FROM ATHENS TO THEBES—THE PASSES OF PARNES AND OF CITHÆRON, ELEUTHERÆ,
PLATÆA.
No ordinary student, looking at the map of Attica and Bœotia, can realize
the profound and complete separation between these two countries. Except
at the very northern extremity, where the fortified town of Oropus guarded
an easy boundary, all the frontier consists not merely of steep mountains,
but of parallel and intersecting ridges and gorges, which contain indeed a
few alpine valleys, such as that of Œnoe, but which are, as a rule, wild
and barren, easily defensible by a few against many, and totally unfit for
the site of any considerable town, or any advanced culture. As I before
stated, the traveller can pass through by Dekelea, or he can pass most
directly by Phyle, the fort which Thrasybulus seized when he desired to
reconquer Athens with his democratic exiles. The historians usually tell
us “that he seized _and fortified_ Phyle”; a statement which the present
aspect of it seems to render very doubtful indeed. It is quite impossible
that the great hill-fort of the very finest Attic building, which is still
remaining and admired by all, could have been “knocked up” by Thrasybulus
and his exiles. The careful construction and the enormous extent of the
building compel us to suppose it the work of a rich state, and of a
deliberate plan of fortification. It seems very unlikely, for these
reasons, that it was built after the days of Thrasybulus, or that so
important a point of attack should have been left unguarded in the greater
days of Athens. I am therefore convinced that the fort, being built long
before, and being, in fact, one of the well-known fortified demes through
Attica, had been to some extent dismantled, or allowed to fall into decay,
at the end of the Peloponnesian War, but that its solid structure made it
a matter of very little labor for the exiles to render it strong and
easily defensible.
This is one of the numerous instances in which a single glance at the
locality sets right an historical statement that has eluded suspicion for
ages. The fort of Phyle, like that of Eleutheræ, of which I shall speak,
and like those of Messene and of Orchomenus, is built of square blocks of
stone, carefully cut, and laid together without a particle of rubble or
cement, but so well fitted as to be able to resist the wear of ages better
than almost any other building. I was informed by M. Émile Burnouf, that
in the case of a fort at Megara, which I did not see, there are even
polygonal blocks, of which the irregular and varying angles are fitted
with such precision that it is difficult, as in the case of the Parthenon,
to detect the joinings of the stones. The blocks are by no means so
colossal in these buildings as in the great ruins about Mycenæ; but the
fitting is closer, and the sites on which we find them very lofty, and
with precipitous ascents. This style of building is specially mentioned by
Thucydides (I. 93) as being employed in the building of the walls of the
Peiræus in the days of Themistocles, apparently in contrast to the rude
and hurried construction of the city walls. But he speaks of the great
stones being not only cut square, but fastened with clamps of iron
soldered with lead. I am not aware that any traces of this are found in
the remaining hill-forts. The walls of the Peiræus have, unfortunately,
long since almost totally disappeared.
The way from Athens to Phyle leads north-west through the rich fields of
the old deme of Acharnæ; and we wonder at first why they should be so
noted as charcoal-burners. But as we approach Mount Parnes, we find that
the valley is bounded by tracts of hillside fit for nothing but pine
forest. A vast deal of wooding still remains; it is clear that these
forests were the largest and most convenient to supply Athens with
firewood or charcoal. As usual, there are many glens and river-courses
through the rugged country through which we ascend—here and there a
village, in one secluded nook a little monastery, hidden from the world,
if not from its cares. There is the usual Greek vegetation beside the
path; not perhaps luxuriant to our Northern eyes, but full of colors of
its own—the glowing anemone, the blood-red poppy, the delicate cistus on a
rocky surface, with foliage rather gray and silvery than green. The
pine-trees sound, as the breeze sweeps up the valleys, and lavish their
vigorous fragrance through the air.
There is something inexpressibly bracing in this solitude, if solitude it
can be called, where the forest speaks to the eye and ear, and fills the
imagination with the mystery of its myriad forms. Now and then too the
peculiar cadence of those bells which hardly varies throughout all the
lands of the south, tells you that a flock of goats, or goat-like sheep,
is near, attended by solemn, silent children, whose eyes seem to have no
expression beyond that of vague wonder in their gaze. These are the flocks
of some village below, not those of the nomad Vlachs, who bring with them
their tents and dogs, and make gipsy encampments in the unoccupied
country.
At last we see high over us the giant fort of Phyle—set upon a natural
precipice, which defends it amply for half its circuit. The point of
occupation was well chosen, for while within sight of Athens, and near
enough to afford a sure refuge to those who could escape by night and fly
to the mountain, its distance (some 15 miles) and the steep and rugged
ascent, made it impossible for weak and aged people to crowd into it and
mar the efficiency of its garrison. With the increase of his force
Thrasybulus began successful raids into the plain, then a rapid movement
to Peiræus; ultimately, as may be read in all histories, he accomplished
the liberation of his native city.
We did not pass into Bœotia by the way of Phyle, preferring to take the
longer route through Eleusis. But no sooner had we left Eleusis than we
began to ascend into the rough country, which is the preface to the wild
mountain passes of Cithæron. It is, indeed, very difficult to find where
one range of mountains begins and another ends, anywhere throughout
Greece. There is generally one high peak, which marks a whole chain or
system of mountains, and after which the system is called; but all closer
specification seems lost, on account of the immense number of ridges and
points which crowd upon the view in all directions. Thus the chain of
Parnes, after throwing out a spur toward the south, which divides the
Athenian and the Thriasian plains, sweeps round the latter in a sort of
amphitheatre, and joins the system of Cithæron (Kitheron), which extends
almost parallel with Parnes. A simple look at a good map explains these
things by supplementing mere description. The only thing which must be
specially enforced is, that all the region where a plain is not expressly
named is made up of broken mountain ridges and rocky defiles, so that it
may fairly be called an alpine country. A fellow-traveller, who had just
been in Norway, was perpetually struck with its resemblance to the
Norwegian highlands.
I will only mention one other fact which illustrates the consequent
isolation. We have a river Kephissus in the plain of Athens. As soon as we
cross the pass of Daphne we have another Kephissus in the Thriasian plain.
Within a day’s journey, or nearly so, we have another Kephissus, losing
itself in the lake Copais, not far from Orchomenus. This repetition of the
same name shows how little intercourse people have in the country, how
little they travel, and how there is no danger of confusing these
identical names. Such a fact, trifling as it is, illustrates very
powerfully the isolation which the Greek mountains produce.
There is a good road from Athens to Thebes,—a very unusual thing in
Greece,—and we were able to drive with four horses, after a fashion which
would have seemed very splendid in old days. But, strange to say, the old
Greek fashion of driving four horses abreast, two being yoked to the pole,
and two outriggers, or _παράσειροι_, as they were called, has disappeared
from Greece, whereas it still survives in Southern Italy. On the other
hand the Greeks are more daring drivers than the Italians, being indeed
braver in all respects, and, when a road is to be had, a very fast pace is
generally kept up.
As usual, the country was covered with brushwood, and with numbers of old
gnarled fir-trees, which bore everywhere upon their stems the great wounds
of the hatchet, made to extract the resin for the flavoring of wine. Rare
flocks of goats, with their peculiar, dull, tinkling bells—bells which
have the same make and tone all through Calabria, through Sicily, and
through Greece—were the only sign of human occupation or of population.
But when you look for houses, there is nothing in the shape of wall or
roof, save an occasional station, where, but a few years since, soldiers
were living, to keep the road safe from bandits. At last we came upon the
camp of some Vlach shepherds—a thing reminding one far more of a gipsy
camp than anything else—a few dark-brown skins falling over two upright
poles, so as to form a roof-shaped tent, of which the entrance looked so
absolutely black as to form quite a patch in the landscape. There is mere
room for lying in these tents by night; and, I suppose, in the summer
weather most of these wild shepherds will not condescend even to this
shelter.(90)
After some hours’ drive we reached a grassy dell, shaded by large
plane-trees, where a lonely little public-house—if I may so call it—of
this construction invited us to stop for watering the horses, and
inspecting more closely the owner. There was the usual supply of such
places—red and white wine in small casks, excellent fresh water, and
_lucumia_, or Turkish delight. Not only had the owner his belt full of
knives and pistols, but there was hanging up in a sort of rack a most
picturesque collection of swords and guns—all made in Turkish fashion,
with ornamented handles and stocks, and looking as if they might be more
dangerous to the sportsman than to his game. While we were being served by
this wild-looking man, in this suspicious place—in fact, it looked like
the daily resort of bandits—his wife, a comely young woman, dressed in the
usual dull blue, red, and white, disappeared through the back way, and hid
herself among the trees. This fear of being seen by strangers—no doubt
caused by jealousy among men, and, possibly, by an Oriental tone in the
country—is a striking feature through most parts of Greece. It is said to
be a remnant of the Turkish influence, but seems to me to lie deeper, and
to be even an echo of the old Greek days. The same feeling is prevalent in
most parts of Sicily. In the towns there you seldom see ladies in the
streets; and in the evenings, except when the play-going public is
returning from the theatre, there are only men visible.
After leaving this resting-place, about eleven in the morning, we did not
meet a village, or even a single house till we had crossed Cithæron, after
six in the evening, and descried the modern hamlet of Platæa on the slopes
to our left. But once or twice through the day a string of four or five
mules, with bright, richly striped rugs over their wooden saddles, and men
dressed still more brightly sitting lady-fashion on them, were threading
their way along the winding road. The tinkling of the mules’ bells and the
wild Turkish chants of the men were a welcome break in the uniform
stillness of the journey. The way becomes gradually wilder and steeper,
though often descending to cross a shady valley, which opens to the right
and left, in a long, narrow vista, and shows blue far-off hills of other
mountain chains. One of these valleys was pointed out to us as Œnoe, an
outlying deme of Attica, fortified in Periclean days, and which the
Peloponnesian army attacked, as Thucydides tells us, and failed to take,
on their invasion of Attica at the opening of the war. There are two or
three strong square towers in this valley, close to the road, but not the
least like any old Greek fort, and quite incapable of holding any
garrison. The site is utterly unsuitable, and there seemed no remains of
any walled town.
These facts led me to reflect upon the narrative of Thucydides, who
evidently speaks of Œnoe as the border fort of Attica, and yet says not a
word about Eleutheræ, which is really the border, the great fort, and the
key to the passes of Cithæron. The first solution which suggests itself
is, that the modern Greeks have given the wrong names to these places, and
that by Œnoe Thucydides really means the place now known as Eleutheræ.(91)
Most decidedly, if the fort which is now there existed at the opening of
the Peloponnesian War, he cannot possibly have overlooked it in his
military history of the campaign. And yet it seems certain that we must
place the building of this fort at the epoch of Athens’s greatness, when
Attic influence was paramount in Bœotia, and when the Athenians could, at
their leisure, and without hindrance, construct this fort, which commands
the passes into Attica, before they diverge into various valleys, about
the region of the so-called Œnoe.
For, starting from Thebes, the slope of Cithæron is a single unbroken
ascent up to the ridge, through which, nearly over the village of Platæa,
there is a cut that naturally indicates the pass. But when the traveller
has ascended from Thebes to this point he finds a steep descent into a
mountainous and broken region, where he must presently choose between a
gorge to the right or to the left, and must wander about zigzag among
mountains, so as to find his way toward Athens. And although I did not
examine all the passes accurately, it was perfectly obvious that, as soon
as the first defile was left behind, an invader could find various ways of
eluding the defenders of Attica, and penetrating into the Thriasian plain,
or, by Phyle, into that of Athens. Accordingly, the Athenians choose a
position of remarkable strength, just inside the last crowning ascent,
where all the ways converge to pass the crest of the mountain into Platæa.
Here a huge rock, interposing between the mountains on each side, strives,
as it were, to bar the path, which accordingly divides like a torrent bed,
and passes on either side, close under the walls of the fort which
occupies the top of the rock. From this point the summit of the pass is
about two or three miles distant, and easily visible, so that an outpost
there, commanding a view of the whole Theban plain, could signal any
approach to the fort with ample notice.
The position of the fort at Phyle, above described, is very similar. It
lies within a mile of the top of the pass, on the Attic side, within sight
of Athens, and yet near enough to receive the scouts from the top, and
resist all sudden attack. No force could invade Attica without leaving a
large force to besiege it.
Looking backward into Attica, the whole mountainous tract of Œnoe is
visible; and, though we cannot now tell the points actually selected,
there is no difficulty in finding several which could easily pass the
signal from Eleutheræ to Daphne, and thence to Athens. We know that fire
signals were commonly used among the Greeks, and we can here see an
instance where news could be telegraphed some thirty miles over a very
difficult country in a few moments. Meanwhile, as succors might be some
time in arriving, the fort was of such size and strength as to hold a
large garrison, and stop any army which could not afford to mask it, by
leaving there a considerable force.(92)
The site was, of course, an old one, and the name Eleutheræ, if correctly
applied to this fort, points to a time when some mountain tribe maintained
its independence here against the governments on either side in the plain,
whence the place was called the “_Free_” place, or _Liberties_ (as we have
the term in Dublin). There is further evidence of this in a small
irregular fort which was erected almost in the centre of the larger and
later enclosure. This older fort is of polygonal masonry, very inferior to
the other, and has fallen into ruins, while the later walls and towers are
in many places perfect. The outer wall follows the nature of the position,
the principle being to find everywhere an abrupt descent from the
fortification, so that an assault must be very difficult. On the north
side, where the rock is precipitous, the wall runs along in a right line;
whereas on the south side, over the modern road, it dips down the hill,
and makes a semicircular sweep, so as to crown the steepest part of a
gentler ascent. Thus the whole enclosure is of a half-moon shape. But
while the straight wall is almost intact, the curved side has in many
places fallen to pieces. The building is the most perfect I have ever seen
of the kind, made of square hewn stones, evidently quarried on the rock
itself. The preserved wall is about 200 yards long, six and a half feet
wide, and apparently not more than ten or twelve feet high; but, at
intervals of twenty-five or thirty yards, there are seven towers twice as
deep as the wall, while the path along the battlement goes right through
them. Each tower has a doorway on the outside of it, and close beside this
there is also a doorway in the wall, somewhat larger. These doorways, made
by a huge lintel, about seven and a half feet long, laid over an aperture
in the building, with its edges very smoothly and carefully cut, are for
the most part absolutely perfect. As I could see no sign of doorposts or
bolts—a feature still noticeable in all temple gates—it is evident that
wooden doors and door-posts were fitted into these doorways—a dangerous
form of defence, were not the entrances strongly protected by the towers
close beside them and over them. There were staircases, leading from the
top of the wall outward, beside some of the towers. The whole fort is of
such a size as to hold not merely a garrison, but also the flocks and
herds of the neighboring shepherds, in case of a sudden and dangerous
invasion; and this, no doubt, was the primary intention of all the older
forts in Greece and elsewhere.(93)
The day was, as usual, very hot and fine, and the hills were of that
beautiful purple blue which Sir F. Leighton so well reproduces in the
backgrounds of his Greek pictures; but a soft breeze brought occasional
clouds across the sun, and varied the landscape with deeper hues. Above us
on each side were the noble crags of Cithæron, with their gray rocks and
their gnarled fir-trees. Far below, a bright mountain stream was rushing
beside the pass into Attica; around us were the great walls of the old
Greeks, laid together with that symmetry, that beauty, and that strength
which marks all their work. The massive towers are now defending a barren
rock; the enclosure which had seen so many days of war and rapine was
lying open and deserted; the whole population was gone long centuries ago.
There is still _liberty_ there, and there is peace—but the liberty and the
peace of solitude.
A short drive from Eleutheræ brought us to the top of the pass,(94) and we
suddenly came upon one of those views in Greece which, when we think of
them, leave us in doubt whether the instruction they give us, or the
delight, is the greater. The whole plain of Thebes, and, beyond the
intervening ridge, the plain of Orchomenus, with its shining lake, were
spread out before us. The sites of all the famous towns were easily
recognizable. Platæa only was straight beneath us, on the slopes of the
mountain, and as yet hidden by them. The plan of all Bœotia unfolded
itself with great distinctness—two considerable plains, separated by a low
ridge, and surrounded on all sides by chains of mountains. On the north
there are the rocky hills which hem in Lake Copais from the Eubœan strait,
and which nature had pierced before the days of history, aided by Minyan
engineers, whose _καταβόθρα_, as they were called, were tunnelled drains,
which drew water from thousands of acres of the richest land. On the east,
where we stood, was the gloomy Cithæron—the home of awful mythical crimes,
and of wild Bacchanalian orgies, the theme of many a splendid poem and
many a striking tragedy. To the south lay the pointed peaks of Helicon—a
mountain (or mountain chain) full of sweetness and light, with many silver
streams coursing down its sides to water the Bœotian plains, and with its
dells, the home of the Muses ever since they inspired the bard of
Ascra—the home, too, of Eros, who long after the reality of the faith had
decayed, was honored in Thespiæ by the crowds of visitors who went up to
see the famous statue of the god by Praxiteles. This Helicon separates
Bœotia from the southern sea, but does not close up completely with
Cithæron, leaving way for an army coming from the isthmus, where Leuctra
stood to guard the entrance. Over against us, on the west, lay, piled
against one another, the dark wild mountains of Phocis, with the giant
Parnassus raising its snow-clad shoulders above the rest. But, in the far
distance, the snowy Corax of Ætolia stood out in rivalry, and showed us
that Parnassus is but the advanced guard of the wild alpine country, which
even in Greece proved too rugged a nurse for culture.
We made our descent at full gallop down the windings of the road—a most
risky drive; but the coachman was daring and impatient, and we felt, in
spite of the danger, that peculiar delight which accompanies the
excitement of going at headlong pace. We had previously an even more
perilous experience in coming down the steep and tortuous descent from the
Laurium mines to Ergasteria in the train, where the sharp turns were
apparently full of serious risk. Above our heads were wheeling great
vultures—huge birds, almost black, with lean, featherless heads—which
added to the wildness of the scene. After this rapid journey we came upon
the site of Platæa, marked by a modern village of the name, on our left,
and below us we saw the winding Asopus, and the great scene of one of the
most famous of all Greek battles—the battle of Platæa. This little town is
situated much higher up the mountain than I had thought, and a glance
showed us its invaluable position as an outpost of Athenian power toward
Bœotia. With the top of the pass within an hour’s walk, the Platæans
could, from their streets, see every movement over the Theban plain: they
could see an invasion from the south coming up by Leuctra; they could see
troops marching northward toward Tanagra and Œnophyta. They could even see
into the Theban Cadmea, which lay far below them, and then telegraph from
the top of the pass to Eleutheræ, and from thence to Athens. We can,
therefore, understand at once Platæa’s importance to Athens, and why the
Athenians built a strong fortified post on their very frontier, within
easy reach of it.
All the site of the great battle is well marked and well known—the
fountain Gargaphia, the so-called island, and the Asopus, flowing lazily
in a deep-cut sedgy channel, in most places far too deep to ford. Over our
heads were still circling the great black vultures; but, as we neared the
plain, we flashed a large black-and-white eagle, which we had not seen in
Attica. There is some cultivation between Platæa and Thebes, but strangely
alternating with wilderness. We were told that the people have plenty of
spare land, and, not caring to labor for its artificial improvement, till
a piece of ground once, and then let it lie fallow for a season or two.
The natural richness of the Bœotian soil thus supplies them with ample
crops. But we wondered to think how impossible it seems even in these rich
and favored plains to induce a fuller population.
The question of the depopulation of Greece is no new one—it is not due to
the Slav inroads—it is not due to Turkish misrule. As soon as the
political liberties of Greece vanished, so that the national talent found
no scope in local government—as soon as the riches of Asia were opened to
Greek enterprise—the population diminished with wonderful rapidity. All
the later Greek historians and travellers are agreed about the fact.(95)
“The whole of Greece could not put in the field,” says one, “as many
soldiers as came of old from a single city.” “Of all the famous cities of
Bœotia,” says another, “but two—Thespiæ and Tanagra—now remain.” The rest
are mostly described as ruins (_ἐρείπια_). No doubt, every young
enterprising fellow went off to Asia as a soldier or a merchant; and this
taste for emigrating has remained strong in the race till the present day,
when most of the business of Constantinople, of Smyrna, and of Alexandria
is in the hands of Greeks. But, in addition to this, the race itself seems
at a certain period to have become less prolific; and this, too, is a
remarkable feature lasting to our own time. In the several hospitable
houses in which I was entertained through the country I sought in vain for
children. The young married ladies had their mothers to keep them company,
and this was a common habit; the daughter does not willingly separate from
her mother. But, whether by curious coincidence or not, the absence of
children in these seven or eight houses was very remarkable. I have been
since assured that this was an accident, and that large families are very
common in Greece. The statistics show a considerable increase of
population of late years.(96)
The evening saw us entering into Thebes—the town which, beyond all others,
retains the smallest vestiges of antiquity. Even the site of the Cadmea is
not easily distinguishable. Two or three hillocks in and about the town
are all equally insignificant, and all equally suitable, one should think,
for a fortress. The discovery of the old foundations of the walls has,
however, determined the matter, and settled the site to be that of the
highest part of the present town. Its strength, which was celebrated, must
have been due nearly altogether to artificial fortification, for though
the old city was in a deeper valley to the north-west, yet from the other
side there can never have been any ascent steep enough to be a natural
rampart. The old city was, no doubt, always more renowned for eating and
drinking than for art or architecture,(97) and its momentary supremacy
under Epaminondas was too busy and too short a season to be employed in
such pursuits. But, besides all this, and besides all the ruin of
Alexander’s fury, the place has been visited several times with the most
destructive earthquakes, from the last of which (in 1852) it had not
recovered when I first saw it. There were still through the streets houses
torn open, and walls shaken down; there were gaps made by ruins, and
half-restored shops.
The antiquities of Thebes consist of a few inscribed slabs and fragments
which are (as usual) collected in a dark outhouse, where it is not easy to
make them out. I was not at the trouble of reading these inscriptions, for
in this department the antiquarians of the University of Athens are really
very zealous and competent, and I doubt whether any inscription now
discovered fails to come into the Greek papers within a few months. From
these they of course pass into the _Corpus Inscriptionum Græcarum_, a
collection daily increasing, and periodically reedited. I may observe
that, not only for manners and customs, but even for history, these
undeniable and seldom suspicious sources are rapidly becoming our surest
and even fullest authority.
In the opinion of the inhabitants, by far the most important thing about
the town is the tomb of their Evangelist S. Luke, which is situated in a
chapel close by. The stone is polished and worn with the feet and lips of
pilgrims, and all such homes of long devotion are in themselves
interesting; but the visitor may well wonder that the Evangelist should
have his tomb established in a place so absolutely decayed and depopulated
as was the region of Thebes, even in his day. The tombs of the early
preachers and missionaries are more likely to be in the thickest of
thoroughfares, amid the noise and strife of men. The Evangelist was
confused with a later local saint of the same name.(98)
Thebes is remarkable for its excellent supply of water. Apart from the
fountain Dirke,(99) several other great springs rise in the higher ground
close to it, and are led by old Greek conduits of marble to the town. One
of these springs was large enough to allow us to bathe—a most refreshing
change after the long and hot carriage drive, especially in the ice-cold
water, as it came from its deep hiding-place. We returned at eight in the
evening to dine with our excellent host—a host provided for us by
telegraph from Athens—where we had ample opportunity of noticing some of
the peculiarities of modern Greek life.
The general elections were at the moment pending. M. Boulgaris had just
_échoue_, as the French say; and the King, after a crisis in which a
rupture of the Constitution had been expected, decided to try a
constitutional experiment, and called to office M. Trikoupi, an advanced
Radical in those days, and strongly opposed to the Government. But M.
Trikoupi was a highly educated and reasonable man, well acquainted with
England and English politics, and apparently anxious to govern by strictly
constitutional means. He has since proved himself, by his able and
vigorous administration, one of the most remarkable statesmen in Europe,
and the main cause of the progress of his country. His recent defeat
(1890) is therefore to be regarded as a national misfortune. Our new
friend at Thebes was then the Radical candidate, and was at the very time
of our arrival canvassing his constituency. Every idle fellow in the town
seemed to think it his duty to come up into his drawing-room, in which we
were resting, and sit down to encourage him and advise him. No hint that
he was engaged in entertaining strangers had the smallest effect: noisy
politics was inflicted upon us till the welcome announcement of dinner, to
which, for a wonder, his constituents did not follow him. He told me that
though all the country was strongly in favor of M. Trikoupi, yet he could
hardly count upon a majority with certainty, for he had determined to let
the elections follow their own course, and not control them with soldiers.
In this most constitutional country, with its freedom, as usual, closely
imitated from England, soldiers stood, at least up to the summer of 1875,
round the booths, and hustled out any one who did not come to vote for the
Ministerial candidate. M. Trikoupi refused to take this traditional
precaution, and, as the result showed, lost his sure majority.
But when I was there, and before the actual elections had taken place, the
Radical party were very confident. They were not only to come in
triumphant, but their first act was to be the prosecution of the late
Prime Minister, M. Boulgaris, for violating the Constitution, and his
condemnation to hard labor, with confiscation of his property. I used to
plead the poor man’s case earnestly with these hot-headed politicians, by
way of amusement, and was highly edified by their arguments. The ladies,
as usual, were by far the fiercest, and were ready, like their goddess of
old, to eat the raw flesh of their enemies. I used to ask them whether it
would not be quite out of taste if Mr. Disraeli, then in power, were to
prosecute Mr. Gladstone for violating the Constitution in his Irish Church
Act, and have him condemned to hard labor. The cases, they replied, were
quite different. No Englishman could ever attain, or even understand, the
rascality of the late Greek Minister. Feeling that there might be some
force in this argument, I changed ground, and asked them were they not
afraid that if he were persecuted in so violent a way he might, instead of
occupying the Opposition benches, betake himself to occupy the mountain
passes, and, by robbing a few English travellers, so discredit the new
Government as to be worse and more dangerous in opposition than in power.
No, they said, he will not do that; he is _too rich_. But, said I, if you
confiscate his property, he will be poor. True, they replied; but still he
will not be able to do it: he is _too old_. It seemed as if the idea that
he might be too respectable never crossed their minds.(100) What was my
surprise to hear within six months that this dreadful culprit had come
into power again at the head of a considerable majority!
We were afterward informed by a sarcastic observer that many of the Greek
politicians are paupers, “who will not dig, and to beg they are ashamed;”
and so they sit about the _cafés_ of Athens on the look-out for one of the
10,000 places which have been devised for the patronage of the Ministry.
But, as there are some 30,000 expectants, it follows that the 20,000
disappointed are always at work seeking to turn out the 10,000. Hence a
crisis every three months; hence a Greek ambassador could hardly reach his
destination before he was recalled; hence, too, the exodus of all thrifty
and hard-working men to Smyrna, to Alexandria, or to Manchester, where
their energies were not wasted in perpetual political squabbling. The
greatest misconduct with which a man in office could be charged was the
holding of it for any length of time; the whole public then join against
him, and cry out that it is high time for him, after so long an innings,
to make way for some one else. It was not till M. Trikoupi established his
ascendency that this ridiculous condition of things ceased. Whether in
office or in opposition, he has a policy, and retains the confidence of
foreign powers. I had added, in the first edition of this book, some
further observations on the apparent absurdity of introducing the British
Constitution, or some parody of it, into every new state which is rescued
from barbarism or from despotism. I am not the least disposed to retract
what I then said generally, but it is common justice to the Greeks to say
that later events are showing them to be among the few nations where such
an experiment may succeed. When the dangerous crisis of the Turco-Russian
war supervened, instead of rushing to arms, as they were advised by some
fanatical English politicians, they set about to reform their Ministry;
and, feeling the danger of perpetually changing the men at the helm, they
insisted on the heads of the four principal parties forming a coalition,
under the nominal leadership of M. Canaris.(101) This great political
move, one of the most remarkable of our day, was attempted, as far as I
can make out, owing to the deliberate pressure of the country, and from a
solid interest in its welfare. Even though temporary in the present case,
it was an earnest that the Greeks are learning national politics, and that
a liberal constitution is not wasted upon them. There are many far more
developed and important nations in Europe which would not be capable of
such a sacrifice of party interests and party ambition.
We left Thebes, very glad that we had seen it, but not very curious to see
it again. Its site makes it obviously the natural capital of the rich
plain around it; and we can also see at once how the larger and richer
plain of Orchomenus is separated from it by a distinct saddle of rising
ground, and was naturally, in old times, the seat of a separate power. But
the separation between the two districts, which is not even so steep or
well marked as the easy pass of Daphne between Athens and Eleusis, makes
it also clear that the owners of either plain would certainly cast the eye
of desire upon the possessions of their neighbors, and so at an early
epoch Orchomenus was subdued. For many reasons this may have been a
disaster to Greece. The Minyæ of Orchomenus, as people called the old
nobles who settled there in prehistoric days, were a great and rich
society, building forts and treasure-houses, and celebrated, even in
Homer’s day, for wealth and splendor.
But, perhaps owing to this very luxury, they were subdued by the
inartistic, vulgar Thebans, who, during centuries of power and importance,
never rose to greatness save through the transcendent genius of Pindar and
of Epaminondas. No real greatness ever attached to their town. When people
came from a distance to see art in Bœotia, they came to little Thespiæ, in
the southern hills, where the Eros of Praxiteles was the pride of the
citizens. Tanagra, too, in the terra cottas of which I have spoken (above,
p. 59), shows taste and refinement; and we still look with sympathy upon
the strangely modern fashions of these graceful and elegant figures. At
Thebes, so far as I know, no trace of fine arts has yet been discovered.
The great substructure of the Cadmea, the solid marble water-pipes of
their conduits, a few inscriptions—that is all. It corroborates what we
find in the middle and new comedy of the Greeks, that Thebes was a place
for eating and drinking, a place for other coarse material comforts—but no
place for real culture or for art. Even their great poet, Pindar, a poet
in whom most critics find all the highest qualities of genius—loftiness,
daring, originality—even this great man—no doubt from the accidents of his
age—worked by the job, and bargained for the payment of his noblest odes.
Thus, even in Pindar, there is something to remind us of his Theban
vulgarity; and it is, therefore, all the more wonderful, and all the more
freely to be confessed, that in Epaminondas we find not a single flaw or
failing, and that he stands out as far the noblest of all the great men
whom Greece ever produced. It were possible to maintain that he was also
the greatest, but this is a matter of opinion and of argument. Certain it
is that his influence made Thebes, for the moment, not only the leader in
Greek politics, but the leader in Greek society. Those of his friends whom
we know seem not only patriots, but gentlemen—they cultivated with him
music and eloquence, nor did they despise philosophy. So true is it, that
in this wonderful peninsula genius seemed possible everywhere, and that
from the least cultivated and most vulgar town might arise a man to make
all the world about him admire and tremble.
I will make but one more remark about this plain of Bœotia. There is no
part of Greece so sadly famed for all the battles with which its soil was
stained. The ancients called it Mars’s _Orchestra_, or exercising ground;
and even now, when all the old life is gone, and when not a hovel remains
to mark the site of once well-built towns, we may indeed ask, why were
these towns celebrated? Simply because in old Greek history their names
served to specify a scene of slaughter, where a campaign, or it may be an
empire, was lost or won, Platæa, Leuctra, Haliartus, Coronea, Chæronea,
Delium, Œnophyta, Tanagra—these are in history the landmarks of battles,
and, with one exception, landmarks of nothing more. Thebes is mainly the
nurse of the warriors who fought in these battles, and but little else.
So, then, we cannot compare Bœotia to the rich plains of Lombardy—they,
too, in their clay, ay, and in our own day, Mars’s Orchestra—for here
literature and art have given fame to cities, while the battles fought
around their walls have been forgotten by the world.
I confess we saw nothing of the foggy atmosphere so often brought up
against the climate of Bœotia. And yet it was then, of course, more foggy
than it had been of old, for then the lake Copais was drained, whereas in
1875 the old tunnels, cut, or rather enlarged, by the Minyæ, were choked,
and thousands of acres of the richest land covered with marsh and lake. It
was M. Trikoupi who promoted the plan of a French Company to drain the
lake more completely than even the old _Catabothra_ had done, and, at the
cost of less than one million sterling, to bring into permanent
cultivation some thousands of acres—in fact, the largest and richest plain
in all Greece. I asked him where he meant to find a population to till it,
seeing that the present land was about ten times more than sufficient for
the inhabitants. He told me that some Greek colonists, who had settled in
the north, under the Turks or Servians (I forget which), were desirous of
returning to enjoy the sweets of Hellenic liberty. It was proposed to give
them the reclaimed tract. If these good people will reason from analogy,
they will be slow to trust their fortunes to their old fellow-countrymen.
So long as they are indigent they will be unmolested—_cantabit vacuus
coram latrone viator_—but as soon as they prosper, or are supposed to
prosper, we might have the affair of Laurium repeated. The natives might
be up in arms against the strangers who had come to plunder the land of
the wealth intended by nature for others. The Greek Parliament might be
persuaded to make retrospective laws and restrictions, and probably all
the more active and impatient spirits would leave a country where
prosperity implied persecution, and where people only awake to the value
of their possessions after they have sold them to others.
What is now happening illustrates the views which I long since proposed.
When the drainage works, completed in 1887, had uncovered rich tracts, the
Government laid claim to every acre of it, and endeavored to fence off the
old riparian proprietors. They on their side disputed the new boundaries,
and claimed what the Government professed to have uncovered. Hence no sale
to new owners is as yet possible. The dispute is still (1891) unsettled.
I think jealousy no accidental feature, but one specially engrained in the
texture of Greek nature from the earliest times. Nothing can be a more
striking or cogent proof of this than the way in which Herodotus sets down
jealousy as one of the attributes of the Deity. For the Deities of all
nations being conceptions formed after the analogy of human nature around
them, there can be no doubt that the honest historian put it down as a
necessary factor in the course and constitution of nature. We can only
understand Greek history by keeping these things perpetually in mind, and
even now it explains the apparent anomaly, how a nation so essentially
democratic—who recognize no nobility and no distinctions of rank—can be
satisfied with a king of foreign race. They told me themselves, over and
over again, that the simple reason was this: no Greek could tolerate
another set over him, so that even such an office as President of a Greek
Republic would be intolerable, if held by one of themselves. And this same
feeling in old times is the real reason of the deadly hate manifested
against the most moderate and humane despots. However able, however
kindly, however great such a despot might be; however the state might
prosper under him, one thing in him was intolerable—he had no natural
right to be superior to his fellows, and yet he was superior. I will not
deny the existence of political enthusiasm, and of real patriotism among
Greek tyrannicides, but I am quite sure that the universal sympathy of the
nation with them was partly based upon this deep-seated feeling.
It is said that, in another curious respect, the old and modern Greeks are
very similar—I mean the form which bribery takes in their political
struggles. It has been already observed and discussed by Mr. Freeman, how,
among the old Greeks, it was the politician who was bribed, and not the
constituents; whereas among us in England the leading politicians are
above suspicion, while the constituents are often corruptible enough. Our
Theban friend told me that in modern Greece the ancient form of bribery
was still in fashion; and that, except in Hydra and one other
place—probably, if I remember rightly, Athens—the bribing of constituents
was unknown; while the taking of bribes by Ministers was alleged not to be
very uncommon. A few years ago, men of sufficient importance to be Cabinet
Ministers were openly brought into court, and indicted for the sale of
three archbishoprics, those of Patras and Corinth among the number. There
is no doubt that this public charge points to a sort of bribery likely to
take place in any real democracy, when the men at the head of affairs are
not men of great wealth and noble birth, but often ordinary, or even needy
persons, selected by ballot, or popular vote, to fill for a very short
time a very influential office.