speak. Its columns are about eleven feet across, and they must have been,
including their capitals, more than sixty feet high. Above these lofty
columns was placed the architrave, one of the stones of which, that we
measured, was twenty-five feet in length, eight in height, and six in
thickness; but another is still larger; forty feet long, seven broad, and
three deep. To transport these enormous masses of stone from their quarry,
which is several miles distant, with a deep valley and river intervening,
would trouble the modern engineer; but to poise and place them on the top
of the columns, seventy feet from the ground, with our mechanical means,
were indeed a great feat. The columns were not of single pieces, but
composed of several, and they now lie, to use an unpoetical phrase, like
rows of enormous cheeses. The great temple was three hundred and
thirty-four feet long, one hundred and fifty-four wide; its porticoes at
each end were four columns in depth, eight in width; a double row on the
sides of the cella or interior edifice, which in all Grecian temples was
the sanctum sanctorum. In _all_, there must have been eighty columns.
There is one remarkable feature about this temple, which is, that none of
the columns were fluted except those of the eastern end. About thirty
paces from this ruin, which the Sicilians call the Pileri di Giganti, or
Pillars of the Giants, are the remains of another temple which was about
two hundred feet long: its entablature was supported by thirty-six fluted
columns of seven feet in diameter and thirty-five feet long, each of a
single piece of stone. Only a few fragments of the columns remain standing
in their places. Treading another thirty paces, you come to a temple which
is of rather larger dimensions than the one last mentioned. The columns of
this were also fluted, but no part of the edifice is standing, except a
solitary pilaster, which was probably a portion of the cella. These
temples were built of a hard but porous stone, of a light color, and were
probably covered with a thin coat of cement. They command an extensive
view both of sea and land, and in their primal days must, with their
tower-like columns, their sculptured entablatures and pediments, have
risen above the scene in majestic grandeur.
Three quarters of a mile from these temples was the ancient port, now
choked with sand, and near it are the remains of edifices supposed to have
been the magazines. On an adjoining hill are remnants of three temples and
two towers, in almost undistinguishable ruin. We left Selinunte with a
lasting but melancholy impression, and were reminded of the lines:
'Two or three columns and many a stone,
Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown:
* * * * *
Remnants of things which have passed away,
Fragments of stone rear'd by creatures of clay!'
Girgenti, anciently called Agragas and Agrigentum, is situated on the
southern coast of Sicily, in a delicious country; the modern city was
built by the Saracens on the summit of a hill upward of eleven hundred
feet above the level of the sea. The site of the ancient city is lower,
and about a mile distant. It was probably founded in the eighth century
before CHRIST. In its flourishing state it contained two hundred thousand
inhabitants, who were celebrated for their hospitality, their love of the
arts and luxurious style of living. Plato was so much struck with the
solidity of their buildings and the sumptuousness of their dinners, that
he said they 'built as though they thought themselves immortal, but ate as
though they never expected to eat again.' The horses of Agrigentum were
celebrated; and one of the citizens returning from the Olympic games, on
entering his native town, was followed by three hundred chariots, each
drawn by four white horses sumptuously caparisoned. The government of this
little state, whose inhabitants never amounted to more than eight hundred
thousand, was at first monarchical, afterward democratic; but neither the
forms of its institutions, nor its riches and grandeur, could save it from
misfortune: it was besieged several times by the Carthaginians, and at
length, after a siege of three years, was taken and sacked by Hannibal,
the son of Giscon. In alluding to these misfortunes, the historian says:
'Yet of all the Sicilian cities, the fate of Agrigentum seemed the most
worthy to be deplored, from the striking contrast of its fallen state with
its recent splendor and prosperity. The natural beauties of Agrigentum
were secured by strength and adorned with elegance; and whoever considered
either the innumerable advantages of the city itself, or the gay
cultivation of the surrounding territory, which abounded in every luxury
of the sea and land, was ready to pronounce the Agrigentines the most
favored inhabitants of the earth. The exuberant fertility of the soil,
particularly the rich luxuriance of the vines and olives, exceeded every
thing that is related of the happiest climates, and furnished the means of
lucrative commerce with the populous coast of Africa, which was sparingly
provided with those valuable plants. The extraordinary wealth of the
Agrigentines was displayed in the magnificence of public edifices and in
the splendid enjoyment of private fortunes. They had begun and almost
completed the celebrated Temple of Jupiter, built in the grandest style of
architecture, employed by the Greeks on the greatest and most solemn
occasions.'
The ancient city of Agragas stood on an elevated platform or table of
land, three sides of which fell off in steep precipices; the fourth side
was surmounted by the lofty hill on which the modern city stands. These
steep precipices were the natural walls of the city, and were made more
available for defence by excavation on the inside, so as to leave a solid
wall of rock rising round the city. On the verge of this platform, which
gradually sinks from east to west, and on the side next the sea, which is
about a mile distant, are seen the remains of no fewer than six temples.
They stood in a general line, but at irregular intervals, and must have
formed one of the most magnificent spectacles that the art of man has ever
presented to the eye. The remains of three other temples exist, but they
lie at a distance from this grand range. On the eastern and highest part
of the platform, where the natural wall of which I have spoken makes an
angle, stood the Temple of Juno Lucina; next came the Temple of Concord;
next the Temple of Hercules, near which was the Temple of Jupiter, called
of the Giants; next came the Temple of Venus, and lastly that of Castor
and Pollux. The approach to the ruins of these temples from the modern
city is over the site of the ancient, now shaded by olive, almond, and
carruba trees. The Temple of Juno is a picturesque ruin; all the columns
on the northern side are standing, also several at the ends, and part of
the entablature; the rest of the building, corroded by time or entirely
prostrate, lies under an exuberant growth of flowers and shrubs.
Descending from this temple, we pass through a sort of wild garden, with
here and there an olive-tree or dark carruba; on the left are the ruins of
the ancient rock-wall, huge fragments of which in places have fallen down
the precipice; other parts are perforated as with windows or loop-holes,
or with deep cell-like excavations: these are the tombs of the ancient
Agrigentines, now tenantless and void. Those window-like apertures were
evidently made so by the action of the elements or the violence of man;
and it is related that in consequence of the Agrigentines having made
their tombs in the walls, they were so much weakened that the
Carthaginians by means of their engines were enabled to batter them down
and obtain an entrance. We now come to the Temple of Concord, one of the
most beautiful specimens of Grecian Doric in existence. It is roofless,
but otherwise almost perfect. It has twenty-four columns; it is, like the
temple of Juno, raised on a platform of several steps, and about one
hundred and fifty-four feet in length and fifty-five in breadth. It seems
that this temple was used in times past for a Christian church, and the
sides of its cella are perforated by arched openings. The next temple is
near one of the ancient city gates, and is supposed to have been dedicated
to Hercules: it was celebrated in ancient times for having in it a fine
picture of Alcmena; but it is now a confused heap of ruin, with only one
column standing, which proves it to have been of larger dimensions than
the temples just mentioned.
Turning a little to the right, we come upon the Temple of Jupiter
Olympius, commonly called of the Giants, the largest sacred edifice in
Sicily, and one of the most stupendous works of the ancients. It was in
length three hundred and sixty-eight feet, in breadth one hundred and
eighty; the breadth or diameter of its columns at the base thirteen feet
four inches; the height of the columns must have been seventy-five feet;
above these rose a massive entablature, and the top of the pediments could
not have been less than one hundred and twenty feet high! The grandeur of
the door and vestibule corresponded to the simple majesty of the whole
building, whose sculptured ornaments represented, with the finished
elegance and laborious accuracy that distinguished each particular figure,
the 'Defeat of the Giants and the Taking of Troy.' In the interior ranged
twenty-four antæ, or square pillars, of fifty feet in height; on the top
of each was a sculptured giant twenty-seven feet in height, which with his
hands clasped over his head supported the lofty roof. One can scarcely
conceive any thing more noble and majestic than this wonderful edifice, in
comparison with which, though covering much more ground, St. Peter's in
Rome is a splendid gew-gaw. But what remains of this great temple? A wide
heap of ruin; the interior of which, the columns and walls having fallen
outward, is a flowery field, in which lie some fragments of those huge
giants that once supported the roof. One of these is tolerably entire: the
curls of his hair form a sort of garland: it lies with its face upward,
and when I stood by it, my own head scarcely reached as high as the brow
of the statue. It is composed of several pieces of stone, as are the
columns of this temple, and most of the others of Agrigentum. On every
side of this elevated field lie the walls, entablatures, and columns in
enormous fragments: the capitals of the columns look like huge rocks that
have been hurled there by some violent convulsion of nature.
A short distance from this temple are the ruins of the Temple of Venus,
and another of Castor and Pollux, of which two of the columns and part of
the entablature are entire, and the thin coat of cement or stucco which
covered them is in some parts as perfect as ever. The stone of which the
temples were constructed is of a very porous nature, a sort of tufa, full
of sea-shells, and when seen in the sunlight, of a golden hue; but they
were all covered with stucco, which, judging from what remains, was nearly
as hard as porcelain, and gave a beautiful and finished appearance to the
otherwise rude material. Of the other remains in Agrigentum, the limits of
this article will not allow me to speak. But the reader would ask, how
came these temples in such a state of ruin? On this subject there has been
some dispute; but their destruction may most reasonably be attributed to a
mightier agency than man's. Earthquake has shattered these gorgeous
temples; the time _when_ is not recorded. I am inclined to believe that
they were destroyed, as well as those of Selinus, by the dreadful
earthquakes that shook Italy and Sicily in the dark age of Valens and
Valentinian, three hundred and sixty-five years after CHRIST.
Let us now proceed to Syracuse, once the capital of Sicily, and the
birth-place of the great Archimedes. It was founded by Archias, one of the
Heraclidæ, more than seven hundred years before the Christian era, and
according to some authors contained within its walls at one time, one
million two hundred thousand inhabitants; could maintain an army of one
hundred thousand foot, ten thousand horse, with a navy of five hundred
armed vessels. Little now remains of a place once so populous and so
powerful, save the shrunken modern city of Syracusa, containing about nine
thousand inhabitants, and a few almost unintelligible ruins scattered
among vineyards, olive-groves, and fields of corn, or over the high wastes
of the barren Epipole, on the summit of which the curious will find ruined
walls and fortresses of massive and beautiful masonry. From these the eye
commands the whole site of the ancient city. _There_ lies, at the distance
of three miles, the small island of Ortygia, on which is the modern town;
on its right is the narrow entrance from the sea, which lies beyond, to
the greater harbor, that appears like a beautiful lake, and is about two
miles long and one and a half broad. On the left of the island of Ortygia
is all that remains of the lesser port of Syracuse. On this side the
island is connected with the main land by means of a draw-bridge. In
Ortygia is the famous fountain of Arethusa: the spring is yet clear and
copious; but the only nymphs I was fortunate enough to see were engaged in
the necessary vocation of cleansing the soiled linen of Syracusa. The
remains of a beautiful temple of Minerva form a part of the cathedral
church. Near the small river Anapus are two columns, the remnants of a
temple of Jupiter, which once contained a statue of that god, wearing a
robe of gold; but Dionysius the tyrant stripped it off, saying 'it was too
cold for winter and too hot for summer.' Among the seats of a noble
theatre now stands a mill, that is supplied with water diverted from an
ancient aqueduct close by: a strange metamorphosis indeed! This aqueduct
conveys the water thirty miles. It may have been of Greek construction
originally, but that part of it which I have seen is evidently Saracenic.
The rocky site of Syracuse is in many parts perforated with tombs; the
roads are literally honey-combed with them. There is a street excavated in
the limestone rock which on either side is full of cells, and it may
indeed be said of Syracuse that it is a great burying-ground. The oranges,
vines, and figs of Syracuse are still flourishing, and the earth yet
yields its hundred fold; but its glory is departed, and the traveller
looks in vain for satisfactory vestiges of that mighty city.
There are many other interesting remains of antiquity in Sicily, but I
must hasten to a conclusion. I trust the reader will have found the
subject of this article interesting, although treated briefly and
imperfectly. The traveller is unworthy of his privilege, and forgetful of
duty if he extracts not from the scenes described some moral lesson or
religious truth. The reader has accompanied me in imagination through
classic Sicily. He has seen the lonely temple of Segeste, standing among
the mountains like a widowed thing, mourning in silence the departed.
Where is the multitude that once thronged around its walls? Mount Erix
still battles with the clouds, as in the days of Agathocles. He has
clambered with me among the prostrate columns of Selinunte: _once_, from
beneath those massive porticoes, the Selinuntine, in the pride of his
heart, looked upon the crowded port and distant mountains as we look on
the Hudson, with its white sails and swift steamers, and the neighboring
hills. Where and what are they? The distant mountains stand, but the great
works which he erected to be a living honor to his name and country, are
perished forever. He has lingered with me among the ruins of the splendid
Agrigentum. Its numerous temples are dilapidated, or crumbling on the
earth; its walls, once its vaunted strength, are strewed in shattered
fragments on the steeps around. The dust of its multitudes serves to
fertilize the soil of its ancient site! But the stream still flows which
gave its name to the city, and the hills around yet produce the oil, the
wine, and the grain. We have sojourned for a time among the melancholy
vestiges of Syracuse; the scene of battles far more bloody than this land
has ever known. The army which the Athenians, inflated with pride and
presumption, sent against Syracuse, was here defeated. In yonder
land-locked bay the Athenian fleet, the mightiest that republic had ever
sent forth, and which they believed _invincible_, was destroyed. And the
Roman orator has eloquently said, that not only the navy of Athens, but
the glory and the empire of that republic, suffered shipwreck in the fatal
harbor of Syracuse. It was there the wonderful mechanical skill of
Archimedes was displayed against the Roman fleet, and those quiet waters
have been strewed with the dying and the dead. From this deserted citadel,
called of 'Labdalus,' the eye embraces the whole site of the once populous
Syracuse; and what does it behold? On the distant island of Ortygia, an
insignificant town, with a few small craft at anchor in the bay; nearer, a
desert of rocky hills, a goat-herd, and a few straggling goats. Turning
away from the melancholy scene, we behold afar off the snow-clad Ætna.
What a contrast is this to what we have just reviewed in the mind's eye!
_That_ is the work of God! Since its huge pyramid arose, nation after
nation has possessed its fertile slopes. The Siculi have labored on its
sides; the Greek, the Carthaginian and the Roman; the Norman and the
Saracen have struggled for mastery at its foot; but the roar of the battle
is past; the chariot and the charioteer are mingled in the dust. Yet yon
earth-born giant, fed by continual fires, each century augments, and in
all probability will continue to do so until
'The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, yea the great globe itself
Shall dissolve, and like the baseless fabric
Of a vision, leave not a wreck behind!'
May we not in these things read deep lessons applicable to ourselves? The
history of the people whose noble works I have endeavored to describe,
should in the first place teach us how noble a thing it is to construct
works of beauty and utility, not only for our own gratification, but for
the benefit of posterity also. The selfish and unreflecting, even the
modern utilitarian, will perhaps laugh at the thought, and say: 'What
folly to undertake such labors for the benefit of posterity! We will labor
for ourselves.' I would ask such persons, what would have been our state
if the ancients had entertained such grovelling notions? Do they not know
that most of the elegant as well as the useful, is the rich bequest of
these ancients whom they affect to despise? There is not in the whole city
of New-York a house, however lowly, but in some part of it I could point
out a moulding or an ornament that comes from the ancients. But there are
other points of view perhaps of higher consequence. Their temples were
erected to the gods; mistaken as they were in their religious notions, we
Christians may be put to shame by the devotion of the pagan. Not to man
were their temples erected. Man enjoyed their beauty; gazed with
admiration on their exquisite forms, and lingered under their shady
porticoes; but the eye of the god to whom each temple was dedicated was
supposed to be on the work, and the aim of the builders was perfection in
every part; and even that which the eye of the multitude never rested on,
was finished with elaborate care. I would ask, is there such a lofty
feeling among us? Are we willing to expend toil and cost on that which
will never gratify our senses? You will answer no. Is not this then a
lesson to us? Another view of the matter: These works of art were the
objects of veneration and love; city vied with city in their construction;
it was a noble emulation--think you not _nobler_ than the competition for
sordid gold? The citizen gazed with pride upon the marble triumphs of his
native place; he loved it more than ever, and felt his patriotism kindle
as he gazed.
Let us not think that rail-roads and canals are the only works worthy of
modern civilization. If we look to intents, (and what ought we to look
at?) I doubt much but the ancients rose superior to us. We are in the
enjoyment of many advantages of which they knew nothing. The
wonder-working press was unknown to them; and above all, the beautiful
light of Christianity had not been shed on the world. We have the broad
day; they wrought in the twilight gloom. What majestic monuments of art!
what enduring legacies of beauty! what objects to make a man love his
country more and more, could have been erected with the means expended a
few years ago in reckless speculations! Instead of turning with melancholy
loathing to those broken bubbles on which the hopes and fortunes of many
of us were suspended, we could at least look with admiration on the marble
pile, and exclaim, 'I also can be proud of the genius and taste of my
country!' Another lesson we may learn from the fate of ancient states: it
is to beware of presumptuous pride and overweening conceit: these are the
result of inconsiderate ignorance. It was through presumptuous pride that
Athens fell, as I have before intimated. We have reason to fear there are
many, some unconscious of the injury they do, and perhaps with just
intentions, who feed this appetite for undue praise. Others, for mere
popularity or the applause of the day, minister with adroitness the sweet
though poisonous morsel for which our vanity and self-love are
open-mouthed; which (to carry on the simile,) puffs us up with the
comfortable notion that we are superior in every respect to all other
nations, ancient or modern. It would be well to turn a deaf ear to this
syren's song: let us learn if possible to _know_ ourselves; let us
remember that there is no perfection, either in men or their institutions;
and by avoiding a vain and presumptuous spirit, and scanning with a
careful eye the causes of the greatness which under Providence we possess,
we shall be most likely to approach the perfection which we all desire. We
can have little doubt that the Agrigentine considered the institutions of
his country as perfect as we do ours; and the citizens of greater states,
Athens, even Rome itself, indulged in the same pleasing thought. Our only
means of judging of the future is the past. We see that nations have
sprung from obscurity, risen to glory, and decayed. Their rise has in
general been marked by virtue; their decadence by vice, vanity, and
licentiousness. Let us beware!
I would not have the reader censure me for commencing this article as a
traveller and ending it with an attempt to moralize. In reviewing in my
mind the interesting scenes I have endeavored to describe, I have been led
back to the thoughts that arose when I trode among the ruins of prostrate
temples, and they were _connected_ in my mind; and I will venture again to
say, that he is unworthy of the privilege of travelling who gleans not
from the fields he visits some moral lesson or religious truth.
T. C.
STANZAS.
WRITTEN AT BEVERLY, MASSACHUSETTS. BY REV. WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.
I.
In Beverly, the building I sought the other day,
Where forty years ago my sire his infant gave away;
I sought it, for I coveted where he had placed his foot,
My honored, sainted father! mine in filial love to put.
II.
I entered it: most holy appeared the house of prayer;
Yet more than common holiness its beauty seemed to wear;
For there the waters bathed me, and solemn words were said,
And Father, Son, and Paraclete invoked above my head.
III.
Of all the congregation who looked in reverence on,
The elders and the blooming youth, each worshipper was gone;
And he, with hairs of winter, whose office 'twas to lave
My baby brow, and name my name, was hidden in the grave!
IV.
What years have passed of sorrow, that hour and this between!
What moments of enjoyment in that interval I've seen!
I wept that I had measured the half of being's track;
I smiled that worlds were poor to bribe the weary pilgrim back.
V.
I sighed that in the journey where blessings are so few
For even the most favored, I but scanty portion knew;
And chiefly in the season of confidence and pride,
My youth was forced the dangerous way, without my earthly guide.
VI.
Where is my sainted father, who took me in his arms,
And held me to the minister, and kissed away alarms?
I feel his presence near me! he blesses me once more!
Ay, where he gave me up to GOD, just forty years before!
THE QUOD CORRESPONDENCE.
Harry Harson.
CHAPTER XXII.
It was not the failure of his plans, nor the dread of detection, which
broke Rust down. He had been prepared for that, and had nerved himself to
meet it; but it was a blow coming from a quarter where he had not dreamed
of harm, and wounding him where alone he could feel a pang, that crushed
him. There was something so abject in the prostration of that iron-willed
man, who had often endured what would have wrung the very souls of other
men, without exhibiting any other feeling than contempt, that for a moment
awed even the hard man who had struck the blow. In proportion as Rust's
control over his emotions had been great, so now the reäction was
terrible. He seemed paralyzed in body and mind. No cry escaped him, but
his breath rattled as he drew it; his long hair hung loosely over his
face, and upon the floor; his eyes were closed; his features livid and
distorted; and but for his struggling breath, and the spasmodic jerking of
his fingers, he seemed dead.
'Lift him up, Bill,' said Grosket, in a subdued tone. 'It's been too much
for him. Who'd have thought he had a heart?'
Jones smiled grimly, as he said: 'I'm glad you did it, Mr. Grosket. It was
better than murdering him. He wasn't afeard of dying. Is it a fit he's
got?'
Without waiting for a reply, he placed his arms under him and raised him
up. Rust lay heavily against him, his head falling back, and his arms
dangling at his side. They carried him to the bench, and placed him on it,
Grosket standing behind him, and supporting his back.
'I guess he's done for,' said Jones, pushing the hair from his face; 'pity
it wasn't three days ago--that's all.'
'Get some water, or brandy,' said Grosket; 'I suppose we may as well bring
him to. It would be an ugly business if he should die on our hands.'