Roman patriotism. A second Rome was built on the shores of the
Bosphorus,--a city whose beauty of position excelled even the dignity of
the seven hills. Greek and Roman, eastern and western, became mingled
and blent in a confusion with which the most patient scholar finds it
difficult to deal. Then came a political division,--eastern and western
empires, eastern and western churches, the Bishop of Rome and the
Patriarch of Constantinople. Other great changes follow. The western
empire crumbles, takes form again under Charlemagne, finally
disappears. The eastern empire follows it. The Turk plants his standard
on the shores of the Bosphorus. The sacred city falls into his hands,
without contradiction, so far as Europe is concerned. The veil of a dark
and bloody barbarism hides the monuments of a most precious
civilization. It is the age of blood. The nations of Western Europe have
still the faith and the attributes of bandits. The Turkish ataghan is
stronger than the Greek pen and chisel. The new race has a military
power of which the old could only faintly dream.
And so the last Constantine falls, and Mahmoud sweeps from earth the
traces of his reign. In the old Church of St. Sophia, now the Mosque of
Omar, men show to-day, far up on one of the columns, the impress of the
conqueror's bloody hand, which could only strike so high because the
floor beneath was piled fathom-deep with Christian corpses.
Another period follows. The Turk establishes himself in his new domain,
and employs the Greek to subjugate the Greek. Upon each Greek family the
tribute of a male child is levied; and this child is bred up in Turkish
ways, and taught to turn his weapon against the bosom of his mother
country. From these babes of Christian descent was formed the corps of
the Janissaries, a force so dangerous and deadly that the representative
of Turkish rule was forced at a later day to plan and accomplish its
destruction.
The name "Greek" in this time no longer suggested a nation. I myself, in
my childhood, knew a young Greek, escaped from the massacres of Scio,
who told me that when, having learned English, he heard himself spoken
of as "the Greek," his first thought was that those who so spoke of him
were waiting to cut his throat.
Now follows another epoch. Western Europe is busied in getting a little
civilization. Baptized mostly by force, _vi et armis_, she has still to
be Christianized: she has America to discover and to settle. She has to
go to school to the ghosts of Greece and Arabia, in order to have a
grammar and to learn arithmetic. There are some wars of religion,
endless wars for territorial aggrandizement. Europe is still a congress
of the beasts,--lion, tiger, boar, rhinoceros, all snared together by
the tortuous serpent of diplomacy.
I pause, for out of this dark time came your existence and mine. A small
barque crosses the sea; a canoe steals toward the issue of a mighty
river. Such civilization as Europe has plants itself out in a new
country, in a virgin soil; and in the new domain are laid the
foundations of an empire whose greatness is destined to reside in her
peaceful and beneficent offices. Her task it shall be to feed the
starving emigrant, to give land and free citizenship to those
dispossessed of both by the greed of the old feudal systems.
In the fulness of this young nation's life, a cry arose from that
ancient mother of arts and sciences. The Greek had arisen from his long
sleep, had become awake to the fact that civilization is more potent
than barbarism. Strong in this faith, Greece had closed in a death
struggle with the assassin of her national life. Through the enthusiasm
of individuals, not through the policy of governments, the desperate,
heroic effort received aid. From the night of ages, from the sea of
blood, Greece arose, shorn of her fair proportions, pointing to her
ruined temples, her mutilated statues, her dishonored graves.
Americans may be thankful that this strange resurrection was not beheld
by our fathers with indifference. From their plenty, a duteous tribute
more than once went forth to feed and succor the country to which all
owe so much. And so an American, to-day, can look upon the Acropolis
without a blush--though scarcely without a tear.
Contenting myself with this brief retrospect, I must turn from the page
of history to the record of individual experience.
My first visit to Athens was in the year 1867. The Cretans were at this
time engaged in an energetic struggle for their freedom, and my husband
was the bearer of certain funds which he and others had collected in
America for the relief of the destitute families of the insurgents. A
part of this money was employed in sending provisions to the Island of
Crete, where the women and children had taken refuge in the fortresses
of the mountains, subject to great privations, and in danger of absolute
starvation.
With the remainder of the fund, schools were endowed in Athens for the
children of the Cretan refugees. My husband's efforts were seconded by
an able Greek committee; and when, at the close of his labors, he turned
his face homeward, he was followed by the prayers and thanksgivings of
those whose miseries he had been enabled to relieve.
Nearly ten years later than the time just spoken of, I again threaded my
way between the isles of Greece and arrived at the Piræus, the ancient
port of Athens. A railway now connects these two points; but on this
occasion, we did not avail ourselves of it, preferring to take a
carriage for the short distance.
In approaching Athens for the second time, my first surprise was to find
that it had grown to nearly double the size which I remembered ten years
before. The cleanly, thrifty, and cheerful aspect of the city presented
the greatest contrast to the squalor and filth of Constantinople, which
I had just left. The perfect blue of the heavens brought out in fine
effect the white marble of the new buildings, some of which are costly
and even magnificent. Yet there, in full sight, towering above
everything else, stood the unattainable beauty, the unequalled,
unrivalled Parthenon.
I made several pilgrimages to the Acropolis, eager to revive my
recollection respecting the design and history of its various monuments.
I listened again and again to the statements of well-read archæologists
concerning the uses of the temples, the positions of the statues and
bas-reliefs, the hundred gates, and the triumphal road which led up to
the height crowned with glories.
But while I gave ear to what is more easily forgotten than
remembered,--the story of the long-vanished past,--my eyes received the
impression of a beauty that cannot perish. I did not say to the
Parthenon: Thou _wert_, but, Thou _art_ so beautiful, in thy perfect
proportion, in thy fine workmanship!
What silver chisel turned the tender leaves of this marble foliage? Here
is a little bit, a yard or so, which has escaped the gnawing of the
elements, lying turned away from the course of the winds and rains! No
king of to-day, in building his palace, can order such a piece of work.
Artist he can find none to equal it. And I am proud to say that no king
nor millionaire to-day can buy this, or any other fragment belonging to
this sacred spot. What England took before Greece became a power again,
she may keep, because the British Museum is a treasure-house for the
world. But she will never repeat the theft: she is too wise to-day.
Christendom is too wise, and the Greeks have learned the value of what
they still possess.
At the Acropolis, the theatre of Bacchus had been excavated a short time
before my previous visit. Near it they have now brought to light the
temple of Æsculapius. This temple, with the theatre of Bacchus and that
of Herodius Atticus, occupies the base of the Acropolis, on the side
that looks toward the sea.
As one stands in the light of the perfect sky, discerning in the
distance that perfect sea, something of the cheerfulness of the ancient
Greeks makes itself felt, seems to pervade the landscape. Descending to
the theatre of Bacchus, the visitor may call up in his mind the vision
of the high feast of mirth and hilarity. Here was the stage; here are,
still entire, the marble seats occupied by the priests and other high
dignitaries, with one or two interesting bas-reliefs of the god.
When I visited Greece in 1867, I found no proper museum containing the
precious fragments and works of art still left to the much-plundered
country. Some of these were preserved in the Theseion, a fine temple
well known to many by engravings. They were, however, very ill-arranged,
and could not be seen with comfort. I now found all my old favorites and
many others enshrined in the three museums which had been added to the
city during my absence.
One of them is called the Barbakion. It contains, among other things, a
number of very ancient vases, on one of which the soul is represented by
a female figure with wings. Among these vases is a series relating to
family events, one showing a funeral, one a nativity, while two others
commemorate a bridal occasion. In one of these last, the bride sits
holding Eros in her arms, while her attendants present the wedding
gifts; in the other, moves the bridal procession, accompanied by music.
Here are preserved many small figures in clay, commonly spoken of in
Greece as the Tanagra dolls. A fine collection of these has been given
to the Boston Art Museum by a well-known patron of all arts, the late
Thomas G. Appleton. Here we saw a cremating pot of bronze, containing
the charred remains of a human body. I afterwards saw--at the Keramika,
an ancient cemetery--the stone vase from which this pot was taken.
Among the objects shown at this museum was a beautiful set of gold
jewelry found in the cemetery just mentioned. It consisted of armlets,
bracelets, ear-rings, and a number of finger-rings, among which was one
of the coiled serpents so much in vogue to-day. I found here some
curious flat-bottomed pitchers, with a cocked-hat cover nicely fitted
on. This Greek device may have supplied the pattern for the first cocked
hat,--Dr. Holmes has told us about the last.
But nothing in this collection impressed me more than did an ancient
mask cast from a dead face. This mask had lately been made to serve as a
matrix; and a plaster cast, newly taken from it, gave us clearly the
features and expression of the countenance, which was removed from us by
æons of time.
A second museum is that built at the Acropolis, which contains many
fragments of sculpture, among which I recognized a fine bas-relief
representing three women carrying water-jars, and a small figure of
wingless Victory, both of which I had seen twelve years before, exposed
to the elements.
But the principal museum of the city, a fine building of dazzling white
marble, is the patriotic gift of a wealthy Greek, who devoted to this
object a great part of his large fortune. In this building are arranged
a number of the ancient treasures brought to light through the
persevering labors of Dr. and Mrs. Schliemann. As the doctor has
published a work giving a detailed account of these articles, I will
mention only a few of them.
Very curious in form are the gold cups found in the treasury of
Agamemnon. They are shaped a little like a flat champagne glass, but do
not expand at the base, standing somewhat insecurely upon the
termination of their stems. Here, too, are masks of thin beaten gold,
which have been laid upon the faces of the dead. Rings, ear-rings,
brooches, and necklaces there are in great variety; among the first, two
gold signet rings of marked beauty. I remember, also, several sets of
ornaments, resembling buttons, in gold and enamel.
From the main building, we passed into a fine gallery filled with
sculptures, many of which are monumental in character. I will here
introduce two pages from my diary, written almost on the spot:--
Nothing that I have seen in Athens or elsewhere impresses me like
the Greek marbles which I saw yesterday in the museum, most of
which have been found and gathered since my visit in 1867. A single
monumental slab had then been excavated, which, with the help of
Pausanias, identified the site of the ancient Keramika, a place of
burial. Here have been found many tombs adorned with bas-reliefs,
with a number of vases and several statues. How fortunate has been
the concealment of these works of art until our time, by which,
escaping Roman rapacity and Turkish barbarism, they have survived
the wreck of ages, to show us, to-day, the spirit of family life
among the ancient Greeks! Italy herself possesses no Greek relics
equal in this respect to those which I contemplated yesterday. For
any student of art or of history, it is worth crossing the ocean
and encountering all fatigues to read this imperishable record of
human sentiment and relation; for while the works of ancient art
already familiar to the public show us the artistic power and the
sense of beauty with which this people were so marvellously
endowed, these marbles make evident the feelings with which they
regarded their dead.
Perhaps the first lesson one draws from their contemplation is the
eternity, so to speak, of the family affections. No words nor work
have ever portrayed a regard more tender than is shown in these
family groups, in which the person about to depart is represented
in a sitting posture, while his nearest friends or relatives stand
near, expressing in their countenances and action the sorrow and
pathos of the final separation. Here an aged father gives the last
blessing to the son who survives and mourns him. Here a dying
mother reclines, surrounded by a group of friends, one of whom
bears in her arms the infant whose birth, presumably, cost the
mother her life. Two other slabs represent partings between a
mother and her child. In one of these the young daughter holds to
her bosom a dove, in token of the innocence of her tender age. In
the other, the mother is bending over the daughter with a sweet,
sad seriousness. Other groups show the parting of husband and wife,
friend from friend; and I now recall one of these in which the
expression of the clasped hands of two individuals excels in
tenderness anything that I have ever seen in paint or marble. The
Greeks, usually so reserved in their portrayal of nature, seem in
these instances to have laid aside the calm cloak of restraint
which elsewhere enwrapped them, in order to give permanent
expression to the tender and beautiful associations which hallow
death.
TWO DRAMAS
In the Bacchus theatre,
With the wreck of countless years,
The thought of the ancient jollity
Moved me almost to tears.
Bacchus, the god who brightens life
With sudden, rosy gleam,
Lighting the hoary face of Age
With Youth's surpassing dream,
The tide that swells the human heart
With inspiration high,
Ebbing and sinking at sunset fall
To dim eternity.
* * * * *
In the halls where treasured lie
The monumental stones
That stood where men no longer leave
The mockery of their bones,
Why did I smile at the marble griefs
Who wept for the bygone joy?
Within that sorrow dwells a good
That Time can ne'er destroy.
Th' immortal depths of sympathy
All measurements transcend,
And in man's living marble seal
The love he bears his friend.
It would take me long to tell how much Athens has been enriched by the
munificence of her wealthy merchants, whose shrewdness and skill in
trade are known all over the world. Of some of these, dying abroad, the
words may well be quoted: "_Moriens reminiscitur Argos_," as they have
bequeathed for the benefit of their beloved city the sums of money
which have a permanent representation in the public buildings I have
mentioned, and many others. Better still than this, a number of
individuals of this class have returned to Greece, to end their days
beneath their native skies, and the social resources of the metropolis
are enlarged by their presence.
This leads us to what may interest many more than statements concerning
buildings and antiquities,--the social aspect of Athens.
The court and high society, or what is called such, asks our first
attention. The royal palace, a very fine one, was built by King Otho.
The present King and Queen are very simple in their tastes. One meets
them walking among the ruins and elsewhere in plain dress, with no other
escort than a large dog. The visit which I now describe took place in
Carnival time, and we heard, on our arrival, of a court ball, for which
we soon received cards. We were admonished by the proper parties to come
to the palace before nine o'clock, in order that we might be in the
ball-room before the entrance of the King and Queen. We repaired thither
accordingly, and, passing through a hall lined with officials and
servants in livery, ascended the grand staircase, and were soon in a
very elegant ball-room, well filled with a creditable _beau monde_. The
servants of the palace all wore Palikari costume,--the white skirt and
full-sleeved shirt, with embroidered vest and leggings. The ladies
present were attired with a due regard for Paris in general, and for
Worth in particular. The gentlemen were either in uniform, or in that
inexpressibly sleek and mournful costume which is called "evening
dress."
We were presently introduced to the maids of honor, one of whom bore the
historic name of Kolokotronis. They were dressed in white, and wore
badges on which the crown and the King's initial letter were wrought in
small brilliants. Many of the ladies displayed beautiful diamonds.
Presently a hush fell on the rapidly talking assembly. People ranged
themselves in a large circle, and the sovereigns entered. The Queen wore
a dress of white tulle embroidered with red over white silk, and a
garland of flowers in which the same color predominated. Her corsage was
adorned with knots of diamonds and rubies, and she wore a complete
_parure_ of the same costly stones. Their majesties made the round of
the circle. We, as strangers, were at once presented to the Queen, who
with great affability said to me: "I hear that you have been in Egypt,
and that your daughter ascended the great Pyramid." I made as low a
courtesy as was consistent with my dignity as president of a number of
clubs. One or two further remarks were interchanged, and the lovely,
gracious blonde moved on.
When the presentations and salutations were over, the royal pair
proceeded to open the ball, having each some high and mighty partner
for the first _contredanse_. The Queen is very fond of dancing, and is
happier than some other queens in being allowed to waltz to her heart's
content.
There were at the ball three of our fellow-countrymen who could dance.
Two of them wore the uniform of our navy, and had kept it very fresh and
brilliant. These Terpsichorean gentlemen were matched by three ladies
well versed in the tactics of the German. Suddenly a swanlike, circling
movement began to distinguish itself from the quick, hopping, German
waltz which prevails everywhere in Europe. People looked on with
surprise, which soon brightened into admiration. And if any one had said
to me: "What is that, mother?" I should have replied: "The Boston, my
child."
Lest the Queen's familiarity with my movements should be thought to
imply some previous acquaintance between us, I must venture a few words
of explanation.
In the first place, I must mention a friend, Mr. Paraskevaïdes, who had
been very helpful to Dr. Howe and myself on the occasion of our visit to
Athens in 1867. This gentleman was one of the first to greet my daughter
and myself, when she, for the first, and I, for the second time, arrived
in Athens. It was from him that we heard of the court ball just
mentioned, and through him that we received the cards enabling us to
attend it. I had given Mr. Paraskevaïdes a copy of the _Woman's
Journal_, published in Boston, containing a letter of mine describing a
recent visit to Cairo and the Pyramids. Our friend called at the palace
to speak of my presence in Athens to the proper authorities, and by
chance encountered the Queen as she was stepping into her carriage for a
drive. He told her that the widow and daughter of Dr. Howe would attend
the evening's ball. She asked what he held in his hand. "A paper,
printed in Boston, containing a letter written by Mrs. Howe." "Lend it
to me," said the Queen. "I wish to read Mrs. Howe's letter." Thus it was
that the Queen was able to greet me with so pleasant a mark of interest.
The King and Queen withdrew just before supper was announced, which was
very considerate on their part; for, as royal personages may not eat
with others, we could not have had our supper if they had not taken
theirs elsewhere. We were then escorted to the banquet hall, where were
spread a number of tables, at which the guests stood, and regaled
themselves with such customary viands as cold chicken, salad,
sandwiches, ices, and fruit. All of the usual wines were served in
profusion, with nice black coffee to keep people awake for the German,
or, as it is called in Europe, the _cotillon_. And presently we marched
back to the ball-room, and the sovereigns re-appeared. The _Germanites_
took chairs, the chaperons kept their modest distance, and the thing
that hath no end began, the Queen making the first loop in the mazy
weaving of the dance. The next thing that I remember was, three o'clock
in the morning, a sleepy drive in a carriage, and the talk that you
always hear going home from a party. Now, I ask, was not this orthodox?
This being the gay season of the year, we were present at various
festivities whose elegance would have done honor to London or Paris. I
particularly remember, among these, a fancy ball at the house of Mr. and
Mrs. Zyngros. Our hostess was a beautiful woman, and looked every inch a
queen, as she stood at the head of her stately marble stairway, in the
gold and crimson costume of Catherine de Medici. The ball-room was
thronged with Spanish gipsies, Elizabethan nobles, harlequins, Arcadian
shepherds, and Greek peasants. I may also mention another ball, at which
a band of maskers made their appearance, splendidly attired, and voluble
with the squeaking tone which usually accompanies a mask. The master and
mistress of the house were prepared for this interruption, which added
greatly to the gaiety of the occasion.
I have given a little outline of these gay doings, in order that you may
know that the modern Athens is entitled to boast that she possesses all
the appliances of civilization. Now let me say a few words of things
more interesting to people of thoughtful minds.
I remember with great pleasure an evening passed beneath the roof of Dr.
and Mrs. Schliemann. Well known as is Dr. Schliemann by reputation, it
is less generally known that his wife, a Greek woman, has had very much
to do with both his studies and the success of his excavations. She is
considered in Greece a woman of unusual culture, being well versed in
the ancient literature of her country. I was present once at a lecture
which she gave in London, before the Royal Historical Society. At the
close of the lecture, Lord Talbot de Malahide announced that Mrs.
Schliemann had been elected a member of the society. The Duke of Argyll
was present on this occasion, and among those who commented upon the
opinions advanced in the lecture was Mr. Gladstone. Mrs. Schliemann,
however, bears her honors very modestly, and is a charming hostess,
gracious and friendly, thoroughly liked and esteemed in this her native
country, and elsewhere.
The _soirée_ at Mrs. Schliemann's was merely a conventional reception,
with dancing to the music of a pianoforte. We were informed that our
hostess was suffering from the fatigues undergone in assisting her
husband's labors, and that the music and dancing were introduced to
spare her the strain of overmuch conversation. She was able, however,
to receive morning visitors on one day of every week, and I took
advantage of this opportunity to see her again. I spoke of her little
boy, a child of two years, who had been pointed out to me in the Park,
by my friend Paraskevaïdes. He bore the grandiose name of Agamemnon.
Presently we heard the voice of a child below stairs, and Mrs.
Schliemann said: "That is my baby; he has just come in with his nurse."
I asked that we might see him, and the nurse brought him into the
drawing-room. At sight of us, he began to kick and scream. Wishing to
soothe him, I said: "Poor little Agamemnon!" Mrs. Schliemann rejoined:
"I say, nasty little Agamemnon!"