the sea grew less turbulent. The day was Sunday, and the unmistakable
accents of theological controversy saluted my ears as I ascended the
companion-way, and took my place in the deck-parlor. Count Lunzi, a
liberal, and a student of German criticism, was vigorously belaboring
three of the friars, who replied to him whenever they were able to get a
word in, which was not often. His arguments supported the action of the
Italian government in disbanding all monastic fraternities throughout
its dominions, giving to each member a small pension, and inviting all
to live by exercising the duties of their profession as secular priests.
Our friars had concluded to expatriate, rather than secularize,
themselves, and were now _en route_ for Kaiafa, a place concerning which
I could only learn that it was in Syria. They were impugned, according
to the ancient superstition, as the causes of our bad embarkation and
rough voyage. They were young and vigorous men, and the old count not
unreasonably urged them to abandon a career now recognized as useless
and obsolete, and to earn their bread by some availing labor. The circle
of the controversy widened. More friars came up from below. The ship's
surgeon joined himself to them, the Venetian siding with the count. The
Neapolitan stood by to see fair play, and a good part of the day of rest
was occupied by this symphony of discord.
I confess that, although the friars' opinions were abhorrent to mine, I
yet wished that they might have been let alone. Even Puritan Milton
does not set a Calvinistic angel to argue with Adam and Eve concerning
the justice of their expulsion from Paradise. The journey itself was
pain enough, without the reprobation. As the friars had been turned out
of their comfortable nests, and were poor and disconsolate, I myself
would sooner have given them an obolus unjustified by theory than a
diatribe justified by logic. But the old count was sincere and able, and
at least presented to them views greatly in advance of their bigotry and
superstition. While this conversation went on, we passed Lissa, where
the Italian fleet was repulsed by the Austrians, during the war of
Italian unity. Our fellow-passenger of the nation second named quietly
exults over this event. He does well. Austrian victories have been rare
of late. Of the day following my diary says,--
June 17.--In sight of the Acroceraunian mountains and shore of Albania.
Vessel laboring with head wind, I with Guizot's Meditations, which also
have some head wind in them. They seem to me inconclusive in statement,
and insufficient in thought, presenting, nevertheless, some facts and
considerations of interest. At a little before two P. M., we pass Fano,
the island in which Calypso could not console herself; and no wonder. At
two we enter the channel of Corfu, but do not reach the shore itself
until five o'clock. A boat conveys us to the shore, where, with our
Austrian friends, we engage a carriage, and drive to view the environs.
This is my first experience of Greece. The streets are narrow and
irregular, the men mostly in European costume, with here and there a
_fustanella_. Our drive took us to a picturesque eminence, commanding a
lovely prospect. It led us through a sort of Elysian field, planted with
shade trees, where the populace on gala days go to sip coffee, and meet
their friends and neighbors. Returning to the town, we pass several
large hotels and cafes, at one of which we order ices. I puzzle myself
in vain with the Greek signs over the shop windows. Our leave of absence
having expired, we hasten back to the steamer, but find its departure
delayed by the labor of embarking a Turkish dignitary, Achmed Pacha,
who, with a numerous suite, male and female, is to take passage with us
for the Dardanelles.
A steamer, bearing the Crescent flag at her mast-head, was anchored
alongside of our own. Our hitherto quiet quarters were become a little
Babel of strange tongues and costumes. Any costume artist would have
gone mad with delight over the variety of coats and colors which our new
visitors displayed. Those wonderful jackets and capotes, which are the
romance of stage and fancy-ball attire, here appeared as the common
prose of every-day dress. Every man wore a fez. I remember a handsome
youth, whose crimson head-gear contrasted with a white sheepskin jacket
with wide, hanging sleeves--the sleeves not worn on the arms, but at the
back; the close vest, loose, short skirt, and leggings were also
white--the whole very effective. He was only one figure of a brilliant
panorama, but treacherous memory does not give me the features of the
others.
Our vessel, meanwhile, was engaged in swallowing the contents of the
Turkish steamer with the same deliberation with which an anaconda
swallows a bullock. The Turks and Albanians might scream and chatter,
and declaim the whole Koran at their pleasure, the great crane went
steadily on--hoisting bale after bale, and lowering the same into our
hold. This household stuff consisted principally of rugs and bedding,
with trunks, boxes, and kitchen furniture, and some mysterious bundles
whose contents could not be conjectured.
The sight of this unwholesome-looking luggage suggested to some of us
possible communication of cholera, or eastern plague. The neophyte and I
sat hand in hand, looking ruefully on, and wondering how soon we should
break out. But when the dry goods were disposed of, the transfer of the
human merchandise from one vessel to the other seized our attention, and
put our fears out of sight.
Our first view of the pacha's _harem_ showed us a dozen or more women
crouching on the deck of the Turkish steamer, their heads and faces
bundled up with white muslin veils, which concealed hair, forehead,
mouth, and chin, leaving exposed to view only the triangle of the eyes
and nose. Several children were there, who at first sight all appeared
equally dirty and ill-dressed. We were afterwards able to distinguish
differences between them.
The women and children came on board in a body, and took up a position
on the starboard side of the deck. With them came an old man-servant,
in a long garment of whitish woollen cloth, who defined their boundaries
by piling up certain bales of property. In the space thus marked off,
mattresses were at once laid down and spread with coverlets; for these
women were to pass night as well as day on deck. Five ladies of the
pacha's family at once intrenched themselves in one of the small cabins
below, where, with five children, they continued for the remainder of
the voyage, without exercise or ventilation. Too sacred to be seen by
human eyes, these ladies made us aware of their presence by the sound of
their incessant chattering, by the odor of their tobacco, and by the
screaming of one of their little ones, an infant of eight months.
When these things had been accomplished, our captain sent word to the
pacha that he was ready to depart. The great man's easy-chair--by no
means a splendid one--was then carried on board, and the great man
himself, accompanied by his son-in-law and his dragoman, came among us.
He was a short, stout person, some fifty years of age, and wore a dark
military coat, with a gold stripe on the shoulder, and lilac trousers.
His dragoman was a Greek. He and his suite smoked vigorously, and stared
somewhat, as, with the neophyte on one side and the little Austrian lady
on the other, I walked up and down the deck. The women and the old
servant all slept _a la belle etoile_. The pacha and his officers had
state-rooms in the saloon; the other men were in the third cabin. I
forgot to say that at Corfu we left Count Lunzi and his amiable
daughter, whose gracious manners and good English did credit to Mrs.
Hills's excellent tuition, which the young lady had enjoyed for some
years at her well-known school in Athens.
When we came on deck the next morning, we found some of the Turkish
women still recumbent, others seated upon their mattresses. Two of the
children, a girl of ten years and a boy of twelve, went about under
orders, and carried dishes and water-vessels between the cabin and the
deck. We afterwards learned that these were Albanian slaves. The girl
was named Haspir, the boy Ali. The first had large dark eyes and a
melancholy expression of countenance; the boy also had Oriental eyes,
whose mischievous twinkle was tempered by the gravity of his situation.
The old servant, whom they called Baba, ate his breakfast in a corner.
He had a miscellaneous looking dish of fish, bread, and olives. The
women fed chiefly, as far as I could judge, on cucumbers and radishes,
which they held and munched. Water was given from a brazen pitcher, of a
pattern decidedly Oriental. Coffee was served to the invisible family in
the small cabin. I did not see the women on deck partake of it. But from
this time the scope of my observations was limited. A canvas partition,
made fast to the mast overhead, now intervened, to preserve this portion
of the _harem_ from the pollution of external regards. Henceforth, we
had glimpses of its members only when a lurch of the steamer swayed the
canvas wall far out of equilibrium. The _far niente_ seemed to be their
fate, without alternative. Nor book nor needle had they. The children
came outside, and peeped at us. Baba, grim guardian of the household,
sat or squatted among his bales, oftenest quite unoccupied, but
sometimes smoking, or chattering with the children. I took my modest
drawing-book, and, with unsteady hand, began to sketch him in pen and
ink. He soon divined my occupation, and kept as still as a mouse until
by a sign I released him, when he begged, in the same language, to see
what I had drawn. I next tried to get a _croquis_ of a pretty little
girl who played about, wearing a pink wadded sack over a gown and
trousers of common flowered calico, buff and brown. She was disposed to
wriggle out of sight; but Baba threatened her, and she was still.
Presently, the slave-boy, Ali, came up from the select cabin below,
bearing in his arms an ill-conditioned little creature, two years of
age, who had come on board in a cashmere pelisse lined with fur, a pink
wadded under-jacket, and a pair of trousers of dirty common calico. He
had now discarded the fur-pelisse. On his round little head he wore a
cap of pink cashmere, soiled and defaced, with a large gold coin
attached to it. A natural weakness drew me towards the little wretch,
whom I tried to caress. Ali patted him tenderly, and said, "Pacha." This
was indeed the youngest member, save one, of the pacha's family--the
true baby being the infant secluded down stairs, whose frequent cries
appealed in vain for change of air and of scene. The two-year-old had
already the title of bey.
"Can a baby a bey be?" I asked, provoking the disgust which a pun is
sure to awaken in those who have not made it.
We met the pacha at meals, interchanging mute salutations. He had a
pleasant, helpless sort of smile, and ate according to the orthodox
standard of nicety. On deck some attendant constantly brought him a pipe
composed of a large knob of amber, which served as a mouth piece, and a
reed some eight inches in length, bearing a lighted cigar.
As we sat much in our round house, it was inevitable that I should at
last establish communication with him through the mediation of a young
Greek passenger, who spoke both Turkish and French.
It was from the pacha that I learned that Haspir and Ali were slaves.
The little girl whom I had sketched was his daughter. I inquired about a
girl somewhat younger, who played with this one. The pacha signified
that he had given the mother of his daughter to one of his men, and that
the second little girl was born of this connection. The two younger
children already spoken of were born of another mother, probably each of
a different one.
"O Christian marriage!" I thought, as I looked on this miscellaneous and
inorganic family, "let us not complain of thy burdens."
With us the birth of a child is the strongest bond of union between its
parents; with the Oriental it is the signal for separation. No society
will ever permanently increase whose structure rests on an architecture
so feeble. The Turkish empire might spread by conquest and thrive by
plunder. But at home it can never compete with nations in which family
life has individuality of centre and equality of obligation. With Greeks
and Albanians to work for them, and pay them tribute, the Turks are able
to attain a certain wealth. It is the wealth, however, which
impoverishes mankind, exhausting the sources of industry and of
enterprise. Let the Turk live upon what he can earn, and we shall hear
little of him.
The women sometimes struggled out from their canvas enclosure, and went
below on various errands. On these occasions they were enveloped in a
straight striped covering, white and red, much like a summer
counterpane. This was thrown over the head, held together between the
teeth, and reached to the feet. It left in view their muslin
head-dresses, and calico trousers, gathered at the ankle, nothing more.
A few were barefoot--one or two only wore stockings. Most of them were
shod with _brodequins_, of a size usually worn by men.
At a late hour in the afternoon, Ali brought to their enclosure a round
metal dish of stewed meat, cut in small pieces for the convenience of
those whose customs are present proof that fingers were made before
knives and forks. A great dish of rice simultaneously made its
appearance. Baba chattered very much, Ali made himself busy, and a
little internal commotion became perceptible behind the canvas wall.
My opportunity of observing Turkish manners was as brief as it was
limited. Having taken the Moslems on board on Monday, well towards
evening, the Wednesday following saw, at ten A. M., my exit from the
steamer. For we were now in the harbor of Syra. When I came on deck,
soon after five A. M., the pacha sent me coffee in a little cup with a
silver stand. It was prepared after the Turkish manner, and was fragrant
and delicious. While we were at breakfast, Mr. Saponzaki, American
consul at Syra, came on board in search of me, followed soon by an old
friend, Mr. Evangelides. With real regret I took leave of the friendly
captain and pleasant companions of the voyage. I shook hands with the
pacha, not unmindful of the miseries of Crete. Baba also gave me a
parting salutation. He was a nice observer of womanly actions, and his
farewell gesture seemed to say, "Although barefaced, you are
respectable;" which, if he really meant it, was a great deal for him to
allow. Our luggage was now transferred on board the smaller steamer,
which was to sail at six P. M. for the Piraeus, and the neophyte and
myself soon found ourselves under the shelter of Mr. Evangelides' roof,
where his Greek wife made us cordially welcome.
SYRA.
Mr. Evangelides was one of a number of youths brought to the United
States, after the war of Greek independence, for aid and education. The
latter was the chief endowment with which his adopted country returned
him to his native land. The value of this gift he was soon to realize,
though not without previous hardships and privations. After a year or
two of trial, he commenced a school in Syra. This school was soon
filled with pupils, and many intelligent and successful Greeks of the
present day are among his old scholars. Besides methods of education, he
brought from America a novel idea--that of the value of real estate.
Looking about Syra, and becoming convinced of its inevitable growth, he
invested the surplus of his earnings in tracts of land in the immediate
neighborhood of the then small town, to the utter mystification of his
neighbors. That one should invest in jewels, arms, a house, or a
vineyard, would have seemed to them natural enough; but what any man
should want of mere land scarcely fit for tillage, was beyond their
comprehension. The expected growth was not slow in coming. Mr.
Evangelides soon began to realize handsomely, as we should say, from his
investment, and is now esteemed a man of wealth. His neighbors
thereafter named him "the Greek Yankee;" and I must say that he seems to
hold equally to the two belongings, in spite of the Scripture caution.
Under the escort of my old friend, I went out to see the town, and to
make acquaintance with the most eminent of the inhabitants, the custom
of the country making the duty of the first call incumbent upon the
person newly arrived.
Unfurling a large umbrella, and trembling with the fear of sun-stroke, I
proceeded to climb the steep and narrow streets of the town. We first
incommode with our presence the governor of the Cyclades, a patriotic
Greek, who speaks good English and good sense. We talk of Cretan
affairs; he is not sanguine as to the efficient intervention of the
European powers.
We next call upon the archbishop, at whose house we are received by a
black servant in Frank dress, speaking good French. Presently the
prelate appeared--a tall, gentlemanly person in a rich costume, one
feature of which was a medallion, brilliant with precious stones of
various colors. His reverence had made his studies in Germany, and spoke
the language of that country quite fluently. Tholuck had been his
especial professor, but he had also known Bauer; and he took some pains
to assure me that the latter was not an irreligious man, in spite of the
hardihood of his criticism. He deplored the absence of a state religion
in America. I told him that the progress of religion in our country
seemed to establish the fact that society attains the best religious
culture through the greatest religious liberty. He replied that the
members should all be united under one head. "Yes," said I, "but the
Head is invisible;" and he repeated after me, "Indeed, the Head is
invisible." I will here remark that nothing could have been more
refreshing to the New England mind than this immediate introduction to
the theological opinions of the East.
Other refreshment, however, was in store for me--the sweetmeats and
water which form the somewhat symbolical staple of Greek hospitality. Of
these I partook in the orthodox manner. One dish only is brought in, but
many spoons, one of which each guest dips into the _gliko_ (sweet), and,
having partaken, drops the spoon into the glass of fresh water which
always follows. Turkish coffee was afterwards served in small cups
without spoons. And now, not knowing what sermons or other duties my
presence might impede, I took leave, much gratified by the interview.
We passed from hence to the house of the Austrian consul, Dr. Hahn, a
writer of scientific travels, and a student of antiquities. He had not
long before visited the Island of Santorin, whose recently-awakened
volcano interests the world of science. He told me of a house newly
excavated in this region, containing tools and implements as old, at
least, as those of the Lacustrine period, and, in his opinion, somewhat
older. This house had been deeply buried in ashes by an ancient
eruption, so violent as to have eviscerated the volcano of that time,
which subsequently collapsed. The depth of ashes he stated as
considerably greater than that found in any part of the Pompeian
excavation, being at least thirty yards. Hewn stones were found here,
but no metal implements, nor traces of any. Caucasian skulls were also
found, and pottery of a finer description than that belonging to the
Lacustrine period. He gave me a model of a small pitcher discovered
among the ruins, of which the nose was shaped like the beak of a bird,
with a further imitation of the eye on either side. Another small vessel
was ornamented by the model of a human breast, to denote plenty. He had
also plaster casts of skulls, arm and jaw bones, and flint saws, upon
which he descanted with great vivacity.
Dr. Hahn's courteous and charming manners caused me to remember him as
one of the many Austrians whose amiable qualities make us doubly regret
the _onus_ which the untimely policy of their government throws upon
them.
These visits at end, Mr. Evangelides took me home to dinner, where the
best Greek dishes were enhanced by Samian wine. We had scarcely dined
when the archbishop, followed by an attendant priest, came to return our
visit. The Greeks present all kissed his hand, and _gliko_ and coffee
were speedily offered. We resumed our conversation of the morning, and
the celibacy of the clerical hierarchy came next in order in our
discussion. The father was in something of a strait between the
Christian dignification of marriage and its ascetic depreciation. The
arrival of other visitors forced us to part, with this interesting point
still unsettled. We next visited the wife of the American
vice-consul--Mr. Saponzaki--a handsome person, who received us with
great cordiality. After a brief sojourn, we walked down to the landing,
visiting the foundery, where they were making brass cannon, and the
_Acadi_, the smart little steamer given by the Greeks of London to the
Cretan cause. She ran our blockade in the late war, but is now engaged
in a more honest service, for she runs the Turkish blockade, and carries
the means of subsistence to the Cretans. Here we met Mr. DeKay, a
youthful Philcandiote of our own country. He had already made himself
familiar with the state of things in Candia, and, like the
blockade-runner, was serving in his second war, with the difference that
his former record showed him to have been always on the side of
Christian loyalty.
Finally, amid thanks and farewells, a small boat took us alongside of
the Austrian steamer, which carried us comfortably, and by magnificent
moonlight, to the Piraeus.
PIRAEUS--ATHENS.
We were still soundly asleep when the cameriere knocked at the door of
our cabin, crying, "Signora, here we are at the Piraeus." The hour was
four of the morning, but we were now come to the regions in which men
use the two ends of the day, and throw away the middle. We, therefore,
seized the end offered to us, and as briefly as possible made our way on
deck, where we found a commissionaire from the Hotel des Etrangers, at
Athens. We had expected to meet here the chief of our party, who had
gone before us to Athens. The commissionaire, however, brought us a
note, telling of an accident whose fatigues did not allow him to wait
upon us in person. We were soon in the small boat, and soon after in the
carriage, intent upon reaching Athens. Pireo, as they call the classic
port, is quite a bustling place, the harbor gay with shipping and flags
of all nations. The drive to the Capitol occupies three quarters of an
hour. The half-way point of the distance is marked by two rival _khans_,
at one of which the driver of a public vehicle always stops to water his
horses and light his cigar. Here a plate of _lokumia_, a sweetmeat
something like fig-paste, and glasses of fresh water, were brought out
and offered to us. Soon we came in sight of the Acropolis, not without
an indescribable puzzle at beholding, in commonplace existence, one of
those dreams whose mystical beauty we never expect to realize, and fear
to dissipate. Now we drive through many streets and squares, and
finally stop at a hotel in front of one of the prettiest of the latter,
from whose door our chief issues to welcome us. With him is the elder
neophyte, who has so far shared his wanderings, and latterly the near
danger of shipwreck. Under her guidance we walk out, after breakfast, to
look at the shops in Hermes Street, but the glaring sun soon drives us
back to our quarters. We take the midday nap, dine, and at sunset drive
to the Acropolis. On our way thither, we pass the remaining columns of
the Temple of Jupiter Olympius, a Roman-Greek structure, the work of
Adrian. These columns, sixteen in number, stand on a level area of some
extent. One of them, overthrown by an earthquake, lies in ruins, its
separate segments suggesting the image of gigantic vertebrae. The spine
is indeed a column, but it has the advantage of being flexible, and the
method and principle of its unity are not imitable by human architects.
At the Acropolis a wooden gate opens for our admission, and a man in
half-military costume follows our steps.
We visit first the Propylea, or five gates, then the Parthenon. Our
guide points out the beauty of its Doric columns, the perfection of
their execution--the two uniting faces of each of their pieces being
polished, so as to allow of their entire union. Here stood the great
statue of Minerva Medica; here, the table for sacrifice. Here are the
ways on which the ponderous doors opened and shut. And Pericles caused
it to be built; and this, his marble utterance, is now a lame sentence,
with half its sense left out. In this corner is the high Venetian
tower, a solid relic, modern beside that which it guards. And worse than
any wrong _denouement_ of a novel is the intelligence here given you
that the Parthenon stood entire not two hundred years ago, and that the
explosion of a powder magazine, connected with this Venetian
fortification, shattered its matchless beauty.