In an excursion in the villages the other day, I heard a sermon almost worthy of old Latimer, from my friend Nikandros, the Greek priest, whom I described in my account of the visit to Archangelo. He preached on the day of the feast, and rebuked his audience for too much revelling. He said, "You come to these feasts, you eat, drink, dance, and what not besides, and then in the morning you come into the church, and think, by the offering of one little candle, to make your peace with God. Do you think God cares for your candles?" Then he began to talk about death and another world, till, by his energetic language, he had created a visible sensation among his audience, and moved some of them to tears. Then he paused, and rubbed his hands with that inward feeling of satisfaction which all extempore orators experience when they begin to perceive that the discourse tells. Then he turned off to the subject of politics, and told them that these were times in which every one must look after his own personal safety, and that of those belonging to him, like a man (the Rhodiotes are noted cowards); and for the women, he said, let them not wear any gold or silver ornaments about their persons, lest they should excite the cupidity of robbers. When the discourse was over, I asked my knowing muleteer, Panga, whether all the Greek priests in the villages preached as good sermons as that. "No," he said, "there is but one Nikandros among priests, as there is but one Panga among muleteers."
It is not, however, with impunity that Nikandros indulges in such freedom of speech; he is detested
