th, her lank form with
the lovely slender feet, and her long, thick hair; and at last I should
know (what I do not know now) whether she is beautiful or ugly. On the
shore, too, would appear that galloping woman, who, clothed in copiously
gathered garments which are caught up and tied in the wrong places,
brings in haste a flowered robe to cover her melancholy mistress. Such
are the idle fancies that come as one watches the track of churned
water, like a broad ribbon, stretching from the steamer's stern--water
forever fleeing backward as the boat advances. Scallops of foam sweep
out on each side; their cool fringe dips under a little as the wavelet
which comes from the opposite direction lifts its miniature crest and
curls over in a graceful sweep.

[Illustration: OLIVE GROVE, CORFU]

The voyage northward to Missolonghi is beautiful. The sea was dotted
with white wings. The Greeks are bold sailors; one never observes here
the timidity, the haste to seek refuge anywhere and everywhere, which is
so conspicuous along the Riviera and the western coast of Italy.
Throughout the Ionian archipelago, and it was the same later among the
islands of the AEgean, it was inspiring to note the smallest craft, far
from land, dashing along under full sail, leaning far over as they flew.

Missolonghi is a small abortive Venice, without the gondolas; it is
situated on a lagoon, and a causeway nearly two miles long leads to it,
across the shallow water. Vague and unimportant as it is upon its muddy
shore, it was the soul of the Greek revolution. It has been through
terrible sieges. During one of these Marco Botzaris was in command, and
his grave is outside the western gate. A few years ago all the
school-boys in America could chant his requiem; perhaps they chant it
still. After the death of Botzaris, Byron took five hundred of the
chieftain's needy Suliotes, and formed them into a body-guard, giving
them generous pay. This is but one of many instances. It is the fashion
of the day to paint Byron in the darkest colors. But when you stand in
the squalid, unhealthy little street where he drew his last breath you
realize that he came here voluntarily; that he offered his life if need
be, and, in the end, gave it, to the cause which appealed to him; he did
not stay safely at home and write about it. He died nearly seventy years
ago, but at Missolonghi he is very real and very present still--with his
red coat, and his bravery and penetration.