The chief room of the library contains not only its priceless MSS., but a famous mummy which the experts put at anything from 2200 to 3500 years old.  Another precious possession is a Buddhist ritual on papyrus, which an Armenian wandering in Madras discovered and secured.  The earliest manuscript dates from the twelfth century.  In a central case are illuminated books and some beautiful bindings; and I must put on record that if ever there was a cicerone who displayed no weariness and disdained merely mechanical interest in exhibiting for the thousandth time his treasures, it is Father Vardan Hatzouni.  But the room is so pleasant that, were it not that one enjoys such enthusiasm and likes to stimulate it by questions, it would be good merely to be in it without too curiously examining its possessions.

Downstairs is a rather frigid little church, where an embroidered cloth is shown, presented by Queen Margherita.  The S. Lazzaro Armenians, I may say, seem always to have attracted gifts, one of their great benefactors being Napoleon III.  They are so simple and earnest and unobtrusive—­and, I am sure, grateful—­that perhaps it is natural to feel generous towards them.

Finally we were shown to the printing-room, on our way to which, along 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 were not romping or shouting, nor were any in the water; and just below, at the edge of the sea, well within view and stone range, I noticed an empty bottle on its end, glistening in the sun.  Think of so alluring a target disregarded and unbroken by an English school!