the cloisters from the church, we passed through a group of elderly
monks, cheerfully smoking and gossiping, who rose and made the most
courtly salutation. Here we saw the printing-presses, some of English
make, and then the books that these presses turn out. Two of these I
bought--the little pamphlet from which I have already quoted and a
collection of Armenian proverbs translated into English.

The garden is spreading and very inviting, and no sooner were we outside
the door than Father Hatzouni returned to some horticultural pursuit.
The walks are long and shady and the lagoon is lovely from every point;
and Venice is at once within a few minutes and as remote as a star.

In the garden is an enclosure for cows and poultry, and the little
burial-ground where the good Mechitarists are laid to rest when their
placid life is done. Among them is the famous poet of the community, the
Reverend Father Gonidas Pakraduni, who translated into Armenian both the
_Iliad_ and _Paradise Lost_, as well as writing epics of his own. The
_Paradise Lost_ is dedicated to Queen Victoria. Some of the brothers
have lived to a very great age, and Mr. Howells in his delightful
account of a visit to this island tells of one, George Karabagiak, who
survived until he was 108 and died in September, 1863. Life, it seems,
can be too long; for having an illness in the preceding August, from
which he recovered, the centenarian remarked sadly to one of his
friends, "I fear that God has abandoned me and I shall live." Being
asked how he was, when his end was really imminent, he replied "Well,"
and died.

As we came away we saw over the wall of the playground the heads of a
few black-haired boys, embryo priests; but they wore an air of gravity
beyond their years. The future perhaps bears on them not lightly. They