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where large landed proprietors are still to be found scarcely, in sooth, to be found, for most of them, being Turks, have retired to Constantinople, in spite of the inducements which the Greek Government have offered them to remain. That enlightened and courageous statesmen, Monsieur Tricoupi, recognising the evils of absentee landlordism, has been specially conciliatory towards the Moslem subjects of the Greek crown, and the general population of Greeks, Turks, and Jews (there are still about 30,000 Mohammedans in Thessaly) live together on most amicable terms, though occupying distinct quarters in the towns. But most of the landlords have persisted in departing, and are content to draw their rents and spend them in the Turkish capital.

The town of Larissa itself has, as yet, lost little of its oriental character. The Demarch, the Nomarch, and other officials are, of course, Greek, and look back with some regret to the time when, in greater ease and with less responsibility, they lived in their native provinces. But they are proud of their fine territory and confident in the future of their town, which must, when the resources of the country are further opened up, become an important trading centre. Already the railway unites it to Volo on the east, where there is a splendid natural harbour (the British squadron of five war-ships as anchored there at the time of our visit), and to Trikala and Kalabak on the west; and there is a movement on foot to carry the line further to the west, across the Turkish frontier through Albania by Janina to the coast opposite Corfu—a route at present wholly closed to travellers on account of Turkish brigandage. Meanwhile, the municipality, aided by the Government, have carried out some improvements in the town. A wide street has been cut right through the centre of the Turkish rookery, and along this, stone-built houses are beginning to take the place of mud walls. Stone, however, must always be a costly exotic in Larissa, for throughout the vast plain around it is hardly possible to find a pebble big enough to throw at a dog. Probably before long it will be found profitable to start brickworks in the neighbourhood.

From two points of view this ancient town presents a striking appearance. One of these is at the far end of the bridge which here spans the Peneus, or, as the Turks call it, the Salámvrias. The natives credit the Romans with having built this bridge; but, whatever be the date of its foundation, its nine pointed arches denote reconstruction by a later people. Viewed from the river-bank a little below the bridge the town looks its best, rising from a girdle of lofty poplars with tier upon tier of warm-toned walls, crowned by the cupola and minarets of the principal mosque, and all mirrored in the glassy flood.

To reach the other point of view we must recross the bridge, pausing to watch the town water-carriers laboriously scooping water out of the river, and pouring it into cowhides borne pannier-wise by half-starved ponies. The apertures of the hides are kept open by bunches of brush, and half the contents of each jarful is spilt over the patient animal's quarters, as he stands haunch-deep in the river. It takes about half an hour to fill each pair of hides in this archaic way: the loaded beast then climbs painfully