would not suffer at all by the evils of war. "As long as we can sell our sponges," said these cannyislanders, "we don't care whether the Sultan makes war or not." The answer was a discreet one, but I doubt its sincerity. Just at this moment they would be afraid to show too much Hellenic sympathy, with an English ship of war anchored in their bay.
XX.
Rhodes, Noveber 3, 1853.
Three large Turkish steam frigates passed down a few days ago for troops from Beirout. This portends mischief: I hope it is not the forerunner of a revolution in Constantinople. As I write, the thunder of Zeus Atabyrios is rolling over my head; it is just 400 years since the last of the Palæologi fell, nobly fighting for the remnant of an empire in the breach at Constantinople; we have had a comet with a long tail all the summer, and my superstitious mind is picturing to itself a great massacre of the Christians, or some such catastrophe, at Constantinople. We are entering on a strange crisis now. Though our little island is as tranquil and as radiant in the autumn sun as ever, we begin to be infected with the general war mania. In the harbour are three Ottoman ships of war, which I suppose are intended to take care of us in time of need. The Turkish authorities here have been for some time past in a fussy, restless state of mind which betokens vague alarms. Their efforts to put the
