you saw—to the city of Marseilles in France,
came many of these refugee Greeks, some
from Scio, some from the Morea, some
from Candia, many from the Fanal or
Fanar of Constantinople—which had also had
its massacre—some from the interior of
Anatolia and Roumelia. There were Greek
gentlemen and their families who could never
congratulate themselves sufiiciently on having
saved their heads and their piastres; there
were merchants quite stripped and bankrupt,
who nevertheless, in the true Grecian manner
began afresh, trading and making money
with admirable assiduity and perseverance.
And above all there were poor rayahs, who
had been caikjees, coffee-house waiters, portefaix,
at home—who had lost their little all,
and had nothing but their manual labour to
depend upon, and who were glad to carry
burdens, and run messages, and help to load and
unload the ships upon the port of Marseilles.

Among these, was one Demetri Omeros.
None knew much about him, save that he
was a Sciote, and had escaped after the
massacre; that he was quite alone, and very
poor. He was fortunate enough to possess
a somewhat rare accomplishment, which made
his earnings although precarious, considerably
more remunerative than those of his fellow-
countrymen occupying the station to which he
appeared to belong. Demetri Omeros was a
most expert swimmer and diver. Had Demetri-
Omeros lived in our days he would have been
a professor to a certainty; the walls would
have been covered with posting bills and
woodcuts pourtraying his achievements; and
he would have had a convenient exhibition-
room, and a sliding-scale of prices for his
Entertainment. In eighteen twenty-three he
contented himself with the exhibition of his
talents in the open port of Marseilles, and
was satisfied with the stray francs, half-
francs, copper sous, and liards, flung to
him when he emerged from the water, all
soaked and dripping like a Newfoundland
dog. He thus managed to lead a sufficiently
easy, lounging, idle life; splashing, swimming,
and diving sometimes for sheer amusement;
at others, basking in the genial sun with
such profound indolence that had you not
known him to be a Sciote you would have
taken him for a genuine lazzarone of the Quai
Santa Lucia. Demetri was some thirty years
old, tall, magnificently proportioned, with a
bronzed countenance, wavy black hair and
sparkling black eyes. His attire was exceedingly
simple, being ordinarily limited to a shirt,
red and white striped trowsers secured round
the waist by a silken sash, and a small Greek
tarbouch on his head, ornamented witli a
tarnished gold tassel. Shoes and stockings he
despised as effeminate luxuries. He was
perfectly contented with his modest fare of
grapes, melons, brown bread, garlic, and sour
wine. House rent cost him nothing, as one of
the Greek merchants settled at Marseilles
allowed him to sleep in his warehouse, like a
species of watch-dog. When the weather
was fine, he swam and dived and dried
himself in the sun: when it was foul, he coiled
himself into a ball and went to sleep.

In the year eighteen hundred and twenty-
four it occurred to the Turkish government
considerably to strengthen their navy. There
was an arsenal and a dockyard at Constantinople
then, as there is now; but the Ottomans did
not know much about ship-building, and in the
absence of any material guarantee for the
safety of their heads, European artisans were
rather chary of enlisting in the service of the
Padishah. So, as the shipwrights wouldn't
go to Sultan Mahmoud, Sultan Mahmoud
condescended to go to the shipwrights; that
is to say, he sent an Effendi attached to the
department of Marine, to Marseilles, with
full powers to have constructed four frigates
by the shipbuilders of that port. As the
French government, had not begun to
interest itself one way or other in the Eastern
question, and as the shipbuilders of
Marseilles did not care one copper centime
whether the Turks beat the Greeks or the
Greeks the Turks, and, more than all this, as
the Effendi from Stamboul had carte-blanche
in the money department, and paid for each
frigate in advance, they set about building the
four frigates with a hearty good will, and by
the spring of eighteen hundred and twenty-
five, two of them were ready for launching.

It was observed by the French workmen
that Demetrius the. Diver appeared to take
very great interest in the process of ship-
building. Day after day he would come into
the slip where the frigates were being
constructed, and, sitting upon a pile of planks,
would remain there for hours. Other Greeks
would come occasionally, and launch forth
into fierce invectives against the Turks, and
against the French too, for lending their
hands to the construction of ships which
were to be employed by infidels against
Christians. In these tirades Demetrius the
Diver seldom, if ever, joined. He was a man
of few words, and he sat upon the planks,
and looked at the workmen, their tools, and
their work. Nobody took much notice of him,
except to throw him a few sous occasionally,
or to say what a lazy, skulking fellow he was.

At length the day arrived which was fixed
for the launch of the first frigate, the Sultani
Bahri. Half Marseilles was present. The
sub-prefect was there—not officially, but
officiously (whatever that subtle distinction
may be). Crowds of beautiful ladies, as
beautifully dressed, were in the tribunes
round the sides of the slip; the Sultani
Bahri was dressed out with flags, and aboard
her were the great Effendi himself, with
his secretary, his interpreter, his pipe-
bearer, and the armateur, or shipbuilder.

The sight of a ship-launch is to the full
as exciting as any race. The heart beats
time to the clinking of the hammers that are
knocking the last impediments away, and