The St. Andrew's Cross, which our young
guide wore on his coat, was indeed a friendly token. It spoke volumes
to the heart; and I was carried back in memory to that early morning,
when, having sailed over Ionian Seas, our good ship cast anchor in the
Bay of Patras, and my feet pressed the soil which had been consecrated
by the blood of the Saint, whose cross was now a token of good will
and welcome at the ends of the earth. I could not but recall besides a
memorable incident in connection with the Saint Andrew's Cross. We had
passed the Isthmus of Corinth, and our train halted for a space at
Megara, a town of six or seven thousand people, where is the bluest
blood in all Greece; and as I alighted from my coach on the Athens and
Peloponnesus Railway, I saw, some twenty rods away, a Greek Papa or
Priest, who made a splendid figure. An impulse came over me to speak
to him, and I knew there was one sign which he would recognise and
understand. It was the Saint Andrew's Cross, which I made by crossing
my arms. He immediately came to me and we conversed briefly as the
time would permit, in the old language of Homer and Plato, which all
patriotic Greeks love.
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