result.
It would amount to a depopulation of the entire archipelago! Would any
woman be justified in causing such widespread despair as that?

The next island, Cephalonia, is the largest of the Ionian group. There
is much to say about it. But I must not say it here. The truth is that
one sails past these sisters as slippery Ulysses sailed past the sirens;
they are so beautiful that one must tie one's hands to the mast (or the
bench) to keep them from writing a volume on the subject. But I must
permit myself a word about Sir Charles Napier. Sir Charles was Governor
of Cephalonia during the period of the British Protectorate, and
officially he was a subordinate of the Lord High at Corfu. One of these
temporary kings appears to have felt some jealousy regarding the
vigorous administration of his Cephalonian lieutenant. It was not
possible to censure his acts; they were all admirable. It was
permissible, however, to censure a mustache, which at that time was
considered a wayward appendage, not strictly in accordance with the
regulations. Ludicrous as it may appear, it is nevertheless true that
this sapient Lord High actually issued an order saying that the
offending ornament must be shaved off. The witty lieutenant's answer was
conveyed in four words: "Obeyed--to a hair." Napier constructed good
roads throughout his rough, mountainous domain. "I wish I could be
buried at the little chapel on the top of the mountain," he said to one
of his friends. "At the last day many a poor mule's soul will say a good
word for me, I know, when they remember what the old road was." One
regrets that this wish was not carried out. But as for the souls of the
poor mules, I for one am sure that they will remember him.

At Zante, for some unexplained cause, the classic associations suddenly
vanished: Homer faded, Theocritus followed him; Pliny and Strabo
disappeared. The later memories, too: Lord Guildford and his university,
Byron and his Suliotes, Napier and his mules--all these left us. We were
back in the present; we must have some Zante flowers and Zante trinkets;
we thought of nothing but going ashore. By pushing a bench, with
semi-unconscious violence, against the Greek, we succeeded in making him
move a little, so that we could rise. Then we landed (but not in a
caique), and went roaming through the yellow town. Zante is the most
cheerful-looking place I have ever seen. The bay ripples and smirks; it
is so pretty that it knows it is p