star, I am, sir!’ continued he, pensively, stroking his lean stomach—‘a fallen star!—fallen, if the dignity of philosophy will allow of the simile, among the hogs of the lower world—indeed, even into the hog-bucket itself. Well, after all, I will show you the way to the Archbishop’s. There is a philosophic pleasure in opening one’s treasures to the modest young. Perhaps you will assist me by carrying this basket of fruit?’ And the little man jumped up, put his basket on Philammon’s head, and trotted off up a neighbouring street.
Philammon followed, half contemptuous, half wondering at what this philosophy might be, which could feed the self-conceit of anything so abject as his ragged little apish guide; but the novel roar and whirl of the street, the perpetual stream of busy faces, the line of curricles, palanquins, laden asses, camels, elephants, which met and passed him, and squeezed him up steps and into doorways, as they threaded their way through the great Moon-gate into the ample street beyond, drove everything from his mind but wondering curiosity, and a vague, helpless dread of that great living wilderness, more terrible than any dead wilderness of sand which he had left behind. Already he longed for the repose, the silence of the Laura—for faces which knew him and smiled upon him; but it was too late to turn back ow. His guide held on for more than a mile up the great main street, crossed in the centre of the city, at right angles, by one equally magnificent, at each end of which, miles away, appeared, dim and distant over the heads of the living stream of passengers, the yellow sand-hills of the desert; while at the end of the vista in front of them gleamed the blue harbour, through a network of countless masts.
At last they reached the quay at the opposite end of the street; and there burst on Philammon’s astonished eyes a vast semicircle of blue sea, ringed with palaces and towers....He stopped involuntarily; and his little guide stopped also, and looked askance at the young monk, to watch the effect which that grand panorama should produce on him.
‘There!—Behold our works! Us Greeks!—us benighted heathens! Look at it and feel yourself what you are, a very small, conceited, ignorant young person, who fancies that your new religion gives you a right to despise every one else. Did Christians make all this? Did Christians build that Pharos there on the left horn—wonder of the world? Did Christians raise that mile-long mole which runs towards the land, with its two drawbridges, connecting the two ports? Did Christians build this esplanade, or this gate of the Sun above our heads? Or that Caesareum on our right here? Look at those obelisks before it!’ And he pointed upwards to those two world-famous ones, one of which still lies on its ancient site, as Cleopatra’s Needle. ‘Look up! look up, I say, and feel small—very small indeed! Did Christians raise them, or engrave them from base to point with the wisdom of the ancients? Did Christians build that Museum next to it, or design its statues and its frescoes—now, alas! re-echoing no more to the hummings of the Attic bee? Did they pile up out of the waves that palace beyond it, or that Exchange? or fill that Temple of Neptune with breathing brass and blushing marble? Did they build that Timonium on the point, where Antony, worsted at Actium, forgot his shame in Cleopatra’s arms? Did they quarry out that island of Antirrhodus into a nest of docks, or cover those waters with the sails of every nation under heaven? Speak! Thou son of bats and moles—thou six feet of sand—thou mummy out of the cliff caverns! Can monks do works like these?’
‘Other men have laboured, and we have entered into their labours,’ answered Philammon, trying to seem as unconcerned as he could. He was, indeed, too utterly astonished to be angry at anything. The overwhelming vastness, multiplicity, and magnificence of the whole scene; the range of buildings, such as mother earth never, perhaps, carried on her lap before or since, the extraordinary variety of form-the pure Doric and Ionic of the earlier Ptolemies, the barbaric and confused gorgeousness of the later Roman, and here and there an imitation of the grand elephantine style of old Egypt, its gaudy colours relieving, while they deepened, the effect of its massive and simple outlines; the eternal repose of that great belt of stone contrasting with the restless ripple of the glittering harbour, and the busy sails which crowded out into the sea beyond, like white doves taking their flight into boundless space?—all dazzled, overpowered, saddened him.... This was the world.... Was it not beautiful?.... Must not the men who made all this have been—if not great.... yet.... he knew not what? Surely they had great souls and noble thoughts in them! Surely there was something godlike in being able to create such things! Not for themselves alone, too; but for a nation—for generations yet unborn.... And there was the sea.... and beyond it, nations of men innumerable .... His imagination was dizzy with thinking of them. Were they all doomed—lost?.... Had God no love for them?
At last, recovering himself, he recollected his errand, and again asked his way to the archbishop’s house.
‘This way, O youthful nonentity!’ answered the little man, leading the way round the great front of the Caesareum, at the foot of the obelisks.
Philammon’s eye fell on some new masonry in the pediment, ornamented with Christian symbols.
‘How? Is this a church?’
‘It is the Caesareum. It has become temporarily a church. The immortal gods have, for the time being, condescended to waive their rights; but it is the Caesareum, nevertheless. This way; down this street to the right. There,’ said he, pointing to a doorway in the side of the Museum, ‘is the last haunt of the Muses—the lecture-room of Hypatia, the school of my unworthiness. And here,’ stopping at the door of a splendid house on the opposite side of the street, ‘is the residence of that blest favourite of Athene—Neith, as the barbarians of Egypt would denominate the goddess—we men of Macedonia retain the time-honoured Grecian nomenclature.... You may put down your basket.’ And he knocked at the door, and delivering the fruit to a black porter, made a polite obeisance to Philammon, and seemed on the point of taking his departure.
‘But where is the archbishop’s house?’
‘Close to the Serapeium. You cannot miss the place: four hundred columns of marble, now ruined by Christian persecutors, stand on an eminence—’
‘But how far off?’
‘About three miles; near the gate of the Moon.’
‘Why, was not that the gate by which we entered the city on the other side?’
‘Exactly so; you will know your way back, having already traversed it.’
Philammon checked a decidedly carnal inclination to seize the little fellow by the throat, and knock his head against the wall, and contented himself by saying—
‘Then do you actually mean to say, you heathen villain, that you have taken me six or seven miles out of my road?’
‘Good words young man. If you do me harm, I call for help; we are close to the Jews’ quarter, and there are some thousands there who will swarm out like wasps on the chance of beating a monk to death. Yet that which I have done, I have done with a good purpose. First, politically, or according to practical wisdom—in order that you, not I, might carry the basket. Next, philosophically, or according to the intuitions of the pure reason—in order that you might, by beholding the magnificence of that great civilisation which your fellows wish to destroy, learn that you are an ass, and a tortoise, and a nonentity, and so beholding yourself to be nothing, may be moved to become something.’
And he moved off.
Philammon seized him by the collar of his ragged tunic, and held him in a gripe from which the little man, though he twisted like an eel could not escape.
‘Peaceably, if you will; if not, by main force. You shall go back with me, and show me every step of the way. It is a just penalty.’
‘The philosopher conquers circumstances by submitting to them. I go peaceably. Indeed, the base necessities of the hog-bucket side of existence compel me of themselves back to the Moon-gate, for another early fruit job.’
So they went back together.
Now why Philammon’s thoughts should have been running on the next new specimen of womankind to whom he had been introduced, though only in name, let psychologists tell, but certainly, after he had walked some half-mile in silence, he suddenly woke up, as out of many meditations, and asked—
‘But who is this Hypatia, of whom you talk so much?’
‘Who is Hypatia, rustic? The queen of Alexandria! In wit, Athene; Hera in majesty; in beauty, Aphrodite!’
‘And who are they?’ asked Philammon.
The porter stopped, surveyed him slowly from foot to head with an expression of boundless pity and contempt, and was in the act of walking off in the ecstasy of his disdain, when he was brought to suddenly by Philammon’s strong arm.
‘Ah!—I recollect. There is a compact.... Who is Athene? The goddess, giver of wisdom. Hera, spouse of Zeus, queen of the Celestials. Aphrodite, mother of love.... You are not expected to understand.’
Philammon did understand, however, so much as this, that Hypatia was a very unique and wonderful person in the mind of his little guide; and therefore asked the only further question by which he could as yet test any Alexandrian phenomenon—
‘And is she a friend of the patriarch?’
The porter opened his eyes very wide, put his middle finger in a careful and complicated fashion between his fore and third fingers, and extending it playfully towards Philammon, performed therewith certain mysterious signals, the effect whereof being totally lost on him, the little man stopped, took another look at Philammon’s stately figure, and answered—
‘Of the human race in general, my young friend. The philosopher must rise above the individual, to the contemplation of the universal.... Aha!-Here is something worth seeing, and the gates are open.’ And he stopped at the portal of a vast building.
‘Is this the patriarch’s house?’
‘The patriarch’s tastes are more plebeian. He lives, they say, in two dirty little rooms—knowing what is fit for him. The patriarch’s house? Its antipodes, my young friend—that is, if such beings have a cosmic existence, on which point Hypatia has her doubts. This is the temple of art and beauty; the Delphic tripod of poetic inspiration; the solace of the earthworn drudge; in a word, the theatre; which your patriarch, if he could, would convert to-morrow into a—but the philosopher must not revile. Ah! I see the prefect’s apparitors at the gate. He is making the polity, as we call it here; the dispositions; settling, in short, the bill of fare for the day, in compliance with the public palate. A facetious pantomime dances here on this day every week—admired by some, the Jews especially. To the more classic taste, many of his movements—his recoil, especially—are wanting in the true antique severity—might be called, perhaps, on the whole, indecent. Still the weary pilgrim must be amused. Let us step in and hear.’
But before Philammon could refuse, an uproar arose within, a rush outward of the mob, and inward of the prefect’s apparitors.
‘It is false!’ shouted many voices. ‘A Jewish calumny! The man is innocent!’
‘There is no more sedition in him than there is in me,’ roared a fat butcher, who looked as ready to fell a man as an ox. ‘He was always the first and the last to clap the holy patriarch at sermon.’
‘Dear tender soul,’ whimpered a woman; ‘and I said to him only this morning, why don’t you flog my boys, Master Hierax? how can you expect them to learn if they are not flogged? And he said, he never could abide the sight of a rod, it made his back tingle so.’
‘Which was plainly a prophecy!’
‘And proves him innocent; for how could he prophesy if he was not one of the holy ones?’
‘Monks, to the rescue! Hierax, a Christian, is taken and tortured in the theatre!’ thundered a wild hermit, his beard and hair streaming about his chest and shoulders.
‘Nitria! Nitria! For God and the mother of God, monks of Nitria! Down with the Jewish slanderers! Down with heathen tyrants!’—And the mob, reinforced as if by magic by hundreds from without, swept down the huge vaulted passage, carrying Philammon and the porter with them.
‘My friends,’ quoth the little man, trying to look philosophically calm, though he was fairly off his legs, and hanging between heaven and earth on the elbows of the bystanders, ‘whence this tumult?’
‘The Jews got up a cry that Hierax wanted to raise a riot. Curse them and their sabbath, they are always rioting on Saturdays about this dancer of theirs, instead of working like honest Christians!’
‘And rioting on Sunday instead. Ahem! sectarian differences, which the philosopher—
The rest of the sentence disappeared with the speaker, as a sudden opening of the mob let him drop, and buried him under innumerable legs.
Philammon, furious at the notion of persecution, maddened by the cries around him, found himself bursting fiercely through the crowd, till he reached the front ranks, where tall gates of open ironwork barred all farther progress, but left a full view of the tragedy which was enacting within, where the poor innocent wretch, suspended from a gibbet, writhed and shrieked at every stroke of the hide whips of his tormentors.
In vain Philammon and the monks around him knocked and beat at the gates; they were only answered by laughter and taunts from the apparitors within, curses on the turbulent mob of Alexandria, with its patriarch, clergy, saints, and churches, and promises to each and all outside, that their turn would come next; while the piteous screams grew fainter and more faint, and at last, with a convulsive shudder, motion and suffering ceased for ever in the poor mangled body.
‘They have killed him! Martyred him! Back to the archbishop! To the patriarch’s house: he will avenge us!’ And as the horrible news, and the watchword which followed it, passed outwards through the crowd, they wheeled round as one man, and poured through street after street towards Cyril’s house; while Philammon, beside himself with horror, rage, and pity, hurried onward with them.
A tumultuous hour, or more, was passed in the street before he could gain entrance; and then he was swept, along with the mob in which he had been fast wedged, through a dark low passage, and landed breathless in a quadrangle of mean and new buildings, overhung by the four hundred stately columns of the ruined Serapeium. The grass was already growing on the ruined capitals and architraves.... Little did even its destroyers dream then, that the day would come when one only of that four hundred would be left, as ‘Pompey’s Pillar,’ to show what the men of old could think and do.
Philammon at last escaped from the crowd, and putting the letter which he had carried in his bosom into the hands of one of the priests who was mixing with the mob, was beckoned by him into a corridor, and up a flight of stairs, and into a large, low, mean room, and there, by virtue of the world-wide freemasonry which Christianity had, for the first time on earth, established, found himself in five minutes awaiting the summons of the most powerful man south of the Mediterranean.
A curtain hung across the door of the inner chamber, through which Philammon could hear plainly the steps of some one walking up and down hurriedly and fiercely.
‘They will drive me to it!’ at last burst out a deep sonorous voice. ‘They will drive me to it.... Their blood be on their own head! It is not enough for them to blaspheme God and His church, to have the monopoly of all the cheating, fortune-telling, usury, sorcery, and coining of the city, but they must deliver my clergy into the hands of the tyrant?’
‘It was so even in the apostles’ time,’ suggested a softer but far more unpleasant voice.
‘Then it shall be so no longer! God has given me the power to stop them; and God do so to me, and more also, if I do not use that power. To-morrow I sweep out this Augean stable of villainy, and leave not a Jew to blaspheme and cheat in Alexandria.’
‘I am afraid such a judgment, however righteous, might offend his excellency.’
‘His excellency! His tyranny! Why does Orestes truckle to these circumcised, but because they lend money to him and to his creatures? He would keep up a den of fiends in Alexandria if they would do as much for him! And then to play them off against me and mine, to bring religion into contempt by setting the mob together by the ears, and to end with outrages like this! Seditious! Have they not cause enough? The sooner I remove one of their temptations the better: let the other tempter beware, lest his judgment be at hand!’
‘The prefect, your holiness?’ asked the other voice slily.
‘Who spoke of the prefect? Whosoever is a tyrant, and a murderer, and an oppressor of the poor, and a favourer of the philosophy which despises and enslaves the poor, should not he perish, though he be seven times a prefect?’
At this juncture Philammon, thinking perhaps that he had already heard too much, notified his presence by some slight noise, at which the secretary, as he seemed to be, hastily lifted the curtain, and somewhat sharply demanded his business. The names of Pambo and Arsenius, however, seemed to pacify him at once; and the trembling youth was ushered into the presence of him who in reality, though not in name, sat on the throne of the Pharaohs.
Not, indeed, in their outward pomp; the furniture of the chamber was but a grade above that of the artisan’s; the dress of the great man was coarse and simple; if personal vanity peeped out anywhere, it was in the careful arrangement of the bushy beard, and of the few curling locks which the tonsure had spared. But the height and majesty of his figure, the stern and massive beauty of his features, the flashing eye, curling lip, and projecting brow—all marked him as one born to command. As the youth entered, Cyril stopped short in his walk, and looking him through and through, with a glance which burnt upon his cheeks like fire, and made him all but wish the kindly earth would open and hide him, took the letters, read them, and then began—
‘Philammon. A Greek. You are said to have learned to obey. If so you have also learned to rule. Your father-abbot has transferred you to my tutelage. You are now to obey me.’
‘And I will.’
‘Well said. Go to that window, then, and leap into the court.’
Philammon walked to it, and opened it. The pavement was fully twenty feet below; but his business was to obey, and not take measurements. There was a flower in the vase upon the sill. He quietly removed it, and in an instant more would have leapt for life or death, when Cyril’s voice thundered ‘Stop!’
‘The lad will pass, my Peter. I shall not be afraid now for the secrets which he may have overheard.’
Peter smiled assent, looking all the while as if he thought it a great pity that the young man had not been allowed to put talebearing out of his own power by breaking his neck.
‘You wish to see the world. Perhaps you have seen something of it to-day.’
‘I saw the murder—’
‘Then you saw what you came hither to see; what the world is, and what justice and mercy it can deal out. You would not dislike to see God’s reprisals to man’s tyranny?.... Or to be a fellow-worker with God therein, if I judge rightly by your looks?’
‘I would avenge that man.’
‘Ah! my poor simple schoolmaster! And his fate is the portent of portents to you now! Stay awhile, till you have gone with Ezekiel into the inner chambers of the devil’s temple, and you will see worse things than these—women weeping for Thammuz; bemoaning the decay of an idolatry which they themselves disbelieve—That, too, is on the list of Hercules’ labour, Peter mine.’
At this moment a deacon entered.... ‘Your holiness, the rabbis of the accursed nation are below, at your summons. We brought them in through the back gate, for fear of—’
‘Right, right. An accident to them might have ruined us. I shall not forget you. Bring them up. Peter, take this youth, introduce him to the parabolani.... Who will be the best man for him to work under?’
‘The brother Theopompus is especially sober and gentle.’
Cyril shook his head laughingly.... ‘Go into the next room, my son .... No, Peter, put him under some fiery saint, some true Boanerges, who will talk him down, and work him to death, and show him the best and worst of everything. Cleitophon will be the man. Now then, let me see my engagements; five minutes for these Jews—Orestes did not choose to frighten them: let us see whether Cyril cannot; then an hour to look over the hospital accounts; an hour for the schools; a half-hour for the reserved cases of distress; and another half-hour for myself; and then divine service. See that the boy is there. Do bring in every one in their turn, Peter mine. So much time goes in hunting for this man and that man.... and life is too short for all that. Where are these Jews?’ and Cyril plunged into the latter half of his day’s work with that untiring energy, self-sacrifice, and method, which commanded for him, in spite of all suspicions of his violence, ambition, and intrigue, the loving awe and implicit obedience of several hundred thousand human beings.
So Philammon went out with the parabolani, a sort of organised guild of district visitors.... And in their company he saw that afternoon the dark side of that world, whereof the harbour-panorama had been the bright one. In squalid misery, filth, profligacy, ignorance, ferocity, discontent, neglected in body, house, and soul, by the civil authorities, proving their existence only in aimless and sanguinary riots, there they starved and rotted, heap on heap, the masses of the old Greek population, close to the great food-exporting harbour of the world. Among these, fiercely perhaps, and fanatically, but still among them and for them, laboured those district visitors night and day. And so Philammon toiled away with them, carrying food and clothing, helping sick to the hospital, and dead to the burial; cleaning out the infected houses—for the fever was all but perennial in those quarters—and comforting the dying with the good news of forgiveness from above; till the larger number had to return to evening service. He, however, was kept by his superior, watching at a sick-bedside, and it was late at night before he got home, and was reported to Peter the Reader as having acquitted himself like ‘a man of God,’ as, indeed, without the least thought of doing anything noble or self-sacrificing, he had truly done, being a monk. And so he threw himself on a truckle-bed, in one of the many cells which opened off a long corridor, and fell fast asleep in a minute.