place--_oi megaloi_, as the multitude naively denominate them. They
received us in a large _salon_ without carpets, darkened by green
blinds, and furnished with a mahogany centre table and chairs, all of a
European pattern, with a cushioned divan occupying one corner of the
room, according to the favorite fashion of these parts. The lady of the
house wore a dress of ordinary figured jacconet, open at the neck, and a
red fez, around which her own hair was bound in a braid. Her husband
appeared in full Palicari dress, with an irrepproachable fustanella,
and handsome jacket and leggings. They welcomed us with great
cordiality, and bestirred themselves to minister to our necessities.
Gliko and water were immediately brought us, together with the vinegar
for my fevered hands. We next begged for mattresses, which were brought
and spread on the floor of a bedroom adjoining. The four feminines, as
usual, dropped down in a row. In the drawing-room mattresses were
arranged for the gentlemen. We rested from 12.30 until 2 P. M., the hour
appointed for the distribution of clothing to the destitute Cretans, of
whom there is a large settlement at Argos. For I may as well mention
here that our pursuit of pleasures and antiquities in the terms of this
expedition was entirely secondary to the plans of our veteran for
clothing the nakedness of these poor exiles. In his energetic company we
now walked to a large building with court enclosed--a former convent, in
whose corridors our eager customers, restrained by one or two officials,
were in waiting. We were ushered into a well-sized room, in which lay
heaps of cotton under-clothing, and of calico dresses, most of them in
the shape of sacks and skirts. These were the contents of one or two
boxes recently arrived from Boston. Some of them were recognized as
having connection with a hive of busy bees who used to gather weekly in
our own New England parlor. And what stress there was! and what
hurrying! And how the little maidens took off their feathery bonnets and
dainty gloves, wielding the heavy implements of cutting, and eagerly
adjusting the arms and legs, the gores and gathers! With patient pride
the mother trotted off to the bakery, that a few buns might sustain
these strenuous little cutters and sewers, whose tongues, however active
over the charitable work, talked, we may be sure, no empty nonsense nor
unkind gossip. For charity begins indeed at home, in the heart, and,
descending to the fingers, rules also the rebellious member whose
mischief is often done before it is meditated. At the sight of these
well-made garments a little swelling of the heart seized us, with the
love and pride of remembrance so dear. But sooner than we could turn
from it to set about our business, the Cretans were in presence.
Here they come, called in order from a list, with names nine syllables
long, mostly ending in _poulos_, a term signifying descent, like the
Russian "witzch." Here they come, the shapely maiden, the sturdy matron,
the gray-haired grandmother, with little ones of all small sizes and
ages. Many of the women carried infants at the breast; many were
expectant of maternity. Not a few of them were followed by groups of
boys and girls. Most of them were ill-clothed; many of them appeared
extremely destitute of attire. A strong, marked race of people, with
powerful eyes, fine black hair, healthy complexions, and symmetrical
figures. They bear traces of suffering. Some of the infants have pined;
but most of them promise to do well. Each mother cherishes and shows her
little beggar in the approved way. The children are usually robust,
although showing in their appearance the very limited resources of
their parents. Some of the women have tolerable gowns; to these we give
only under-clothing. Others have but the rag of a gown--a few stripes of
stuff over their coarse chemises. These we make haste to cover with the
beneficent growth of New England factories. They are admitted in groups
of three or four at a time. As many of us fly to the heaps of clothing,
and hastily measure them by the length and breadth of the individual. A
papa, or priest, keeps order among them. He wears his black hair uncut,
a narrow robe much patched, and holds in his hand a rosary of beads,
which he fingers mechanically. We work at this distribution for a couple
of hours, and return to the house to take some necessary refreshment. We
find a dinner-table set for us in one of the sleeping-rooms, and are
cordially invited to partake of fish cooked in oil, bread, acrid cheese,
cucumbers, olives, and cherries, together with wine which our Greek
companions praised as highly stomachic, but which to us seemed at once
bitter, sour, and insipid--a wine without either sugar or sparkle, dull
as a drug, sufficient of itself to overthrow the whole Bacchic
dispensation. Having enjoyed the repast, we returned to the Cretan
settlement, and continued the distribution of the clothing until all
were provided. The dresses did not quite hold out, but sufficed to
supply the most needy, and, in fact, the greater number. Of the
under-clothes we carried back a portion, having given to every one. To
an old papa (priest) who came, looking ill and disconsolate, I sent two
shirts and a good dark woollen jacket. Among all of these, only one
discontented old lady demurred at the gift bestowed. She wanted a gown,
but there was none; so that she was forced to content herself, much
against her will, with some under-clothing. The garments supplied, of
which many were sent by the Boston Sewing Circle, under the
superintendence of Miss Abby W. May, proved to be very suitable in
pattern and in quality. The good taste of their assortment gave them an
air of superiority over the usual dress of the poor in this and other
countries of the old world. The proportion of children's clothing was
insufficient; but who could have foreseen that the Cretans would have
had such large families of such little children? Finally, we rejoiced in
the philanthropic energy of our countrywomen, and in the good appearance
of our domestic manufactures. As we descended the steps, we met with
some of the children, already arrayed in their little clean shirts, and
strutting about with the inspiration of fresh clothing, long unfelt by
them.
We now went on foot to visit a fine amphitheatre in the neighborhood of
the town, called by the ignorant "the tomb of Helen." The seats are hewn
out of the solid rock, and occupy the whole ascent of a lofty hill-side.
From the ground to the middle row they were faced with fine white
marble. The remainder consisted simply of the stone itself, without
covering. The division first mentioned is in better condition than the
second, the marble incasement having protected the softer stone against
the action of the elements. In front are some remains which probably
represent the stage and its background. The extent embraced is
unusually large; and as we sat in the chief seats and looked towards
the proscenium, we wondered a little as to what manner of entertainment
could be given to an assembly so vast. The ancient masks were indeed
necessary to enable the distant portion of the audience to have any idea
of the expression of countenance intended to be conveyed. But I should
suppose that games of strength and agility, races, combats of wild
beasts, would have been best suited to such an arena. To us it was
sufficiently melancholy in its desertion and desecration--grass and
thorny shrubs growing profusely between its defaced stones, the heavy
twilight forming the background, while the stars that enlivened the
evening were real ones, not their human symbols. As we descended,
however, from our half hour of contemplation, we received notice of the
incursion of busy western life even into this charmed domain. In a field
hard by, a threshing machine was winnowing the Argive grain,--a thing of
wonder to the inhabitants, probably an object of suspicion,--the
property of a rich land-owner. Beggars are rare in Greece; but the Argos
children followed us both to and from the amphitheatre with mendicant
solicitations. They went thither under the plea of showing us the way,
and pursued our return under that of being paid for the same. We
endeavored to satisfy two or three of them; but, the whole troop
following and tormenting, one of our companions appealed in Greek to the
parents, as we passed their thatched dwellings. These called off the
little hounds with threats of the bastinado. We reached the hospitable
roof of our entertainers, first taking a lemonade at a little booth in
the dark street. The mattresses were spread, the sick hands bathed, and
we lay down to rest as we could, an early start being before us. A
variety of insects preyed upon us, and made not very unwelcome the
dawning of the early hour that saw us roused and dressed.
But here I have forgotten to make mention of a fact which had much to do
with our immediate movements at this time. The evening of our sojourn in
Argos saw an excitement much like that which blocked the street in
Nauplia. The occasion was the same--the bringing home of a brigand's
head; but this the very head and front of all the brigands, Kitzos
himself, upon whose head had been set a prize of several thousand
drachmas. Our veteran with difficulty obtained a view of the same, and
reported accordingly. The robber chief, the original of Edmond About's
"Hadji Stauros," had been shot while sighting at his gun. He had fallen
with one eye shut and one open, and in this form of feature his
dissevered head remained. The soldier who was its fortunate captor
carried it concealed in a bag, with its long elf-locks lying loose about
it. He showed it with some unwillingness, fearing to have the prize
wrested from him. It was, however, taken on board of our steamer, and
carried to Athens, there to be identified and buried.
All this imported to us that Mycenae, which we desired to visit, had for
some time been considered unsafe on account of the presence of this very
Kitzos and his band. But at this moment the band were closely besieged
in the mountains. They wanted their Head, and so did Kitzos. We, in
consequence, were fully able to visit the treasure of Atreus and the
ruins of Mycenae without fear or risk from those acephalous enemies.
Taking leave therefore of our friendly entertainers with many thanks,
"polloi, polloi," we sprang again into the dusty carriages, and the
sunburnt youths in blue bagging drove us out upon the wide plain to a
spot where we were desired to dismount and make our way over a thorny
and flinty hill-side to the spot in question. Such walking, in all of
Greece with which I became acquainted, is difficult and painful. It is
scarcely possible to avoid treading on the closely-growing bushes of
nettles. To come in contact with these is like putting one's foot on a
cushion of needles whose sharp points should be uppermost. Where you
shun these, the small, pointed stones present difficulty as great.
Creeping up from the plain, crying out for assistance and sympathy,
beneath a sun already burning, we came to the entrance of the cave to
which they give the name of the tomb of Agamemnon. This is an opening in
the hill-side. Its door has long been wanting, but the formidable
door-posts still remain. Two heavily-built stone sides support a single,
horizontal stone, twenty-seven feet in length, by perhaps eight in
breadth, and about the same in thickness. The door obviously swung open
from the bottom; the traces in the stone-work make this clear. The cave
itself is hollowed out from the height and depth of the hill. It is
lined with large stones, carefully fitted to each other, and is in the
shape of a rounded cone, whose gradual diminution to the top is very
symmetrical. Here a small aperture, partly covered by a stone, admits
the light. The perfection of the work in its kind is singular. From this
outer chamber, an opening admits you to an inner cave, without light, in
which they suppose the treasure to have been kept. This is much smaller
than the first chamber, and, like it, is heavily lined with squared
stone. A fire of dry brush enables us to distinguish so much; but our
observations are somewhat hurried, for the chill of these interterranean
passages, acting upon the perspiration that bathes our limbs, suggests
terrible fears of an untimely end to be attained in some inflammatory
and painful way.
The outer structure, of which I have endeavored to give some idea, is,
however, indescribable, and the manner of its building scarcely
comprehensible in these days. It suggests a time whose art must be as
far removed from ours as its nature, and whose solid and simple
construction takes little heed of the passage of time.
From the treasure of Atreus to the old citadel and gate of Mycenae, we
pass, by a few painful steps, through thorns, stones, and dust. Here we
sit and meditate, as well as we are able. Mycenae was in ruins in Homer's
time. This gate and citadel go back at least to the time of Agamemnon.
In one of the tragedies of Sophocles, Electra and Orestes meet before
the gate of Mycenae, which we naturally suppose to have been this one.
Its heavy stone masonry is surmounted by a curious sculpture, a
bas-relief, representing two lions aspiring to a column that stands
between them. The column is one of the ancient symbols of Apollo, and
is met with in some of the coins of the period. Agamemnon, Cassandra,
Clytemnestra,--this trio of ghosts will serve to fill up for us the
ancient gateway. Of the city nothing remains save the walls of the
citadel, the space within being now piled up and grassed over by the
action of time. At the present day, this citadel would be of little
avail, being itself commanded by an adjacent hill, from which artillery
would soon knock it into pieces. The walls just mentioned are solidly
built of squared stone, laid together without mortar. The briefness of
our time hurried us away before we had taken in half the significance of
the spot. But so it was, and we turned with regret from a mere survey of
objects that deserve much study.
We were now to find our way back to Nauplia, but our fasting condition
compelled us to pause for a moment at a little khan, whose energetic
mistress bestirred herself, with small materials, to make us
comfortable. The morning shadow threw her window in the dark. We
gathered around it, escaping for the moment the scorching heat of the
sun. Near us a traveller on a donkey rested himself and his patient
beast. The little woman had blue eyes and chestnut hair, bound with a
handkerchief. She offered us cold fish, fried in oil, from her frying
pan. Each of us took a fish by the tail, and devoured it as we could.
Cucumbers were next handed to us. Of these we ate with salt, which the
mistress strewed with her fingers on the wooden window-sill, together
with a little pepper. Wine and water she dipped out for us, the one
from a barrel, the other from an earthen jar. We had brought with us two
large loaves of bread from Argos, which greatly assisted our pedestrian
meal. The mistress rinsed the glasses with her own hands, not over
clean. When we had eaten, she poured water over our hands, offering us a
piece of soap and a towel. As we laughed, she laughed--we at her want of
accommodation, she probably rejoicing in its sufficiency. We now
returned to our carriages, and drove back to Nauplia, and through
Nauplia down to the quay, where our boats were waiting for us. The
remainder of the day we passed on board the steamer, reaching Porus at
sunset, and going on shore to visit its fine arsenal, and narrow, dirty
streets. In the arsenal, with other heroes, hangs the portrait of
Bouboulina, the famous woman who did such good naval service in the war
of Greek independence. She commanded a ship, and her patriotic efforts
were acknowledged by conferring on her the style and title of admiral.
From the roof of the arsenal we enjoyed a beautiful view of the harbor.
The town, as seen at a little distance, has rather an inviting aspect.
On a nearer view, it offers little to detain the traveller. We passed
along the quay, looking at the groups of men, occupied with coffee or
the narghile, and soon regained our boat and steamer. The Greeks, we are
told, give Porus a nickname which signifies "Pig-city," just as our
Cincinnati is sometimes called "Porkopolis." But the pigs in Porus are
human.
EGINA.
We passed this night on board of the steamer, first supping luxuriously
on deck, by the light of various lanterns fastened to the masts and
bulwarks of the ship. The next morning saw us early awake and on foot to
visit the Temple of Egina. The steamer came to anchor near the shore,
and its boats soon conveyed us to land. We found on the shore two
donkeys with pack-saddles, upon which two of us adventured to ascend the
long and weary eminence. The temple is one of the most beautiful remains
that we have seen. Its columns are of the noblest Doric structure. A
number of them are still standing. His majesty of Munich and Montes
robbed this temple, at some convenient moment of political confusion. He
had a statue or so, perhaps several, and pulled down the architrave to
obtain the bas-reliefs. Can we wonder that the Greeks do not punish
brigandage after such royal precedents in its favor. A fine lion in
marble, twenty feet in length, was taken from this temple, either by
this or a similar marauding. The lion was sawn in three pieces, that it
might be more conveniently conveyed by boat. But, being left over night,
the peasants, in their rage, came and destroyed with their hammers what
they were not able to protect. Here no diplomatic interference was
possible, and the fact accomplished had to be accepted.
This temple stands upon one of those breezy eminences so often selected
by the Greeks for their places of worship and defence. It commands a
wide view of the sea and surrounding islands. On the opposite island of
Salamis they show you Xerxes' Seat, the spot from which he contemplated
the land he intended to enslave. Here the inexorable veteran conceded to
us a pleasant half hour, enabling us to survey the fine columns from
various points of view, and to enjoy fully the beauty of their
surroundings. Too soon, however, came the summons to descend. I again
mounted the ass, but found my sideward and unsupported seat only
maintainable by a gymnastic of the severest order. I yielded, therefore,
this uneasy accommodation to one who might bestride the beast at his
ease, being quite of the opinion of the Irishman, who, having been
regaled with a ride in a bottomless sedan chair, said that, if it was
not for the name of it, it was not much better than walking. In the same
way I concluded that to be so badly carried by the ass was almost as bad
as to carry him myself. We were soon on board and afloat again, and a
few hours of sea travel, cherished for their coolness, brought us back
to busy Piraeus, and thence to torrid Athens, where the great heats now
begin. We had meditated a change of hotel at the time of our leaving
Athens, and had contemplated a fine apartment at lower charges in an
establishment opposite to our own. But our hitherto landlord was too
much for us. He was down at Piraeus to receive us. The veteran yielded to
his dangerous smile, and after a brief parley, implying a slight
enlargement in accommodations, we found ourselves bagged, and carried
back to the Hotel des Etrangers. Here the servants cordially welcomed
us, and made us much at home. I regretted a certain beautiful view of
the Acropolis commanded by the hotel opposite, but my view was outvoted;
and we gave ourselves up again to the imprisonment of our small rooms,
and to the darkness which is a necessary attendant upon summer life in
Athens. And the gallant vision of the Parados, with its prow turned to
the sea, and of lofty climbings, and monument-seeking wanderings, faded
from all but these notes, in which so much of it as may live is
faithfully preserved.
DAYS IN ATHENS.
"As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean."
O, there were many of them, each hotter and stiller than the other. All
night we steamed and sleepily suffered beneath the mosquito-net. In the
morning we arose betimes. We smiled to each other at breakfast, sighed
at dinner, were dumb at tea-time. The whole long day held its flaming
sword at our door. Sun-stroke and fever threatened us, should we cross
the threshold. Visits were tame, and carriages expensive. For many days
we sat still, doing little. This is what people call "being thrown upon
one's own resources." But to those accustomed to active and energetic
life it is rather a being thrown off from all that usually renders the
passage of time pleasurable and useful. Even those dull days had,
however, their distinctions. And, like a picture of our Indian summer,
hazy, dreamy, and indistinct, so will I try to give a color picture of
that unheroic time, in which we grew ungrateful for classic
surroundings, forgetful of great names and histories, and sat and
sewed, and said, "How long?"
First, the little newsboys in the street who shriek, "_Pende lepta!_"
calling the price of the paper for the paper itself. This music one may
hear at any hour of the day when there is news from Crete, or when a
steamer has arrived from England for the Cretan service, or when
anything takes place that can motive the publishing of an extra. The
veteran catches one day one of these curious little insects. He is
barefoot, his hair is wild, his eyes are wilder. His extra is a single
column, scarcely ten inches long; and over this he dares to make as much
noise as if it were an issue of the New York Herald, or the Tribune
itself, with white-haired Greeley at its back.
Next, the funerals, starting always with music, and bearing flat disks
of gilded metal, something in the style of the Roman eagles. At one time
a mortality prevailed among children, and the little coffins were
carried through the street, with mournful sounds of wind instruments. We
saw several military funerals. In these the deceased is carried by hand
in a crimson velvet coffin, bound with silver lace. A glass cover shows
him at full length. The velvet cover that corresponds with the coffin
itself is carried before in an upright position. The hearse, drawn by
four or five horses, follows. Priests walk along, and chant prayers in
the intervals of the music, which on these occasions is supplied by a
full band. A body of soldiers also makes part of the pageant. Friends
and relatives walk after, carrying the large cambric parasols so much
in vogue here. As the cemetery is at some distance from the town, the
hearse probably serves later for the transport of the body. But I from
my window always saw it following in empty state. The friends all go to
the church, where the prayers and orations occupy from one to two hours.
The deceased is usually in full dress, and the countenance is often
painted in white and red. The gilded symbols which are carried, and the
wild tones of the wind instruments, give to those processions a somewhat
barbaric aspect, as compared with the sober mourning of countries more
familiar to ourselves. But there is nothing grim in the Greek funeral;
it seems rather a cheerful and friendly attendance, and compares
favorably with the _luxe_ of English burials, their ingenious ugliness
and tasteless exaggeration of all that is gloomy and uncongenial to
life.
Next, the out-of-door life and music. The first is, of course, limited
by the severe heat of the day. Eight A. M. is a fashionable hour for
being abroad. You will then find the market thronged. You will encounter
seated groups, who take their coffee or smoke their cigar. Many
carriages drive past, conveying people in easy circumstances to Faleran,
a small harbor three miles distant from Athens, where the luxury of
sea-bathing is enjoyed. At nine A. M. the best of the military bands
begins to play before the palace. I have their _repertoire_ pretty well
in mind, having listened to its repetition for three weeks past. They
play most of the airs from the Barbiere di Seviglia, the overture to
Othello, and sundry marches and polkas. With the early morning period
begins the crying of fruit in the streets. These cries proceed from men
who drive before them donkeys laden with rude baskets, in which you see
potatoes, tomatoes, small squashes, apricots, and other fruits. They
stop at various doors in our neighborhood, and serve their customers.
The maid-servants come out. From one of those doors issues with his
nurse a little child, who is set upon the donkey's back, and allowed to
stay there while the dealer supplies the houses in the vicinity. This
little one wears a white cambric weed on his hat to prevent sun-stroke,
after the manner of greater people.