Then, with light and fearless spirit,
Prejudice he dared to brave,
Hunting back the lying craven
To her black sulphureous cave.

Followed by his servile minions,
That old Giant Custom rose,
Yet he too at last was conquered
By the good Knight's weighty blows.

Then he turned, and flushed with victory,
Struck upon the brazen shield
Of the world's great king, Opinion,
And defied him to the field.

Once again he rose a conqueror,
And though wounded in the fight,
With a dying smile of triumph
Saw that Truth had gained her right.

On his failing ear re-echoing
Came the shouting round her throne;
Little cared he that no future
With her name would link his own.

Spent with many a hard-fought battle,
Slowly ebbed his life away,
And the crowd that flocked to greet her
Trampled on him where he lay.

Gathering all his strength, he saw her
Crowned, and reigning in her pride:
Looked his last upon her beauty,
Raised his eyes to God, and died.

THE ROVING ENGLISHMAN.

A GREEK GIRL.

SUE is a baggy damsel with a quaint sly
face, and her principal occupation is that of a
maid of all work.

But she is dressed to-day; it is St.
Somebody's feast, and everybody is idling
away their time in consequence. It was
St. Whatshisname's day the day before
yesterday, and it will be St. Whoist's day
the day alter to-morrow. Though our
balloon clad young acquaintance is idling
it is with a busy idleness; for she has
been occupied ever since eight o'clock
this morning in carrying about fruit,
jellies, and sweetmeats, with strong raw
spirits in gilded glasses, and little cups of
unstrained coffee. A very singular and
amusing picture she makes, as she stands bolt
upright, tray in hand before her father's
guests. She is pretty. Yes, there is no
doubt of that; but she has done almost
everything possible to disfigure herself.
Though certainly not seventeen, with the
rich clear complexion of the Greeks, she is
rouged up to the very eyes. Where she is
not rouged, she is whitened. Her eye-
brows are painted, and she has even found
means to introduce some black abomination
under her eyelids to make the eye
look larger. Her hair would be almost
a marvel if left to itself: but she has twisted
it, and plaited it, woven gold coins into it,
and tied it up with dirty handkerchiefs and
gummed and honied it, till every tress has
grown distorted and angry. Her ears are
in themselves as sly and coquettish a pair of
ears as need be; and they peep out beneath
her tortured locks as if they would rather
like to have a game at bo-peep than otherwise:
but they are literally torn half an inch
longer than they should be by an enormous
pair of Mosaic ear-rings bought of a pedlar.
Her hands might have been nice once, for
they are still small; but they are as tough
as horn and as red as chaps can make them,
with sheer hard work, scrubbing and washing
about the house. All Greek women I think
have been mere housewives since the time of
Andromache. Her figure is, if possible, more
generally baggy than her trousers. It bulges
out in the most extraordinary bumps and
fulness. A short jacket—as much too small
for her as the brigand attire of Mr. Keeley
of the Theatre-Royal Adelphi—does not
make this general plumpness less remarkable;
and she has a superfluity of clothes, which
reminds one of the late King Christophe's.
idea of full dress. Numerous, however, as are
the articles of wearing apparel she has put on,
they all terminate with the trousers, which
are looped up just below the knee. The rest
of the leg and feet are bare, and hard, and
plump, and purple, and chapped almost
beyond belief, even in the fine piercing cold
of a Greek February.

Her mind is a mere blank. Her idea
of life is, love making, cleaning the house,
serving coffee, and rouging herself on
festival days. She cannot read or write,
or play the piano; but she can sing and
dance. She can talk too, though never
before company. No diplomatist can touch
her in intrigue or invention. Not even
Captain Absolute's groom could tell a falsehood
with more composure. She does not know
what it is to speak the truth; and, to use a
Greek saying, she is literally kneaded up with
tricks. The Greek girl has no heart, no
affections. She is a mere lump of flesh and
calculation. Her marriage is quite an affair
of buying and selling. It is arranged by her
friends. They offer to give a house (that is
indispensable), and so much to whoever will
take her off their hands. By and by, somebody
comes to do so; the priests are called,
there is a quaint strange ceremony, and he is
bound, by fine, to perform his promise. This
fine is usually ten per cent, on the fortune
which was offered him with the lady.

I have said she can talk, but she can only
talk of and to her neighbours; and she
spends her evenings chiefly in sitting singing
in the doorway, and watching them. This
she does herself; but she has a little ally (a
chit of a girl about seven years old, and
looking forty, that you meet in the houses of
all the islanders), who is on the look-out all
day. No one ever enters a Greek house but
the neighbourhood knows it. All down the
street, and in the next, and everywhere, those