Where the dark Acheron, now called the Kalamas, rolls its gloomy tide, among the recesses of chasms so deep and shadowy, that the wild imaginations of the Greek poets called it a river of hell−and the district through which it ran, the entrance to the infernal regions−stood the city of Suli, as distinguished as Parga by the bloody enmity of Ali Pasha.
In this country, for ages unsettled by any regular government, and disturbed by the constant warfare of petty beys and pashas, security of site was the strongest recommendation for erecting a town. A traveller winding his way through the chasms and ravines of these dark mountains, emerges unexpectedly on the summit upon a broad and fair platform. Here, 2000 feet above the bed of the Acheron, the tribe of Suli built their cities, and in this elevated rocky fastness fixed their chief abode, which they called Kako-Suli, from the exceeding difficulty of climbing up to it. On this lofty table-land were four populous towns, and they held sixty-six tributary villages, built on every available spot among the ravines and precipices below. The character of these mountaineers, and their peculiar habits, long distinguished them among their neighbours. Their fierce and unsubdued courage, their endurance of fatigue and privation, their skill in warlike weapons, caused them to be looked up to with great respect. Wherever they appeared, they were recognized by characters which marked them. Their skin was of a dark bronze colour; constantly exposed to sun and wind, and unprovided with the shelter of tents in their expeditions, the surface of the exposed parts attained the colour and consistency of tanned leather, and almost an equal insensibility. Their dress was a long white capote, strongly contrasted with the colour of their skin. They wore on their head a small cap called a fez, resembling an inverted saucer, scarcely covering the top of the crown, from under which a long lock of hair streamed in the wind. Their arms were the tophek or musket without a bayonet, and in their girdle not a straight yatagan, but a crooked sabre. Thus distinguished was
The little state enrolled on their cloud-capped mountains 2500 palikars of this description, who were objects of fear and respect to all other Albanians when seen below. These were the men, who, under the valiant Scanderbeg, opposed the first inroads of the Turks into the country; and in later times, under the gallant Lambro, attempted to liberate Greece from their yoke.
The usages and opinions of the women all tended to cherish this warlike character. The fountain, as in the days of Homer, was the place where they congregated, and displayed their traits of national character. Scrupulous respect was here paid to precedence. The wife of the bravest man had the first right to fill her urnlike pitcher with water, and then in succession the rest, according to the reputation of their husbands in war. When families quarrelled, no man had permission to interfere, lest by chance he might kill a woman, an act looked upon with horror, and expiated by his own death. On various occasions they formed themselves into military bodies, armed themselves with their husbands’ weapons, rushed into the melée, and turned the doubtful scale of victory.
As long as this bold and independent christian republic occupied their mountain cities, they opposed a formidable obstacle to the insatiable ambition of Ali Pasha; it was, therefore, one of the first of the neighbouring states which he determined to destroy. He made his attempt so early as the year 1792, and its perfidy was the model of all his future proceedings. He invited the Suliotes to a conference on affairs of mutual interest. They descended from their mountain, and, having arrived at the appointed plain below, they laid aside their arms, and engaged in athletic sports and military games, as was usual with them on such friendly occasions. The Pasha, like a tiger from its lair, rushed upon them in this defenceless state, and murdered or captured every man present but three−one of whom escaped, passed up the mountain, and apprised the republic of the treachery. Among the prisoners was the hero Tzavalles, the great leader of the Suliotes. With this man in his power, he endeavoured again to treat with the people. He sent him up the steep, leaving his son behind as a hostage. When arrived at Suli, he exhorted the people to a strenuous defence. He returned a letter to Ali, written in the stern spirit of antiquity: “You think,” said he, “I am a cruel father to sacrifice my child; but if you had succeeded, all my family would have been exterminated without mercy, and no one left to avenge them. My wife is young, and I may have many more children to defend their country; if my boy is not willing to be now sacrificed for it, he is not fit to live, but to die as an unworthy son of Greece.” The enraged Pasha gave orders to ascend, and carry the mountain. While engaged in front, a band of women, headed by the mother of the boy, attacked the Turks in the rear. They were driven down with great slaughter, and Ali himself narrowly escaped.
Though thus defeated, he never abandoned his intention; for a series of years he renewed his attempts both openly and secretly, till at length, having become sovereign of the whole country of Albania, he united the whole of its forces for a final attack on this stubborn rock. More than 40,000 men were leagued round it below, while the defenders above, reduced by various combats, did not amount to 2000. Unsubdued by force, but reduced by famine, they at length agreed to abandon their strong-hold. A safeguard was guaranteed to them, to migrate where they pleased; and the remnant left alive, divided themselves into two bodies, which took different routes through the mountain. They were both attacked and massacred without mercy. The women rushed with their children to the edge of a precipice, where they cast themselves down, and were dashed to pieces, rather than fall into the hands of their loathed conquerors. A few men escaped into a fortress in which was a depôt of ammunition. They were headed by an ecclesiastic, who had distinguished himself by his devoted attachment to the religion and liberty of his country. He here
declared that all resistance was hopeless, and invited the Turks to take possession of this last defence. They eagerly entered, and filled the castle, when the priest applied a match to the powder, and the whole were blown into the air. Among the records of these events, recalling the memory of this brave but exterminated people, is a song by one of the survivors, distinguished by the simplicity but poetic spirit of the original language. The last verse thus comments on the catastrophe
Ali having at length effected this almost hopeless conquest over this free republic, obtained from the Porte the dignified appellation of Aslem or “the lion,” and to commemorate his achievement, he built a splendid seraï on the summit of the mountain, amidst the ruins of the town, which is seen in our illustration peeping over the edge of the precipice. Meanwhile the few survivors of this brave people who had escaped the massacre, fled to Parga and other Christian towns, which afforded them an asylum. They were afterwards enrolled in various corps, and assisted in the liberation of Greece. One of them formed the body-guard of Lord Byron, and were among the mourners that stood round his grave at Missolonghi. But they have now no “local habitation,” and even their name has nearly perished.