"Yes, their faces are certainly no letter of recommendation. There is some truth, undoubtedly, in the last clause of the old proverb: 'Greek wines steal all heads, Greek women steal all hearts, and Greek men steal everything.'"
But at this moment our attention is drawn to a crowd a little way ahead, the centre of attraction being apparently a good-looking young Greek from the Morea, whose jaunty little crimson cap with its hanging tassel sets off very tastefully his dark, handsome face and the glossy black curls which surround it. He is leaning against the pillar of a gateway in an attitude of unstudied grace that would charm an Italian painter, and singing, to the accompaniment of his little three-stringed guitar, a lively Greek song, of which we only come up in time to catch the last verse:
Look in mine eyes, lady fair:
There your own image you'll see.
Open my heart and look there:
There too your image will be.
The coppers that chink into the singer's extended hat show how fully his efforts are appreciated; but at this moment P——, with the free-and-easy command of a true John Bull, elbows his way through the throng, and calls out: "Holloa, Johnny! we only got the fag-end of that song. Tip us another, and here's five piastres for you" (about twenty-five cents).
The musician seems to understand him, and with a slight preliminary flourish on his instrument pours forth, in a voice as clear and rippling as the carol of a bird, a song which may be thus translated:
Men fret, men toil, men pinch and pare,
Make life itself a scramble,
While I, without a grief or care,
Where'er it lists me ramble.
'Neath cloudless sun or clouded moon,
By market-cross or ferry,
I chant my lay, I play my tune.
And all who hear are merry.
When summer's sun unclouded shines,
And mountain-shadows linger,
I watch them dance among the vines
As quicker moves my finger;
And so they sport till day is o'er,
And black-robed Night advances,
And where the maidens tripped before,
The lovely moonbeam dances.
When 'neath the rush of winter's rain
The dripping forests welter,
The shepherd opes his door amain,
And gives me food and shelter.
I touch my chords, I trill my lay,
The firelight glances o'er us,
And wind and rain, in stormy play,
Join in with lusty chorus.
'Mid rustling leaves, 'neath open sky,
I live like lark or swallow:
There's not a bird more free to fly
Than I am free to follow.
And when grim Death his bow shall bend,
My mortal course suspending,
Oh may my life, howe'er it end,
Have music in its ending!
Such music, supplemented by such a voice, strongly tempts us to remain and hear more; but our impatient guide urges us onward, and in another minute we stand before the dark, low-browed archway of the old church which we have come to see.