A Dreary Funeral.--Marathon.--Mount Pentelicus.--A Mystery.--Woes of
a Lover.--Reveries of Glory.--Scio's Rocky Isle.--A blood-stained
Page of History.--A Greek Prelate.--Desolation.--The Exile's
Return.
EARLY in the morning I again started. In a little khan at Eleusis I saw
three or four Bavarian soldiers drinking, and ridiculing the Greek
proprietor, calling him patrioti and capitani. The Greek bore their
gibes and sneers without a word; but there was a deadly expression in
his look, which seemed to say, "I bide my time;" and I remember then
thinking that the Bavarians were running up an account which would one
day be settled with blood. In fact, the soldiers went too far; and, as I
thought, to show off before me, one of them slapped the Greek on the
back, and made him spill a measure of wine which he was carrying to a
customer, when the latter turned upon him like lightning, threw him
down, and would have strangled him if he had not been pulled off by the
by-standers. Indeed, the Greeks had already learned both their
intellectual and physical superiority over the Bavarians; and, a short
time before, a party of soldiers sent to subdue a band of Maniote
insurgents had been captured, and, after a farce of selling them at
auction at a dollar a head, were kicked, and whipped, and sent off.
About four o'clock I arrived once more at Athens, dined at my old hotel,
and passed the evening at Mr. Hill's.
The next day I lounged about the city. I had been more than a month
without my carpet-bag, and the way in which I managed during that time
is a thing between my travelling companions and myself. A prudent
Scotchman used to boast of a careful nephew, who, in travelling, instead
of leaving some of his clothes at every hotel on the road, always
brought home _more_ than he took away with him. I was a model of this
kind of carefulness while my opportunities lasted; but my companions had
left me, and this morning I went to the bazars and bought a couple of
shirts. Dressed up in one of them, I strolled outside the walls; and,
while sitting in the shadow of a column of the Temple of Jupiter, I saw
coming from the city, through Hadrian's Gate, four men, carrying a
burden by the corners of a coverlet, followed by another having in his
hands a bottle and spade. As they approached I saw they were bearing the
dead body of a woman, whom, on joining them, I found to be the wife of
the man who followed. He was an Englishman or an American (for he called
himself either, as occasion required) whom I had seen at my hotel and at
Mr. Hill's; had been a sailor, and probably deserted from his ship, and
many years a resident of Athens, where he married a Greek woman. He was
a thriftless fellow, and, as he told me, had lived principally by the
labour of his wife, who washed for European travellers. He had been so
long in Greece, and his connexions and associations were so thoroughly
Greek, that he had lost that sacredness of feeling so powerful both in
Englishmen and Americans of every class in regard to the decent burial
of the dead, though he did say that he had expected to procure a coffin,
but the police of the city had sent officers to take her away and bury
her. There was something so forlorn in the appearance of this rude
funeral, that my first impulse was to turn away; but I checked myself
and followed. Several times the Greeks laid the corpse on the ground and
stopped to rest, chattering indifferently on various subjects. We
crossed the Ilissus, and at some distance came to a little Greek chapel
excavated in the rock. The door was so low that we were obliged to stoop
on entering, and when within we could hardly stand upright. The Greeks
laid down the body in front of the altar; the husband went for the
priest, the Greeks to select a place for a grave, and I remained alone
with the dead. I sat in the doorway, looking inside upon the corpse, and
out upon the Greeks digging the grave. In a short time the husband
returned with a priest, one of the most miserable of that class of
"blind teachers" who swarm in Greece. He immediately commenced the
funeral service, which continued nearly an hour, by which time the
Greeks returned and, taking up the body, carried it to the graveside and
laid it within. I knew the hollow sound of the first clod of earth which
falls upon the lid of a coffin, and shrunk from its leaden fall upon the
uncovered body. I turned away, and, when at some distance, looked back
and saw them packing the earth over the grave. I never saw so dreary a
burial-scene.
Returning, I passed by the ancient stadium of Herodes Atticus, once
capable of containing twenty-five thousand spectators; the whole
structure was covered with the purest white marble. All remains of its
magnificence are now gone; but I could still trace on the excavated side
of the hill its ancient form of a horseshoe, and walked through the
subterraneous passage by which the vanquished in the games retreated
from the presence of the spectators.
Returning to the city, I learned that an affray had just taken place
between some Greeks and Bavarians, and, hurrying to the place near the
bazars, found a crowd gathered round a soldier who had been stabbed by a
Greek. According to the Greeks, the affair had been caused by the
habitual insults and provocation given by the Bavarians, the soldier
having wantonly knocked a drinking-cup out of the Greek's hand while he
was drinking. In the crowd I met a lounging Italian (the same who wanted
me to come up from Padras by water), a good-natured and good-for-nothing
fellow, and skilled in tongues; and going with him into a coffee-house
thronged with Bavarians and Europeans of various nations in the service
of government, heard another story, by which it appeared that the
Greeks, as usual, were in the wrong, and that the poor Bavarian had been
stabbed without the slightest provocation, purely from the Greeks' love
of stabbing. Tired of this, I left the scene of contention, and a few
streets off met an Athenian, a friend of two or three days' standing,
and, stopping under a window illuminated by a pair of bright eyes from
above, happened to express my admiration of the lady who owned them,
when he tested the strength of my feelings on the subject by asking me
if I would like to marry her. I was not prepared at the moment to give
precisely that proof, and he followed up his blow by telling me that, if
I wished it, he would engage to secure her for me before the next
morning. The Greeks are almost universally poor. With them every
traveller is rich, and they are so thoroughly civilized as to think that
a rich man is, of course, a good match.
Toward evening I paid my last visit to the Acropolis. Solitude, silence,
and sunset are the nursery of sentiment. I sat down on a broken capital
of the Parthenon; the owl was already flitting among the ruins. I looked
up at the majestic temple and down at the ruined and newly-regenerated
city, and said to myself, "Lots must rise in Athens!" I traced the line
of the ancient walls, ran a railroad to the Piraeus, and calculated the
increase on "up-town lots" from building the king's palace near the
Garden of Plato. Shall I or shall I not "make an operation" in Athens?
The court has removed here, the country is beautiful, climate fine,
government fixed, steamboats are running, all the world is coming, and
lots must rise. I bought (in imagination) a tract of good tillable land,
laid it out in streets, had my Plato, and Homer, and Washington Places,
and Jackson Avenue, built a row of houses to improve the neighbourhood
where nobody lived, got maps lithographed, and sold off at auction. I
was in the right condition to "go in," for I had nothing to lose; but,
unfortunately, the Greeks were very far behind the spirit of the age,
knew nothing of the beauties of the credit system, and could not be
brought to dispose of their consecrated soil "on the usual terms," _ten
per cent. down, balance on bond and mortgage_, so, giving up the idea,
at dark I bade farewell to the ruins of the Acropolis, and went to my
hotel to dinner.
Early the next morning I started for the field of Marathon. I engaged a
servant at the hotel to accompany me, but he disappointed me, and I set
out alone with my muleteer. Our road lay along the base of Mount
Hymettus, on the borders of the plain of Attica, shaded by thick groves
of olives. At noon I was on the summit of a lofty mountain, at the base
of which, still and quiet as if it had never resounded with the shock of
war, the great battle-ground of the Greeks and Persians extended to the
sea. The descent was one of the finest things I met with in Greece;
wild, rugged, and, in fact, the most magnificent kind of mountain
scenery. At the foot of the mountain we came to a ruined convent,
occupied by an old white-bearded monk. I stopped there and lunched, the
old man laying before me his simple store of bread and olives, and
looking on with pleasure at my voracious appetite.
[Illustration: Mound of Marathon.]
This over, I hurried to the battle-field. Toward the centre is a large
mound of earth, erected over the Athenians who fell in the battle. I
made directly for this mound, ascended it, and threw the reins loose
over my horse's neck; and, sitting on the top, read the account of the
battle in Herodotus.
After all, is not our reverence misplaced, or, rather does not our
respect for deeds hallowed by time render us comparatively unjust? The
Greek revolution teems with instances of as desperate courage, as great
love of country, as patriotic devotion, as animated the men of Marathon,
and yet the actors in these scenes are not known beyond the boundaries
of their native land. Thousands whose names were never heard of, and
whose bones, perhaps, never received burial, were as worthy of an
eternal monument as they upon whose grave I sat. Still that mound is a
hallowed sepulchre; and the shepherd who looks at it from his mountain
home, the husbandman who drives his plough to its base, and the sailor
who hails it as a landmark from the deck of his caique, are all reminded
of the glory of their ancestors. But away with the mouldering relics of
the past. Give me the green grave of Marco Bozzaris. I put Herodotus in
my pocket, gathered a few blades of grass as a memorial, descended the
mound, betook myself to my saddle, and swept the plain on a gallop, from
the mountain to the sea.
It is about two miles in width, and bounded by rocky heights enclosing
it at either extremity. Toward the shore the ground is marshy, and at
the place where the Persians escaped to their ships are some unknown
ruins; in several places the field is cultivated, and toward evening, on
my way to the village of Marathon, I saw a Greek ploughing; and when I
told him that I was an American, he greeted me as the friend of Greece.
It is the last time I shall recur to this feeling; but it was music to
my heart to hear a ploughman on immortal Marathon sound in my ears the
praises of my country.
I intended to pass the night at the village of Marathon; but every khan
was so cluttered up with goats, chickens, and children, that I rode
back to the monastery at the foot of the mountain. It was nearly dark
when I reached it. The old monk was on a little eminence at the door of
his chapel, clapping two boards together to call his flock to vespers.
With his long white beard, his black cap and long black gown, his
picturesque position and primitive occupation, he seemed a guardian
spirit hovering on the borders of Marathon in memory of its ancient
glory. He came down to the monastery to receive me, and, giving me a
paternal welcome, and spreading a mat on the floor, returned to his
chapel. I followed, and saw his little flock assemble. The ploughman
came up from the plain and the shepherd came down from the mountain; the
old monk led the way to the altar, and all kneeled down and prostrated
themselves on the rocky floor. I looked at them with deep interest. I
had seen much of Greek devotion in cities and villages, but it was a
spectacle of extraordinary interest to see these wild and lawless men
assembled on this lonely mountain to worship in all sincerity, according
to the best light they had, the god of their fathers. I could not follow
them in their long and repeated kneelings and prostrations; but my young
Greek, as if to make amends for me, and, at the same time, to show how
they did things in Athens, led the van. The service over, several of
them descended with us to the monastery; the old monk spread his mat,
and again brought out his frugal store of bread and olives. I
contributed what I had brought from Athens, and we made our evening
meal. If I had judged from appearances, I should have felt rather uneasy
at sleeping among such companions; but the simple fact of having seen
them at their devotions gave me confidence. Though I had read and heard
that the Italian bandit went to the altar to pray forgiveness for the
crimes he intended to commit, and, before washing the stains from his
hands, hung up the bloody poniard upon a pillar of the church, and asked
pardon for murder, I always felt a certain degree of confidence in him
who practised the duties of his religion, whatever that religion might
be. I leaned on my elbow, and, by the blaze of the fire, read Herodotus,
while my muleteer, as I judged from the frequent repetition of the word
Americanos, entertained them with long stories about me. By degrees the
blaze of the fire died away, the Greeks stretched themselves out for
sleep, the old monk handed me a bench about four inches high for a
pillow, and, wrapping myself in my cloak, in a few moments I was
wandering in the land of dreams.
Before daylight my companions were in motion. I intended to return by
the marble quarries on the Pentelican Mountain; and crying "Cavallo" in
the ear of my still sleeping muleteer, in a few minutes I bade farewell
for ever to the good old monk of Marathon. Almost from the door of the
monastery we commenced ascending the mountain. It was just peep of day,
the weather raw and cold, the top of the mountain covered with clouds,
and in an hour I found myself in the midst of them. The road was so
steep and dangerous that I could not ride; a false step of my horse
might have thrown me over a precipice several hundred feet deep; and the
air was so keen and penetrating, that, notwithstanding the violent
exercise of walking, I was perfectly chilled. The mist was so dense,
too, that, when my guide was a few paces in advance, I could not see
him, and I was literally groping my way through the clouds. I had no
idea where I was nor of the scene around me, but I felt that I was in a
measure lifted above the earth. The cold blasts drove furiously along
the sides of the mountain, whistled against the precipices, and
bellowed in the hollows of the rocks, sometimes driving so furiously
that my horse staggered and fell back. I was almost bewildered in
struggling blindly against them; but, just before reaching the top of
the mountain, the thick clouds were lifted as if by an invisible hand,
and I saw once more the glorious sun pouring his morning beams upon a
rich valley extending a great distance to the foot of the Pentelican
Mountain. About half way down we came to a beautiful stream, on the
banks of which we took out our bread and olives. Our appetites were
stimulated by the mountain air, and we divided till our last morsel was
gone.
At the foot of the mountain, lying between it and Mount Pentelicus, was
a large monastery, occupied by a fraternity of monks. We entered and
walked through it, but found no one to receive us. In a field near by we
saw one of the monks, from whom we obtained a direction to the quarries.
Moving on to the foot of the mountain, which rises with a peaked summit
into the clouds, we commenced ascending, and soon came upon the strata
of beautiful white marble for which Mount Pentelicus has been celebrated
thousands of years. Excavations appear to have been made along the whole
route, and on the roadside were blocks, and marks caused by the friction
of the heavy masses transported to Athens. The great quarries are toward
the summit. The surface has been cut perpendicularly smooth, perhaps
eighty or a hundred feet high, and one hundred and fifty or two hundred
feet in width, and excavations have been made within to an unknown
extent. Whole cities might have been built with the materials taken
away, and yet by comparison with what is left, there is nothing gone. In
front are entrances to a large chamber, in one corner of which, on the
right, is a chapel with the painted figure of the Virgin to receive the
Greeks' prayers. Within are vast humid caverns, over which the wide roof
awfully extends, adorned with hollow tubes like icicles, while a small
transparent petrifying stream trickles down the rock. On one side are
small chambers communicating with subterraneous avenues, used, no doubt,
as places of refuge during the revolution, or as the haunts of robbers.
Bones of animals and stones blackened with smoke showed that but lately
some part had been occupied as a habitation. The great excavations
around, blocks of marble lying as they fell, perhaps, two thousand years
ago, and the appearances of having been once a scene of immense industry
and labour, stand in striking contrast with the desolation and solitude
now existing. Probably the hammer and chisel will never be heard there
more, great temples will no more be raised, and modern genius will
never, like the Greeks of old, make the rude blocks of marble speak.
[Illustration: Quarries of Pentelicus.]
At dark I was dining at the Hotel de France, when Mr. Hill came over
with the welcome intelligence that my carpet-bag had arrived. On it was
pinned a large paper, with the words "Huzzah!" "Huzzah!" "Huzzah!" by my
friend Maxwell, who had met it on horse back on the shores of the Gulf
of Lepanto, travelling under the charge of a Greek in search of me. I
opened it with apprehension, and, to my great satisfaction, found
undisturbed the object of my greatest anxiety, the precious notebook
from which I now write, saved from the peril of an anonymous publication
or of being used up for gun-waddings.
The next morning, before I was up, I heard a gentle rap at my door,
which was followed by the entrance of a German, a missionary, whom I had
met several times at Mr. Hill's, and who had dined with me once at my
hotel. I apologized for being caught in bed, and told him that he must
possess a troubled spirit to send him so early from his pillow. He
answered that I was right; that he did indeed possess a troubled spirit;
and closing the door carefully, came to my bedside, and said he had
conceived a great regard for me, and intended confiding in me an
important trust. I had several times held long conversations with him at
Mr. Hill's, and very little to my edification, as his English was hardly
intelligible; but I felt pleased at having, without particularly
striving for it, gained the favourable opinion of one who bore the
character of a very learned and a very good man. I requested him to step
into the dining-room while I rose and dressed myself; but he put his
hand upon my breast to keep me down, and drawing a chair, began, "You
are going to Smyrna." He then paused, but, after some moments of
hesitation, proceeded to say that the first name I would hear on my
arrival there would be his own; that, unfortunately, it was in
everybody's mouth. My friend was a short and very ugly middle-aged man,
with a very large mouth, speaking English with the most disagreeable
German sputter, lame from a fall, and, altogether, of a most
uninteresting and unsentimental aspect; and he surprised me much by
laying before me a veritable _affaire du coeur_. It was so foreign to my
expectations, that I should as soon have expected to be made a confidant
in a love affair by the Archbishop of York. After a few preliminaries he
went into particulars; lavished upon the lady the usual quota of charms
"in such case made and provided," but was uncertain, rambling, and
discursive in regard to the position he held in her regard. At first I
understood that it was merely the old story, a flirtation and a victim;
then that they were very near being married, which I afterward
understood to be only so near as this, that he was willing and she not;
and, finally, it settled down into the every-day occurrence, the lady
smiled, while the parents and a stout two-fisted brother frowned. I
could but think, if such a homely expression may be introduced in
describing these tender passages, that he had the boot on the wrong leg,
and that the parents were much more likely than the daughter to favour
such a suitor. However, on this point I held my peace. The precise
business he wished to impose on me was, immediately on my arrival in
Smyrna to form the acquaintance of the lady and her family, and use all
my exertions in his favour. I told him I was an entire stranger in
Smyrna, and could not possibly have any influence with the parties; but,
being urged, promised him that, if I could interfere without intruding
myself improperly, he should have the benefit of my mediation. At first
he intended giving me a letter to the lady, but afterward determined to
give me one to the Rev. Mr. Brewer, an American missionary, who, he
said, was a particular friend of his, and intimate with the beloved and
her family, and acquainted with the whole affair. Placing himself at my
table, on which were pens, ink, and paper, he proceeded to write his
letter, while I lay quietly till he turned over the first side, when,
tired of waiting, I rose, dressed myself, packed up, and, before he had
finished, stood by the table with my carpet-bag, waiting until he should
have done to throw in my writing materials. He bade me good-by after I
had mounted my horse to leave, and, when I turned back to look at him, I
could not but feel for the crippled, limping victim of the tender
passion, though, in honesty, and with the best wishes for his success, I
did not think it would help his suit for the lady to see him.
An account of my journey from Athens to Smyrna, given in a letter to
friends at home, was published during my absence and without my
knowledge, in successive numbers of the American Monthly Magazine, and
perhaps the favourable notice taken of it had some influence in inducing
me to write a book. I give the papers as they were then published.
_Smyrna, April_, 1835.
MY DEAR ****,
I have just arrived at this place, and I live to tell it. I have
been three weeks performing a voyage usually made in three days. It
has been tedious beyond all things; but, as honest Dogberry would
say, if it had been ten times as tedious, I could find it in my
heart to bestow it all upon you. To begin at the beginning: on the
morning of the second instant, I and my long-lost carpet-bag left
the eternal city of Athens, without knowing exactly whither we were
going, and sincerely regretted by Miltiades Panajotti, the garcon of
the hotel. We wound round the foot of the Acropolis, and, giving a
last look to its ruined temples, fell into the road to the Piraeus,
and in an hour found ourselves at that ancient harbour, almost as
celebrated in the history of Greece as Athens itself. Here we took
counsel as to farther movements, and concluded to take passage in a
caique to sail that evening for Syra, being advised that that island
was a great place of rendezvous for vessels, and that from it we
could procure a passage to any place we chose. Having disposed of my
better half (I may truly call it so, for what is man without
pantaloons, vests, and shirts), I took a little sailboat to float
around the ancient harbour and muse upon its departed glories.
The day that I lingered there before bidding farewell, perhaps for
ever, to the shores of Greece, is deeply impressed upon my mind. I
had hardly begun to feel the magic influence of the land of poets,
patriots, and heroes, until the very moment of my departure. I had
travelled in the most interesting sections of the country, and found
all enthusiasm dead within me when I had expected to be carried away
by the remembrance of the past; but here, I know not how it was,
without any effort, and in the mere act of whiling away my time, all
that was great, and noble, and beautiful in her history rushed upon
me at once; the sun and the breeze, the land and the sea,
contributed to throw a witchery around me; and in a rich and
delightful frame of mind, I found myself among the monuments of her
better days, gliding by the remains of the immense wall erected to
enclose the harbour during the Peloponnesian war, and was soon
floating upon the classic waters of Salamis.
If I had got there by accident it would not have occurred to me to
dream of battles and all the fierce panoply of war upon that calm
and silvery surface. But I knew where I was, and my blood was up. I
was among the enduring witnesses of the Athenian glory. Behind me
was the ancient city, the Acropolis, with its ruined temples, the
telltale monuments of by-gone days, towering above the plain; here
was the harbour from which the galleys carried to the extreme parts
of the then known world the glories of the Athenian name; before me
was unconquered Salamis; here the invading fleet of Xerxes; there
the little navy, the last hope of the Athenians; here the island of
AEgina, from which Aristides, forgetting his quarrel with
Themistocles, embarked in a rude boat, during the hottest of the
battle, for the ship of the latter; and there the throne of Xerxes,
where the proud invader stationed himself as spectator of the battle
that was to lay the rich plain of Attica at his feet. There could be
no mistake about localities; the details have been handed down from
generation to generation, and are as well known to the Greeks of the
present day as they were to their fathers. So I went to work
systematically, and fought the whole battle through. I gave the
Persians ten to one, but I made the Greeks fight like tigers; I
pointed them to their city; to their wives and children; I brought
on long strings of little innocents, urging them as in the farce,
"sing out, young uns;" I carried old Themistocles among the Persians
like a modern Greek fireship among the Turks; I sunk ship after
ship, and went on demolishing them at a most furious rate, until I
saw old Xerxes scudding from his throne, and the remnant of the
Persian fleet scampering away to the tune of "devil take the
hindmost." By this time I had got into the spirit of the thing; and
moving rapidly over that water, once red with blood of thousands
from the fields of Asia, I steered for the shore and mounted the
vacant throne of Xerxes. This throne is on a hill near the shore,
not very high, and as pretty a place as a man could have selected
to see his friends whipped and keep out of harm's way himself; for
you will recollect that in those days there was no gunpowder nor
cannon balls, and, consequently, no danger from long chance shots. I
selected a particular stone, which I thought it probable Xerxes, as
a reasonable man, and with an eye to perspective, might have chosen
as his seat on the eventful day of the battle; and on that same
stone sat down to meditate upon the vanity of all earthly greatness.
But, most provokingly, whenever I think of Xerxes, the first thing
that presents itself to my mind is the couplet in the Primer,
"Xerxes the Great did die,
And so must you and I."
This is a very sensible stanza, no doubt, and worthy of always being
borne in mind; but it was not exactly what I wanted. I tried to
drive it away; but the more I tried, the more it stuck to me. It was
all in vain. I railed at early education, and resolved that acquired
knowledge hurts a man's natural faculties; for if I had not received
the first rudiments of education, I should not have been bothered
with the vile couplet, and should have been able to do something on
my own account. As it was, I lost one of the best opportunities ever
a man had for moralizing; and you, my dear ----, have lost at least
three pages. I give you, however, all the materials; put yourself on
the throne of Xerxes, and do what you can, and may your early
studies be no stumbling-block in your way. As for me, vexed and
disgusted with myself, I descended the hill as fast as the great
king did of yore, and jumping into my boat, steered for the farthest
point of the Piraeus; from the throne of _Xerxes_ to the tomb of
Themistocles.
I was prepared to do something here. This was not merely a place
where he had been; I was to tread upon the earth that covered his
bones; here were his ashes; here was all that remained of the best
and bravest of the Greeks, save his immortal name. As I approached I
saw the large square stones that enclosed his grave, and mused upon
his history; the deliverer of his country, banished, dying an exile,
his bones begged by his repenting countrymen, and buried with
peculiar propriety near the shore of the sea commanding a full view
of the scene of his naval glory. For more than two thousand years
the waves have almost washed over his grave, the sun has shone and
the winds have howled over him; while, perhaps, his spirit has
mingled with the sighing of the winds and the murmur of the waters,
in moaning over the long captivity of his countrymen; perhaps, too,
his spirit has been with them in their late struggle for liberty;
has hovered over them in the battle and the breeze, and is now
standing sentinel over his beloved and liberated country. I
approached as to the grave of one who will never die. His great
name, his great deeds, hallowed by the lapse of so many ages; the
scene--I looked over the wall with a feeling amounting to reverence,
when, directly before me, the first thing I saw, the only thing I
could see, so glaring and conspicuous that nothing else could fix my
eye, was a tall, stiff, wooden headboard, painted white, with black
letters, to the memory of an Englishman with as unclassical a name
as that of _John Johnson_. My eyes were blasted with the sight; I
was ferocious; I railed at him as if he had buried himself there
with his own hands. What had he to do there? I railed at his
friends. Did they expect to give him a name by mingling him with the
ashes of the immortal dead? Did they expect to steal immortality
like fire from the flint? I dashed back to my boat, steered directly
for the harbour, gave sentiment to the dogs, and in half an hour was
eating a most voracious and spiteful dinner.
In the evening I embarked on board my little caique. She was one of
the most rakish of that rakish description of vessels. I drew my
cloak around me and stretched myself on the deck as we glided
quietly out of the harbour; saw the throne of Xerxes, the island of
Salamis, and the shores of Greece gradually fade from view; looked
at the dusky forms of the Greeks in their capotes lying asleep
around me; at the helmsman sitting cross-legged at his post,
apparently without life or motion; gave one thought to home, and
fell asleep.
In the morning I began to examine my companions. They were, in all,
a captain and six sailors, probably all part owners, and two
passengers from one of the islands, not one of whom could speak any
other language than Greek. My knowledge of that language was
confined to a few rolling hexameters, which had stuck by me in some
unaccountable way as a sort of memento of college days. These,
however, were of no particular use, and, consequently, I was pretty
much tongue-tied during the whole voyage. I amused myself by making
my observations quietly upon my companions, as they did more openly
upon me, for I frequently heard the word "Americanos" pass among
them. I had before had occasion to see something of Greek sailors,
and to admire their skill and general good conduct, and I was
fortified in my previous opinion by what I saw of my present
companions. Their temperance in eating and drinking is very
remarkable, and all my comparisons between them and European sailors
were very much in their favour. Indeed, I could not help thinking,
as they sat collectively, Turkish fashion, around their frugal meal
of bread, caviari, and black olives, that I had never seen finer
men. Their features were regular, in that style which we to this day
recognise as Grecian; their figures good, and their faces wore an
air of marked character and intelligence; and these advantages of
person were set off by the island costume, the fez or red cloth cap,
with a long black tassel at the top, a tight vest and jacket,
embroidered and without collars, large Turkish trousers coming down
a little below the knee, legs bare, sharp-pointed slippers, and a
sash around the waist, tied under the left side, with long ends
hanging down, and a knife sticking out about six inches. There was
something bold and daring in their appearance; indeed, I may say,
rakish and piratical; and I could easily imagine that, if the
Mediterranean should again become infested with pirates, my friends
would cut no contemptible figure among them. But I must not detain
you as long on the voyage as I was myself. The sea was calm; we had
hardly any wind; our men were at the oars nearly all the time, and,
passing slowly by AEgina, Cape Sunium, with its magnificent ruins
mournfully overlooking the sea, better known in modern times as
Colonna's Height and the scene of Falconer's shipwreck, passing also
the island of Zea, the ancient Chios, Thermia, and other islands of
lesser note, in the afternoon of the third day we arrived at Syra.
With regard to Syra I shall say but little; I am as loath to linger
about it now as I was to stay there then. The fact is, I cannot
think of the place with any degree of satisfaction. The evening of
my arrival I heard, through a Greek merchant to whom I had a letter
from a friend in Athens, of a brig to sail the next day for Smyrna;
and I lay down on a miserable bed in a miserable locanda, in the
confident expectation of resuming my journey in the morning. Before
morning, however, I was roused by "blustering Boreas" rushing
through the broken casement of my window; and for more than a week
all the winds ever celebrated in the poetical history of Greece were
let loose upon the island. We were completely cut off from all
communication with the rest of the world. Not a vessel could leave
the port, while vessel after vessel put in there for shelter. I do
not mean to go into any details; indeed, for my own credit's sake I
dare not; for if I were to draw a true picture of things as I found
them; if I were to write home the truth, I should be considered as
utterly destitute of taste and sentiment; I should be looked upon as
a most unpoetical dog, who ought to have been at home poring over
the revised statutes instead of breathing the pure air of poetry and
song. And now, if I were writing what might by chance come under the
eyes of a sentimental young lady or a young gentleman in his teens,
the truth would be the last thing I would think of telling. No,
though my teeth chatter, though a cold sweat comes over me when I
think of it, I would go through the usual rhapsody, and huzzah for
"the land of the East and the clime of the sun." Indeed, I have a
scrap in my portfolio, written with my cloak and greatcoat on, and
my feet over a brazier, beginning in that way. But to you, my
dear ----, who know my touching sensibilities, and who, moreover,
have a tender regard for my character and will not publish me, I
would as soon tell the truth as not. And I therefore do not hesitate
to say, but do not whisper it elsewhere, that in one of the
beautiful islands of the AEgean; in the heart of the Cyclades, in the
sight of Delos, and Paros, and Antiparos, any one of which is enough
to throw one who has never seen them into raptures with their
fancied beauties, here, in this paradise of a young man's dreams, in
the middle of April, I would have hailed "chill November's surly
blast" as a zephyr; I would have exchanged all the beauties of this
balmy clime for the sunny side of Kamschatka; I would have given my
room and the whole Island of Syra for a third-rate lodging in
Communipaw. It was utterly impossible to walk out, and equally
impossible to stay in my room; the house, to suit that delightful
climate, being built without windows or window-shutters. If I could
forget the island, I could remember with pleasure the society I met
there. I passed my mornings in the library of Mr. R., one of our
worthy American missionaries; and my evenings at the house of Mr.
W., the British consul. This gentleman married a Greek lady of
Smyrna, and had three beautiful daughters, more than half Greeks in
their habits and feelings; one of them is married to an English
baronet, another to a Greek merchant of Syra, and the third--.
On the ninth day the wind fell, the sun once more shone brightly,
and in the evening I embarked on board a rickety brig for Smyrna. At
about six o'clock P.M. thirty or forty vessels were quietly crawling
out of the harbour like rats after a storm. It was almost a calm
when we started: in about two hours we had a favourable breeze; we
turned in, going at the rate of eight miles an hour, and rose with a
strong wind dead ahead. We beat about all that day; the wind
increased to a gale, and toward evening we took shelter in the
harbour of Scio.
The history of this beautiful little island forms one of the
bloodiest pages in the history of the world, and one glance told
that dreadful history. Once the most beautiful island of the
Archipelago, it is now a mass of ruins. Its fields, which once
"budded and blossomed as the rose," have become waste places; its
villages are deserted, its towns are in ruins, its inhabitants
murdered, in captivity, and in exile. Before the Greek revolution
the Greeks of Scio were engaged in extensive commerce, and ranked
among the largest merchants in the Levant. Though living under hard
taskmasters, subject to the exactions of a rapacious pacha, their
industry and enterprise, and the extraordinary fertility of their
island, enabled them to pay a heavy tribute to the Turks and to
become rich themselves. For many years they had enjoyed the
advantages of a college, with professors of high literary and
scientific attainments, and their library was celebrated throughout
all that country; it was, perhaps, the only spot in Greece where
taste and learning still held a seat. But the island was far more
famed for its extraordinary natural beauty and fertility. Its bold
mountains and its soft valleys, the mildness of its climate and the
richness of its productions, bound the Greeks to its soil by a tie
even stronger than the chain of their Turkish masters. In the early
part of the revolution the Sciotes took no part with their
countrymen in their glorious struggle for liberty. Forty of their
principal citizens were given up as hostages, and they were suffered
to remain in peace. Wrapped in the rich beauties of their island,
they forgot the freedom of their fathers and their own chains; and,
under the precarious tenure of a tyrant's will, gave themselves up
to the full enjoyment of all that wealth and taste could purchase.
We must not be too hard upon human nature; the cause seemed
desperate; they had a little paradise at stake; and if there is a
spot on earth, the risk of losing which could excuse men in
forgetting that they were slaves in a land where their fathers were
free, it is the Island of Scio. But the sword hung suspended over
them by a single hair. In an unexpected hour, without the least note
of preparation, they were startled by the thunder of the Turkish
cannon; fifty thousand Turks were let loose like bloodhounds upon
the devoted island. The affrighted Greeks lay unarmed and helpless
at their feet, but they lay at the feet of men who did not know
mercy even by name; at the feet of men who hungered and thirsted
after blood; of men, in comparison with whom wild beasts are as
lambs. The wildest beast of the forest may become gorged with blood;
not so with the Turks at Scio. Their appetite "grew with what it fed
on," and still longed for blood when there was not a victim left to
bleed. Women were ripped open, children dashed against the walls,
the heads of whole families stuck on pikes out of the windows of
their houses, while their murderers gave themselves up to riot and
plunder within. The forty hostages were hung in a row from the walls
of the castle; an indiscriminate and universal burning and massacre
took place; in a few days the ground was cumbered with the dead, and
one of the loveliest spots on earth was a pile of smoking ruins. Out
of a population of one hundred and ten thousand, sixty thousand are
supposed to have been murdered, twenty thousand to have escaped, and
thirty thousand to have been sold into slavery. Boys and young girls
were sold publicly in the streets of Smyrna and Constantinople at a
dollar a head. And all this did not arise from any irritated state
of feeling toward them. It originated in the cold-blooded,
calculating policy of the sultan, conceived in the same spirit which
drenched the streets of Constantinople with the blood of the
Janisaries; it was intended to strike terror into the hearts of the
Greeks, but the murderer failed in his aim. The groans of the
hapless Sciotes reached the ears of their countrymen, and gave a
headlong and irresistible impulse to the spirit then struggling to
be free. And this bloody tragedy was performed in our own days, and
in the face of the civilized world. Surely if ever Heaven visits in
judgment a nation for a nation's crimes, the burning and massacre at
Scio will be deeply visited upon the accursed Turks.
It was late in the afternoon when I landed, and my landing was under
peculiarly interesting circumstances. One of my fellow-passengers
was a native of the island, who had escaped during the massacre, and
now revisited it for the first time. He asked me to accompany him
ashore, promising to find some friends at whose house we might
sleep; but he soon found himself a stranger in his native island:
where he had once known everybody, he now knew nobody. The town was
a complete mass of ruins; the walls of many fine buildings were
still standing, crumbling to pieces, and still black with the fire
of the incendiary Turks. The town that had grown up upon the ruins
consisted of a row of miserable shantees, occupied as shops for the
sale of the mere necessaries of life, where the shopman slept on his
window-shutter in front. All my companion's efforts to find an
acquaintance who would give us a night's lodging were fruitless. We
were determined not to go on board the vessel, if possible to avoid
it; her last cargo had been oil, the odour of which still remained
about her. The weather would not permit us to sleep on deck, and the
cabin was intolerably disagreeable. To add to our unpleasant
position, and, at the same time, to heighten the cheerlessness of
the scene around us, the rain began to fall violently. Under the
guidance of a Greek we searched among the ruins for an apartment
where we might build a fire and shelter ourselves for the night, but
we searched in vain; the work of destruction was too complete.
Cold, and thoroughly drenched with rain, we were retracing our way
to our boat, when our guide told my companion that a Greek
archbishop had lately taken up his abode among the ruins. We
immediately went there, and found him occupying apartments,
partially repaired, in what had once been one of the finest houses
in Scio. The entrance through a large stone gateway was imposing;
the house was cracked from top to bottom by fire, nearly one half
had fallen down, and the stones lay scattered as they fell; but
enough remained to show that in its better days it had been almost a
palace. We ascended a flight of stone steps to a terrace, from which
we entered into a large hall perhaps thirty feet wide and fifty feet
long. On one side of this hall the wall had fallen down the whole
length, and we looked out upon the mass of ruins beneath. On the
other side, in a small room in one corner, we found the archbishop.
He was sick, and in bed with all his clothes on, according to the
universal custom here, but received us kindly. The furniture
consisted of an iron bedstead with a mattress, on which he lay with
a quilt spread over him, a wooden sofa, three wooden chairs, about
twenty books, and two large leather cases containing clothes,
napkins, and, probably, all his worldly goods. The rain came through
the ceiling in several places; the bed of the poor archbishop had
evidently been moved from time to time to avoid it, and I was
obliged to change my position twice. An air of cheerless poverty
reigned through the apartment. I could not help comparing his lot
with that of more favoured and, perhaps, not more worthy servants of
the church. It was a style so different from that of the priests at
Rome, the pope and his cardinals, with their gaudy equipages and
multitudes of footmen rattling to the Vatican; or from the pomp and
state of the haughty English prelates, or even from the comforts of
our own missionaries in different parts of this country, that I
could not help feeling deeply for the poor priest before me. But he
seemed contented and cheerful, and even thankful that, for the
moment, there were others worse off than himself, and that he had it
in his power to befriend them.
Sweetmeats, coffee, and pipes were served; and in about an hour we
were conducted to supper in a large room, also opening from the
hall. Our supper would not have tempted an epicure, but suited very
well an appetite whetted by exercise and travel. It consisted of a
huge lump of bread and a large glass of water for each of us,
caviari, black olives, and two kinds of Turkish sweetmeats. We were
waited upon by two priests: one of them, a handsome young man, not
more than twenty, with long black hair hanging over his shoulders
like a girl's, stood by with a napkin on his arm and a pewter
vessel, with which he poured water on our hands, receiving it again
in a basin. This was done both before and after eating; then came
coffee and pipes. During the evening the young priest brought out an
edition of Homer, and I surprised _him_, and astounded _myself_, by
being able to translate a passage in the Iliad. I translated it in
French, and my companion explained it in modern Greek to the young
priest. Our beds were cushions laid on a raised platform or divan
extending around the walls, with a quilt for each of us. In the
morning, after sweetmeats, coffee, and pipes, we paid our respects
to the good old archbishop, and took our leave. When we got out of
doors, finding that the wind was the same, and that there was no
possibility of sailing, my friend proposed a ride into the country.
We procured a couple of mules, took a small basket of provisions for
a collation, and started.
Our road lay directly along the shore; on one side the sea, and on
the other the ruins of houses and gardens, almost washed by the
waves. At about three miles' distance we crossed a little stream, by
the side of which we saw a sarcophagus, lately disinterred,
containing the usual vases of a Grecian tomb, including the piece of
money to pay Charon his ferriage over the river Styx, and six pounds
of dust; being all that remained of a _man_--perhaps one who had
filled a large space in the world; perhaps a hero--buried probably
more than two thousand years ago. After a ride of about five miles
we came to the ruins of a large village, the style of which would
anywhere have fixed the attention, as having been once a favoured
abode of wealth and taste. The houses were of brown stone, built
together, strictly in the Venetian style, after the models left
during the occupation of the island by the Venetians, large and
elegant, with gardens of three or four acres, enclosed by high walls
of the same kind of stone, and altogether in a style far superior to
anything I had seen in Greece. These were the country-houses and
gardens of the rich merchants of Scio. The manner of living among
the proprietors here was somewhat peculiar, and the ties that bound
them to this little village were peculiarly strong. This was the
family home; the community was essentially mercantile, and most of
their business transactions were carried on elsewhere. When there
were three or four brothers in a family, one would be in
Constantinople a couple of years, another at Trieste, and so on,
while another remained at home; so that those who were away, while
toiling amid the perplexities of business, were always looking to
the occasional family reunion; and all trusted to spend the evening
of their days among the beautiful gardens of Scio. What a scene for
the heart to turn to now! The houses and gardens were still there,
some standing almost entire, others black with smoke and crumbling
to ruins. But where were they who once occupied them? Where were
they who should now be coming out to rejoice in the return of a
friend and to welcome a stranger? An awful solitude, a stillness
that struck a cold upon the heart, reigned around us. We saw nobody;
and our own voices, and the tramping of our horses upon the deserted
pavements, sounded hollow and sepulchral in our ears. It was like
walking among the ruins of Pompeii; it was another city of the dead;
but there was a freshness about the desolation that seemed of
to-day; it seemed as though the inhabitants should be sleeping and
not dead. Indeed, the high walls of the gardens, and the outside of
the houses too, were generally so fresh and in so perfect a state,
that it seemed like riding through a handsome village at an early
hour before the inhabitants had risen; and I sometimes could not
help thinking that in an hour or two the streets would be thronged
with a busy population. My friend continued to conduct me through
the solitary streets; telling me, as we went along, that this was
the house of such a family, this of such a family, with some of
whose members I had become acquainted in Greece, until, stopping
before a large stone gateway, he dismounted at the gate of his
father's house. In that house he was born; there he had spent his
youth; he had escaped from it during the dreadful massacre, and
this was the first time of his revisiting it. What a tide of
recollections must have rushed upon him!
We entered through the large stone gateway into a courtyard
beautifully paved in mosaic in the form of a star, with small black
and white round stones. On our left was a large stone reservoir,
perhaps twenty-five feet square, still so perfect as to hold water,
with an arbour over it supported by marble columns; a venerable
grapevine completely covered the arbour. The garden covered an
extent of about four acres, filled with orange, lemon, almond, and
fig trees; overrun with weeds, roses, and flowers, growing together
in wild confusion. On the right was the house, and a melancholy
spectacle it was; the wall had fallen down on one side, and the
whole was black with smoke. We ascended a flight of stone steps,
with marble balustrades, to the terrace, a platform about twenty
feet square, overlooking the garden. From the terrace we entered the
saloon, a large room with high ceilings and fresco paintings on the
walls; the marks of the fire kindled on the stone floor still
visible, all the woodwork burned to a cinder, and the whole black
with smoke. It was a perfect picture of wanton destruction. The day,
too, was in conformity with the scene; the sun was obscured, the
wind blew through the ruined building, it rained, was cold and
cheerless. What were the feelings of my friend I cannot imagine; the
houses of three of his uncles were immediately adjoining; one of
these uncles was one of the forty hostages, and was hanged; the
other two were murdered; his father, a venerable-looking old man,
who came down to the vessel when we started to see him off, had
escaped to the mountains, from thence in a caique to Ipsara, and
from thence into Italy. I repeat it, I cannot imagine what were his
feelings; he spoke but little; they must have been too deep for
utterance. I looked at everything with intense interest; I wanted to
ask question after question, but could not, in mercy, probe his
bleeding wounds. We left the house and walked out into the garden.
It showed that there was no master's eye to watch over it; I plucked
an orange which had lost its flavour; the tree was withering from
want of care; our feet became entangled among weeds, and roses, and
rare hothouse plants growing wildly together. I said that he did not
talk much; but the little he did say amounted to volumes. Passing a
large vase in which a beautiful plant was running wildly over the
sides, he murmured indistinctly "the same vase" (le meme vase), and
once he stopped opposite a tree, and, turning to me, said, "This is
the only tree I do not remember." These and other little incidental
remarks showed how deeply all the particulars were engraved upon his
mind, and told me, plainer than words, that the wreck and ruin he
saw around him harrowed his very soul. Indeed, how could it be
otherwise? This was his father's house, the home of his youth, the
scene of his earliest, dearest, and fondest recollections. Busy
memory, that source of all our greatest pains as well as greatest
pleasures, must have pressed sorely upon him, must have painted the
ruined and desolate scene around him in colours even brighter, far
brighter, than they ever existed in; it must have called up the
faces of well-known and well-loved friends; indeed, he must have
asked himself, in bitterness and in anguish of spirit, "The friends
of my youth where are they?" while the fatal answer fell upon his
heart, "Gone murdered, in captivity and in exile."