EXPEDITIONS—NAUPLIA.
A few days of midsummer passed in Athens make welcome any summons that calls one out of it. Majestic as the past is, one likes to have its grim skeleton a little cushioned over by the æsthetic of the present, and, at the present season, this is not to be had, even in its poorest and cheapest forms. The heat, moreover, though tempered by healthful breezes, is yet of a kind and degree to tell heavily upon a northern constitution. To take exercise of any kind, between ten A. M. and six P. M., is uncomfortable and far from safe. How delightful, therefore, to pack one's little budget, and start upon a cruise!
For the government, we must confess, is very hospitable to us. Our chief veteran goes about to distribute clothing to the Cretan refugees, who, in advanced stages of nakedness, congregate in Egina, Syra, Argos, and other places, as well as in Athens. And he asks the government, and the government lends its steamer, the Parados, for the philanthropic voyage. So we drive down to the Pireo and embark, and are on our way. A pleasant little Athenian lady accompanies us, together with her father, a Cretan by birth, and a man who has been much in the service of the government. Our travelling library for this occasion is reduced to a copy of Machiavelli's Principe, a volume of Muir's Greece, and a Greek phrase-book on Ollendorff's principle. We have also some worsted work; but one of us, the writer of these notes, has added to these another occupation, another interest.
Take note that the beds of the hotel at Athens are defended by mosquito-nets, which show, here and there, the marks of age. Take note that we close these nettings the first night a little carelessly, remembering Cuba, and expecting nothing worse. Take note that we neither wear gloves at night, nor bandage our arms and wrists, and then take note of what follows.
A fiery stinging of needle points in every accessible part of your body. Each new bite is like a new star of torment in the milky way of your corporeal repose. These creatures warn not, like the honest American mosquito, rattlesnake, or bore, of their intended descent upon you. In comparison with their silent impudence, the familiar humming of our Yankee torments becomes an apologetic murmur, significant of, "We are very sorry indeed, but we cannot well do otherwise." This is the language of the dun—the Greek insect has the quiet of the thief.
So much for the action; now for the result. You awake uncomfortably, and, provoked here and there, begin to retort upon your skin a little. Never was more salient illustration of the doctrine of the forgiveness of injuries. Let by-gones be by-gones; suffer the bites to rest. Ah! the warning comes too late. The fatal process has begun. At every touch you get worse, but cannot stop. You now realize what a good gift your Anglo-Saxon skin was, and so clean, and so comfortable! and it cost you so little! But just because it was so good, these foreign vermin insisted on sharing it with you. And you exemplify in little the fate of Italy and of Greece, which have been feasted on for ages, and cursed by the absolute mosquito for not continuing in perpetuity to yield their life-blood without remonstrance. This for the moral aspect of the case. The material aspect is that of intolerable pain and itching, accompanying a distinct suppuration of every spot punctured by the insect. For some days and nights the principal occupation of the writer of these notes was to tear the unhappy hands and arms that aid in their production. A remedy is casually mentioned—vinegar. Bandages dipped in this fluid, and closely wrapped around the suffering members, give instant relief, but have to be frequently renewed, the fever of the skin rapidly drying them. The sufferings of Job were now understood, and his eminent but impossible virtue appreciated. Even he, however, had recourse to a potsherd. Never were my human sympathies so called out towards the afflicted Scotch nation! Well, let this subject rest. Recovery is now an established fact. From the height of experience we can look down upon future sufferers and say, "This, too, shall pass away."
But now, to return to the deck of the Parados. Scenery, worsted work, the Principe, and a little conversation caused the time to pass very agreeably. We took also the Ollendorff book, and made a short trial of its lumbering machinery. And we had déjeûner on board, and dinner. And Georgi, the cameriere, had the features of Edwin Booth—the strong eyes, the less forcible mouth, something even of the general expression. At about 7.30 P. M., we made the harbor of Nauplia, otherwise called Napoli de Romania. The harbor being shallow, the steamer anchored at some distance from the land, whither its boats conveyed us. On the quay stood a crowd of people, waiting to see us. They had discerned the steamer afar, and had flocked together from mere curiosity. Something in the landing made me think of that portion of the quay at Naples which lies before the Hotel de Russie. Much of the present town was built by the Turks. The streets are narrow and irregular, and many of the houses have balconies. One of these streets is nearly blocked by a crowd. We inquire, and learn that the head of a brigand has just been brought in. For the brigands, long tolerated in some regions by usage and indolence, have now set foot in a region in which they will not be endured. The Peloponnesus will not have them, and the peasants, who elsewhere aid the brigands, here aid the gens d'armes. Upon the head of their leader, Kitzos, a large price has been set. But the head which causes the commotion of this evening is not that of Kitzos. Getting through the crowd at length, we come upon a pretty square, surrounded by houses, and planted with pepper-trees.
Here is the house of the prefect, at whose door we knock, imploring shelter. Our Cretan friend, M. Antoniades, is well known to the prefect; hence the daring of this summons. The prefecture receives us. The prefect—a vivacious little man, with blue eyes and light hair—capers about in great excitement. He has to do with the war against the brigands, and joy at the bringing in of the head before mentioned nearly causes him to lose his own. His large salon is thronged with visitors, who come partly to talk over these matters, partly to see the strangers. We, the ladies, meanwhile take refuge on a roomy balcony, where we have chairs, and where gliko and cold water are offered to us. I make my usual piteous request for vinegar, and renew my bandages, while the others enjoy cool air and starlight. The prefect goes off to supper at nine, having first signified to us that his wife is occupied with a baby two days old, and cannot wait upon us; that his house is at our disposal, and that he will send out among his neighbors and obtain all that we may require. One of his visitors—M. Zampacopolus, a major of cavalry—promises to wait upon us at five in the morning, to conduct us up the steep ascent of the fortress Palamides. By ten o'clock the mattresses are brought. They are spread in a row on the floor, and we weary women, four in number, lie down and sleep as only weary people can.
The summons that arouses us at five the next morning does not awaken enthusiasm. We struggle up, however, and get each a minimum of the limited basin and towel privilege. Descending, we find Major Zampacopolus in full uniform, and are admonished by him for being so late. He came for us at four o'clock; but the chief veteran would not suffer us to be disturbed. The sun had already risen, and the ascent looked most formidable. Invoking the courage of our ancestors, we unfolded the umbrellas and began. We had six hundred steps to climb, and steep ones at that. The labor caused such perspiration that at any turn commanding the breeze we were forced to shield ourselves, the sudden evaporation being attended with great danger. The ascent is everywhere guarded by loopholes for musketry, and could not be carried by any party of human assailants. There is, however, another route of access to the fortress, which may be pursued on horseback. It was by this latter path that the Greeks ascended during the war of independence. They took the fortress from the Turks, but were admitted within the gates by treachery. After weary efforts and pauses, we reach the plane of the main structure, which consists of a number of independent bastions in strong positions, commanding each other and the pass. It was built by the Venetians, and vouches for their skill and thoroughness in military architecture. The officers receive us, and accommodate us in an airy bedroom, whose draughts of air we avoid, being en nage with perspiration. We cool by degrees, and enjoy the balcony. A pot of basil is offered us for fragrance, at which we smell with little pleasure. We are then told the legend of the discovery of the true cross beneath a growth of this plant, which circumstance consecrates it among Eastern traditions forever. In the mean time a functionary enters, and furtively carries away a small box. Not very long afterwards its contents are returned in the shape of a cup of delicious coffee for each of us, with a piece of the ration bread of the garrison. "This bread," said the major, "is made with the hands, as we know, for it is made by the soldiers; but the bread you commonly eat in Greece is made with the feet." Here was indeed a heightening of present enjoyment by a somewhat unwelcome disparagement of unavoidable past and future experiences. We now proceeded to visit the bastions in detail. Each of them has its own name. One is called Miltiades. The most formidable one is called Satan. The view from the highest parapet is very grand. We go about, wondering at the grim walls and the manifold openings for musketry. They show us an enormous cistern for rain water. The place contains several of these, and is thus capable of standing a very long siege. We pass an enclosure in which are detained "the military prisoners," whoever they may be. As a bonne bouche we are promised a sight of the criminals condemned to death. These are kept in the strongest recess of the fortress. They lead us to it, and bid us look down into a court below, in which we perceive twenty-five or more unfortunates refreshing themselves in the open air. At the door and grated window of the prison behind them appear the faces of others. Stationed on a narrow bridge above stand the military guard, whose muskets command the court. These men have all been convicted of crimes of violence against the person. Sentence has been passed upon them, and its execution follows the convenience and pleasure of the officers of the law. At short intervals a little group of them is led out to endure the last penalty. "Do not pity them, madam," said the major; "they have all done deeds worthy of death." But how not to pity them, when they and we are made of the same fragile human stuff, that corrupts so easily to crime, and is always redeemable, if society would only afford the costly process of redemption. A sad listlessness hung over the melancholy group. Some of them were busied in preparing breakfast—coffee, probably. Most of them sat or stood quite idly, with the terrible guns bristling above them. They looked up in our women's faces as if they sought there something, some compassionate glance that might recall mother or sweetheart—if such people have them. One old brigand lifted his voice, and petitioned the officers that his single daily hour of fresh air might be extended to two hours, pleading the pain he suffered in his eyes. This was granted. Our guides directed our attention to a man of elastic figure and marked face—tall, athletic, and blond. All that they could tell us was, that there seemed to be something remarkable about this man, as, indeed, his appearance indicated. In his face, more than in those of the others, we observed the blank that Hope leaves when her light is extinguished. All days, all things, were alike to him now; the dark, close prison behind, before him only the day when one in command shall say, "This is thy last!" If the priest shall then have any hidden comfort to bestow upon him! Shade of Jesus, we will hope so!
These men, however, go to death with bold defiance, singing and laughing. A rude sympathy and admiration from the multitude gives them the last thrill of pleasure. As I looked at them, I was struck by a feeling of their helplessness. What is there in the world so helpless as a disarmed criminal? No inner armor has he to beat back the rude visiting of society; no secure soul-citadel, where scorn and anger cannot reach him. He has thrown away the jewel of his manhood; human law crushes its empty case. But the final Possessor and Creditor is unseen.
In our wanderings we catch glimpses of a pretty little garden, disposed in terraces, and planted with flowers, vegetables, and vines. This garden recalls to memory a gentle-hearted commandant who planted it, loving flowers, and therefore not hating men. It is a little gone to decay since he left it, but its presence here is a welcome and useful boon. After visiting its beds and borders, we take leave of the hospitable officers, and by rapid and easy descent return to the prefecture, where the breakfast-table is set, and where a large tea-pot and heaped dish of rice attest the hospitable efforts of our host.
I have only forgotten to say that on one of the ramparts of the fortress they showed us two old Venetian cannon, both of which served in the last revolution; and further, that, in returning, passing through the old gate of the town, we saw sculptured in stone the winged lion of St. Mark, the valorous device of Venice.
ARGOS.
We found the prefect at the very maximum of excitement. Another telegram concerning the brigands, and yet another. Kitzos is closely beleaguered by peasants and gens-d'armes; he cannot get away. Another head will be brought in, and the country will be free of its scourge. With much jumping up and declaiming, our entertainer shared the morning meal with us. We feed the discontented servant, whose views of life appeared to be dismal, kissed the sweet-eyed children of the family, and, as a party, leaped into two carriages, leaving the prefect intent upon welcoming with grim hospitality the prospective heads of bandits, which did not hinder him from shaking hands with us, cordially inviting us to return to the shelter of his roof. But shelter was not for us under any roof, save the ambulating cover of the carriage. We were now en route for Argos. Our drivers were clothed alike, in well-worn bags of blue homespun, peaked babouches without stockings, and handkerchiefs bound about the head. The thermometer was ranging in the upper regions. Dust and overwhelming heat assail us. Stopping to water the well-flogged horses, we take refuge for a few minutes in a shady garden, planted with flowers, vines, and merciful trees with flat, not pointed, foliage. We sit around a tiny fountain, at whose small spouts the smaller bees refresh themselves on the wing. This sojourn is brief; our next halt is on the burning, dusty high-road, where the chief veteran says, "Tiryns," and leads a very forlorn hope across thorny fields and stony ditches to a Cyclopean ruin—a side and angle of old wall, built after the manner so denominated, and so solidly that it outlasts at least three thousand years. We stand and consider this grim old remnant as long and as attentively as the fear of sun-stroke will permit. The veteran, however, leads us farther in pursuit of a cave in which, during the war of Greek independence, he was wont to seek shelter from sun and rain. This cave is probably one of the galleries of the ancient fortress; for that the ruin was a fortress, they say who know. It is perhaps twenty yards in length, and three in its greatest height; for it has a pointed roof, laboriously formed by the fitting and approximation of the two sides, no arch being then invented. The stones that form this roof are very large, rather broken than hewn, and are laid together with great care. Some of them are of very hard material. From these most venerable relics we creep back, under the deadly fire of the sun, to the carriage. The remainder of our drive leads across the plain of Argos, the "courser feeding," as Homer denominates it. We come in sight of its lofty Acropolis long before we reach the town, through whose narrow streets we drive, and after a brief pause at the prefecture, find rest and shelter in a private house.
The proprietors of this house ranked among the best people of the place—oi megaloi, as the multitude naively denominate them. They received us in a large salon without carpets, darkened by green blinds, and furnished with a mahogany centre table and chairs, all of a European pattern, with a cushioned divan occupying one corner of the room, according to the favorite fashion of these parts. The lady of the house wore a dress of ordinary figured jacconet, open at the neck, and a red fez, around which her own hair was bound in a braid. Her husband appeared in full Palicari dress, with an irrepproachable fustanella, and handsome jacket and leggings. They welcomed us with great cordiality, and bestirred themselves to minister to our necessities. Gliko and water were immediately brought us, together with the vinegar for my fevered hands. We next begged for mattresses, which were brought and spread on the floor of a bedroom adjoining. The four feminines, as usual, dropped down in a row. In the drawing-room mattresses were arranged for the gentlemen. We rested from 12.30 until 2 P. M., the hour appointed for the distribution of clothing to the destitute Cretans, of whom there is a large settlement at Argos. For I may as well mention here that our pursuit of pleasures and antiquities in the terms of this expedition was entirely secondary to the plans of our veteran for clothing the nakedness of these poor exiles. In his energetic company we now walked to a large building with court enclosed—a former convent, in whose corridors our eager customers, restrained by one or two officials, were in waiting. We were ushered into a well-sized room, in which lay heaps of cotton under-clothing, and of calico dresses, most of them in the shape of sacks and skirts. These were the contents of one or two boxes recently arrived from Boston. Some of them were recognized as having connection with a hive of busy bees who used to gather weekly in our own New England parlor. And what stress there was! and what hurrying! And how the little maidens took off their feathery bonnets and dainty gloves, wielding the heavy implements of cutting, and eagerly adjusting the arms and legs, the gores and gathers! With patient pride the mother trotted off to the bakery, that a few buns might sustain these strenuous little cutters and sewers, whose tongues, however active over the charitable work, talked, we may be sure, no empty nonsense nor unkind gossip. For charity begins indeed at home, in the heart, and, descending to the fingers, rules also the rebellious member whose mischief is often done before it is meditated. At the sight of these well-made garments a little swelling of the heart seized us, with the love and pride of remembrance so dear. But sooner than we could turn from it to set about our business, the Cretans were in presence.
Here they come, called in order from a list, with names nine syllables long, mostly ending in poulos, a term signifying descent, like the Russian "witzch." Here they come, the shapely maiden, the sturdy matron, the gray-haired grandmother, with little ones of all small sizes and ages. Many of the women carried infants at the breast; many were expectant of maternity. Not a few of them were followed by groups of boys and girls. Most of them were ill-clothed; many of them appeared extremely destitute of attire. A strong, marked race of people, with powerful eyes, fine black hair, healthy complexions, and symmetrical figures. They bear traces of suffering. Some of the infants have pined; but most of them promise to do well. Each mother cherishes and shows her little beggar in the approved way. The children are usually robust, although showing in their appearance the very limited resources of their parents. Some of the women have tolerable gowns; to these we give only under-clothing. Others have but the rag of a gown—a few stripes of stuff over their coarse chemises. These we make haste to cover with the beneficent growth of New England factories. They are admitted in groups of three or four at a time. As many of us fly to the heaps of clothing, and hastily measure them by the length and breadth of the individual. A papa, or priest, keeps order among them. He wears his black hair uncut, a narrow robe much patched, and holds in his hand a rosary of beads, which he fingers mechanically. We work at this distribution for a couple of hours, and return to the house to take some necessary refreshment. We find a dinner-table set for us in one of the sleeping-rooms, and are cordially invited to partake of fish cooked in oil, bread, acrid cheese, cucumbers, olives, and cherries, together with wine which our Greek companions praised as highly stomachic, but which to us seemed at once bitter, sour, and insipid—a wine without either sugar or sparkle, dull as a drug, sufficient of itself to overthrow the whole Bacchic dispensation. Having enjoyed the repast, we returned to the Cretan settlement, and continued the distribution of the clothing until all were provided. The dresses did not quite hold out, but sufficed to supply the most needy, and, in fact, the greater number. Of the under-clothes we carried back a portion, having given to every one. To an old papa (priest) who came, looking ill and disconsolate, I sent two shirts and a good dark woollen jacket. Among all of these, only one discontented old lady demurred at the gift bestowed. She wanted a gown, but there was none; so that she was forced to content herself, much against her will, with some under-clothing. The garments supplied, of which many were sent by the Boston Sewing Circle, under the superintendence of Miss Abby W. May, proved to be very suitable in pattern and in quality. The good taste of their assortment gave them an air of superiority over the usual dress of the poor in this and other countries of the old world. The proportion of children's clothing was insufficient; but who could have foreseen that the Cretans would have had such large families of such little children? Finally, we rejoiced in the philanthropic energy of our countrywomen, and in the good appearance of our domestic manufactures. As we descended the steps, we met with some of the children, already arrayed in their little clean shirts, and strutting about with the inspiration of fresh clothing, long unfelt by them.
We now went on foot to visit a fine amphitheatre in the neighborhood of the town, called by the ignorant "the tomb of Helen." The seats are hewn out of the solid rock, and occupy the whole ascent of a lofty hill-side. From the ground to the middle row they were faced with fine white marble. The remainder consisted simply of the stone itself, without covering. The division first mentioned is in better condition than the second, the marble incasement having protected the softer stone against the action of the elements. In front are some remains which probably represent the stage and its background. The extent embraced is unusually large; and as we sat in the chief seats and looked towards the proscenium, we wondered a little as to what manner of entertainment could be given to an assembly so vast. The ancient masks were indeed necessary to enable the distant portion of the audience to have any idea of the expression of countenance intended to be conveyed. But I should suppose that games of strength and agility, races, combats of wild beasts, would have been best suited to such an arena. To us it was sufficiently melancholy in its desertion and desecration—grass and thorny shrubs growing profusely between its defaced stones, the heavy twilight forming the background, while the stars that enlivened the evening were real ones, not their human symbols. As we descended, however, from our half hour of contemplation, we received notice of the incursion of busy western life even into this charmed domain. In a field hard by, a threshing machine was winnowing the Argive grain,—a thing of wonder to the inhabitants, probably an object of suspicion,—the property of a rich land-owner. Beggars are rare in Greece; but the Argos children followed us both to and from the amphitheatre with mendicant solicitations. They went thither under the plea of showing us the way, and pursued our return under that of being paid for the same. We endeavored to satisfy two or three of them; but, the whole troop following and tormenting, one of our companions appealed in Greek to the parents, as we passed their thatched dwellings. These called off the little hounds with threats of the bastinado. We reached the hospitable roof of our entertainers, first taking a lemonade at a little booth in the dark street. The mattresses were spread, the sick hands bathed, and we lay down to rest as we could, an early start being before us. A variety of insects preyed upon us, and made not very unwelcome the dawning of the early hour that saw us roused and dressed.
But here I have forgotten to make mention of a fact which had much to do with our immediate movements at this time. The evening of our sojourn in Argos saw an excitement much like that which blocked the street in Nauplia. The occasion was the same—the bringing home of a brigand's head; but this the very head and front of all the brigands, Kitzos himself, upon whose head had been set a prize of several thousand drachmas. Our veteran with difficulty obtained a view of the same, and reported accordingly. The robber chief, the original of Edmond About's "Hadji Stauros," had been shot while sighting at his gun. He had fallen with one eye shut and one open, and in this form of feature his dissevered head remained. The soldier who was its fortunate captor carried it concealed in a bag, with its long elf-locks lying loose about it. He showed it with some unwillingness, fearing to have the prize wrested from him. It was, however, taken on board of our steamer, and carried to Athens, there to be identified and buried.
All this imported to us that Mycenæ, which we desired to visit, had for some time been considered unsafe on account of the presence of this very Kitzos and his band. But at this moment the band were closely besieged in the mountains. They wanted their Head, and so did Kitzos. We, in consequence, were fully able to visit the treasure of Atreus and the ruins of Mycenæ without fear or risk from those acephalous enemies. Taking leave therefore of our friendly entertainers with many thanks, "polloi, polloi," we sprang again into the dusty carriages, and the sunburnt youths in blue bagging drove us out upon the wide plain to a spot where we were desired to dismount and make our way over a thorny and flinty hill-side to the spot in question. Such walking, in all of Greece with which I became acquainted, is difficult and painful. It is scarcely possible to avoid treading on the closely-growing bushes of nettles. To come in contact with these is like putting one's foot on a cushion of needles whose sharp points should be uppermost. Where you shun these, the small, pointed stones present difficulty as great. Creeping up from the plain, crying out for assistance and sympathy, beneath a sun already burning, we came to the entrance of the cave to which they give the name of the tomb of Agamemnon. This is an opening in the hill-side. Its door has long been wanting, but the formidable door-posts still remain. Two heavily-built stone sides support a single, horizontal stone, twenty-seven feet in length, by perhaps eight in breadth, and about the same in thickness. The door obviously swung open from the bottom; the traces in the stone-work make this clear. The cave itself is hollowed out from the height and depth of the hill. It is lined with large stones, carefully fitted to each other, and is in the shape of a rounded cone, whose gradual diminution to the top is very symmetrical. Here a small aperture, partly covered by a stone, admits the light. The perfection of the work in its kind is singular. From this outer chamber, an opening admits you to an inner cave, without light, in which they suppose the treasure to have been kept. This is much smaller than the first chamber, and, like it, is heavily lined with squared stone. A fire of dry brush enables us to distinguish so much; but our observations are somewhat hurried, for the chill of these interterranean passages, acting upon the perspiration that bathes our limbs, suggests terrible fears of an untimely end to be attained in some inflammatory and painful way.
The outer structure, of which I have endeavored to give some idea, is, however, indescribable, and the manner of its building scarcely comprehensible in these days. It suggests a time whose art must be as far removed from ours as its nature, and whose solid and simple construction takes little heed of the passage of time.
From the treasure of Atreus to the old citadel and gate of Mycenæ, we pass, by a few painful steps, through thorns, stones, and dust. Here we sit and meditate, as well as we are able. Mycenæ was in ruins in Homer's time. This gate and citadel go back at least to the time of Agamemnon. In one of the tragedies of Sophocles, Electra and Orestes meet before the gate of Mycenæ, which we naturally suppose to have been this one. Its heavy stone masonry is surmounted by a curious sculpture, a bas-relief, representing two lions aspiring to a column that stands between them. The column is one of the ancient symbols of Apollo, and is met with in some of the coins of the period. Agamemnon, Cassandra, Clytemnestra,—this trio of ghosts will serve to fill up for us the ancient gateway. Of the city nothing remains save the walls of the citadel, the space within being now piled up and grassed over by the action of time. At the present day, this citadel would be of little avail, being itself commanded by an adjacent hill, from which artillery would soon knock it into pieces. The walls just mentioned are solidly built of squared stone, laid together without mortar. The briefness of our time hurried us away before we had taken in half the significance of the spot. But so it was, and we turned with regret from a mere survey of objects that deserve much study.
We were now to find our way back to Nauplia, but our fasting condition compelled us to pause for a moment at a little khan, whose energetic mistress bestirred herself, with small materials, to make us comfortable. The morning shadow threw her window in the dark. We gathered around it, escaping for the moment the scorching heat of the sun. Near us a traveller on a donkey rested himself and his patient beast. The little woman had blue eyes and chestnut hair, bound with a handkerchief. She offered us cold fish, fried in oil, from her frying pan. Each of us took a fish by the tail, and devoured it as we could. Cucumbers were next handed to us. Of these we ate with salt, which the mistress strewed with her fingers on the wooden window-sill, together with a little pepper. Wine and water she dipped out for us, the one from a barrel, the other from an earthen jar. We had brought with us two large loaves of bread from Argos, which greatly assisted our pedestrian meal. The mistress rinsed the glasses with her own hands, not over clean. When we had eaten, she poured water over our hands, offering us a piece of soap and a towel. As we laughed, she laughed—we at her want of accommodation, she probably rejoicing in its sufficiency. We now returned to our carriages, and drove back to Nauplia, and through Nauplia down to the quay, where our boats were waiting for us. The remainder of the day we passed on board the steamer, reaching Porus at sunset, and going on shore to visit its fine arsenal, and narrow, dirty streets. In the arsenal, with other heroes, hangs the portrait of Bouboulina, the famous woman who did such good naval service in the war of Greek independence. She commanded a ship, and her patriotic efforts were acknowledged by conferring on her the style and title of admiral.
From the roof of the arsenal we enjoyed a beautiful view of the harbor. The town, as seen at a little distance, has rather an inviting aspect. On a nearer view, it offers little to detain the traveller. We passed along the quay, looking at the groups of men, occupied with coffee or the narghilé, and soon regained our boat and steamer. The Greeks, we are told, give Porus a nickname which signifies "Pig-city," just as our Cincinnati is sometimes called "Porkopolis." But the pigs in Porus are human.
EGINA.
We passed this night on board of the steamer, first supping luxuriously on deck, by the light of various lanterns fastened to the masts and bulwarks of the ship. The next morning saw us early awake and on foot to visit the Temple of Egina. The steamer came to anchor near the shore, and its boats soon conveyed us to land. We found on the shore two donkeys with pack-saddles, upon which two of us adventured to ascend the long and weary eminence. The temple is one of the most beautiful remains that we have seen. Its columns are of the noblest Doric structure. A number of them are still standing. His majesty of Munich and Montes robbed this temple, at some convenient moment of political confusion. He had a statue or so, perhaps several, and pulled down the architrave to obtain the bas-reliefs. Can we wonder that the Greeks do not punish brigandage after such royal precedents in its favor. A fine lion in marble, twenty feet in length, was taken from this temple, either by this or a similar marauding. The lion was sawn in three pieces, that it might be more conveniently conveyed by boat. But, being left over night, the peasants, in their rage, came and destroyed with their hammers what they were not able to protect. Here no diplomatic interference was possible, and the fact accomplished had to be accepted.
This temple stands upon one of those breezy eminences so often selected by the Greeks for their places of worship and defence. It commands a wide view of the sea and surrounding islands. On the opposite island of Salamis they show you Xerxes' Seat, the spot from which he contemplated the land he intended to enslave. Here the inexorable veteran conceded to us a pleasant half hour, enabling us to survey the fine columns from various points of view, and to enjoy fully the beauty of their surroundings. Too soon, however, came the summons to descend. I again mounted the ass, but found my sideward and unsupported seat only maintainable by a gymnastic of the severest order. I yielded, therefore, this uneasy accommodation to one who might bestride the beast at his ease, being quite of the opinion of the Irishman, who, having been regaled with a ride in a bottomless sedan chair, said that, if it was not for the name of it, it was not much better than walking. In the same way I concluded that to be so badly carried by the ass was almost as bad as to carry him myself. We were soon on board and afloat again, and a few hours of sea travel, cherished for their coolness, brought us back to busy Piræus, and thence to torrid Athens, where the great heats now begin. We had meditated a change of hotel at the time of our leaving Athens, and had contemplated a fine apartment at lower charges in an establishment opposite to our own. But our hitherto landlord was too much for us. He was down at Piræus to receive us. The veteran yielded to his dangerous smile, and after a brief parley, implying a slight enlargement in accommodations, we found ourselves bagged, and carried back to the Hotel des Etrangers. Here the servants cordially welcomed us, and made us much at home. I regretted a certain beautiful view of the Acropolis commanded by the hotel opposite, but my view was outvoted; and we gave ourselves up again to the imprisonment of our small rooms, and to the darkness which is a necessary attendant upon summer life in Athens. And the gallant vision of the Parados, with its prow turned to the sea, and of lofty climbings, and monument-seeking wanderings, faded from all but these notes, in which so much of it as may live is faithfully preserved.
DAYS IN ATHENS.
| "As idle as a painted ship |
| Upon a painted ocean." |
O, there were many of them, each hotter and stiller than the other. All night we steamed and sleepily suffered beneath the mosquito-net. In the morning we arose betimes. We smiled to each other at breakfast, sighed at dinner, were dumb at tea-time. The whole long day held its flaming sword at our door. Sun-stroke and fever threatened us, should we cross the threshold. Visits were tame, and carriages expensive. For many days we sat still, doing little. This is what people call "being thrown upon one's own resources." But to those accustomed to active and energetic life it is rather a being thrown off from all that usually renders the passage of time pleasurable and useful. Even those dull days had, however, their distinctions. And, like a picture of our Indian summer, hazy, dreamy, and indistinct, so will I try to give a color picture of that unheroic time, in which we grew ungrateful for classic surroundings, forgetful of great names and histories, and sat and sewed, and said, "How long?"
First, the little newsboys in the street who shriek, "Pende leptà!" calling the price of the paper for the paper itself. This music one may hear at any hour of the day when there is news from Crete, or when a steamer has arrived from England for the Cretan service, or when anything takes place that can motive the publishing of an extra. The veteran catches one day one of these curious little insects. He is barefoot, his hair is wild, his eyes are wilder. His extra is a single column, scarcely ten inches long; and over this he dares to make as much noise as if it were an issue of the New York Herald, or the Tribune itself, with white-haired Greeley at its back.
Next, the funerals, starting always with music, and bearing flat disks of gilded metal, something in the style of the Roman eagles. At one time a mortality prevailed among children, and the little coffins were carried through the street, with mournful sounds of wind instruments. We saw several military funerals. In these the deceased is carried by hand in a crimson velvet coffin, bound with silver lace. A glass cover shows him at full length. The velvet cover that corresponds with the coffin itself is carried before in an upright position. The hearse, drawn by four or five horses, follows. Priests walk along, and chant prayers in the intervals of the music, which on these occasions is supplied by a full band. A body of soldiers also makes part of the pageant. Friends and relatives walk after, carrying the large cambric parasols so much in vogue here. As the cemetery is at some distance from the town, the hearse probably serves later for the transport of the body. But I from my window always saw it following in empty state. The friends all go to the church, where the prayers and orations occupy from one to two hours. The deceased is usually in full dress, and the countenance is often painted in white and red. The gilded symbols which are carried, and the wild tones of the wind instruments, give to those processions a somewhat barbaric aspect, as compared with the sober mourning of countries more familiar to ourselves. But there is nothing grim in the Greek funeral; it seems rather a cheerful and friendly attendance, and compares favorably with the luxe of English burials, their ingenious ugliness and tasteless exaggeration of all that is gloomy and uncongenial to life.
Next, the out-of-door life and music. The first is, of course, limited by the severe heat of the day. Eight A. M. is a fashionable hour for being abroad. You will then find the market thronged. You will encounter seated groups, who take their coffee or smoke their cigar. Many carriages drive past, conveying people in easy circumstances to Faleran, a small harbor three miles distant from Athens, where the luxury of sea-bathing is enjoyed. At nine A. M. the best of the military bands begins to play before the palace. I have their repertoire pretty well in mind, having listened to its repetition for three weeks past. They play most of the airs from the Barbiere di Seviglia, the overture to Othello, and sundry marches and polkas. With the early morning period begins the crying of fruit in the streets. These cries proceed from men who drive before them donkeys laden with rude baskets, in which you see potatoes, tomatoes, small squashes, apricots, and other fruits. They stop at various doors in our neighborhood, and serve their customers. The maid-servants come out. From one of those doors issues with his nurse a little child, who is set upon the donkey's back, and allowed to stay there while the dealer supplies the houses in the vicinity. This little one wears a white cambric weed on his hat to prevent sun-stroke, after the manner of greater people.
From ten A. M. to five P. M., the streets are quiet. After the latter hour the carriages begin again to roll, though the fashionable drive scarcely begins earlier than six o'clock. One drives to Faleran, to the Piræus, or, if it be Sunday, to the Polygonon, where the band plays, and whither the regent, mounted on a well-bred steed, is sure to betake himself. This Polygonon is simply a several-sided pavilion, at a distance of a mile and a half from the palace. A crowd of people flock to it on Sunday afternoons, either in carriages or on foot, and all in their best clothes. At a little distance stands a small café, where lemonade and lokumia may be enjoyed, but no ince. The view of the Acropolis from this spot is a very pleasant one. But to return to our Athenian streets. Carriages are very dear in the afternoon, being in request for drives to the bath, which is taken either at Faleran or at Pireo. A visit to either place refreshes after the long, hot day. When you return in the evening, you see the streets and squares about the cafés thronged with people sitting at little tables and enjoying ices or coffee. The narghilé, or water-pipe, is much in use here. At these tables one often sees it. The sacred herb basil, also, whose legend we have elsewhere recounted, appears upon these tables, growing in earthen pots. You will somewhere encounter the military band, which nightly performs in some stated place. But the café opposite our hotel has a band every evening, and our discussions of Greek politics and of Cretan prospects are frequently interrupted by strains from Norma, Trovatore, Traviata, and other late abortions of the muse. From this phrase let me, however, even in passing, deliver Norma. This statement carefully enumerates the external resources of Athens during waking hours.
Within doors, besides our grave studies, we have visits. Many Greeks and Cretans wait upon the veteran, together with American consuls, and Cretan women bringing silks, laces, and stockings of their own manufacture, or petitioning for little special helps over and above the forty lepta per diem allowed to each of them by the committee. Some mysterious consultations are there, bent on merciful conspiracies and Heaven-approved stratagems. Omer Pacha and his army have surrounded the unhappy Island of Candia, and are tightening their folds like a huge serpent. The severity of the blockade is starving to death the women and children who are shut up in the towns, or hidden in caves and recesses of the mountains. England meanwhile feasts the sultan, and pledges the bloody toast of non-interference. How comfortable is the water-proof by which my Lords Derby and Stanley ward off the approach of any fact that might induce compassion or compel indignation! Sympathy at every entrance quite shut out, and at every appeal for mercy a fat English laugh, echoed by the House, which may make the angels weep. Smart Argyle keeps heart of grace against this squad of the heartless. He even takes the trouble to get facts from Greece from sources less poisoned with prejudice than the Times' correspondent.[A] And I am fain to believe that a Scotch Presbyterian may easily have more heart, brains, and religion than one who combines church and state with the betting-book, and, among all races, honors least the human race.
[A] It is only fair to state here that the Times' correspondent, minus his Mishellenism, is a most genial, accomplished, and hospitable person.
Our war upon the Turks is a war of biscuit and of cotton cloth. We run every permissible risk to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, both of these terms being of literal application. Our agent lands his insufficient cargo, and before his errand is known, the moan and wail of the suffering ones break out from hill-side and cavern. Psomi! psomi! for God's sake, bread! And here comes the sad procession. The merciful man is ashamed to look at the women; their rags do not cover them. Hunted are they and starved like beasts. But the sultan feasts in England well. O, brave and merciful hearts of men and women, be lifted up to help them. And O, noble people, poor and hard-working, unsophisticated by theories which make the Turk's dominion a necessary nuisance, and his religion a form of Christianity, do you come forward, and make common cause with Christ's poor and oppressed, whose faces are ground, whose chains are riveted, in his name.
Last evening the veteran received his Cretan mail. The biscuits arrived safely. The letters which acknowledge them begin with, "Glory to the triune God!" They then invoke blessings on the American people, and fervently thank the veteran, who has been at once the provoker of their zeal and the distributor of their bounty. Such thanks are painful; they make us feel the agonized suffering to which our small largess gives a momentary relief. The Arkadi, our blockade-runner, after landing her cargo, took on board more than three hundred women and children, fleeing from the last extremities of want and misery. This morning appears at the door of our hotel a little group of these unfortunates—a mother with four small children, the youngest a little nursing babe. Bread we give them, and a line to the committee. We ask the woman if she would not go back to Crete. "O God! no," she replies: "the Turks would murder us."
Before the letters came, last evening, we heard continual cries of "Pende lepta," betokening the issue of an extra. The servant buys one and brings it. The news from Crete is, that Mechmet Pacha has been in a measure surrounded by the Cretans. Our veteran shakes his head, and fears that it is otherwise. A little later come in some of our Cretan friends, together with one or two new faces. They are hopeful and in some excitement. In the midst of this arrives the Cretan budget, as before mentioned. Eagerly indeed are the letters devoured. But the veteran remains thoughtful, and not sanguine. And when we are alone, I find that he will go at once to France and England, jog the easy conscience of diplomacy, and appeal to the sense and sympathy of the people. I utter a hearty "God speed!" We had intended visiting Constantinople; but that is now given up, and scarcely regretted, so urgent is the need of doing all that can be done for Crete.
EXCURSIONS.
To return to matters purely personal. I must not set down the heat and monotony of long days in Athens without stating also the per contras of freshness and enjoyment which have been paid in by various small undertakings and excursions. First among these I will mention a morning meeting under the columns of Jupiter Olympius. A small party of us, by appointment, started at five A. M., and reached the columns, some ten minutes later. They stand quite flatly on a large plain, lifting their Corinthian capitals high in the blue empyrean. But this we have already described elsewhere. On this occasion we take seats in the comforting shadow, around a little table, and call for coffee, lemonade, and lokumias. The early morning is very beautiful. A company of soldiers goes through its drill quite near us. Presently its officers also retreat under the shadows, take chairs and a table, and call for what pleases them best. The regimental band plays an air or two, perhaps in compliment to the neophytes, who are of our company. We enjoy the unique scene and combination—the picturesque costumes, the beauties and associations of the spot. So rampant does this effort make us, that we determine to have a meeting in the Acropolis in the afternoon of this very day, of cloudless promise, like its fellows.
We disperse and return home before the severe heat of the morning sets in; and this is well, for between the shade of the pepper-tree walk and the shade of the columns there is a long tract of sunny expanse. At this hour it is quite endurable; an hour later it becomes overpowering. We pass the day after the usual fashion. At six o'clock in the afternoon we do meet in the Acropolis, and hold poetic session in a sheltered corner of the Parthenon. She who was there invited to read her own and other verses felt an especial joy and honor in so doing. And we had recitations besides, and singing, and Bengal lights, which the fairest of moons put to shame. And we went home afterwards with great reluctance.
We had three windy days in Athens, really of a cool and boisterous quality. We took advantage of one of them to visit Eleusis, where stood the great Temple of Ceres, famous as the scene of initiation into the Eleusinian mysteries, which formed an epoch in the youth of every Greek. The road to it leads through Daphne, the spot on which Apollo is supposed to have chased the classic nymph. The rose laurels (oleanders) still bloom on its somewhat barren soil. The way leads also by the sea, commanding a refreshing outlook on the same. A modern Albanian village covers the greater part of the space formerly occupied by the temple. As the day is Sunday, we find the inhabitants walking about in picturesque costumes, the men in embroidered jackets or goatskin capotes, the shoulder of the garment expanding into a wide, short sleeve; the women in narrow skirts, wearing long, narrow redingotes without sleeves, in a coarse white woollen material, with two rows of black embroidery down the back, between which falls their long, braided hair, tied at the end with a black ribbon. Some of them wore at the waist large girdle-clasps, composed of two disks of silvered copper, not unlike a belt ornament worn by ladies in our own country. We asked leave to enter one of the small thatched cottages. It consisted of a single room. The walls were neatly whitewashed. An earthen pot was boiling upon a fire of sticks. I saw no furniture except a low wooden chest, on which was seated an old woman, the grandmother of the family. Several young women occupied the hut with her; all had small children with them. They stood about, all but one, who sat on the floor in a corner, soothing a sick and crying child. Of the ruins of the temple a small angle only is exposed. It includes some square yards of marble pavement, fragments of pillars, and one very large and fine Corinthian capital. It shows, besides this, some remnants of masonry indicating a number of small chambers. Near it is a wall, piled up of large pieces of the finest Greek marble, roughly broken with a hammer—the wreck, obviously, of former walls or columns. The magnitude of the temple is marked by some stones lying quite at the other end of the village street: the space between these and those first mentioned would indicate a building of enormous extent. Much of its ruined material probably underlies the little village, and will scarcely be brought to light in these times. A small cabin adjacent is dignified with the title of museum. To this we were admitted by a custode, an old soldier, who has it in charge. The collection consists of a mass of small fragments, some of which formerly belonged to statues, some to architectural sculptures. We saw little to move the cupidity of the visitor, but tried to bargain for one relic less ugly than the rest; in vain, however. A Frenchman, not long ago, took from these ruins many valuable objects, marbles, and even jewelry; since which time the government has strictly forbidden these Elgin thefts. The custode's domestic arrangements amused me more than did his museum. There was one very poor little tin, in which he boiled his coffee; another, smaller and more miserable, held oil and a wick. He had gunpowder in a gourd. His bed was small and much dilapidated. A fragment of mat thrown upon a heap of stones was his only seat. Few beggars in America are, probably, so ill provided with the appliances of life.
One of the women of the cabin I had visited followed me to the museum, and naturally held out her hand for "pende lepta." Yet beggary is very rare in Greece, and this petitioner asked in rather a shamefaced manner, pointing to the little baby on her arm. And this is all that there is to narrate of the expedition to Eleusis.
Of a more stately character was the expedition to Kephissia. We started at seven in the morning. There were two carriage-loads of our party; for, in addition to the veteran's six-syllabled secretary, we were accompanied by an amiable Greek family, whose guests we became for the day. In the villages that surround Athens there are no hotels or lodging-houses of any description. The traveller perforce implores hospitality, and usually receives it. On this occasion our friends had asked and obtained the key of a large and sumptuous house at Kephissia, whose owners are absent. They had also secured the company of three gens d'armes, who galloped along the dusty road beside us. The drive at this early hour was cool and most refreshing. The only drawback to its comfort was the dust, which the foremost carriage could not avoid sending back to that which followed. We reached first the village of Maroussi, a pretty, shady little place, in whose café we saw a group of peasants playing at cards. The usual appliances, coffee and tobacco, were also visible. Here we stopped to water the horses. A handsome marble fountain, beneath a shady clump of trees, bears the names of the family who caused it to be erected for the public good. Shade and water are, indeed, the two luxuries of regions such as these. A little farther on, we came to Kephissia, and stopped at the door of the palatial residence that was to give us shelter for the day. We entered a hall paved with white marble, and ascended a marble staircase. We now found ourselves in a spacious set of apartments, well kept, and furnished according to the Greek theory of summer furniture. Roomy divans extended with the walls of each salon, of which there were three, opening one into the other. Tables and chairs there were; and, had the proprietors resided there, handsome Turkish mats would, no doubt, have variegated the bare floors. The chief salon opened upon a balcony commanding an extensive view. The fresh wind blew to quite a gale, greatly raising our languid energies. On the walls of this apartment hung two portraits—those of the former master and mistress of the house. She was sumptuous in dark blue velvet, with a collar of Valenciennes lace and a fastening bow of blue plaid ribbon. Her fingers were adorned with rings. Her husband appeared in his best broadcloth, wearing on his head a red fez with a white under edge. He had begun life in a humble station, and had raised himself to great opulence by his own exertions. Something of the consciousness of this was expressed in his countenance, which was a good-natured one. He and his wife did not long enjoy the fortune so justly earned. They died almost before the house at Kephissia was finished, bequeathing its magnificence to two young nephews, also rich, but resident in Italy.
The freedom of our day here made amends for the many days of hot imprisonment passed in the hotel at Athens. Breakfast was necessary on first arriving. We then surveyed the bedrooms and made arrangements for our midday nap. We found comfortable bedsteads of bright metal. The servants brought clean mattresses, and unrolled them for us. Water and towels we enjoyed in abundance. We then walked out to view the environs. And first our steps brought us to an enormous plane tree, under whose far-reaching shade the gossips of the village hold their daily meetings. The boughs of this tree, with the cleared space under them, formed a sort of rustic salon, cool and delightful even in the heat of the day. The unfailing café was near at hand; its chairs and tables were scattered about these rustic purlieus, and its servants waited for orders. Here our companions encountered various acquaintances from the city, who have come hither to pass the season of the great heats. They wore white veils on their straw hats, as is much the custom here, and had altogether the enfranchised air which city men are wont to assume in country retirement. Mail and public conveyance they had none. One of our party brought them letters, and took the answers back to Athens. We now went in search of the source of the Kephisus, called Kefalari. We found a deep spring of the purest water, very cool for these parts, and constantly welling up. So clear was this pool that one saw without impediment the smallest objects at the bottom of the water. There were waving trees beside it. We sat down, and drank, and rested. Our walk next brought us to a wine factory, and, as we entered to look at it, the sound of a grand piano, skilfully touched, arrested us. Our friends guessed the unseen artist, and knocked at her door for admittance. Entering, we found two ladies, mother and daughter, of whom the elder was the mistress of the musical instrument. The daughter, very young, but already married, bears the historical name of Colocotroni, her husband being the grandson of the old revolutionary chieftain of that name. These ladies own extensive possessions in this vicinity, and the establishment in which we were belonged to them. They have a large villa at some distance; but fear of the brigands induces them to be satisfied with the shelter of two or three rooms, divided off from the rest of the factory, in which they live in comfortable simplicity. The table was laid for their déjeûner in a little arbor made of pine tree branches. Dinner they took at twilight, without shelter. They entertained us with the invariable gliko and water, and, at our request, the elder lady gave us a specimen of her skill in dealing with the piano-forte. Madame Colocotroni speaks both French and English, and the books and pamphlets in her drawing-room had quite a cosmopolitan air of culture.
After these doings, we returned to the great house, and sheltered ourselves in its shady rooms. Here reading, worsted work, and conversation beguiled the time until dinner was announced. The gentlemen, meanwhile, had retired to smoke and discuss political questions. The dinner was much too well-appointed for a country picnic. Our munificent entertainers had sent out their own valets and chef de cuisine. And so we had potage, and entrées, and dessert, with Kephissia wine, both white and red, of which I found the former much like a Sauterne wine, and very mild and pure in quality. One of the guests was an Asiatic Greek from Broussa. His politics were of the backward sort—those of the Greek Greeks were radical and progressive. The dinner arena developed therefore some amicable differences of opinion. He from Broussa gave me a few characteristic particulars of his life. When he was but a year old, his father chartered a ship, put much of his property on board of her, and sent therewith his children to be educated in Europe. After many years of absence, M. L. returned to Broussa, to seek some traces of his family. Such as remained of them had been compelled by the pressure of circumstances to adopt the Turkish language, and to profess Mohammedanism. Their Christian prayers they always continued to recite in private, but were fain by every outward expedient to escape the ill treatment which Christians receive in a country in which Turkish authority is dominant. He told me—what I hear strongly corroborated by other testimony—that the Turks had often cut out the tongues of Greek women, in order that they should not be able to teach their children either their own language or their own religion. Under these circumstances the gradual absorption of the race in those regions seems almost inevitable.
An after-dinner nap and a ramble completed our experience of Kephissia. At sunset we started homeward, the carriages all open, the gens d'armes galloping, the dust playing a thousand solid antics, and writing hieroglyphics of movement all over our garments and faces. We found the little village of Maroussi cool with the evening shadows, and the women and children with their pitchers gathered around the marble fountain. We ourselves came back to Athens in a cooled and consoled condition, and said at parting, commanding the little Greek we knew, Poly kalá-evkaristò.
HYMETTUS.
It happened that the next day was fixed upon for a visit to Hymettus, whose water is celebrated, as well as its honey. A certain monkless monastery on the side of the mountain receives travellers within its shady courts, and allows them to feed, rest, and amuse themselves according to their own pleasure. We started on this classic journey soon after five A. M., carrying with us a basket containing cold chicken, bread, and fruit. We filled one carriage; a party of friends accompanied us in another. The road to Hymettus is hilly and difficult; and our own troubles in travelling it were augmented by those of our friends in the foremost carriages, whose horses, at an early period in the ascent, began to back and balk. As these horses, who go so ill, insist upon going first, and refuse to stir the moment we take the lead, it comes to pass that in some steep ascents they press back upon us, to our discomfort and danger.
An anxious hour brings us to the convent, which stands at no great elevation on the side of the mountain. The sun is already burning, and we are glad to take refuge in the shady inner court of the convent, where we are to pass the day. Our friends of the other carriage have brought with them Hatty, a child two years of age, and Marigo, a little servant of thirteen. The latter has somewhat the complexion of a potato-skin, with vivacious eyes, and dark hair, bound, after the Greek fashion, with a handkerchief. A young brother follows on a slow donkey, which he belabors to his heart's content.
The court just spoken of is a small enclosure, surrounded on all sides by whitewashed walls, of which one includes a small chapel, with its tapers and painted images. In one corner a doorway leads into a den which must once have served as a kitchen. It is roughly built of stone, with no chimney, its roof presenting various apertures for the issue of smoke. Here a fire of sticks is hastily kindled on a layer of stones, and the coffee, boiled at home, is made hot for us. A wooden table is allowed us from the convent, which we decorate with a white cloth and green leaves. Rolls, butter, hard-boiled eggs, and fruits, together with the coffee, constitute a very presentable breakfast. We have around us the shade of vines and of lemon trees. Our repast is gay. When it is ended, we amuse ourselves with books, work, and conversation of a scope suited to the weather. An Athenian Plato could discourse philosophy in the present state of the thermometer. We need it more than ever he did, but we cannot attain it.
While we sit cheerful and quiescent, dodging the sharp sunlight, which slyly carries one position after another, sounds of laughter from the outer court reach our ears. This is a feast day, and in this outer court a company of Athenian artisans, of the Snug and Bottom order, are keeping it after their fashion. Following their voices, we come to a shady terrace, where some eight or ten men are seated on the ground around a wooden table, one foot in height, while two or three of their comrades are employed in cutting up a lamb newly roasted, spitted on a long, slender pole.
The cooking apparatus consisted of two or three stones, on which the fire of sticks was kindled, and of two forked stakes, planted upright, across which the spit and roast were laid. While the two before mentioned were hacking the paschal lamb with rude anatomy, a third was occupied with the salad, consisting of cucumbers sliced, with green herbs, oil, and vinegar. Olives, bread, and wine completed the repast. As we stood surveying them, one of their number approached us, bearing in one hand a plate containing choice morsels of the roasted meat. This he offered to each of us in turn, with great courtesy. In the other hand he carried a rather dirty fragment of cotton cloth, which he also presented to each in turn, as a towel. We took the meat with our fingers, and ate it standing, in true Passover fashion. The doubtful accommodation of the table napkin also we were glad to accept. Having fed each of us, he presently returned with a glass and bottle of wine, which he poured out and offered, saying, "Eleuthera, eleuthera" which signifies "free, free." The wine, however, was a little out of rule for us, and was therefore declined.
This man wore neither coat nor shoes, but his manners were full dress. His comrades, meanwhile, had fallen to attacking their provisions with a hearty good will. When the wine was poured out, a toast was proposed, and "Eleutheria tis Cretis" ("the liberty of Crete") rang from every lip. "Amen, amen," answered we, and the entente cordiale was at once established. Having eaten and drunk, they began to sing in a monotonous strain, keeping time by clapping their hands. Retiring to our court, we still heard this cadence from theirs. Their song, though little musical, had no brutal intonations. It breathed a rather refined good nature and hilarity. When we again visited our neighbors, they were dancing. All, save two of them, formed a line, joining hands, the leader and the one next him holding together by a pocket handkerchief. They sang all the while, stepping rather slowly. The leader, at intervals, made as though he would sit upon the ground, and then suddenly sprang high, with an oich! something like the shout in a Highland fling. In another figure, they all lay upon their backs, springing up again quite abruptly, and continuing their round.
These doings, together with talking, writing, and needle-work, brought on the hour at which, in these climates, sleep becomes necessary. In Greece, if you have risen early in the morning, by noon, or soon after, you are sensible of a sudden ebb of energy. The marrow seems to forsake your bones, the volition your muscles. You may not feel common sleepiness, but your skeleton demands instant release from its upright effort. You ask to become a heap, instead of a pile, and on the offer of the first accommodation, you fall like the disjointed column of Jupiter Olympius, more fortunate only in the easier renewal of your architecture. Such a fall, at this moment, the stiffest of us coveted.
Meanwhile, an ancient hag, from the inner recesses of the building, had waited upon us, with copious chattering of her pleasure in seeing us, and of the drawback which the brigands had offered to her little business of serving the strangers who used to visit the convent before Kitzos and others made them afraid. For, the convent no longer containing monks, those who occupy it are glad to accommodate visitors from Athens and elsewhere. And the hag brought some heavy mats and quilts, and spread them on the floor of a little whitewashed out-house. And on these the little two-year-old child and others of the party lay down and slept. But "e megale kyrie"—meaning here the elder lady,—said the hag, "cannot sleep on the floor. I have a good bed up stairs; she shall lie there."
So up stairs mounted the megale kyrie, and found a quiet room, and a bed spread with clean sheets in one corner. A rude chintz lounge, a wooden chest, and an eight-inch mirror completed the furniture of this apartment. Here, in the bed-corner, the Olympian column of e megale fell, and barbarian sleep, sleep of the middle ages, at once seized upon it and kept it prostrate. After a brief interval of Gothic darkness, the column rose again, and confronted the windows commanding a view of the court. On one of its wooden settles lay the young Greek secretary in wholesome slumber. Not far from him rested the Greek missionary, a graduate of Amherst, and a genial and energetic man. And presently the two-year-old, waking, desires to waken these also, and makes divers attempts against their peace, causing e megale to descend for their protection. On her way, in an outer passage, she encounters a poor woman, lying on a heap of cedar boughs, and bewailing a bitter headache. Dinner-time next arrives. The wooden tables are once more set out with meat and fruit. We exert ourselves to give the feast a picturesque aspect, and are not altogether unsuccessful in so doing. The true feast, however, seems to consist in saying over to one's self, "This is Greece—this is Hymettus. I am I, and I am here." And now the greatest heat of the day being overpast, a ramble is proposed.
The young people, escorted by the missionary, climb half the steep ascent of the mountain. E megale and the secretary pause in the outer court, to whose festivities a new feature is now added. Our friends, the artisans, have feasted again, and little of the lamb remains save the bones. They are singing and dancing as before, but a strange figure from the mountain has joined them. He calls himself a shepherd, but looks much like a brigand. He wears a jacket, fustanella, and leggings, of the dirtiest possible white—a white which mocks at all washings, past and future. He has taken the leadership of the coryphées, and now executes a dance which is called the "Klepht." His sly movements express cunning, to which the twinkle of his sinister eyes responds. Now he pretends to be stabbed from behind; now he creeps cautiously upon a pretended foe. His dancing, which is very quiet, fatigues him extremely; but before making an end, he performs the feat of carrying a glass of wine on his head through various movements, not spilling a drop of it. The artisans are now intending to break up. They cork the bottles of wine and vinegar, empty and repack the dishes. We have brought them some fruit from our dessert. One of them makes a little speech to us, in behalf of all, thanking for our interest in the freedom of Crete and in the prosperity of their country. And "Zeto! zeto!" (live! live!) was the pleasant termination of the discourse, to which we were obliged to respond through the medium of a friendly interpretation.
Finally the day began to wane, and we to pack and embark. The bell of the little church now made itself heard, and, looking in, we saw the priest engaged in going through his service, while a very homespun assistant stood at the reading-desk, wearing spectacles upon his nose, and making responses through it. A circlet of tapers was burning before the altar. One old woman or so, a peasant mother with her child,—these were the congregation. The idea of the Greek as of the Catholic mass is, that it effects a propitiation of the Divine Being; so the priest performs his office, often with little or no following. As to those who should attend, I believe that one pays one's money and has one's choice; there is nothing absolute about it. And now e megale bestows a trifling largess upon the hag, who has also dined off the relics of our feast. The books and work are gathered, the carriages summoned. Item, our driver wore a Palicari dress, and took part, very lamely, in the dances we witnessed. Farewell, Hymettus! farewell, shady convent, clear and sparkling water! We kiss our hands to you, and cherish you in our remembrance.
On our homeward way we soon passed the Athenian party, riding ten or twelve in a one-horse cart, carrying with them for an ensign the pole on which their lamb had been spitted. They saluted us, and we shouted back, "Eleutheria tis Kritis!" Amen, simple souls! your instincts are wiser than the reasons of diplomatists.