consisted of a potato-field, sprinkled with bits of brick and marble,
and a medieval church, with some ancient marble built into its walls, we
came to a broad river, the Alpheus, whose water, when it has any,
empties in a _katavothron_ which we left on our right; followed it up in
a southerly direction until we came to a little water in its bed, then
crossing over some rolling land which divides the water-courses of
Arcadia from those of Laconia, we found ourselves in a country of a very
different character. The land was better, and was covered with a low
growth of wood; we could even see extensive forests on the sides of
Parnon. The scenery became highly picturesque, and the weather, although
still rigorous, was more comfortable than in the morning. Night came on
us long before we reached our journey's end, the wayside khan of
Krevatá. There was a little parleying at the door, and Dhemetri seemed
dissatisfied with what he saw, and disposed to carry us on to another
resting-place. But thoroughly benumbed as we were, the blaze of light
that fell upon us from the half-open door quite won our hearts, and we
felt willing to risk whatever discomforts the place might have rather
than go further. As we entered the door, the scene was striking. A large
fire was roaring in the middle of the room, filling it with smoke. On
cushions and scraps of carpet, disposed about the fire, were crouched
six or eight men and women, dressed in their national costume, very
dirty and equally picturesque. Two or three children were among them, or
lay stretched at random on the floor asleep. A large, swarthy man
opposite us held a child of two or three years, now nestling in its
father's arms, now climbing over to its mother, now gazing bashfully and
curiously at the strangers. Basil, ever ready on occasion, seized his
pencil and soon transferred the group to paper, to the admiration of
them all. They moved to right and left as we came in, and made room for
us on the side next the door, where our faces were scorched, Our backs
shivering, and our eyes smarting with the smoke. An old woman who sat
next me eyed us inquisitively, and would gladly have entered into
conversation; but almost our sole Greek phrase, 'It is cold,' (_eeny
krió_), we had exhausted immediately on entering the room. Basil
essayed Italian, having a vague idea that it would pass any where in
Greece, as French does in Italy, but with no success. Neither was our
conversation among ourselves brilliant. We were tired, cold, sleepy, and
hungry, and we thought despairingly on the long miles back that we had
last seen our baggage. At length a shout at the door gladdened our
hearts; our beds and that ever-welcome basket were handed in, and
Dhemetri was soon deeply engaged in preparing supper. Meanwhile, a fire
had been built in the upper room, and we went up by a ladder. But here
we were worse off than below. Roof, floor, walls, and (wooden) windows,
all were amply provided with cracks and knot-holes, through which the
wind roved at its will. A wretched fire was smoldering on the hearth,
and a candle was burning in a tin cup hanging by its handle on a nail in
the wall, which, set it where we would, flickered in the wind. And when
our supper came, fricassee, boiled chicken, roast hare, omelette, bread,
cheese, figs, and wine--for such a bill of fare had Dhemetri made ready
for us--we swallowed it hastily, huddled our beds about the fire,
wrapped ourselves in our blankets, and lay down at once. The inquisitive
old lady below, on seeing the extensive preparations for the supper of
three fellow-mortals, was struck with reverence for us, and expressed
her belief that those, who lived on such marvelous and unheard-of
delicacies would never die. We, indeed, had requested Dhemetri to cater
more simply for us; but his professional pride would not suffer it.
We were right glad when morning came, and after a mug of thick coffee, a
bit of bread, and a handful of figs, we bid farewell to Krevatá with no
regrets. A short ride brought us to the brow of the range on which we
were traveling, and there lay the valley of Sparta at our feet, and
beyond it the Taygetus, if not the highest, the boldest and sharpest
mountain-range in Greece. Its white and jagged crest was still tipped
with clouds, and it appeared to rise from the valley of Sparta in an
almost unbroken ascent to its hight of seven thousand feet. This was the
finest single prospect of our journey; but we gladly left it, after a
short pause, to push on to the warmth and sunshine of the valley below.
The precipitous descent was soon accomplished; we forded the Eurotas, a
broad, clear, shallow stream, the only real river we saw in Greece, and
stood in Sparta, its site marked by a group of low hills and a few
unimportant ruins. The ground is good, and was then green with young
wheat; the valley was sheltered from the winds which had persecuted us
on the highlands, and for a few hours in the middle of the day, the
clouds were scattered, and we basked in the sun's rays. It seemed an
Elysium. A small and thrifty village has recently sprung up south of
this group of hills, still within the limits of the ancient city, and
here we dined in a café (_kapheterion_) kept by one Lycurgus, not on
black broth, but on roast lamb, omelette, figs, oranges, and wine.
Truly, if national character depended wholly on physical geography, we
should be inclined to look in the valley of the Eurotas for the rich and
luxurious Athens, and seek its stern and simple rival among the bleak
hills and sterile plains of Attica. We had a short ride that afternoon
up the valley of the Eurotas, with a keen north wind in our faces, and
were not sorry to reach Kalyvia at an early hour.
Dhemetri had sent the pack-horse with our baggage across by a shorter
path, and now announced that we were to sleep to-night in a house
instead of a khan, that the mayor (_demarchos_) of Kalyvia had consented
to receive us. Great was our exultation at the prospect of spending a
night in this aristocratic mansion, and in truth we found the
accommodations here much the most comfortable--nay, we reckoned them
luxurious--which we had on our journey. We were first shown into a small
room with one glass window, with tight walls, and a chimney. A fire was
burning cheerfully on the hearth--that is to say, a stone platform
slightly elevated above the floor. The floor around the fire was spread
with mats, and in one corner the lady of the house was--what shall I
say?--squatted upon the floor, engaged in domestic work. Her daughter, a
pretty, blue-eyed maiden, of some fourteen years, named Athena,
glaykhôpis Hathhêna, was working by her side, and the demarch himself,
with his stalwart son, were similarly seated on the opposite side of the
hearth. Three rough, unpainted stools, an extra luxury for guests, were
brought in for us, and we at once plunged into conversation.
'_Eeny kriho_!' said we.
'_Mhalista, mhalista, eeny krio_!' was the prompt reply.
Stimulated by our success, we made another attempt, and were overwhelmed
by a flood of Romaic, to which we could only nod our heads gratefully,
with 'Málista, málista, charí, charí,' (certainly, certainly, thank you,
thank you.) When we retired to our room, we found our beds laid on a
sort of shelf along the wall, instead of on the floor, and our supper
was served on a table instead of in our laps, as we were used. The
family shook hands with us cordially when we took leave, in the morning,
placing their hands on their hearts.
This day we rode through a rolling country, quite well watered and
wooded, separating the waters of the Eurotas from those of the Alpheus,
Laconia from Arcadia. As we reached the highest point, and were about to
descend, Dhemetri pointed out a village, distinguished by a single tall,
slender cypress, with the words; 'There is Megalopolis.' This is the
city founded by Epaminondas, almost the only statesman of antiquity who
seems to have had a dim conception of the modern policy of the balance
of power, as a point of union for the jealous and disunited States of
Arcadia, and as a sentinel stationed at a chief entrance to Laconia. The
whole of his great project was not realized, and Megalopolis, instead of
becoming 'the great city' of Arcadia, was only a mate to Tegea and
Mantinea. Even thus, the work was by no means lost; a Spartan army, to
reach Messenia, whose independence was to be secured, must pass through
the territory of Megalopolis, and even a second-rate city would answer
as a guard. But not even Epaminondas could make of Arcadia a first-class
power, and a sufficient counterpoise to Sparta. Megalopolis is now
wholly deserted, and represented only by the little village of Sinanu,
half a mile distant, where we stopped at a khan kept by an old soldier
of Colocotroni, and ran, while dinner was preparing, to examine the
scanty ruins of the great city--interesting only from their association
with a great name.
Reluctantly, we now turned our backs upon Messene, with its renowned
fortress of Ithome, the sacred Olympia, and the beautiful temple of
Phigalia, and began our homeward journey. Passing over a mountain from
which we had a wide and beautiful view, we rode through a barren and
uninteresting plain to the lonely khan of Frankovrysi, and early the
next day arrived at Tripolitza. We had had a clear sky at Megalopolis
and Frankovrysi, but here, in the high table-land of Arcadia, we found
the self-same leaden sky and bleak winds we left three days before. This
valley or table-land stretches from north to south, nearly divided in
two by the approach of the mountains from east and west. Thus the valley
takes the shape rudely of the figure eight; the southern part, through
one corner of which we had passed before, being occupied by Tegea, the
northern by Mantinea. Tripolitza, to the northwest of Tegea, represents
the ancient Pallantium, the birthplace of Evander. Here Dhemetri brought
us bad news. We had intended to go to Mantinea, thence north through
Orchomenus, Stymphalus, and Sicyon, to Corinth; but the passes, we
learned, were impracticable for the snow, and we must recross Mount
Parthenion, and revisit Achladhokamvo and Argos. First, however, we took
a rapid ride to Mantinea, about eight miles through a level, tolerably
well-cultivated country. At the narrow passage between the mountains,
there stood in ancient times a grove of cork-trees, called 'Pelagus,'
the sea. Epaminondas, warned by an oracle to beware of the 'Pelagus,'
had carefully avoided the sea. But it was just in this spot that he drew
up his troops for the great battle which cost him his life. When
mortally wounded, he was carried to a high place called
'Skope'--identified with the sharp spur of Mount Mænalus, which projects
just here into the plain, and from this he watched the battle, and here
he died, like Wolfe, at the moment of victory. The well-built walls of
Mantinea still stand in nearly their entire circuit, built in the fourth
century before Christ, after Agesipolis of Sparta had captured the city,
by washing away its walls of sun-burnt brick, and had dispersed the
inhabitants among the neighboring villages. The restoration of the city
was a part of the great system of humbling Sparta, set on foot by
Epaminondas after the battle of Leuctra.
After spending the night at Achladhokamvo, where we visited the ruins of
Hysiæ close by, we went next day through Argos, passing within sight of
Mycenæ, to Nemea, where, in a beautiful little valley, three Doric
columns, still standing, testify to the former sanctity of the spot.
Then to Kurtissa, the ancient Cleonæ, to pass the night. When Dhemetri
pointed it out to us from the hill above, it looked like a New-England
farm-house, a neat white cottage peeping out from among the trees, and
we rejoiced at the prospect. But lo! the neat white cottage was a
guardhouse, and our khan was the rude, unpainted, windowless barn. It
was, nevertheless, very comfortable. There was a ceiling to the room,
and the board windows were tight. The floor, to be sure, gaped in wide
cracks; but as there was a blazing fire in the room beneath, the cracks
let in no cold air, nothing but smoke, a sort of compensation, as it
seemed, for our having a chimney, lest we should be puffed up with pride
and luxury. For we not only had a chimney, but a table and two stools,
one sitting on an inverted barrel spread with a horse-blanket. Here
Dhemetri concocted for our supper an Hellenic soup, of royal flavor, the
recollection of which is still grateful to my palate. And here a youth,
named Agamemnon, son of George, came and displayed to us his
school-books, a geography, beginning with Greece and ending with
America, where Bostônia as put down as capital of Massachoytia. Longing
to hear a Greek war-song, we requested him to sing, at which he warbled
Dehyte pahides tôn Hellhênôn to a tune which we strongly suspected he
composed for the occasion, following it up with others, with such
delight that we were fain at last to plead sleepiness and let him
depart.
We were up betimes the following morning, for we had a long day's work
before us. We were approaching Corinth, and knew that from the
Acrocorinthus, a very high and steep hill over-hanging it, a prospect
was to be had inferior to none in Greece. The morning, though not
actually unpleasant, was chill and hazy, and Dhemetri tried to dissuade
us from wasting the time. But we were determined to see what there was
to be seen, and after a ride of two or three hours over a rough country,
we entered the fortifications of this chief citadel of Greece. It is now
guarded by a handful of soldiers, two or three neglected cannons thrust
their muzzles idly over the rampart, and shepherds with their flocks
roam at will within. A sharp wind was sweeping over the summit, and the
mountains and islands--Parnassus, Cyllene, Helicon, Pentclicon, Salamis,
Ægina--were veiled with a dull, opaque haze. While Basil, with stiff
fingers, was sketching the view from the top, I wandered about with my
other companion, picking spring flowers, reading the descriptions of
Pausanias, and studying the distant landscape. There is a thriving town
at the bottom of the hill, and hither we descended, asking for the inn
(Xenodhekeon) where Dhemetri had told us to meet him. But alas! modern
Corinth can not sustain an inn; and we were obliged to eat our dinner in
a grocery, stared at by all the youth of Corinth. Half a dozen Doric
columns, belonging to a very old temple, are the only considerable
relics of ancient Corinth. And as we had a long afternoon's work before
us, we set off before twelve. We galloped at good speed across the
Isthmus, about an hour's ride; Dhemetri, who understood the management
of Greek horses, driving us before him like a flock of sheep. We paused
a moment at the Isthmic sanctuary of Poseidon, passed through the
village of Kalamáki, whence steamers run to Athens, then continued along
the shore between Mount Geroneia and the sea, through a low, uneven
country, well grown with pine, heather, arbute, gorse in the full
splendor of its yellow blossoms, and sweet-smelling thyme. The afternoon
was warm and bright. Here and there were flocks of long-haired sheep and
sturdy black goats, cropping the grass and the shrubs, and it was well
in keeping with the scene when we passed a shepherd, with his cloak
thrown carelessly aside, leaning on his crook, and playing a few simple
notes--not a _tune_--on his flageolet to while away the time. We delayed
half an hour at the miserable hamlet of Kineta, to rest one of the
horses, exhausted with our fast riding, then began the ascent of our
last mountain-pass. A spur of Mount Geroneia runs boldly into the sea,
forming a wall between the territories of Corinth and Megara. It is
called 'Kake-Scala,' 'Bad Ladder,' an odd mixture of Greek and Italian.
Here, as the ancients fabled, dwelt the robber Skiron, plundering and
mutilating all wayfarers, and throwing them into the sea; but Theseus
subdued him and subjected him to a like treatment, and thereafter
traveling was secure. No doubt Theseus crowned his labors by building a
road, as we know one existed here in antiquity, but it has long since
disappeared, and King Otho was then imitating him, as we found,
presently, to our cost. The sun had already set, when the road became
impassable, and shouts from two men some distance above, informed us
that the building of the new road had rendered the old bridle-path
impracticable. We had to urge our horses down a steep, narrow path to
the water's edge, then as the beach was blocked up with huge rocks, to
ride a rod or two through the water, then climb up the steep rocks on
the other side, where one horse slipped and came near tumbling with his
rider into the sea below. Ten minutes later, and we must have returned
to Kineta, or waited an hour or two for the moon, for as soon as we were
over this dangerous spot it became quite dark; but the path was now safe
and easy to find. The full moon was up when we reached the top of the
cliff, and the valley of Megara, the mountains, the bay, and the islands
of Ægina and Salamis lay distinctly before us. We made all speed to
Megara, cheered by the fame of its khan as one of the best in Greece,
and by the certainty that there was now a good road all the way to
Athens.
It was suggested that we should take a carriage the rest of the way, but
as our horses were hired to Athens, we decided not to incur the extra
expense. Soon after arriving, however, while Dhemetri was making us a
soup, and Diomedes was taking care of our horses, and Epaminondas was
roasting us a joint of lamb, while we were squatting half-asleep on
bolsters on the floor, hugging our knees, looking dreamily at the fire,
and longing for supper and bed, the driver of the carriage came in, and
addressed us in recommendation of his establishment in his choicest
Frank, "_Carrozza-very good-ye-e-e-s_!' then squatted down on the hearth
beside us, hugged his knees, and looked at the fire with infinite
self-satisfaction. Whether it was his eloquence that prevailed on our
attendants, I know not, but it was determined to provide us with a
carriage the next day, at no extra expense. The day was perfect, and the
luxury of an easy drive of four hours was very grateful to us after our
uncomfortable ride in the Peloponnesus. We dined at Eleusis, and reached
Athens early in the afternoon.
ADONIUM.
Far dimly back in distant days of eld,
There lived a pretty boy, as parchments tell,
As formed for love and life in lonely dell,
With mien as fair as never eyes beheld;
Because who saw, to love him was compelled
Straightway, so wizardly he wielded Beauty's spell.
His name Adonis--sad of memory!
Whose life, though fair, his death was fairer still,
In dying for a cause, or good or ill;
For he heart-crazed the daughter of the sea,
Who loved him well, though wisely loved not she:
True hearts are never wise, as worldlings selfish will.
Him Venus loved--Love's cherished creatures they!
And Venus wooed with perseverance sore,
Till weary was the lad, the wooing o'er;
And while he, hiding in the forest lay,
O'ershaded from the sun's unfriendly ray,
Ah me! there came to kill a maddened, foaming boar!
Oh! see! from limbs too fair for touch of earth,
As tusk and tusk is savage through them drove,
While rain their dainty power 'fending strove,
The pure red liquid life all wasting forth!
All wasted, lost? Nay! thence, thence took its birth
ADONIUM, eternal bloom of martyred Love!
Love's martyr is a-bleeding now again;
Sweet Liberty, beloved of earth, doth bleed:
The maddened, foaming boar hath come indeed,
And tears our life on many a gory plain;
But we--as bled the boy--bleed not in vain:
Our blood-drops--our sons--will be Adonium seed!
Who die for Liberty--they never die!
Adonis, dead for Love, doth live anew!
They bloom blood-flowers in the tearful dew,
Forever falling on their memory!
In veins that are and veins that are not to be,
They ever coursing live, the right, the good, the true!
Where sinks the martyr's blood within the sod,
A spirit-plant of universal root,
Divinely radiant, doth upward shoot,
Appealing from a wicked world to God!
And seen for once, down drops the tyrant's rod;
For men at last have tasted of a heavenly fruit.
All good and beautiful of soul thus sprung
From blood, e'en as the Adonium I sing;
And where the blood is purest, thence doth spring
Such flowers as by heavenly bards are sung;
For since from Christ the fierce blood-sweat was wrung,
Have growths of nobler fruit on earth been ripening!
POLYTECHNIC INSTITUTES.
There is positively no class of writers entitled to higher praise, or
actuated by nobler motives, than those who are now distinguishing
themselves by their labors for Education. They have laid their hands on
what is to be the great social motive power of the future--the great
subject of the politics of days to come--and are working bravely in the
sacred cause.
Yet it can hardly be denied that amid the vast mass of every practical
observation and suggestion contained in the educational works with which
we are familiar, or even among the really _scientific_ contributors to
it, there is very little founded on the great social wants and
tendencies of the age. Education is, at present, merely an _art_; it has
a right, in common with every conceivable department of knowledge, to be
raised to the rank of a _science_. This can only be done by putting it
on a progressive basis, and placing it in such a position as to aid in
supplying some great demand of the age.
The great fact of the time is, the advance from mere art upward to
science, from the blossom to the fruit. Practical wants, 'the greatest
good for the greatest number,' the fullest development of free labor,
the increase of capital, the diminution of suffering, the harmony of
interests between capital and labor--all of these are the children of
Science and Facts. During the feudal age, nearly all the resources of
genius--all the capital of the day--was devoted to mere Art, for the
sake of setting off social position and 'idealisms.' As with the
nobility and royalty of England at the present day, society enormously
overpaid what is, or was, really the police--whose mission it was to
keep it in order. But from Friar Bacon to Lord Bacon, a movement was
silently progressing, which the present century has just begun to
realize. This movement was that of the development of all human ability
and natural resources, guided by science. It was a tendency toward the
practical, the positive, which is destined in time to bring forth its
own new art and literature, is breaking away from the trammels of the
old literary or imaginative sway.
At the present day, up to the present hour, Education--especially the
higher education, destined to fit men for leading positions--is still
under the old literary regime. We laugh when we read of the two first
years of medical study at the school of Salerno being devoted to dry
logic, yet the four years' course at nearly all our modern Universities,
or, in fact, the course of almost any 'high-school,' is as little
adapted to the real wants of the practical leading men of this age as a
study of the Schoolmen would be. The 'literature' of the past still
rules the practical wants of the present. It is not that the study of
the thought of the past is not noble, nay, essential, to the highly
cultivated man; but it should be pursued on a large, scientific scale.
The study of Greek and Latin, as languages, is not so disciplining nor
so valuable as that of the science of language, as taught by Max
Müller; and if these languages must be learned, (and we do not deny that
they should,) they can better be studied in their relations to all
languages than simply by themselves. And as if to make bad worse, the
genial and strictly scientific use of literal translations, advocated by
Milton and Locke, and generally employed at the Revival of Letters, and
during the days when Europe boasted its greatest classic scholars, is
prohibited. 'A college education' suggests the employment of the best
years of life in studies of little practical use in themselves, and
seldom revived, save for pleasure, after graduation. And even where such
studies are exceptionally practical; nay, where science and a free
choice of languages and literature are left to the somewhat advanced
student, we still find the shadow of the past--of the old, formal, and
rapidly growing obsolete literature--overawing the more enlightened
effort. Deny it as we may, the University is still a feudal institution.
Within the memory of man, there existed in England positively no school
where the would-be engineer or manufacturer could be fitted for his
career and at the same time be 'well educated.' George Stephenson was
obliged to send his son to an 'University,' where some scraps of
practical science--scanty scraps they were--most insufficiently repaid
the expense of education.