ons; but I am obliged to confess that, without going to
Russia or Corfu, I have encountered within the last dozen years
individuals not a few whose flashing eyes and crimson cheeks, when they
spoke of a mental attitude in such matters which differed from their
own, made me realize with a thrill that if it were still the day of the
stake and the torch they would come bringing fagots to the pile with
their own hands.

In spite of these survivals, ceremonial martyrdom for so-called
religion's sake is, we may hope, at an end among the civilized nations;
we have only its relics left. Corfu has one of these relics, a martyr
who is sincerely honored--St. Spiridion, or, as he is called in loving
diminutive, Spiro. Spiro, who died fifteen hundred years ago, was bishop
of a see in Cyprus, I believe. He was tortured during the persecution of
the Christians under Diocletian. His embalmed body was taken to
Constantinople, and afterwards, in 1489, it was brought to Corfu by a
man named George Colochieretry. Some authorities say that Colochieretry
was a monk; in any case, what is certain is that the heirs of this man
still own the saint--surely a strange piece of property--and derive
large revenues from him. St. Spiro reposes in a small dim chapel of the
church which is called by his name; his superb silver coffin is lighted
by the rays from a hanging lamp which is suspended above it. When we
paid our visit, people in an unbroken stream were pressing into this
chapel, and kissing the sarcophagus repeatedly with passionate fervor.
The nave, too, was thronged; families were seated on the pavement in
groups, with an air of having been there all day: probably Christmas is
one of the seasons set apart for an especial pilgrimage to the martyr.
Three times a year the body is taken from its coffin and borne round the
esplanade, followed by a long train of Greek clergy, and by the public
officers of the town; upon these occasions the sick are brought forth
and laid where the shadow of the saint can pass over them. "Yes, he's
out to-day, I believe," said a resident, to whom we had mentioned this
procession. He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. After seeing it three
times a year for twenty years, the issuing forth of the old bishop into
the brilliant sunshine to make a solemn circuit round the esplanade did
not, I suppose, seem so remarkable to him as it seemed to us. There is
another saint, a woman (her name I have forgotten), who also reposes in