"The population of the eleven hamlets never were above five thousand, and half of these lived in the chief village, Suli. Their government was wholly Patriarchal. A union of several families formed a Phara. Sali counted eight hundred families, and these were divided into forty-seven Pharas. Each family had its head, and the oldest and wisest of these was chief of the Phara. There were in Suli neither written laws, nor courts of justice; the customs of their fathers stood to them in place of the former, and all strifes were composed by the heads of families and of the Phara.

"This arrangement held good in war as in peace. The heads of the family commanded their own in battle, the heads of the Phara these. When a foe approached their borders, the dwellers of the plain fled to the hills. No plan was made for the war, but each Suliote was trained from his childhood to use the gun and sabre he inherited, and knew every cleft and den of his native mountains, as a fox his hole. So each one stood for and by himself, as in the old hero-wars; and only this unity was among them, that they all fought for one cause, for their freedom and fatherland, for their women and children, and the graves of their ancestors. There were never more than fifteen hundred fighting men engaged against the Pacha. They fought on foot, for their country afforded no pasture for horses.

"The women followed the men to the fight; they carried the provisions and amunition, and when there was need, often took an active part, as we see Moscho, the wife of Lampros Tsavellas, in these songs.

"The war of Ali Pacha with the Suliotes lasted, without much intermission, from 1792 till 1804, and ended in the surrender of their fastnesses to Veli Pacha, the son of Ali, who availed himself of the treaty to fall on the remnant of their fighting men, on their way to the seacoast, exhausted by long famine, and almost wholly to destroy them. Then it was that in the district of Zalongos the mothers of the Suliotes threw their children down the precipices, and, hand in hand, sprang after them, for no choice remained except between death and slavery.

"After the massacre, the Turks hastened to Reniassa, where there were left only women and children. In this hamlet is a tower, called the tower of Dimulas. The Suliote, Georgos Botsis, to whom this tower belonged, was absent, and only his wife Despo was there with seven daughters and sons' wives, and three children. When these eight Suliote women saw the foe approaching, they armed themselves and received them with gun-shot. But they soon found defence would only avail them a short time longer. Then Despo called them all together, and asked, holding a firebrand in her hand, Will you rather die, or

be slaves to the Turks? Die, they called out with one accord, and Despo threw the brand into a chest full of cartridges. The tower flew into the air with its garrison of women, the children, and the nearest Turks. The Suliote ballads conclude with that on the heroine Despo."

What success might be expected to follow from the policy which bore such fruit, this story shows.

"Ali Pacha, who had had the best opportunity for knowing Klephts, did not undervalue his foe. After a long course of treacherous intrigues, not succeeding in exterminating, he resolved to win them to be his instruments. In 1805, he invited the Klephtish chiefs from all parts of Greece to Karpenissi in Ætolia, with the purpose of making permanent peace with them. They did not refuse to come, and they met, the generals of the Pacha with their troops, the Klepht-captains with their Pallikaris. Jussuf, the Arab, Ali's foster brother, the most dreaded official of the tyrant, and the worst foe of the Klephts, was astonished at their number, knowing better than any what their losses had been, and turning to the captain Athanasius, with whom he had formerly been acquainted, he said; How is it that, when we have waged incessant war upon you these five years, your bands are as numerous as ever?' 'Seest thou,' replied the captain, these five young men in the front rank of my right wing? Two of these are brothers, two cousins, and one the friend of one of my braves whom you put to death. All five flew to me, that they might take vengeance, under my banner, for the death of their friend and kinsman. Yet some years of persecution and war, and all Greece will be with us.'"

These truly Homeric Greeks know little about their forbears in the olden time that Homer sung, neither have they heard of the heroes of the Persian wars, and they know nothing of the gods and goddesses, who once were supposed to dwell on the very mountains that are their homes. Olympus, Pindus are names that to them speak only of fresh breezes, starlight nights, of free joy, and a homefelt. delight that even the wild crag is their own. A few traces of the old mythology linger still, mixed up with their own superstitions. Charon is known to them; and in his old capacity, though now exercised on the firm land, and in new circumstances.

THE SHEPHERD AND CHARON.

A bold gay lad was coming down from the high mountain,
His cap was put on sideways, and his hair was braided,
Charon who was waiting for him on the high peak,
Went down into the valley and met him there,
O young man, say, whence comest thou?
whither goest?

I come from my herd, I am going to my house,

I shall take there a loaf and then go back.

O young man

But God has sent me down here to take away thy soul.-
O Charon let me free, I pray thee, let me live,

I have at home a young wife, she is not fit for a widow,

If she walked lightly, they would say she sought another hus

band,

If she walked slowly, they would say, that she was proud.

I have also little children, and they would be orphans.—

But Charon would not hear, and tried to take him. —

O Charon, if thou wilt not hear, and art resolved to take me, Come, let us wrestle here upon this marble rock,

And if thou art the victor, Charon, take my soul,

If I should get the better, go thou where thou wilt. —
Then they came and wrestled from morning to midday,
And not till the vesper hour, could Charon throw him down.

THE MAIDEN AND CHARON.

A young maiden boasted that she was not afraid of Charon,
Because she had nine brothers and Kostas for her betrothed,
Who had many great houses, also four palaces,
And Charon was a little bird, like a black swallow,
He flew past and shot his dart into the heart of the
And then her mother wept, thus bewailed her mother,
O Charon, how thou mak'st me mourn for my one daughter,
For my one only one, for my fair daughter.

young

maiden.

And see, then came Kostas from a valley of the mountain,

With him five hundred men and sixty-two musicians.

Stop the marriage jubilee. Stop awhile the music,

I see a cross at the door of my father-in-law,

One of my new brothers may be wounded,

Or my father-in-law is dead, or else perhaps his father.
He spurs his black steed, he gallops to the church,

He finds the sacristan digging a grave,

O Sacristan, be greeted, for whom is that grave?

For the fair maiden, her with the dark eyes,

She who had nine brothers, and Kostas for her bridegroom,
He who has many great houses, also four palaces.

O Sacristan, I pray thee dig the grave

A little wider, large enough for two to lie there.

He drew out his golden sword, and thrust it into his heart,
And they both were buried in one grave together.

Here love works with exactly the opposite result, to that marked by Wordsworth on a similar occasion.

"O mercy, to myself I cried,

If Lucy should be dead."

The treasure of the

Both are equally true to nature. heart seems so precious that it cannot remain with us, we tremble every moment lest some conspiracy of Fate and Time should break out to deprive us of it. Again, it seems so truly all that we need, the complement of our being, the only means of life to us, and the only reality, that it seems more possible for any and all objects to totter and fall into dust than this one only one.

I have seen notices of the following; perhaps it is known to many.

CHARON AND THE SOULS.

Why are the hills so black in their mourning robes?

Is it because the stormwind blows, and the rain beats upon them?
No! the stormwind does not blow, nor the rain beat upon them,
Charon is passing over with a band of the dead,

He drives the young, foremost, and behind, the old,
And he holds upon his saddle the tender children.
The old pray to him, the young supplicate him,

O dear Charon, stop in the village, stop at the cool fountain.

I will not stop at the village, nor at the cool fountain,

Mothers who go there for water would know their children, And man and wife would know one another, and could not be separated.

THE VOICE OF THE GRAVE.

All Saturday we were carousing, all the dear Sunday,
And, when Monday morning came, all our wine was gone,
Then the captain bade me go and bring more wine.

A stranger am I, I know not the paths,

And went into wrong ways, and untrodden paths,
One of these took me up a high hill,

All covered with graves, the graves of the valiant ;
A single one stood alone, away from the others,

I saw it not, I stepped on it and stood at the head,

Then heard I from the lower world a cry and a thundering.
Why dost thou moan so, grave? Why dost thou sigh so deeply?
Do the clods press hard, or the black stone-plate?
The clods press not hard, nor the black plate,
But I have grief and shame and a great cumber,
That thou despisest me, thus to step on my head;
Was I not also a young man? Was I not a brave?
Have not I too wandered abroad in the moonlight?

Here is a Romaic Lochinvar.

As lately I was sitting and drinking at my marble table,
My horse neighed loud, my sabre clashed;

And my heart understood it well, my love is given in marriage,
They are giving her in marriage to another,

They bless her, they crown her with another man.

I went out to my horses, to my five and seventy,

Which is there of my horses, of my five and seventy,

Which like a flash flies to the east, and again is in the west?
And none of them would answer, none would promise,
But an old horse, covered with forty wounds,

Said, I am old and unseemly, not fit for a journey,
But I will go the long way for my fair mistress,

Who has fed me kindly from her round apron,

Who has carefully given me drink from her joined hands.

He saddles quick his horse, he quickly rides away,

O! wind, my master, round the head a cloth seven ells long,
And be not like a dainty youth, but use the spurs,
Else soon I shall feel my youth like a foal,

And scatter your brains over nine ells of land.

He gives the switch to his horse and it runs forty miles,
He gives it a second time, then runs it five and forty,

And on the way as he rode, he prayed to God,

Let me find my father pruning vines in his vineyard;

He spoke it like a Christian, he was heard as a saint,

He found his father pruning vines in the vineyard.

Hail to thee, old man, all good be with thee, to whom belongs

this vineyard?

To woe, alas, to dark grief, to Jannes, my son,

To day they give his love to another wooer,

They bless her, they crown her with another man.

O say to me, old man, shall I find her at table?

If thou hast a swift horse thou may'st find her at table,

If thou hast a slow horse, thou wilt find her at the marriage. He gives the switch to his horse and it runs forty miles,