not find a man in the village who will dig a new grave in that spot.

In the days I recall the art of writing was not generally practised. Professional scribes undertook for the publie the little they needed in this way. We have a strange old legal document here with ninety signatures, of which seven only are autographs. The remainder are marks-a bird, a dog, a wheel, an axe or mere hieroglyphics or impenetrable cyphers. But every generation was becoming more literate than the last. The time of horn-books arrived: the universal dominion of the tally or notched stick (though sometimes used to this day in Wessex) began to be invaded by arithmetic on paper. Even the hour-glass became less needed as parish clocks increased in number. So village and grammar schools multiplied and were patronized, though their curriculum was often a quaint mixture of mental instruction and manual work-to my thinking, no bad mixture either. Yet one Mrs. Roche, wife of the then parson of our next parish, lost her suit when it was shown that a child, who had been summarily removed from her care, had been placed with her "to be bred up and taught the needle" and not to be utilized as a handmaid.

On the other hand there was great laxity, as we should say, in some directions. Cock-fighting was a recognized school-game; and the masters used to defray the cost of the birds and add the items to their account against the parents. Several schools in our county and in those adjacent kept packs of hounds, and a holiday to enable the boys to see a man hanged was granted as a matter of course. And here are one or two items from a bill delivered by the mistress of a girls' school of the period. They are those of a young Wessex lady who went to a boarding-school in Surrey. She was charged nineteen shillings and sixpence

for "firing" during the winter half; among other things, she had to purchase a bolt for her door, soap and starch, calico to line her stockings, a basin, toothpicks and pattens. The materials, including the parchment, for her sampler, cost three and sixpence. The sampler, of course, was the great achievement she took home at the end of the half year to demonstrate the inestimable benefit of the education she was receiving.

But in days when the patch was worn, and in spite of much that went to their discomfort, the Wessex ladies were not wanting in spirit or beauty. Let me close these reminiscences of the west country by telling the story of a Wessex gentlewoman who was as rich as she was beautiful. Being an heiress, she had a prescriptive right to be whimsical; but she had been besieged so hotly by the modish Cupid of that day and had refused so many offers for her person and her possessions, that the amorous and spendthrift gallants, finding that to bedizen arm and leg with love-knots availed them nothing, declared her invulnerable.

But

at last it chanced that being present at a great marriage in the county town she met a gentleman, a briefless member of the Temple, to whom fell the fortune of "filling her eye."

So

Wessex beauties, however, hold views of their own on courtship. she conveyed by a trusty messenger a challenge to this stranger to fight a duel to the death in what was really her own demesne. Without knowing whence the challenge came or wherefore-the times were feckless-the stranger kept the appointment; but can we conceive his astonishment when he discovered his opponent to be a masked lady of whom, of course, he knew absolutely nothing. The lady, with much pretty braggadocio and mouthing, we may be sure, peremptorily challenged him to fight her-or marry her! The

amazed Templar was dumbfounded, as our people say; but at last regained wit enough to suggest that she should first unmask. Not a bit of it; the lady would neither unmask nor declare her name; she merely stamped her high heels on the grass and drew her rapier. But there is an advantage in being bred to the law, and the barrister, at length, seems to have reckoned up with some discernment the evidence before him. The extent of the park, the stately lines of the red brick house in the distance, the rich attire, the spirit and the high bearing of the lady-all seemed to hang together as a chain of Macmillan's Magazine.

the man of law, drawing a deep breath to sustain him, I doubt not, stoutly declared that he would rather wed the gentlewoman than court her skill; and in as short a time as it could be managed in those days (and that was very short indeed) he wedded beautiful Mistress Joyce and entered into possession of the glories of Walton.

And, at least, this may serve to show that our Wessex gentlewomen have a fine spirited way of getting what they want. But dare I claim this as another custom peculiar to the west country?

A. Montefiore-Brice.

All day I had been riding round the ruins of Ephesus, and in the afternoon the rain fell heavily, so that I was glad to hurry back along the Via Sacra with its empty tombs to the shelter of the inn at Ayasoluk.

There Mr. Karpouza, the landlord, had prepared a capital dinner, and I found a good fire blazing up the chimney in the dining-room. And soon, as the dark February afternoon closed in, in thick cold mist, the lamp was lighted, and I sat down to do full justice to the fare.

Driven into the inn by stress of weather came a tobacco trader, who, with a low bow, took a chair opposite to me and ate his soup in silence.

We began to talk about travelling other than by rail in such inclement weather. The trader was bound for Scala Nuova, which would have necessitated a long drive through almost impassable country. Then the conversation turned upon the latest news of

Tchakegie, the brigand. Mr. Karpouza had agreed with us in our self-congratulations on being so well housed; but at the mention of Tchakegie he made frantic signs from behind my back to the trader to change the subject. At length he could keep silence no longer.

"If you talk like this no more travellers will come this way."

"But," I said, "Tchakegie lives some distance from here."

"Only the name of his place is unfortunately the same as this. It is called Ayasoluk," said the trader. Mr. Karpouza fairly groaned. "It means the place of St. John," he said apologetically, "but why the place of that ruffian should-"

"He's no ruffian!" exclaimed the trader.

"It is my misfortune," bewailed Mr. Karpouza, "that just the home of that brigand, of all people, should be of the same name as my own!"

"But no one would take you for a

brigand, Mr. Karpouza," I said, "unless, of course, you are as like Tchakegie as the name of your place."

"Oh Lord!" exclaimed the trader. "Like Tchakegie, oh Lord!"

"Did you ever know Tchakegie?" I asked.

"Yes, very well indeed, in former days. He is no ruffian, but a gentleman."

"Now, Mr. Karpouza, you hear that!" I said, "and you must let us talk about him with a view to his capture, you understand."

"Yes," cried the trader, "that's just it. Whoever catches him will get a lot of money by it."

"What would be the best way?" I asked.

"Well, you see," said the trader, pushing away his pudding plate and lighting a cigarette, "Tchakegie is not like any other brigand. He is a gentleman the most perfect gentleman in all Asia. He will never harm a lady, nor a woman, nor a child. He will never harm a merchant either, though he may take from him a contributionnot too much, but something. He is good-oh, how good!-to the poor. But when it comes to cruel people and soldiers and their officers-ah! these are the ones he likes to catch; and the officials, yes-those too he will shoot. That is why the people have given him a name. He is The Justice of the Mountains,' for it is he that punishes." "But he cannot make much of a living at that rate," I observed. "Don't you think he would be better off keeping an inn, for instance?"

"But, certainly, he is rich-very, very rich," answered the trader. "He knows who the people are who have been cruel, and have taken other people's money. Those are the ones he looks after, and he takes their money away and gives it to the poor and to those who have not enough, and some he keeps for himself. Ah! yes; he is

well called "The Justice of the Mountains." "

"But how would you propose to catch him?" I asked.

"Well, he is the most frank and generous-hearted man alive, and if I went to his place and said, 'Here, Tchakegie, I want your photograph,' he would say, 'My photograph! What for?' and I would say, 'Oh, just to sell to the newspapers and make a little money, for, you see, I am only a poor fellow.' Tchakegie would say, 'All right; you shall have it.' Well, when I had got that I could make a lot of money by that."

"Quite so; and the price upon his head-this frank, generous-hearted friend of yours-you would get that, too."

"Ah! that's it. You see, he would go anywhere to help a friend. That would be the way to catch him; but few people know what he looks like, and he is so different-so very different -from what people expect that they might talk to him for a long while without knowing who he is."

"He has never caught you?" I asked. "Me! never. He would never hurt me. I knew him well years ago, before he turned brigand."

"What was he before he turned brigand?"

"Well, it was in this way. Many years ago now his father offended the officials-in the reign of the late Sultan that was-and in consequence he was obliged to take to the mountains and turn brigand. In these days perhaps he would have been exiled. A good many years passed, and the present Sultan came to the throne. Then an occasion offered, and he accepted the Sultan's pardon-that is, he surrendered and was given a billet somewhere in the army. A short time afterwards, an expedition started into the mountains and he was ordered to go too.

He took with him his son Tcha

kegie, who was then quite a boy. Tchakegie was riding in the rear, and as they rode up the mountain the road turned like a serpent, as you know it does sometimes, and Tchakegie saw an officer level his gun and take aim at his father, who was in front, and shoot him dead through the back.

"That made a great impression upon Tchakegie, and the impression had time to deepen, for the officer who shot his father accused the boy before the authorities of a crime which he had not committed, and he was put in prison for six years. Six years makes a difference in the life of a boy, and when Tchakegie came out of prison he was a young man with a settled purpose. He went to find the officer who shot his father, and having found him he shot him dead, and then he fled to the mountains and turned brigand. Yes! what else could he do? He is not old now, only twenty-eight or thirty. But he is not like other brigands. His life has not made him bloodthirsty, and he is not greedy. Other brigands will sometimes take the ransom and then kill the people. Yes! and they do worse things to women and children, and they cut off people's fingers and toes and send them to the people's friends and relations. They do that out of spite. Tchakegie is not like that; you might almost think that he is sorry to be a brigand at all, though he is so rich and has so much power. For every governor in this country is afraid of him since he is "The Justice of the Mountains.' They know what will happen to them if they go too far in their ways and Tchakegie gets to hear about it.

"I will tell you a story about him. There are many like it, for he is very good to the poor. Once there were some poor people who worked very hard on their farm. They had a daughter-only that daughter-and she was a very pretty girl. Well, there was a

brigand, and he wanted to have her. So he came with his men and took her away. Now, Tchakegie knew this old man, and as he chanced to ride that way, he stopped at the farm to rest himself; and he found the old man and his wife quite crazy. When he made out what it was that made them SO crazy, he said, 'Don't worry any more. You shall have your daughter to-morrow-all safe.' So he rode away. The brigands meantime had got to their house and set down the girl, and she sat in a corner and was very frightened. While they sat round a table drinking mastic, all of a sudden Tchakegie came in. And they said to him, 'Sit down,' and he said, 'I will not sit down. What is that girl doing there?' 'Oh!' they said, 'that is only a girl, never mind her sit down.' 'I will not sit down,' said Tchakegie, 'while that girl is there. She must go to her own place.' Then he blew his whistle, and before these brigands could move, Tchakegie's men were in the room. And Tchakegie shot the chief brigand dead himself, and some more of the others were shot too. That was to teach brigands not to do such things. Then he took the girl and brought her safely to her parents as he promised he would do. This he did to teach brigands not to do such things.

"You see now the thing which makes it difficult to catch Tchakegie. If we lost him, things would be very much worse. The peasants know that, and they like him much, much better than the officials. If we had not Tchakegie, it is difficult to know who would keep the officials in order. Then, if he meets a man who is poor and can't get along because he wants a little money loaned to him, Tchakegie gives him the money, and does not mind if he never gets paid. He helps them besides in many ways that the officials will not do. Just lately he has made a bridge and repaired a road, because every

year many poor people were drowned there, and they could not get their produce to the market. Tchakegie paid a man 400l. to build a bridge. Since then Tchakegie has heard that the man cheated him and spent only 2001., which may be because he does not understand those things. Now he is looking for that man to take 2001. off him. "But the cleverest thing he ever did happened the other day, and that is why you will see how busy they are now trying to catch him. Yes! The goldiers are being sent up from Smyraa, and one was so frightened that he had apoplexy and died before he started.

"How can they catch him when he knows every turn in the mountains, and when many people would conceal him? Then he can shoot very well, and some of them cannot shoot at all. But this last thing he did exceeds all the rest. He went into a house in the middle of a town in broad daylight, and walked out again with seven or eight thousand pounds. It was the feast at the end of Ramadan, and he went into the town dressed as an Imâm. He went to the house of a very rich man who was a miser, and the servants opened the door to him because he was dressed as an Imâm; for It is the custom that Imâms go to the houses of the rich-especially the very rich-to pray there in the morning of the feast, and they get paid for doing it. So the servants thought Tchakegie was the Imâm who had come to pray. The master of the house was out. He had gone to the mosque to say his prayers. So the Imâm-that was Tchakegie-went in to wait for him. When the man came back to his house Tchakegie opened the door to him and said, 'Do you know me? I am Tchakegie. Give me now your money, or I'll have your life,' and he drew out a revolver. "The man was terribly frightened. He had a great deal of money.

Tcha559

kegie opened the door to one of his own men, while Tchakegie himself went with the man to the safe to fetch the money. There was much gold and a great deal of silver. Tchakegie took for himself all the gold, about six thousand pounds. The silver he gave to the five men who were with him, who were admitted one by one. Then they went away. It was market-day in the town, and no one took special notice of the strange Imam who walked through the market alone, and went out of the town into the country through the same gate with many of the country people who were returning home.

"What happened to the man is the question. Perhaps he was too dazed to take action. Anyhow, when he did arrive at the Konak half an hour afterwards to give information, he was so incoherent, and the tale he told was so strange, that the officials did not know what to make of it."

This was the tobacco trader's story of Tchakegie, the renowned brigandthe modern Robin Hood-"The Justice of the Mountains," in Asia Minor. Later on-it was as he foretold-a great stir was made to catch Tchakegie, and I saw the troops who were sent up from Smyrna. The Vali also came himself. The soldiers went into the mountains and arrived at a house where Tchakegie or some of his men were said to be. A dispute arose as to what should be done, whether the house should be taken in the darkness by assault, or whether they should wait till daylight. The dispute dragged on till morning, and with the morning came Tchakegie. As soon as the news reached the soldiers there was a stampede. Some forty men were killed or wounded by Tchakegie himself, as in their hurry to escape they took the nearest path-a narrow mountain track -at the bottom of which he was waiting for them with his rifle.