FROM many points of view Naxos may be considered as the most important of the Cyclades. It is the largest, it is the most beautiful — quite equal to Corfù and the other Ionian islands as far as this is concerned; it is by far the most fertile; it has a definite mediaeval history; and up in its lofty mountains it contains some of the most primitive inhabitants of modern Hellas, half-robbers, almost heathens in their beliefs.

The town life of Naxos is utterly different from the mountain life. Half of the inhabitants of the town are Roman Catholics, relics of the time when Naxos was the centre of an island duchy under the protection of Venice, and a bulwark against Islamism; but on the benighted peasantry of the mountains the passing waves of Latins and Turks have not had the remotest influence. In many respects it would appear that the Greek influence on Venice was considerably greater than the Venetian influence on Greece. All the names of officers in the Venetian republic were borrowed from the Byzantine Empire, the syndic, the signori di notte (nyktéparchoi ^gr), the castigatore or registrar (katastichotés ^gr), and lots of others; the names of boats, the sandolo (sandálion ^gr), so called from its likeness to a shoe, the scafo, the ippagogo, the gondola, and others; and when in 1049 a Venetian doge married a Greek of the house of Ducas, she brought with her all the Byzantine refinements, amongst others the use of the fork, which in the Venetian dialect is still called a 'piron,' from the Greek (peroúni ^gr), instead of forchetta.

To-day Naxos is entirely eclipsed by Syra, the capital of the Cyclades. Santorin is a far more flourishing centre of trade; the fertility of the soil has been the bane of the Naxiotes, and has made them the idlest vagabonds in the Cyclades.

Before landing at Naxia, as they call the capital, let us take a hurried glance at the history of the Latin dukes; it will enable us better to understand the people we are going to sojourn amongst. Our authorities for the history of the two lines of sovereigns who occupied the duchy of Naxos for 300 years are meagre, but they are twofold. They are from the compilations of a Jesuit and a German, the Abbé Sauger and Von Hopf. The latter styles the compilation of the former ‘a romance full of Jesuitical legends, and untrustworthy,’ and to prove this statement he treats us to the most complicated disquisition on intermarriages, feuds, and contested successions which it ever was the lot of any historical student to wade through; but in broad lines our authorities agree, and surely the broad lines are all that the most ambitious could care to know about the dukes of Naxos and their appanages, the lords of Melos, the archons of Santorin, the proveditori of Tenos, who intermarried, squabbled, and fell, in the course of events, into the gulf of Islamism.

Everything tends to prove, especially the rancour of the Jesuit, that during this period there was no love lost between Greek and Latin, and that the Latins only carried their influence to the coast towns, and that when the Latin power was over the orthodox religion at once re-established its power. The whole of this influence was due in the first instance to the Latin conquest of Constantinople, when Venice found herself the mistress of millions of subjects with whom she had not the slightest idea what to do. Consequently the Queen of the Adriatic accorded to her citizens the power to conquer for themselves any islands they had a fancy for, on condition that they would hold them as fiefs of the Republic. This was a new opening to ambition, a stimulus to privateering life on a large scale, giving birth to such men as after centuries saw in the persons of Sir Francis Drake or Raleigh.

One of these privateers was called Marco Sanudo, of a rich and noble house, whose ambition soared high, for he wished to become lord of Crete; but being unable to do this, he laid siege to Naxos, where the pusillanimous Greeks soon gave way, and this he made the headquarters of his new principality; he built a strong castle with twelve towers thereon, and established a dynasty, which was recognised by the German emperor, Henry IV., as the duchy of the Aegean Sea. Other Venetian nobles and merchants, the Ghisi, the Giustiniani, &c. followed this example, and hazarded their riches in their lust for principalities, however small: so Greece, as well on the mainland as amongst the islands, was covered with Latin settlers.

The pet object of the Sanudo family was to reign in Crete, and though they gathered to themselves the islands around Naxos, yet they never lost sight of the main object of their ambition.

The third duke, another Marco, tried to conquer Crete with no better success. During his reign the Abbé Sauger gives us a side glance at the feeling which existed between Greeks and Latins. ‘Disturbances,’ he says, 'took place, owing to the idolatry of the inhabitants, who set up an altar to one called St. Pachys, and mothers made their children pass through a hole, and thought they would grow fat (pachýs ^gr) by this.’ Now this is just the sort of thing they still do, and even worse, as we saw at Melos, so I am inclined to believe what Abbé Sauger tells us, and from this we can infer that religious rancour kept the Greeks and Latins from amalgamating.

The early dukes of the house of Sanudo made Naxos and the other subject isles so strong that the emperors of the Paleologus line failed to recover the islands, though in 1272 the Greek fleet managed very nearly to win them back, and would have done so had not a Venetian general, who lies buried at Venice with the following epitaph, ‘Here lies the Land of Greece ^latin,’ come to the assistance of the duke. And in the days of these earlier dukes sprang up all those fortress towns, one or two of which we visited in every island; by degrees even the fealty due to the mother country began to be laughed at, until rumours of Turkish encroachments began to alarm Europe, and the dukes of the house of Sanudo had to turn crusaders against their will.

The eighth duke of Naxos, the last of the Sanudo line, was nicknamed Spezzabunda, and his renown as a valiant chief struck terror into the Turks, who no longer ventured to leave their safe harbours in Asia Minor. There is a rhyming legend still sung in Naxos, which tells us how he ended his days in 1345, surrounded by ten Turkish galleys, and seeing his own sinking, he cast himself fearlessly amongst them and wrought terrible carnage before he was killed. Marino Sanudo of Venice, in his notes, gives us an account of this kinsman of his, and says he was one of the most courageous and intrepid heroes of his day.

Then the children of two daughters of the house of Sanudo, the Crispi and the Carcere, fought for the succession; the former killed the latter by treachery and established a long line of dukes, the descendants of whom, bearing the name and arms, two upright swords between two lozenges, still live in Paros.

The history of the Crispi dukes of Naxos is a wretched one. The Aegean Sea was a perfect hotbed of contention: the archons of Andros carried on a private war with the archons of Santorin, the dukes of Naxos carried on a war with the Turks on the one hand and their great rivals the Ghisi, lords of Tenos, Mykonos, Keos, and Seriphos, on the other. Venice interfered; she sent proveditori to some islands, rectors to others, whilst some she let out to the highest bidder, so that the resources of the island were drained to the last dregs. No wonder the Cyclades suffered terribly under the Latin rule, far worse than ever they did in after years under the Turks.

Every year the Turks grew nearer, and Christian disasters crowded one on the other. We read of Francis Crispi, the nineteenth duke, entering upon terms with the Turks in 1504 with the full sanction of Venice. His son John, the twentieth duke, gave up the keys of Naxos and much money to Barbarossa, who sacked his castle, but left him in possession of his duchy on his promising to pay a tribute. Poor duke John was so humbled at this that he wrote an apologetic letter to Pope Paul III. and the Christian princes, saying, ‘I have covenanted to pay yearly 5,000 gold pieces, and even this, in the eyes of my burghers, is too large a sum for the poor duke of a mean principality, yet I shall conscientiously pay it.’

Under James Crispi, the twenty-first and last duke of Naxos, the duchy was in a woeful state; he had no money and no ships, his subjects refused to pay taxes; he was himself a good-for-nothing fellow, who made of Naxos what it was in ancient times — nothing but a temple of Dionysos, drinking and gambling with his Venetian courtiers. So the good people of Naxos resolved to stand this no longer, and sent secret envoys to the Porte, volunteering to give themselves up, reserving one or two rights for themselves, such as having the power of ringing church bells and of repairing their sacred edifices.

James Crispi heard of this too late; his envoys were put in prison by Selim II., and so was he, and not released for some years, when he retired to Venice, and was received with ovations and given a pension, and with him the duchy of Naxos ceased to exist.

The Sultan Selim II. then made a present of the revenues of the duchy to a Jew, whose name has been handed down to us as Joseph Nacy, or Nassi, or di Nasi, probably of Naxos. He was court Jew to the Porte, Selim's favourite, and known by the name of ‘the rich’ or ‘the great’ Jew. He was a creditor of the King of France, he had ships of his own all over the Mediterranean, and was in the same position as the Fuggers of Augsburg were to Charles V., or the Rothschilds of this century.

It may be imagined that the Naxiotes were aghast when they heard that they were to be ruled by a Jew, for a Greek hates a Jew more than he can express, and they repented of having deposed the Crispi and longed for them back. Wisely the great Jew Joseph did not venture to Naxos, but sent thither a Spaniard, Francis Coronelli, as his agent. Coronelli was a worthy man, no duke was ever beloved as he was, and by wise measures he sought to rectify the errors of the Duke James. Coronelli's son married a niece of the last Crispi and took her name, and it is through this line that the Crispi, who now own so much land in Paros, are descended, the last relics of a bygone dynasty.

When the great Jew died the Sultan took back the fief he had given, and henceforward ruled the Cyclades through his agas and dragomans. Only once again, in 1651, when the Venetians gained a great naval battle off Paros under a Mocenigo, was there ever any prospect of the Naxiote duchy being revived.

After the extinction of the Latin line, the Latin nobles, however, continued to occupy the highest position in the islands; most of the fertile land belonged to them; even to this day they still bear the title baronakki (little barons), the old coats-of-arms are over the doors, but they have always been detested by the Greeks, and now that the Greek element is dominant they are fast decaying. Tournefort, in 1700, describes their animosity thus naively, ‘If a Latin stirs the Greeks tell the kadi of it, and if a Greek opens his mouth the kadi knows what he has said before he shuts it,’ and the Latins had to get a special dispensation from Rome for marrying their cousins, to avoid intermarrying with the Greeks, so great was the hatred of their rivals.

The Roman Catholics still live in the upper town of Naxos, around the ruins of the old castle. The Le Lasticqs, the Barozzi, the Frankopouli have most of them fine houses, with the remains of Venetian greatness about them, but they are all wretchedly poor. In the war of independence they sided with the Turks, and consequently they are now suffering for their folly; inch by inch the land is passing out of their hands into those of the Greeks.

It was the intention of spending Christmas, and taking a good rest, that caused us to make for Naxos. Somehow or another we promised ourselves greater comforts there than elsewhere; the name and the knowledge of what it once had been probably gave cause to this hope, which was doomed to disappointment. Nowhere in the Cyclades had we greater difficulty in getting a suitable lodging than in Naxia; we were shown to what they called an inn, a large room without glass in the windows, and no furniture except wooden tressels for beds, evidently the abode of sailors when forced by bad luck to wait in Naxos. Then we went to the demarch, who received us courteously, but with small hope of success. Eventually we were deposited in a house by the sea, belonging to the agent of the Greek steamer, and as long as the weather was fine it was a charming abode. We had the use of two rooms: a sitting-room with a balcony overlooking the sea and a lapageria trained over the walls inside as if for our special Christmas decoration, and a bedroom, the only drawback to which was that it was entered by a trap-door at moments when visitors were least welcome.

Our host had been a sea-captain, and had two pretty daughters, who waited upon us, cooked for us, and sang nautical songs to us in the evening, and the first day after our arrival, Christmas Eve, on which the sun shone as hot as in July at home, we were contentment itself. It was too hot to walk, so we got a boat, and rowed to the little island on which stands all that is left of what tradition calls the temple of Dionysos: the people call it the palace of the king of Naxos, and the island to Paláti ^gr, but all that is left are the two white marble doorposts and the lintel, standing up high and solitary on the summit of the little green island, a conspicuous object from everywhere. Formerly this island was joined to the mainland by a pier, large blocks of which are still to be seen in the sea. A few years ago Dr. Kallivoutzi made an excavation here, not, however, with very satisfactory results, except that the form of the temple and several of the drums of its pillars have been laid bare; from the pier there evidently were steps leading up to it, and it had doubtless a propylaeum facing the mainland.

On Christmas Eve this little island was delicious, brilliantly green with a small shamrock and a primula all over it; a real emerald isle set in the bluest of seas. We determined to eat our Christmas dinner on it if the morrow was as fine, for the view over Naxia and the mountains was enchanting. Naxia resembles in many ways an Italian village on the Riviera; there is the Sanudo's castle crowning the height, there are the peaky blue mountains in the background taking every possible fantastic shape, there are the rows of aloes and the rocky coastline. The harbour is small and wretched, having in the centre of it a tiny church, three yards by two, built on a rock, and dedicated to the Virgin of the Harbour, to which boats are moored. All round the coast there is not a decent harbour in Naxos, and though the island is rich in corn, wine, emery, and marble, yet in a harbourless mass of mountains progress is impossible. During a storm whilst we were there, a caïque anchored in the harbour about fifty yards from the shore, and freighted with coffee, sugar, and other groceries, ready for disembarkation, was capsized before our eyes and the contents lost.

The lower part of the town is all Greek, and contains the metropolitan and other churches; here every house is inhabited by Greeks, for it is only up on the hill, where is still a Capuchin convent close to the fortress, that the Latins live.

As we sat on this island rock we could not help wondering if this really was the scene of the old worship of Dionysos at Naxos; even now there are many traces left in Naxos which point to this worship. St Dionysius, the Christian successor of the ancient wine god, is greatly worshipped here, and about him a curious legend ^note is still told, clearly pointing to ancient cult; it runs as follows. St. Dionysius was on a journey from the monastery on Mount Olympos to Naxos; as he sat down to rest he saw a pretty plant, which he desired to take, and to protect it from being withered by the sun he put it into the bone of a bird. He went on and was surprised to find that it had sprouted before his next halt, so he put it, bone and all, into the bone of a lion; again the same phenomenon occurred, so he put his treasure into the leg bone of an ass. On reaching Naxos he found the plant so rooted in the bones that he planted them all; and from this up came a vine, with the fruit of which St. Dionysius made the first wine. When he had drunk a little of it he sang like a bird, when he had drunk more he felt as strong as a lion, and when he had drunk too much he became as foolish as an ass. The gods of old have been turned into modern saints, sometimes even egardless of sex, as we shall see at Keos, where the male, St. Artemidos, represents the female, Artemis. Demeter, in the present order of things, is also represented by a man, St. Demetrius, who in certain places is the special protector of flocks, herds, and husbandmen, and in this capacity is called ‘of the dry land’ (Sterianós ^gr), as opposed to St. Nicholas, the saint of the sea.

Place names in Naxos still recall the old Bacchic worship. One of the loftiest mountains of the island is called Mount Koronon, reminding us of the nymph Koronis and the infancy of Dionysos. Just over the town is a fountain called by the natives the tomb or baths of Ariadne: here in 1821 an old man told me that the Turkish dragoman had made extensive excavations and took with him quantities of inscriptions to Constantinople, leaving only one behind him, which forms now the step of a house, and which tells us that it was once a tablet in the Prytaneum of Naxos.

That afternoon, on returning from the island rock, we saw the weekly steamer arrive in glorious, calm evening light. This event is a great excitement for the Naxiotes, and the names of happy recipients of letters are publicly called out; so we retired to rest on Christmas Eve, little dreaming what a store of storm and rain was being prepared for us by Jupiter the Rainy. For nearly a week Naxos and her mountains formed the centre of a sort of cyclone; torrents would fall for hours, and then a gleam of sunshine lead us to hope that it was past, but it returned again with equal vigour, going round and round the lofty mountains. In our house we suffered severely; the miserable flat roofs covered with pressed mud soon began to leak; our sitting room was a lake, and then it came into our bedroom, so that we were forced to sleep under umbrellas and waterproofs. Never was the intense idleness and apathy of the Naxiotes more apparent than during this weather. No mules came in from the country villages, for nobody thinks of travelling when it rains; consequently no brushwood was brought in, and the stock of fuel was soon exhausted, the result being that there was not a fire in Naxia at which to cook a meal — not that this mattered much, for there was nothing to cook. For once in our lives we were compelled to decide that we would keep our Christmas like the Naxiotes, according to old style, and fast whilst those at home were feasting.

Men stay in bed all day on these occasions, murmuring, ‘Winter, winter!’ when my thermometer outside our window never fell lower than 55° Fahr. It was the misery of damp and inactivity from which we suffered, during those weary days, not from cold; and in those wretched pasteboard houses, where rain pours in from window and from roof, we could get no definite rest. A good winter's storm in a northern clime would be sufficient to efface from memory the dwellings of the Greeks of to-day.

Our only amusement during these days was paying visits and making ourselves at home with the Naxiotes, all their sitting-rooms being flooded like our own. We visited most of the Latin families on the hill, and saw their treasures of embroidery and jewellery preserved since the Venetian days. We visited the Capuchin convent, which looked thoroughly Italian, and the superior conversed in Italian; and then we visited the Greeks below, of whom none left a pleasanter impression upon us than Gregorios, Bishop of Naxos and Paros, called the despot (despótis ^gr).

He is a comparatively young man, and took a special delight in showing us his sacerdotal treasures, for we could not help audibly admiring the jewel which he wore — an enamelled representation of the Resurrection set in diamonds — so forthwith he rang for his mitre, a round pear-shaped thing set in a crown, with the eagle, the symbol of Constantine, on the top. He explained to us how the Patriarch Gennadius, when Constantinople was taken by the Turks, had saved the crown of Constantine, and that during one of the liturgies he came forward to console the Christians, telling them not to grieve for the loss of their emperor, for the crown was saved, which the Church was to preserve until the kingdom was restored; so all Greek mitres are set in a crown. Bishop Gregorios’ mitre was a handsome one, adorned with an abundance of uncut emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and diamonds on a smooth velvet foundation; and a diamond cross at the top, all imitation, alas ! but splendid to look upon.

So gratified did we seem at this opportunity of closely examining the details of a Greek bishop's robes that he sent for the rest and put them on for us. There is much that is symbolical in the dress: at the bottom of his long violet satin mantle (epimanikía ^gr) are three little silver sheep-bells, indicating his pastoral office; there are bands of red and white to symbolise the rivers of grace which are supposed to flow from the bishop's mouth; on the corners and at the shoulders are pieces of white brocade with flowers on it, and trimmed with gold braid — this is the epigonátion ^gr, and is supposed to represent the towel with which Christ girded Himself at the last supper; and then on the back are the four gammas, back to back, so arranged as to form a Greek cross. Bishop Gregorios showed us two very handsome pastoral staves, one of ivory and tortoiseshell, and the other of silver gilt; dressed in his robes, and with a staff in his hand, he had had his photograph taken, a copy of which he gave us with great pride.

Perhaps the greatest relief to the monotony of our days in Naxia was afforded by the cheerful evenings when the daughters of our host sang to us. Their voices were always pitched in what to us sounded a high and unnatural key; but they sang their parts well, and with great feeling, especially ‘The Mariner's Love Song’ of which I here append as literal a translation as possible, for it illustrates the simple figurative language in which a Greek loves to indulge :–

The Greek Christmas day immediately followed our return from the mountains of Naxos, and we enjoyed it considerably more than our own. A Greek Christmas in its ceremonial closely resembles one of ours. On the eve before every family makes its kouloúria ^gr, or round cakes twisted like a serpent, into one of which perhaps a coin is put, and the one who finds the coin is like the individual who finds the ring in our plum-pudding. Children go round from house to house singing mournful dirges about Christ's birth, for which they receive gifts from the householders; and on Christmas Day, after the liturgy, the priest goes from house to house with his acolytes and blesses the inmates with his censer.

It is a general holiday, and people in their best clothes visit their friends, and are given sweets, coffee, and raki, and in the evening they dance and imbibe far more than is good for them.

To get away from the constant succession of curious visitors who pestered us on Christmas afternoon we walked up the hillside behind Naxos to visit a nunnery dedicated to St. Chrysostom, into which we were told no males would be admitted without special permission from the bishop. On reaching it we entered a low door without opposition and climbed a ladder which conducted us to a storey of empty cells; it seemed like a charmed palace, this huge empty nunnery, as if inhabited by some spellbound princess. On our descent, however, we came across and terrified three nuns just coming out of their cells, whose surprise may be imagined at seeing two fair-haired males descending a ladder and introducing themselves as ‘angels,’ that is to say, Angloi ^gr, or Englishmen, on Christmas Day. For some time the ignorant old things were too bewildered to speak, and it was long before we could make them understand who we were, and what our object was in thus intruding. Then they took us to their church and showed us their treasures; they gave us coffee and sweets in their reception room; put questions to us of a character which made us almost laugh, such as, Where is England? Is it near Europe? Are the English Christians? and so forth. There are only five of them left now, and when these die the nunnery of St. Chrysostom will be closed — no loss to the world at large.

The bishop was much surprised to hear we had paid the nuns a visit without his leave, but in no way annoyed, for he asked us to dinner next day if the steamer did not come; but I regret to say that the steamer did come, and our dinner with the Bishop of Naxos was relegated to our category of disappointments.

It was certainly not a fine day, properly so called, when we started for the mountains of Naxos, but we flattered ourselves that the force of the cyclone was over, and that we might go on our lengthy expedition without loss of time. Pictures of fearful torrents and drenching rains were drawn for us, but we were determined to go, thinking that nothing could be worse than sleeping under umbrellas in Naxia. Time, too, was flying rapidly, as quick almost as our patience; so at length we engaged a very brave muleteer with a large umbrella, whose courage put two others to shame, and our cavalcade was made up. It was easy work at first — along a new road which is in course of construction up the fertile plain behind the town — and as we rode along we realised how the change has come over the land; for mountains which once were covered with trees are now bare rocks, and the soil from these has been spread over this plain by torrential rains such as we had experienced for the last few days; and they told us that, in digging deep for water on this plain, evidences of former cultivation and relics of the past are frequently discovered several feet below the present surface.

Everything is very fertile here, the very place for the home of the wine god Bacchus; for Naxos, the Little Sicily, as the ancients called it, produced in its day a wine which Archilochus likened to the nectar of the gods; and even now they make a wine, which they have named τo krasí tou Dionisou ^gr (the wine of Dionysos). Pindar calls it ‘rich Naxos’ and it maintains the same character still; yet the labourers of this favoured isle are throughout the Cyclades noted for their want of industry, though they have hardly to turn the soil to ensure a rich harvest. The labourers of Naxos have a privilege which is elsewhere unknown: the employers of labour by custom give their men olive oil with which to make their bread more palatable, and it is a custom which the peasants imperiously claim as their right.

It was a relief to leave the plain, for the mule track was reduced to a muddy torrent-bed by the late rains, and as we ascended the hill we discovered that our muleteers intended to cheat us out of the beautiful villages of Potamia — Upper, Middle, and Lower Potamia — because they feared to cross a stream. The evening was lovely, so we refused to be cheated, and insisted on being conducted up the valley of Drymalià, greatly to their annoyance. We dismounted and started on foot ourselves, leaving our servant to bring on the muleteers as best he could. On our way we stopped at a lovely country house, which was now rather dilapidated, but bearing evidences of bygone wealth. It was quite like a villa in Tuscany, buried in olive and citron groves, and commanding a splendid view up the valley, with the lofty peak of Mount Jupiter for a background, and the rivers and craggy outline of the range which forms the backbone of Naxos. At the bottom of the garden was a little many-coloured ruined church, with its Byzantine dome and arched windows hidden away amongst figs and olives; the lapse of time had given it rich red and yellow streaks: it was a perfect gem for an artist. We were quite enchanted with this villa and its surroundings, the rain-drops on the olive trees sparkled like jewels in the bright evening light, and the tall brown reeds waved gracefully over the pond before the gentle breeze. In summer time a retreat like this, when the dust and heat of Athens parches everything that lives, would be a paradise.

The three villages of Potamia climb up the hillside from a river, which gives them their name, and which certainly did not warrant our muleteers' desire to avoid it. It was really ridiculous to see these great, strong men standing on the brink of the stream, which at most would not take them above their knees, and saying that they feared to take cold. At length one of them, braver than the others, took off his shoes and stockings and led the mules across until we were all high and dry on the other side, and soon we found ourselves halting for the night in the village of Mesopotamia.

Everything around was luxuriantly fertile; maidenhair, Cretan moss, and wild flowers innumerable lined the path, though it was but a few days after Christmas; and orange and citron orchards, heavy with fruit, covered the slopes; above these towered in sombre dignity a few tall fir trees and cypresses, up the stems of which the vines are trained, like ivy in Ireland. Rocks of fantastic shapes mingled with the verdure, and behind the three villages rose a deserted fortress of mediaeval times. By the side of our rocky path an angry stream bounded, and now and again the path itself was turned into a watercourse, up which the mules had much difficulty in making their way. Certainly these ‘river villages’ were seen to the greatest advantage when approached, as was now the case, by a cataract.

We came to a halt at a dirty house, where we had to sit for hours, whilst a palace, they said, was being prepared for our reception, and where lots of people came in to see us, unpleasant, rascally-looking people, of a different type to any we had as yet seen in the Cyclades. They constantly plied us with coffee, raki, and sweets as we waited for the hen we had purchased to be boiled, and they played persistently for our benefit on the syravlion, or panpipe, and the drum. When shepherds play the panpipe on the hillside it is romantic enough: the instrument is a simple one, just two reeds hollowed out and placed side by side in a larger reed; straws run up the smaller reeds, and there are the necessary blowholes: but in a tiny cottage the shrill sound of the syravlion accompanied by a drum almost drove us wild, tired and hungry as we were, so we had to pretend to headaches and ask for repose.

Our palace was at length ready: it was the summer residence of a Greek from the town, who had left the key in charge of the village blacksmith, and in summer, I dare say, it might be a charming residence, with its hanging gardens and balconies covered with creepers and vines; but then there was not a pane of glass in the whole house, nothing but ill-fitting shutters to keep out the rain and wind. A bed was rigged up for us, in a storeroom full of oranges, by placing a mattress on some boards, which mattress felt as if it had been made of walnuts; and the rain poured in from the roof, so that our waterproofs and umbrellas were again in requisition. Next morning it rained again, but not too heavily to prevent our climbing up to the mediaeval camp above Upper Potamia.

This fortress, which commands the two fertile valleys of Drymalia and Trajaia, is built on a rocky eminence, which has evidently served a similar purpose for centuries, and is, in fact, the acropolis of the Naxiote valleys. There are remains of an old Hellenic wall upon it, of which I could only trace about twenty feet, but by far the greater part of the buildings are of the Venetian epoch, and point to its having been a stronghold of the Sanudo family. Just below the summit is a hot spring in a field; this, the peasant who acted as our guide told us, was once the bath of the queen of the ancient Greeks. ‘What was her name?’ I asked, hoping to find some trace of the legend of Ariadne. ‘I don't know,’ was the reply, ‘but my uncle, the schoolmaster, does.’ On returning to Mesopotamia I sought out the old man, and he was very positive that the queen's name was Aphaidra; which disappointed me and gave me no clue whatsoever as to the origin of the tradition.

Close to this spot a labouring man found a jar of Byzantine coins, and in connection with a church at the top of the rock a tradition exists, which excites the Potamiotes immensely whenever they think of it — namely, that a pirate some years ago killed the priest of this church, because he refused to tell him where he had buried his treasures. Periodically the peasants have a fit of digging for this hidden treasure, for it is known that during the war of independence everyone buried everything he had that was valuable, and the occasional discovery of some of these things, the owners of which have died and left no clue behind, tends to keep up the excitement. Hiding money in the ground was the favourite bank of rich men of business in ancient days, as we learn from the plea urged by the guardians of the younger Demosthenes, to account for the non-production of money bequeathed by the elder.

From the summit of this old camp we had a most repaying view over the two valleys. Trajaia is a lovely spot, with seven prosperous villages, nestling under the shadow of Mount Jupiter, and covered with olive trees. From here only distant glimpses of the sea can be got. It seemed by far the most inland spot we had yet visited in the Cyclades.

The people of Potamia are most superstitious about this ancient camp, and believe it to be the haunt of uncanny animals. One day our guide, Maratris by name, said he was out shooting hares, when he saw a lamb rolling down the hill and making a noise as if it was pulling a chain after it; on approaching the lamb took the form of an ox. Another time he saw phantasms in the shape of sows rushing wildly down the hill and disappearing in a swamp. It appeared that many similar stories are attached to this spot, about bears and other savage animals having been seen thereon, and terrifying the inhabitants, who would not for worlds pass the night near it, and invest it with all sorts of horrors.

We did not like the Potamiotes at all, for, in spite of all their protestations of hospitality, their demands for payment were atrociously exorbitant; that afternoon before starting we had an exciting scene, and only by threatening to return to Naxia, and have the extortioners put in prison, could we get away; it was positively the only place during our island wanderings where we had any difficulty of this kind.

The afternoon was again lovely after the morning rain, and the gigantic olive trees in the vale of Trajaia were sparkling in the sunshine. In this valley, too, there are evident traces of ancient occupation, and it is supposed to take its name from Apollo Trajios, who was worshipped here. Chalki is the chief town of the district, and in the house of Gabalas, of Chalki, we took up our abode. Gabalas was a man of exceedingly jovial tendency, and on the refusal of our muleteers to accompany us further he volunteered his services in getting together another team for us, of which he was to be the leader. He came from Crete, he said, when quite young, and was ready to go back there again as soon as the Turks had left it; meanwhile he managed, with his wife and son, to get along pretty well at Chalki. Not that his house was by any means a paradise, for under his only bed, which was given up to us, they kept a perfect menagerie of cocks, and hens, and lambs, which sent up by no means a savoury odour to our nostrils; but they were afraid of leaving them out of doors for fear of the robbers of Apeiranthos, and had nowhere better to put them. These robbers from the mountains seem to be the bane of the villages of Naxos.

Chalki seems to have been a place of considerable importance in mediaeval days, and the Church of St John here is the oldest Christian building in the island: it is curious in formation, with a long porch with three Gothic arches on either side, about fifty feet long, and having no roof to it now, but a vine trailing over it: this seems to be a mediaeval addition. Inside the building is strictly Byzantine: you enter a narrow narthex with arches on either side, which lead into two dark collateral chapels; between the narthex and the choir is a narrow space with a waggon roof; over the choir is a dome covered with frescoes. The front of this church has a stepped edging.

All around Chalki are ruins of churches, dating from the middle ages, hidden away and buried in the olive groves; one of them, dedicated to St. George, is especially picturesque, being covered with ivy, and over the archway into the nave is a very long old Hellenic inscription; also there are several traces of an ancient temple — perhaps that of Apollo Trajios. But these churches are now for the most part disused and falling into ruins, as also are the large towers, where once lived the Venetian proprietors around Chalki. It is a place of the past, but very lovely in its decay.

Gabalas treated us to his best fare. In addition to the usual fowl, we had a pilaff of snails; that is to say, snails boiled with rice and oil, which formed a most excellent dish. Our host revelled in them, and as he busily extricated them with a pin from their shells he propounded to us a Naxiote riddle, at which he laughed a great deal, and was surprised at our guessing it quite easily :–

Gabalas was full of life as he accompanied us on our road towards Philoti on the morrow; this is the last village in the vale of Trajaia, and just under Mount Jupiter; and here we were given a large Venetian tower all to ourselves with a commanding view, the lower storey of which was a pigsty, the top storey a dovecote, and in the room next to ours we were alarmed by strange noises in the night, and on looking in we found two sheep put there for safety. But the rain did not penetrate through the dovecote, and we were thankful to be once more dry; also they gave us a large brazier full of charcoal, with which we were tolerably successful in drying our clothes. Our prospects of food, too, were good, for we met a man with his pockets full of woodcock and partridges, all of which we bought at the rate of sixpence a piece, and could not be got to feel that we had been greatly cheated when Papa Eleutherios, a priest who took us under his special care, told us we had paid twice too much. Papa Eleutherios installed himself in our tower as head cook; he took off his cassock, and forthwith set to work to pluck our treasures: he was the pattern of good-nature, and rushed all over Philoti in search of comforts for us, and refused to allow us to buy loaves at a drachma apiece. ‘Far too dear!’ he said, and he ran off to get us some of the sacred bread (ártos ^gr) which is presented by the faithful to the priest (This word ártos ^gr, by the way, is one of the many instances of the preservation of an old word through Church influence, psomí ^gr being the common word for bread.)

After our meal the priest came out with us to show us the lions. Philoti is a large village, crowning twin heights, with an ugly new Greek church in the declivity between. As we were climbing up one of the heights we heard terrible language issuing from a shed where some women were grinding corn with simple but quaint hand-mills, namely, two heavy round stones, the upper one of which works on a pivot attached to a stick a yard and a half long, which is fixed into a wooden fork in the wall so loosely that it can be revolved with ease by pressing on the stick.

The women had stopped their grinding, and were listening with awe to the declamations of an old grey-haired hag, who was telling a pitiful tale of how robbers from Apeiranthos the night before had broken into her yard and tried to steal her pigs, which squeaked so loudly that she woke, and frightened the robbers away, but not before one of her pigs had been slain. Nothing would satisfy the old woman but that we should return with her to her house, view the scene of the intended robbery, and lay her case before the authorities on our return to the capital.

Everywhere in Naxos they have a bad word for the people of Apeiranthos; a village of robbers, we were told it was, away in the mountains. It was to be our next halting place after leaving Philoti, so we were concerned at all the evil reports we had heard; for, say they, a man of Apeiranthos is clever enough to steal the sole off your boot, or the hat off your head, without your knowing it; and the facetious Naxiotes tell an ill-natured legend about these people with great gusto, namely, that Apeiranthos was a Cretan colony; that Barabbas was a Cretan ; and that after his delivery from prison he returned home, where he behaved so badly that the Cretans drove him away: so he came to Naxos and founded the colony of Apeiranthos.

By the time we got to the old woman's house we were almost out of breath, for she lived at the extreme summit of one of the heights in a funny desolate cottage, with furniture of a primitive kind, absolutely nothing worth stealing except her pig. However we saw here for the first time a speciality of Philoti, namely, a syphon with which wine is drawn out of the large jars in which they keep it. After the wine is put in they cover the jars over with a coating of clay into which a syphon is stuck, so constructed that you can fill it by suction; you then pour it out of the hole you have sucked and use the end that has been introduced into the jar for a handle.

The following morning (for a wonder!) was beautiful, and at earliest dawn the inhabitants of Philoti appeared on their flat roofs. I thought they must all be mad at first, for they were occupied in kicking about what appeared to me to be the marble pillars of some ancient temple; but I soon discovered that each roof was provided with a round marble roller, and that every woman was kicking hers about to press the mud roof, which the late rains had disturbed.

To-day with a prospect of fine weather we determined to make the tour of Mount Jupiter — Mount Zia, as they call it now. Naxos in former ages was called Zia, and on a large stone on the northern slope of the mountain we read the following inscription in ancient characters: OROS DIOS MILISIOT ^gr (the mountain of Milesian Jupiter). It is a peaked conical mountain, only 3,290 feet in height, but as it rises almost straight from the sea-level it appears exceedingly lofty. Its slopes are rugged and covered with the holly oak (Ilex aquifolium), with the prickly leaves of which the peasants feed their cattle. We first climbed up to a steep cave, which goes deep into the heart of the mountain: at its entrance is an altar called the ‘church of Zia,’ where a priest goes once a year in the summer time and holds a liturgy for the mountain shepherds; around it are a few incense pots and bits of wood which have been sacred pictures in days gone by. At this altar a shepherd is accustomed to swear to his innocence if another charges him with having stolen a sheep or a goat. An oath by the altar of Zia is held very sacred by the mountaineers, and is an earnest of innocence. It is curious still to find the actual word Zeus ^gr existing in this form, and the idea of a supreme God has been transferred from Zeus to the present religious tenets. ‘God is shaking His hair,’ say the peasants when there is an earthquake, as if He were the Olympus-throned Zeus of the ‘Iliad.’ This cave and mountain of Jupiter, I have little doubt, had much to do with the ancient worship of Jupiter. The old myth related how the king of the gods was brought from his birthplace in Crete to Naxos, where he was brought up, and from whence he removed to take up his kingdom on Olympus. We have seen the above-mentioned inscription, the cave with the altar still in it; is it not highly probable that this is the cave in which Zeus was supposed I to have spent his youth? It runs a very long way into the rock, and we had it lighted up for us by brushwood, but it contains nothing remarkable, save a spring of hot water, which in ancient times may have given rise to superstition. A local tradition says that once upon a time all the inhabitants of Philoti took refuge here from Saracen marauders who followed them, and by making a fire at the mouth of the cave they suffocated them all.

Leaving the peaky summit of Mount Zia to our left — for as midday came on clouds began to gather around the summit, and it was useless to make the ascent — we joined a path which leads from Philoti to Panormos, just close to a well of excellent water, shaded by a plantain tree, and called leugaléon ^gr, a word rare in later classical times, but used in the ‘Odyssey’ xvi. 273, and by Sophocles, where it is explained as meaning ‘moist’ or ‘rainy.’

The tower ‘of the winter torrent’ (Cheίmarros) ^gr is on this road to Panormos: it is round and of white marble, and is principally worthy of notice from its spiral staircase, but is in no way so perfect as those of Andros and Amorgos. Having seen this we returned by another road to Philoti, thus making the entire circuit of Mount Zia.

Next morning we started for that dreaded haunt of robbers, Apeiranthos. The road led over a spur of mountains which joins Mount Jupiter with Mount Koronon, and divides Naxos into two districts — the bright and sunny vales of Drymalia and Trajaia on one side, and the bleak northern villages of Apeiranthos, Komiakè, and Bothrò on the other. As we descended on the village Barabbas is supposed to have founded, we could not help thinking that, for nefarious purposes, he had chosen well, being, as it is, far off from the haunts of men, and overlooking from a rocky eminence a fairly fertile valley, by which the sea could easily be approached.

We had a letter of introduction to the chief legal functionary of the place, the demarch, or, as our friend in Naxia said, ‘the chief robber’; so we thought that we should at all events be in good quarters in this den of thieves. Whilst this letter was being delivered we stood in the little agora with our eyes firmly fixed on our luggage. ‘The reports' are true,’ we thought as we looked around us; for never have I seen a wilder, more forbidding set of people than the men of Apeiranthos as they gathered round and stared at us. The town is high, faces north, and is extremely cold; so each man had on a huge brown greatcoat, with hair outside and a rim of red inside; some had their hoods pulled over their heads; others had their cloaks hanging loosely around them, and showing a powerful physique. Altogether they resembled conspirators in a chorus, and made us regret having ventured amongst them. Another curious and marked type of these men was their large noses, which they screwed up when they laughed, and which increased their sinister appearance.

Our misgivings were soon dissipated by the kindness of the demarch and his brother, whose hospitality knew no bounds; yet we could not help noticing that the windows were closely barred, and that when they went out with us they gave special instructions to the women to look after our things.

‘You see,’ said the demarch, ‘there are some bad people amongst us, who live by piracy, though of late years their number has been greatly reduced. But it will be long before we lose the name of being the worst people in the island. Everywhere the Naxiotes have a bad name, and you have come amongst the worst of the Naxiotes.’ He laughed at this confession, and I think we felt our confidence entirely restored by his frankness.

The Apeiranthiotes are thrifty and well-to-do; they have comfortable houses, far better than the other Naxiote villagers. Many of them have made money abroad, and returned to spend it in their mountain home. They have quantities of lovely red silk embroidery amongst them, Cretan work, which points to their origin; for doubtless there is this much truth in the Barabbas story that Apeiranthos was colonised by Cretans at the time of one of the numerous revolutions which have driven away so many from there, and the ill-will, and perhaps jealousy, of their neighbours — for nowhere in the Cyclades are the Cretan refugees popular — have invented the tradition about Barabbas.

There is much that is quaint about this people: they speak a marked dialect, with ancient forms and words, which we met with nowhere else; they use the ancient form of the plural, that is to say, they will say tragoudoúsi ^gr (they sing) instead of the usual tragoudoún ^gr; and the shepherds of Apeiranthos wear a wonderful garb, which they call rasovrakás ^gr, which rather resembles two sacks of flannel fastened together than trousers; their shoes are sewn together with strings of goat's hide, round their waist they wear a cotton vest wound round and round their bodies, and skin caps on their heads.

In many of their houses we saw the lyre, the forminx ^gr of the ancients, still bearing its ancient name — a pretty little instrument, about half a yard long, of pear wood, such as they play, as a rule, at the village dances, which take place in the little square under the plantain tree. ‘If you will only stay over Christmas you shall see one of our dances,’ said the demarch; but even this did not tempt us to prolong our stay amongst the robbers. Inside the houses struck us as tidier than many we had seen: ornaments always adorned the best table — atrocious things, though they were from Europe — or gourds like cottage loaves, dried scarlet, with streaks of yellow and green: and our host gave us regular Russian tea out of a brass tea-urn, and other arrangements, which he had brought back with him from Russia. Nowhere in Naxos is embroidery so common as here: the beds are trimmed with it, the towels are smart enough for antimacassars: this gives an air of prosperity to the place and gratifies the eye.

Apeiranthos is a large village of romantic aspect, with houses built on the edges of precipices, and above it towers Mount Fanari, another peak of the Naxiote range. The houses are, for the most part, yellow with a peculiar lichen. The streets are tortuous and narrow, so constituted that when pirates came the inhabitants could baffle anyone who attempted to enter their labyrinths. As for hospitality these people are unequalled, and our host was desperately insulted at a hint of any remuneration for his kindness; as we rode away they filled our pockets with nuts and figs, and gave us a bottle of delicious raki to warm us on our road; and we wanted it, too, for about two hours after leaving Apeiranthos our road ascended almost to the summit of Mount Fanari, where we were exposed to the hail and a biting wind, and were lost in mist. The Naxiote mountains in winter are anything but enjoyable — wild and desolate, with just a few eagles soaring in the air now and again; rare birds in the islands though common enough on the mainland. Be careful when you see one to pass him on your right; it is considered unlucky in Greece to see an eagle on your left. Presently we came to a particularly gusty spot. Gabalas informed us that this spot was called, as it justly deserved, ‘the dancing place of the winds’ (anemochóreftra ^gr). ‘And this is how they dance,’ he said, as he went through some of the wild evolutions of the syrtos for our benefit, which has in it so much of the ancient Pyrrhic dance; and very funny he looked as he impersonated the antics of the winds in the mist on the mountain-top. The Greeks have still the same vivid imagination as of old, and love to personify the mysterious.

We left the village of Bothrò below us, close to which the emery mines of Naxos lie, and we reached Komiakè late in the afternoon. This is the highest village in the island, and for the two days we remained there we were perpetually in a mist. The village is only approached by roads which cross over the summit of the mountain; sometimes for a fortnight at a time no one can get to or from the village in the winter, owing to falls of snow. I must say I felt very uneasy all the time we were there lest this ill luck should befall us; a fortnight amongst the robbers would be preferable.

The only decent house in the village of Komiakè belongs to the demarch, Konstantinides, whom we had met in Naxia, and who had bid us stay at his house if we visited his village. He was away when we arrived, but his pretty daughter Athenà received us with the best possible grace, whilst we, with what seemed to us unparalleled effrontery, turned her father's house inside out. It is quite the fashion in Greece for travellers to act like young Marlow in ‘She Stoops to Conquer,’ only in this case you deliberately turn your host's house into an inn without the excuse of having mistaken it for one. We ordered our own meals; we sent for more ashes in the brazier whenever it got low; our muleteers sat in a row in the parlour; and Gabalas, to our horror, treated Miss Athenà in what we thought a horribly familiar manner. But there is no distinction of class in these parts, the dirtiest yokel who comes in is asked to sit down, and given a glass of raki, by the head lady of the place. Gabalas took off his boots and stockings in the drawing room to dry them at the brazier, otherwise, he said, he should catch a cold in his feet (podiázo ^gr); and then in walked a miserable fever-stricken peasant to beg for quinine, shivering and wet through with the mist. He could not resist the sight of the warm brazier, so he drew up a chair and joined our circle, to the surprise of no one.

Komiakè is but a miserable village of mountain shepherds: the houses are perfect hovels where the families live with their pigs, their cocks and hens, and their store of wood, whilst the baby's only cradle is the pig-trough. We went into many of them, and found their inhabitants truly primitive folk. Nowhere is the belief in Kalkagári more prevalent than here; evil spirits which appear on earth for ten days only in the year, from Christmas to Epiphany. An old hag we visited gave us a curious account of them. During these ten days these spirits dwell in caves, subsisting, like the Amazons of old, on snakes and lizards, and sometimes women for a treat if they can entrap them; at night they dance till cockcrow, and enter houses by the chimneys. So a careful housewife is bound during this time to keep embers smouldering all night on her hearth, otherwise the Kalkagàri will get in and spoil all the things in the house with their dirty tricks. The priests only have the power of driving them away by blessing the houses as they do on Christmas Day, and then when Epiphany comes these creatures are forced to flee underground, taking before they go a hack at the tree which supports the world, and which one day they will cut through. They are personified as being of evil shapes — huge men with goats' or asses' feet and wooden shoes, and when they stand erect their heads are higher than the highest chimney. In short, they are the modern representatives of the satyrs (dísmorfoi aigípodes ^gr).

Next day, in spite of the mist and rain in which Komiakè was enshrouded, we set off to visit the unfinished colossal statue of Apollo, which lies near the sea, at the foot of the mountain. Soon after leaving the village we emerged from the mist and had a glorious day. The path led through a fertile valley, where some of the finest orange trees in Naxos grow on a property belonging chiefly to our host, the demarch.

Down by the sea is the marble hill of Naxos, which was worked as a quarry by the ancients, and close to which are numerous traces of antiquity — steps down to the sea, Ionic columns, &c. On one side of the hill is cut in old letters OROS CHORIOT G…APOLLONOS ^gr. Hence the hill is still known as Apollo’s Hill, and the unfinished statue as one of Apollo. It lies at full length in the quarry, out of which it has been hewn. From the sole of the feet to the crown of the head it is thirty-four feet long, across the chest it is sixty-eight inches, and eighty inches is the length of the arm from shoulder to elbow. It has evidently been intended for an erect, naked statue; the left foot is a little advanced, the arms from the shoulder to the elbow rest on the side, and are then stretched across the breast, which is very prominent. Locks of hair hang over the forehead, and at the chin a piece of marble has been left, as if for a beard. It is all unfinished, but quite sufficiently advanced for one to be able to trace every limb; and very huge it looks as it lies on its back in the quarry, surrounded by mastic and shrubs. It is, of course, mere speculation to argue about its intended destination. Was it intended to replace the Naxiote statue of Apollo at Delos, which had been destroyed? Was it never finished because the marble was found to be imperfect; for it is obvious that the piece was not a good one, though it may have deteriorated with time and exposure; or was it unfinished because some war or pestilence came to put an end to their work? Curiously enough, in Naxos I saw several unfinished statues. I was shown one of a woman at Potamia, and another has been found lately at Melanes; Ross says he also saw one: so it seems as if there had been a cause for this, which now we cannot tell.

After a warm, pleasant day spent down by the shore we returned to our mist and our damp at Komiakè.

There was loud grief and lamentation in one of the houses next morning; some parents had lost a child of two years old — the fourth of the same poor family which had sickened and died — so they thought some spirit (stoicheίon ^gr) must haunt their dwelling, and that they must move. How anybody could live there at all, I wondered; for the floor was muddy and in puddles, the roof was dripping, and the whole accommodation for the family was this one room, and yet they were surprised that their children dropped off from cold and colic, and put it down to supernatural causes.

The funeral and the wailing were to be at ten; and curiosity prompted me to go. The mother was sitting in a corner howling as I entered. ‘O my darling, why hast thou gone? who has cursed us? what evil spirit haunts my dwelling, that my children should die?’ Her miserable wail of ‘O paidáki mou ^gr (O my little child)’ haunted me for days. Presently in walked the old grandmother, with a sack on her head, to join in the lamentation; and as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of the hovel I became aware that the dead baby lay on a box in one corner of the room, tied up like a bundle in a sheet. Shortly after my arrival the hired lamenter, the moerologista, entered and commenced her howl in simple poetic words:–

‘To-day the heavens are darkened, the sun is obscured; to-day the child is cut off from his parents. It was not a tree that you could fell it, it was not a flower that it should fall; but it was a weak young tendril, which twined itself around their hearts.’

Piercing and heart-rending were the shrieks that the parents uttered at these words, and as they subsided the moerologista continued:–

‘Would that I could descend to Hades, and gnash my teeth, for, lo! the worms of the earth to-day have joy. Whenever I think of thee, my darling, whenever my mind ponders on this grief, as the sea I am disturbed, as a wave my mind is troubled!’

By these pathetic strains the grief of the poor parents was nurtured; they tore their hair, they beat their breasts in their anguish until the priests came, and a table was spread with oranges, figs, and mastic, which refreshments were handed round to all present. Here at Komiakè a Christianised form of the old classical ‘obolos for Charon,’ the freight money, is still maintained, and still bears the ancient name of navlon ^gr; it is not a coin as in olden days, but a little wax cross with the initial letters I. X. N. (Iesous Christós Nika ^gr Jesus Christ conquers) engraved thereon; and this they put on the closed lips of the deceased.

Thus is it that Christianity has introduced into its ritual pagan rites. If you go into any cottage in Komiakè, and question the people about Charon, they will tell you with implicit faith, nothing hesitating, that he lives in Hades, a frozen spot (pagaméno méros ^gr), where he hunts and chases his victims on a spectre horse to prevent their escape. Christianity has added to mythology by introducing on the scenes a personage called Charon's mother, doubtless from the analogy of the virgin mother of our Lord, who intercedes for sinners; so Charon's mother is personified as a sweet, tender woman who intercedes with her bloodthirsty son, and checks his murderous hand, saying, ‘Take not the baby from its mother; take not the newly married bride who wears her wedding garland.’ ^note There are prayers to this mother of Charon very touching and pathetic in their expressions.

When once we had left Komiakè behind us, and crossed the mountain barrier, we breathed freely again. No more fear of being snowed up in those villages, lost away behind the Naxiote mountains; and as we approached the sea-level the air became genial and warm once more. I do not wonder at the ancient dislike of mountains — cold in winter, hot in summer, and shutting out those sea breezes which temper the climate in every season. We stopped for refreshments at the monastery of Phaneroméne, where the old monks observe a rigid discipline, and do not admit ladies within their walls. The strict rule of Mount Athos is maintained here, and my wife contemplated a dreary rest on the doorstep; but the oekonomos ^note was tender-hearted, and said that as she was an exceptional traveller he would make an exception in her favour. It was amusing to see how timid the monks were at this intrusion; they would not hand her anything, but always got one of us to do it; and when she offered to shake hands on leaving they just looked at her and bowed stiffly. They have in their possession the most miraculous picture in Naxos, which was found, they told me, in the ground by the sailors of a ship who were fleeing from the fall of Constantinople in 1453, and who were attracted to this spot by a mysterious light.

The oekonomos did the honours of the place during the absence of his superior, showed us the treasures, and regaled us with coffee, nuts, and sweets.

The village of Engarrais was to be our destination for the night, the chief of several tiny hamlets on a plain to the west of the island, surrounded on all sides by hills. This little plain is one large orange garden divided into lots by hedges of tall reeds; these reeds, when fully grown, they cut down and use for making the ceilings of their flat-roofed houses. In Lesbos this reed is still called nártheka (nárthex) ^gr, a survival of the old word for the reed by which Prometheus brought down fire from heaven. One can understand the idea well: a peasant to-day who wishes to carry a light from one house to another will put it into one of these reeds to prevent its being blown out.

The best house in the hamlet belonged to the priest, so accordingly we made for it; and he received us kindly. Papa Andréas was a widower, not forty yet, rotund and cheery, and he told us that evening, with a sigh, how priests in the orthodox Church were only allowed, to marry once, and this one marriage must take place before they are actually ordained. Papa Andréas looked as if he wanted a wife to look after him; his long gown was green and greasy with age and neglect; his plait of hair, which well-regulated Papas usually fasten up with hairpins, was generally to be seen hanging down his back like a pigtail, or if not it was tucked into his tall hat, and stood out behind like the handle of a teapot. He walked about on tip-toe, smiling benignly upon us, and his ideas of the duties of a host knew no bounds. His eldest daughter wandered listlessly about with a baby in her arms; she was married, and a mother, and only sixteen. ‘This is not my first baby,’ she said on our noticing it; ‘I had another before this, which was far more beautiful.’ Here it is the custom for children to marry at a very early age, and the priest said that when his wife died he got his daughter married as soon as he could, that she might have somebody to look after her.

After we had dined most of the inhabitants of Engarrais came in, and the priest gave a little dance in our honour. One of their local dances, here called the tirlà, is interesting, being danced by men and women in a semicircle, with their hands on each other's shoulders. The step is much the same as a mazurka, backwards and forwards, but the charm of it is the singing, which the dancers carry on in parts as they move to the tune of a syravlion and drum; this dance must resemble very much the ancient órmos ^gr, which, as Lucian remarks, presented a chain of intertwined manly courage and female modesty.

The next dance they performed for us was very extraordinary and wild in its character; they call it ‘the dance of the Kalkagári,’ those unearthly spirits of which we had heard so much at Komiakè. Two active men dance it together, with a rapid jig step, stooping and gesticulating at each other; one bobs down as he dances and passes under the leg of the other, backwards, forwards, round and round, and then one of them pretends to fall down dead on the floor, whilst his companion dances stealthily around him, over his legs and body, making comical gestures as he does so; then finally raises him up, and they both go on dancing as before. No wonder in their vivid imagination the peasants believe that the Kalkagari dance this weird, unearthly dance, whereas the lovely winged Nereids are supposed to be for ever whirling round and round in the graceful syrtos.

This last dance seemed to excite the spirits of the men for gymnastic exercises, and it was forthwith proposed to play athletic games for our amusement, such games as they play in carnival times and festivals amongst themselves.

The first game they played was a rough species of morra called pósa ^gr (how many?). Six men were playing it, three on each side; the three on one side were the beasts of burden (ta zóa ^gr), that is to say, they turned their backs to the other three, who jumped upon them. Having done this one of the riders puts one hand over the eyes of his beast and the other in the air, with some fingers extended, and cries pósa ^gr (how many?). When all three beasts of burden have guessed aright they change places with their riders and guess in their turn. They laugh and jest a great deal at this game, and when a beast of burden is stupid he receives sundry boxes on the ears and general rough treatment from his rider. This game has its parallel in the Italian morra, and in the ancient Greek daktýlοn epállaxis ^gr, though not so boisterous, if we may judge from a vase in the Munich Museum.

The game of ‘barrels’ is a most acrobatic one; four of the strongest men — round, sturdy, broad-shouldered men — played it. Two of these went down on their hands and knees, head to head, the two others, folded in each other's arms, turned a somersault on the backs of the others.

‘Cock-fighting’ is another rough game: a man went down on his hands and knees, and the two combatants took up their position on either side of him, and with violent struggles attempted to get through to the other side by the arch which the man had made with his back.

‘The packsaddle’ came next: a man knelt, and two others, grasping each other's feet, fastened themselves around the kneeling man's neck, so that they hung like packsaddles on either side. Then the kneeler arose and whirled them round at a furious pace, until they fell off, amidst the laughter of the spectators.

‘The bee’ was a clever, sharp game; a little fat man played it most admirably. Three men stood in a row with their feet touching, the fat man in the middle, with a loose cap on, buzzed into his hands like a bee, whilst the other two stood with two hands in the air and the two next the bee ready to protect themselves. Then the bee buzzed and buzzed, and bobbed and bobbed, until he saw an opportunity for striking one of his opponents, the game being to knock off the bee's cap before he bobs again after he has administered a blow. Our little fat man was most adroit at this game; his hat was never knocked off, and the blows he administered most frequent; other bees who took his place were by no means so clever.

They kept up these games to a late hour that night, and the priest's house was the scene of unwonted festivity; never since his daughter's marriage, he said, had there been such gaiety in Engarrais. They were a kindly people, and expressed much pleasure at seeing English persons for the first time amongst them. They brought out of their houses everything they had in the way of embroidery or treasures to show us, and amongst other things they brought us the remnants of a curious old costume, called the kolóvia ^gr, consisting of two rows of knitted string, which was stiff enough to stick out at least half a yard behind the wearer; and it was worn by all the women of Engarrais, the priest told us, when he was a boy, underneath their dresses, to make them stand out behind. He was much amused when told that fashionable English ladies wear the same things nowadays, and call them ‘bustles.’ ‘I had thought,’ was his sage reply, ‘that the English were more civilised than we are, and yet our women have abandoned these foolish things these twenty years.’

On quitting Engarrais next day we passed through one of those charming valleys which in Naxos they call a regma — long narrow hollows amongst the cliffs formed by the action of the water. A dashing stream ran through the middle, and on either side rose fantastic rocks; and if it were not for the oleanders, carob trees, and olives one might have fancied one's self in Scotland. This gorge led towards Melanes, a spot of fairylike beauty, buried in a narrow gorge, in a nest of olives, oranges, pomegranates, and cypresses. The village is conspicuous for a tall, dignified Venetian tower, with machicolations and battlements which stand in its midst, and behind are the fantastic peaks of Koronon rising up like the background in one of Titian's pictures.

After quitting Melanes we soon emerged once more into the plain of Naxos, but before returning to the capital we made a little detour southwards to Tripodes, near which place we heard that many Hellenic remains existed. This corner of the island is called the deme, or division, of Biblos — an old name in Naxos, which is thought to have been the name which distinguished the wine called Vivlinos ^gr. Close to Tripodes are many graves and remains, which go by the name of Políchne ^gr; another instance of how old names and old words are still preserved up in the mountains of Naxos. Tripodes did not in itself repay us — rather the reverse, for its position is bare, in a gully leading down from the mountains to the sea: the houses are dirty, and our host, the demarch of the place, kept a most disagreeable wine-shop. Our bedroom was of the worst, without a door of any kind; so that a sheet had to be hung up over it, the existence of which numerous inquisitive dogs and cats entirely ignored. But here occurred an instance of Greek character for which I was not prepared. As we were laughing at dinner, Gabalas, the jocose muleteer, volunteered to give us a lamb if we would return to Chalki, and spend Christmas there. I told him, using a Greek expression, that his promise was in the air; whereat he became indignant, and said he would go all the way to Chalki to fetch it. I must say I did not believe him, and said, to test him, that if he went for the lamb he must bring a handkerchief, too, which we had seen there, and a duplicate of which, I felt sure, could not be found elsewhere. To our intense surprise, he set off in about half an hour. ‘He will not return,’ said the others; but sure enough on the following evening Gabalas turned up with the lamb and the handkerchief at Naxia, having travelled night and day. If all Greeks were like Gabalas the country might have a future yet.

Next morning we rode off to an Hellenic tower, called Plaka, which has guarded one of the most fertile little plains in Naxos. About fifty feet of this tower are left standing, and one window; the tower was nearly square, being ten and a half yards by twelve and a half yards, and stands on a gentle eminence, and is built, as usual, of mortarless stones, long and flat. Close to the tower we saw several graves cut in the rock, and about two hundred yards from the tower is a granite quarry, from whence the stones to build the tower were evidently cut, for we saw the chisel-marks on a gigantic stone here which had been in the process of being cut, and which corresponded exactly to the dimensions of a stone I had measured at the tower — namely, two yards two inches long, twenty-six inches deep, and twelve thick.

There came on just then a terrific storm of hail, and we were unable to prosecute our journey southwards, and, to our regret, we had to leave the tombs and remains of Polichne and Delion unvisited, for our return to Naxia was imperative; bad weather and storm had delayed us enough already. Nowhere except in the mountains of Naxos did we suffer much from rain in the Cyclades; but at Naxos it rained in torrents, and our return journey from Tripodes to Naxia was made in one of these drenching downpours. We stopped for a time in a shoemaker's shop at the small village of Leonides, and we watched the man and his three apprentices hard at work. He said he generally had three apprentices about him, and he explained to us the meaning of a Naxiote proverb otherwise unintelligible, ‘When the quince comes they sit on their stools.’ When winter is coming on, and the time for working by lamplight has come, a Naxiote shoemaker presents his apprentices each with a quince; during winter evenings they work longer on their stools, for there is less to do out of doors, and perhaps less inducement to amuse themselves.

We did a lot of business as we sat in the shoemaker's shop, for we bought a turkey to ensure us against famine in the capital on the morrow, Greek Christmas Day, and we became the happy possessors of some rich red Cretan embroidery which a peasant woman brought for us to see. That evening found us again in our old quarters at Naxia, awaiting the steamer.