The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever-free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round;
It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies,
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more;
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest.
BARRY CORNWALL.
GREECE
Come, come with me to the Isles of Greece,
And on o'er the seas to its golden shore;
Pause not till you reach Athenia's crown,
Then mount to its heaven-domed Parthenon.
Its glories will feed your musing hours,
When fame has dwindled to cheap renown.
It is a far cry from the Bowery to the Bosporus, but only a few
obstacles, such as the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, the Adriatic and
the Sea of Marmora, intervene. We had overcome two of these so that it
was from Brindisi, Italy, the end of the Appian Way, that we embarked
for Greece.
I expected to find tall, willowy maidens in Grecian draperies standing
on the banks of Corfu waving golden lyres to welcome me to these
fair Ionian Islands, with mighty warriors back of them proclaiming of
their ancestors; instead, I found a pretty little island covered with
blossoms, in the midst of which is the magnificent Villa Achilleion
erected for Empress Elisabeth of Austria.
One would never dream that the lazy sailors found along the shores of
this hilly isle were descendants of those old Greeks who fought the
first naval battle 2600 years ago, off its coast.
One must be a good pedestrian, for even with the excellent roads it is
necessary to climb on foot to the lookout if one would have a survey of
the island and its surroundings. I reached it just in time to see the
sun sink, all gold and orange, into the green liquid of the Adriatic.
If Corfu gives one a flowery welcome to the Isles of Greece, the
mainland keeps up the cordiality. Patras, its first port, a dignified,
progressive little city, was not behind its island sister in greeting
us. Its historic neighbor, Olympia, is reached by a bridle path, and
the two days' journey will give one a better insight into the manners
and customs of the ancient Greeks than months spent in a modern city.
Many of the inhabitants along this path have never visited their nearest
village.
[Illustration: SHIP CANAL CUT ACROSS THE ISTHMUS OF CORINTH,
CONNECTING THE GULF OF CORINTH AND THE SARONIC GULF]
The road between Patras and Athens—my heart throbs now at the mere
writing of the name "Athens," just as it did when I first took my seat
in the train for that classic city—is different from anything else
on earth, for almost all the way to the ship canal which crosses the
Isthmus of Corinth the mountainsides are strewn with currants, drying
in the sun on beds of white pebbles. All the dried currants, originally
called "grape of Corinth," come from this part of the Levant.
ATHENS:
Full many a bard of thy strong walls has sung,
Full many a hand has sketched thy fair outline;
But none can sing nor paint all that thou art,
To earnest, loving, simple hearts like mine.
I feel now as though the scratching of my pen were sacrilege, just as
I first tread softly on this sacred soil and would start when I heard
some one laugh aloud. I cannot tell you of the deep impression Athens
has made upon me.
If you were here where I could touch your hand and, without one word
being spoken, we could stand and drink in all its grandeur, or sit
in silence by moonlight watching the shadows come and go, you would
understand—but to put Athens in cold black and white, ah, never ask me
to try.
The new Athens, like Florence, is broad and white, but not glistening.
The old Athens—my Athens—lies yonder on the hill, a mass of monstrous
rocks, gigantic pillars and huge squares of stone which some mighty
tempest or some avalanche seems to have scattered hither and yon.
It was by the light of the moon that the vastness of the Acropolis
impressed itself upon me, though the immensity of purpose—the Herculean
obstacles surmounted—rather than its ponderous proportions, creates its
magnitude. But it was just as the day was dawning that its loveliness
appeared to me.
I have been to the Acropolis with a registered _cicerone_ who knew every
stone of it, and again with a fine young Greek who loved every atom of
it, but today at dawn I stood there alone and watched the sun come up
seemingly from beneath my feet. No sound broke the stillness. All nature
was hushed that I might bid my beloved Athens farewell. There she lay
outspread before me, bathed in the first faint glow of the early dawn.
Far down is the Porte Beulé and the marble staircase from it to the
Propylæa, one of whose courts leads to that diminutive jewel, the Temple
of Nike, with its Pentelic marble grown yellow with age.
[Illustration: THE ACROPOLIS AS IT WAS
THE ACROPOLIS AS IT IS
THE TEMPLE OF THESEUS IN FOREGROUND]
Before the sun had climbed above the mountain, I watched the purple
marble of the Erechtheion turn to gold, giving a rosy glow of youth to
the Maidens of the Caryatides portico who have held up their canopy for
two thousand years. Always before the eye, tall and commanding, in all
its perfection, stands the Parthenon. Off yonder is Mars Hill, and far
beyond, the Temple of Theseus, its weather-stained, golden-hued marbles,
that have braved the storms of centuries, exhaling a vigorous vitality.
As the sun climbed over the hilltop my heart grew heavy at the thought
of parting with Athens. In a few hours I would be leaving her, perhaps
forever. But Athens—Athens over whom I wept—slept on.
* * * * *
I came back to earth and went to Piræus in a very "earthy" electric
tram—think of desecrating Athens with a trolley!
TURKEY
The cloud-capp'd towers,
The gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples.
SHAKSPERE, _The Tempest_,