partly tunnel; and here (just like them), one comes across the Capuchins, who have built themselves in somehow, amidst this tangle of houses.1

The convent is thoroughly Franciscan in style, and can accommodate six friars; a picturesque little garden wherein grow fruit and flowers, overlooks the harbour, and by some wonderful miracle it is so placed that it is not overlooked by inquisitive neighbours. The church, which is over two hundred and fifty years old, is dedicated to St. John the Baptist, and the interior is warm and devotional. Here, because I had not heard the notes of an organ for a long time, we spent a delightful half-hour, singing various litanies and hymns; my two friars, who today constitute the entire community of this house, were possessed of rich and powerful voices, and with diapason out we made, I think, a joyous song such as would have cheered the soul of the Poverello himself.

Leaving this little paradise and continuing the descent of the little hill one presently comes across the French hospital managed by the Sisters of Charity, an exceedingly well-kept establishment, with a charming view of the Aegean. Here I spent half-an-hour chatting with the patients, who, as usual in these parts, comprised several nationalities and belonged to various religions.

One afternoon I drove out to a distant seaside village known as Della Grazia, where the wealthy merchants of Syra have built themselves fine villas. But there is poverty too at Della Grazia, as I found when I visited the little Catholic school attached to the church; for here a single poverty-stricken Sister presided over a still poorer group of little pupils, in a school-room that would have made a London Board-school Inspector's flesh creep. Still I would not hesitate to prefer that simple country school-room, with its floor of mother-earth, to the best appointed boardschool of London with all its comfortable ugliness.

On the return journey we stopped at a wayside shrine of great antiquity. This was the Church of Our Lady of Mercy, where there is a miraculous picture, held in reverence not only by Catholics but also by the Greeks, who frequently

1 The earliest document in the Archives of this foundation is dated 1632; the protection of the French King Louis XIII is accorded in 1638. The 'Grey Cardinal,' the famous Père Joseph, is responsible for this as for several other Capuchin foundations in the Near East.

2 There is still extant the document in which the Bishop hands over the church to the Capuchins in 1659.

make offerings toward its upkeep. The original ancient chapel now forms the sacristy; the present church was built to accommodate the increasing number of pilgrims who flocked to this holy place. The picture itself is very ancient and is of Byzantine art-a fact which causes many of the Orthodox' to claim that the picture should really belong to them. Curiously enough I stumbled across a case a few weeks later, where the shoe was on the other foot. In visiting a rather pretentious Greek church in one of the northern islands of the Aegean, I noticed that the somewhat flowery decorations suggested an Italian hand; particularly the face of the Christ painted on one of the crosses was distinctly suggestive of Italian art. I slyly drew the attention of the Pappas' who was showing me round to this fact, and he acknowledged with a smile that it was indeed so: the Greek artist responsible had studied in Italy, and the inevitable result was that Latin faces were put into Orthodox frames.

In general the eikons found in Greek churches represent an attempt to preserve the main features of Byzantine art, but I fear not very successfully. In the Metropolitan Church at Athens may be seen eikons and frescoes that call forth astonishment rather than admiration, so loudly is the paint applied. Still here and there are to be seen ancient eikons that bear the stamp of true Byzantine art; these have been lucky to escape the hand of the pillager and the cheque-book of the collector.

Coming back in the evening from Della Grazia and approaching the port, our homely little 'Ford' struck a rock, or at least a nail, and we had to limp ignominously home. As I was sailing that night, I paid a last visit to the parish-priest of Hermopolis, at the Church of the Annunciation, where I had celebrated Mass during the the week. M. Provilenghios is a fine-looking man of some sixty-years, who had studied at Rome, and had even once made a voyage as far as Marseilles, but most of his life has been spent in zealous contact with his people. He has a beautiful little church and a charming house beside it, where one can look over the water to the distant islands north and east. Life in Syra is somewhat simple, and I envied M. Provilenghios his flock, his church, his house and that outlook: his flock, because at least it is always there around him, whilst mine is a wandering flock and I have sometimes to travel two and three hundred miles

to reach my sheep; his church, because my own is a portable one and is a source of anxiety to me from day to day; his house goes with his church, whilst with me the one thing certain is that six days out of seven I shall have to shoulder my church, leave my cabin and beg from strangers a little space for Holy Things. Lastly, and will you excuse my envious thoughts, after the day's work is done, it is pleasant to watch the declining sun playing upon the hillside of the islands yonder, to dream of the days of old, and to forget for a while that Europe is a pool of blood, and that men's hearts are a prey to strife. Here, at least, is peace.

A NAVAL CHAPLAIN.

SOME IMPRESSIONS OF FRANCE

BY D. T. BARRY, M.D. D.Sc.

I-FIRST THOUGHTS

FRANCE now occupies a prominent place in the minds of all speculative thinkers; it is uppermost alike in the thoughts of those who desire to study the immediate effects of the great world upheaval of the past five years, and of those who attempt to foresee its remote developments. The disruption of the old life has been of too recent date to regard present conditions as a safe guide to ultimate events; the course and extent of future growth are not adumbrated by actual present-day efforts at rehabilitation, which are of necessity crude and incoordinate, but to some extent we have an indication in these of the direction to be given to affairs in general. War has effected an enormous change in all countries touched by it directly, and a change of lesser degree in those indirectly affected: in none of those in the former category, perhaps, is the transition to a settled existence so facile, the adaptive powers of the people so ready, as in France; but here, too, as in other places, incoordination and irregularity are obvious in many phases of the national life.

It is fallacious to base one's estimate of the actual state of the country as a whole on the narrow experience of life in the capital; and the present writer has as yet, in present conditions, been able to visit but few places outside this restricted sphere; but on the whole, Parisian events provide a more reliable criterion of future development than provincial conditions, and, ignoring ulterior possibilities altogether, provide a subject of absorbing interest for study. In the zone of actual destruction by implements of war the writer has found an opportunity of visiting a limited region, embracing Soissons, Crouy, Chemin-des-Dames (a small portion), an area just short of Laon and St. Gobain, as well as St. Quentin and the district around it. Even this limited experience gives an important indication of the conditions under which the

inhabitants exist and of the possibilities of restoration to normal life in a given time.

To begin, the S.S. 'Normannia' sails into the calm waters of the harbour at Le Havre at seven o'clock, on a most delightful morning; all the passengers crowding round the decks are eager for a first glance at the land of romance. France is bathed in sunshine; the faces ashore, all wreathed in smiles, seem to offer hearty welcome to the visitors on board the arriving boat. No further formality is required for landing than the handing up of tickets; all tests have been passed and bona fides established in London and Southampton. Not the least disagreeable of these is that passed at the hands of a new species of official, the pocketsearcher. This is a man of sinister mien who asks for the production of all tobacco, matches, playing cards in one's pocket-to place one's cards on the table-and when it is done he proceeds leisurely to examine the 'cards' and the pockets. With a permettez-moi, which comes after the action of searching is begun, he lays hands on one and passes quickly from one region to another superficially: it is a case of a 'fellow feeling' which is not calculated to make us wondrous kind.

We disembark and find that there is no dearth of porters to look after luggage. One of the tribe is forthwith engaged and told to put the things in the train quickly. With a superior air and a confidential tone, he replies: 'Mais la guerre est a vingt-cinq minutes d'ici.' 'What?' he is asked. He repeats, La guerre est. . . .' The fellow surely means to be insolent; he must be spoken to severely. 'Tenez, bouf. At this point in the colloquy some one a little more familiar with the Havre patois intervenes, and explains that the man means to say la gare! And so it is the station is at the other side of the town, and the first disagreeable transaction is effected when it is agreed to pay ten francs to the cocher for the trip across to it. At the station there is a little more extortion on the part of the servant who secures places in the train; what one franc effected in that way dans le temps now requires three or four.

With the disagreeable incidents are mixed up some pleasing observations: the prices asked for fruit, milk, chocolate are quite moderate; newspapers, magazines, etc., are cheaper than at home, and we send off a telegram for sixpence. It is a detail that this wired message reaches Paris after we arrive there by train.