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strings; to set the press at work, and by its means to scatter broadcast the national songs and tales, and study the literature and the archaeology and the writings and sayings of our people."
A few years ago it was a common sight, — and in some villages it is still, — to see the men of the place hastening through the evening meal in order to be on hand at the house of the story- teller, who has a supply of tales warranted to last all winter. You may see them slipping, singly, through the streets at nightfall, each with a flat cake folded and thrust under his arm, and a small loaf of fresh bread, called popotch, stuffed into the front of his blouse. They enter a low-raftered room, a portion of which is railed off from the rest. The inner portion has divans extending along the opposite sides, raised slightly above the central strip. This space is carpeted, while the divans are spread with large flat cushions, or mats, which are piled two and three deep at the upper end. These are the seats of honour, on either side of the fireplace. Here the oldest members of the company seat themselves, and the others follow in strict order of age or importance. The younger married men sit cross-legged in the centre of the room, while the beardless men and boys are ranged beyond the railing. The flames of the fire and the flickering rays of a wick floating in a clay lamp of the kind used two thousand years ago, furnish the light for the occasion.
As the company gathers, the entrance of each graybeard is the signal for a general up-rising; the old men move down a peg or two to give room to one who is more worthy, or wealthy, or hoary than themselves ; the younger men stand with hands folded across their breast, a solemn row, unless some irrepressible fellow discomfits their gravity by some droll aside, causing them to drop to the floor with smothered laughter. Salaams are exchanged with each one upon his arrival, and again after the full complement has arrived. "Good evening. Uncle Toros." — "God give you a good evening, my son ! " " How are you, are you well ? " — " How should I be, my son ? He who lives will see sorrow ; life is fleeting." — "Oh, you will live to see a hundred years!" — "My father lived to be a hundred and ten, but I shall not see my grandchildren's grandchildren, alas ! "
After such preliminaries the aged guest turns to the host and
