sent me an ἀϕοριστικόν, or mandate, full of the heartiest imprecations I ever read, which operated briskly, producing two live witnesses in the course of twelve hours. How like the manners of the Middle Ages. A Greek would rather commit any kind of atrocity than incur the terrors of excommunication. His conscience is made of the same stuff as that of a 12th century baron or a modern Italian brigand.
The other day, the Archbishop officiated at the baptism of Mr. Werry's child, according to the Greek rite. The ceremony, which took place in my predecessor's house, was very long, and some of the audience evidently thought it very tedious. The Archbishop was attired in roljes, of which the gorgeous fashion has evidently been preserved unchanged from the Middle Ages, and of which the embroidery, stiff with gold, seemed like a reflection from the bygone splendour of the old Byzantine empire. He had six attendant priests, with picturesque long beards. Everybody present held in their hand an attenuated wax taper, four feet long, and lighted, though the ceremony took place in the day. The child, after a great number of prayers had been read, was stripped, anointed with oil, and totally immersed in water, to its great discomposure and the amusement of the spectators, who consisted of all the corps vice-consulaire of Mytilene, male and female, and who talked and laughed irreverently the whole time. The font was made of very common- looking tin. After the immersion, the bambino was marked all over with a metallic instrument intended
