Chapter VI: Part 6

Other refreshment, however, was in store for me--the sweetmeats and water which form the somewhat symbolical staple of Greek hospitality. Of these I partook in the orthodox manner. One dish only is brought in, but many spoons, one of which each guest dips into the _gliko_ (sweet), and, having partaken, drops the spoon into the glass of fresh water which always follows. Turkish coffee was afterwards served in small cups without spoons. And now, not knowing what sermons or other duties my presence might impede, I took leave, much gratified by the interview.

We passed from hence to the house of the Austrian consul, Dr. Hahn, a writer of scientific travels, and a student of antiquities. He had not long before visited the Island of Santorin, whose recently-awakened volcano interests the world of science. He told me of a house newly excavated in this region, containing tools and implements as old, at least, as those of the Lacustrine period, and, in his opinion, somewhat older. This house had been deeply buried in ashes by an ancient eruption, so violent as to have eviscerated the volcano of that time, which subsequently collapsed. The depth of ashes he stated as considerably greater than that found in any part of the Pompeian excavation, being at least thirty yards. Hewn stones were found here, but no metal implements, nor traces of any. Caucasian skulls were also found, and pottery of a finer description than that belonging to the Lacustrine period. He gave me a model of a small pitcher discovered among the ruins, of which the nose was shaped like the beak of a bird, with a further imitation of the eye on either side. Another small vessel was ornamented by the model of a human breast, to denote plenty. He had also plaster casts of skulls, arm and jaw bones, and flint saws, upon which he descanted with great vivacity.

Dr. Hahn's courteous and charming manners caused me to remember him as one of the many Austrians whose amiable qualities make us doubly regret the _onus_ which the untimely policy of their government throws upon them.

These visits at end, Mr. Evangelides took me home to dinner, where the best Greek dishes were enhanced by Samian wine. We had scarcely dined when the archbishop, followed by an attendant priest, came to return our visit. The Greeks present all kissed his hand, and _gliko_ and coffee were speedily offered. We resumed our conversation of the morning, and the celibacy of the clerical hierarchy came next in order in our discussion. The father was in something of a strait between the Christian dignification of marriage and its ascetic depreciation. The arrival of other visitors forced us to part, with this interesting point still unsettled. We next visited the wife of the American vice-consul--Mr. Saponzaki--a handsome person, who received us with great cordiality. After a brief sojourn, we walked down to the landing, visiting the foundery, where they were making brass cannon, and the _Acadi_, the smart little steamer given by the Greeks of London to the Cretan cause. She ran our blockade in the late war, but is now engaged in a more honest service, for she runs the Turkish blockade, and carries the means of subsistence to the Cretans. Here we met Mr. DeKay, a youthful Philcandiote of our own country. He had already made himself familiar with the state of things in Candia, and, like the blockade-runner, was serving in his second war, with the difference that his former record showed him to have been always on the side of Christian loyalty.

Finally, amid thanks and farewells, a small boat took us alongside of the Austrian steamer, which carried us comfortably, and by magnificent moonlight, to the Piraeus.

PIRAEUS--ATHENS.

We were still soundly asleep when the cameriere knocked at the door of our cabin, crying, "Signora, here we are at the Piraeus." The hour was four of the morning, but we were now come to the regions in which men use the two ends of the day, and throw away the middle. We, therefore, seized the end offered to us, and as briefly as possible made our way on deck, where we found a commissionaire from the Hotel des Etrangers, at Athens. We had expected to meet here the chief of our party, who had gone before us to Athens. The commissionaire, however, brought us a note, telling of an accident whose fatigues did not allow him to wait upon us in person. We were soon in the small boat, and soon after in the carriage, intent upon reaching Athens. Pireo, as they call the classic port, is quite a bustling place, the harbor gay with shipping and flags of all nations. The drive to the Capitol occupies three quarters of an hour. The half-way point of the distance is marked by two rival _khans_, at one of which the driver of a public vehicle always stops to water his horses and light his cigar. Here a plate of _lokumia_, a sweetmeat something like fig-paste, and glasses of fresh water, were brought out and offered to us. Soon we came in sight of the Acropolis, not without an indescribable puzzle at beholding, in commonplace existence, one of those dreams whose mystical beauty we never expect to realize, and fear to dissipate. Now we drive through many streets and squares, and finally stop at a hotel in front of one of the prettiest of the latter, from whose door our chief issues to welcome us. With him is the elder neophyte, who has so far shared his wanderings, and latterly the near danger of shipwreck. Under her guidance we walk out, after breakfast, to look at the shops in Hermes Street, but the glaring sun soon drives us back to our quarters. We take the midday nap, dine, and at sunset drive to the Acropolis. On our way thither, we pass the remaining columns of the Temple of Jupiter Olympius, a Roman-Greek structure, the work of Adrian. These columns, sixteen in number, stand on a level area of some extent. One of them, overthrown by an earthquake, lies in ruins, its separate segments suggesting the image of gigantic vertebrae. The spine is indeed a column, but it has the advantage of being flexible, and the method and principle of its unity are not imitable by human architects. At the Acropolis a wooden gate opens for our admission, and a man in half-military costume follows our steps.

We visit first the Propylea, or five gates, then the Parthenon. Our guide points out the beauty of its Doric columns, the perfection of their execution--the two uniting faces of each of their pieces being polished, so as to allow of their entire union. Here stood the great statue of Minerva Medica; here, the table for sacrifice. Here are the ways on which the ponderous doors opened and shut. And Pericles caused it to be built; and this, his marble utterance, is now a lame sentence, with half its sense left out. In this corner is the high Venetian tower, a solid relic, modern beside that which it guards. And worse than any wrong _denouement_ of a novel is the intelligence here given you that the Parthenon stood entire not two hundred years ago, and that the explosion of a powder magazine, connected with this Venetian fortification, shattered its matchless beauty.

Here is the Temple of Victory. Within are the bas-reliefs of the Victories arriving in the hurry of their glorious errands. Something so they tumbled in upon us when Sherman conquered the Carolinas, and Sheridan the valley of the Shenandoah, when Lee surrendered, and the glad president went to Richmond. One of these Victories is untying her sandal, in token of her permanent abiding. Yet all of them have trooped away long since, scared by the hideous havoc of barbarians. And the bas-reliefs, their marble shadows, have all been battered and mutilated into the saddest mockery of their original tradition. The statue of Wingless Victory that stood in the little temple, has long been absent and unaccounted for. But the only Victory that the Parthenon now can seize or desire is this very Wingless Victory, the triumph of a power that retreats not--the power of Truth.

I give heed to all that is told me in a dreamy and desolate manner. It is true, no doubt--this was, and this, and this; but what I see is none the less emptiness--the broken eggshell of a civilization which Time has hatched and devoured. And this incapacity to reconstruct the past goes with me through most of my days in Athens. The city is so modern, and its circle so small! The trumpeters who shriek around the Theseum in the morning, the _cafe_ keeper who taxes you for a chair beneath the shadow of the Olympian columns, the _custode_ who hangs about to see that you do not break the broken marbles further, or carry off their piteous fragments, all of these are significant of modern Greece; but the ruins have nothing to do with it.

Poor as these relics are in comparison with what one would wish them to be, they are still priceless. This Greek marble is the noblest in descent; it needs no eulogy. These forms have given the model for a hundred familiar and commonplace works, which caught a little gleam of their glory, squaring to shapeliness some town-house of the west, or southern bank or church. So well do we know them in the prose of modern design, that we are startled at seeing them transfigured in the poetry of their own conception. Poor old age! poor columns!

And poor Greece, plundered by Roman, Christian, and Mussulman. Hers were the lovely statues that grace the halls of the Vatican--at least the loveliest of them. And Rome shows to this day two colossal groups, of which one bears the inscription, "_Opus Praxitelae_," the other that of "_Opus Phidiae_." And Naples has a Greek treasure or two, one thinks, besides her wealth of sculptural gems, of which the best are of Greek workmanship. And in England those bas-reliefs which are the treasure of art students and the wonder of the world, were pulled from the pediment of the Parthenon, like the pearly teeth from a fair mouth, the mournful gaps remaining open in the sight of the unforgiving world. "Thou art old and decrepit," said England. "I am still in strength and in vigor. All else has gone, as well thy dower as thy earnings. Thou hast but these left. I want them; so give them me."

Royal Munich also had his share. The relict of Lola Montes did to the temple at Egina what Lord Elgin did to the Parthenon, inflicting worse damage upon its architecture. At the time, the unsettled state of the country, and the desire to preserve things so costly and beautiful, may be accepted as excuses for such acts. But when Greece shall have a museum fit to preserve the marbles now huddled in the Theseum, or left exposed on the highways, then she may demand back the Elgin and Bavarian marbles. She will then deserve to receive them again. Nor could she, methinks, do better than devote to this noble purpose some of the superfluous extent of Otho's monstrous palace, whose emptiness afflicts the visitor with sad waste of room and of good material. Making all allowance for the removal of the Penates of its late occupants, it is still obvious that these two luxurious wrens occupied but a small portion of this eagle's nest. A fine gallery could as easily be spared from its endless apartments as are the public galleries from the Vatican.

Nor should this new kingling and his Russian bride be encouraged to people such an extent of masonry with smart aid-de-camps, lying diplomats, and plundering stewards and _dames d'honneur_. For pity's sake, let the poor kingdom have a modest representative, who shall follow the spirit of modern reform, and administer the people's revenues with clean hands. A sculpture gallery, therefore, in the palace by all means, open to the public, as are the galleries of Italian palaces. And these marbles in the Theseum and elsewhere--fie upon them! Not only are they so crowded that one cannot see them, but so dirty that one cannot discern their features. "Are they marble?" one asks, for a thick coating of the sand and dust in which they were embodied for ages still envelops them, and can only be removed by careful artistic intervention.

A little money, please, king and Parliament, for these unhappy ones. The gift would repay itself in the end, for a respectable collection of authentic Greek remains on the very soil in which they were found would bring here many of the wide-ranging students of art and antiquity. A little money, please, for good investment is good economy. Moreover, despite the velvet flatteries and smiling treasons of diplomacy, the present government of Greece is, as every government should be, on good behavior before the people. Wonderfully clever, enterprising, and liberal have the French people made the author of the Life of Julius Caesar. Wonderfully reformative did the radicals of twenty years since make the pope. And the Greek nation, taken in the large, may prove to have some common sense to impart to its symbolical head, of whom we can only hope that the something rotten in the state of Denmark may not have been taken from it to corrupt the state of Greece.

EXPEDITIONS--NAUPLIA.

A few days of midsummer passed in Athens make welcome any summons that calls one out of it. Majestic as the past is, one likes to have its grim skeleton a little cushioned over by the aesthetic of the present, and, at the present season, this is not to be had, even in its poorest and cheapest forms. The heat, moreover, though tempered by healthful breezes, is yet of a kind and degree to tell heavily upon a northern constitution. To take exercise of any kind, between ten A. M. and six P. M., is uncomfortable and far from safe. How delightful, therefore, to pack one's little budget, and start upon a cruise!

For the government, we must confess, is very hospitable to us. Our chief veteran goes about to distribute clothing to the Cretan refugees, who, in advanced stages of nakedness, congregate in Egina, Syra, Argos, and other places, as well as in Athens. And he asks the government, and the government lends its steamer, the Parados, for the philanthropic voyage. So we drive down to the Pireo and embark, and are on our way. A pleasant little Athenian lady accompanies us, together with her father, a Cretan by birth, and a man who has been much in the service of the government. Our travelling library for this occasion is reduced to a copy of Machiavelli's Principe, a volume of Muir's Greece, and a Greek phrase-book on Ollendorff's principle. We have also some worsted work; but one of us, the writer of these notes, has added to these another occupation, another interest.

Take note that the beds of the hotel at Athens are defended by mosquito-nets, which show, here and there, the marks of age. Take note that we close these nettings the first night a little carelessly, remembering Cuba, and expecting nothing worse. Take note that we neither wear gloves at night, nor bandage our arms and wrists, and then take note of what follows.

A fiery stinging of needle points in every accessible part of your body. Each new bite is like a new star of torment in the milky way of your corporeal repose. These creatures warn not, like the honest American mosquito, rattlesnake, or bore, of their intended descent upon you. In comparison with their silent impudence, the familiar humming of our Yankee torments becomes an apologetic murmur, significant of, "We are very sorry indeed, but we cannot well do otherwise." This is the language of the dun--the Greek insect has the quiet of the thief.

So much for the action; now for the result. You awake uncomfortably, and, provoked here and there, begin to retort upon your skin a little. Never was more salient illustration of the doctrine of the forgiveness of injuries. Let by-gones be by-gones; suffer the bites to rest. Ah! the warning comes too late. The fatal process has begun. At every touch you get worse, but cannot stop. You now realize what a good gift your Anglo-Saxon skin was, and so clean, and so comfortable! and it cost you so little! But just because it was so good, these foreign vermin insisted on sharing it with you. And you exemplify in little the fate of Italy and of Greece, which have been feasted on for ages, and cursed by the absolute mosquito for not continuing in perpetuity to yield their life-blood without remonstrance. This for the moral aspect of the case. The material aspect is that of intolerable pain and itching, accompanying a distinct suppuration of every spot punctured by the insect. For some days and nights the principal occupation of the writer of these notes was to tear the unhappy hands and arms that aid in their production. A remedy is casually mentioned--vinegar. Bandages dipped in this fluid, and closely wrapped around the suffering members, give instant relief, but have to be frequently renewed, the fever of the skin rapidly drying them. The sufferings of Job were now understood, and his eminent but impossible virtue appreciated. Even he, however, had recourse to a potsherd. Never were my human sympathies so called out towards the afflicted Scotch nation! Well, let this subject rest. Recovery is now an established fact. From the height of experience we can look down upon future sufferers and say, "This, too, shall pass away."

But now, to return to the deck of the Parados. Scenery, worsted work, the Principe, and a little conversation caused the time to pass very agreeably. We took also the Ollendorff book, and made a short trial of its lumbering machinery. And we had _dejeuner_ on board, and dinner. And Georgi, the cameriere, had the features of Edwin Booth--the strong eyes, the less forcible mouth, something even of the general expression. At about 7.30 P. M., we made the harbor of Nauplia, otherwise called Napoli de Romania. The harbor being shallow, the steamer anchored at some distance from the land, whither its boats conveyed us. On the quay stood a crowd of people, waiting to see us. They had discerned the steamer afar, and had flocked together from mere curiosity. Something in the landing made me think of that portion of the quay at Naples which lies before the Hotel de Russie. Much of the present town was built by the Turks. The streets are narrow and irregular, and many of the houses have balconies. One of these streets is nearly blocked by a crowd. We inquire, and learn that the head of a brigand has just been brought in. For the brigands, long tolerated in some regions by usage and indolence, have now set foot in a region in which they will not be endured. The Peloponnesus will not have them, and the peasants, who elsewhere aid the brigands, here aid the _gens d'armes_. Upon the head of their leader, Kitzos, a large price has been set. But the head which causes the commotion of this evening is not that of Kitzos. Getting through the crowd at length, we come upon a pretty square, surrounded by houses, and planted with pepper-trees.

Here is the house of the prefect, at whose door we knock, imploring shelter. Our Cretan friend, M. Antoniades, is well known to the prefect; hence the daring of this summons. The prefecture receives us. The prefect--a vivacious little man, with blue eyes and light hair--capers about in great excitement. He has to do with the war against the brigands, and joy at the bringing in of the head before mentioned nearly causes him to lose his own. His large _salon_ is thronged with visitors, who come partly to talk over these matters, partly to see the strangers. We, the ladies, meanwhile take refuge on a roomy balcony, where we have chairs, and where _gliko_ and cold water are offered to us. I make my usual piteous request for vinegar, and renew my bandages, while the others enjoy cool air and starlight. The prefect goes off to supper at nine, having first signified to us that his wife is occupied with a baby two days old, and cannot wait upon us; that his house is at our disposal, and that he will send out among his neighbors and obtain all that we may require. One of his visitors--M. Zampacopolus, a major of cavalry--promises to wait upon us at five in the morning, to conduct us up the steep ascent of the fortress Palamides. By ten o'clock the mattresses are brought. They are spread in a row on the floor, and we weary women, four in number, lie down and sleep as only weary people can.

The summons that arouses us at five the next morning does not awaken enthusiasm. We struggle up, however, and get each a minimum of the limited basin and towel privilege. Descending, we find Major Zampacopolus in full uniform, and are admonished by him for being so late. He came for us at four o'clock; but the chief veteran would not suffer us to be disturbed. The sun had already risen, and the ascent looked most formidable. Invoking the courage of our ancestors, we unfolded the umbrellas and began. We had six hundred steps to climb, and steep ones at that. The labor caused such perspiration that at any turn commanding the breeze we were forced to shield ourselves, the sudden evaporation being attended with great danger. The ascent is everywhere guarded by loopholes for musketry, and could not be carried by any party of human assailants. There is, however, another route of access to the fortress, which may be pursued on horseback. It was by this latter path that the Greeks ascended during the war of independence. They took the fortress from the Turks, but were admitted within the gates by treachery. After weary efforts and pauses, we reach the plane of the main structure, which consists of a number of independent bastions in strong positions, commanding each other and the pass. It was built by the Venetians, and vouches for their skill and thoroughness in military architecture. The officers receive us, and accommodate us in an airy bedroom, whose draughts of air we avoid, being _en nage_ with perspiration. We cool by degrees, and enjoy the balcony. A pot of basil is offered us for fragrance, at which we smell with little pleasure. We are then told the legend of the discovery of the true cross beneath a growth of this plant, which circumstance consecrates it among Eastern traditions forever. In the mean time a functionary enters, and furtively carries away a small box. Not very long afterwards its contents are returned in the shape of a cup of delicious coffee for each of us, with a piece of the ration bread of the garrison. "This bread," said the major, "is made with the hands, as we know, for it is made by the soldiers; but the bread you commonly eat in Greece is made with the feet." Here was indeed a heightening of present enjoyment by a somewhat unwelcome disparagement of unavoidable past and future experiences. We now proceeded to visit the bastions in detail. Each of them has its own name. One is called Miltiades. The most formidable one is called Satan. The view from the highest parapet is very grand. We go about, wondering at the grim walls and the manifold openings for musketry. They show us an enormous cistern for rain water. The place contains several of these, and is thus capable of standing a very long siege. We pass an enclosure in which are detained "the military prisoners," whoever they may be. As a _bonne bouche_ we are promised a sight of the criminals condemned to death. These are kept in the strongest recess of the fortress. They lead us to it, and bid us look down into a court below, in which we perceive twenty-five or more unfortunates refreshing themselves in the open air. At the door and grated window of the prison behind them appear the faces of others. Stationed on a narrow bridge above stand the military guard, whose muskets command the court. These men have all been convicted of crimes of violence against the person. Sentence has been passed upon them, and its execution follows the convenience and pleasure of the officers of the law. At short intervals a little group of them is led out to endure the last penalty. "Do not pity them, madam," said the major; "they have all done deeds worthy of death." But how not to pity them, when they and we are made of the same fragile human stuff, that corrupts so easily to crime, and is always redeemable, if society would only afford the costly process of redemption. A sad listlessness hung over the melancholy group. Some of them were busied in preparing breakfast--coffee, probably. Most of them sat or stood quite idly, with the terrible guns bristling above them. They looked up in our women's faces as if they sought there something, some compassionate glance that might recall mother or sweetheart--if such people have them. One old brigand lifted his voice, and petitioned the officers that his single daily hour of fresh air might be extended to two hours, pleading the pain he suffered in his eyes. This was granted. Our guides directed our attention to a man of elastic figure and marked face--tall, athletic, and blond. All that they could tell us was, that there seemed to be something remarkable about this man, as, indeed, his appearance indicated. In his face, more than in those of the others, we observed the blank that Hope leaves when her light is extinguished. All days, all things, were alike to him now; the dark, close prison behind, before him only the day when one in command shall say, "This is thy last!" If the priest shall then have any hidden comfort to bestow upon him! Shade of Jesus, we will hope so!

These men, however, go to death with bold defiance, singing and laughing. A rude sympathy and admiration from the multitude gives them the last thrill of pleasure. As I looked at them, I was struck by a feeling of their helplessness. What is there in the world so helpless as a disarmed criminal? No inner armor has he to beat back the rude visiting of society; no secure soul-citadel, where scorn and anger cannot reach him. He has thrown away the jewel of his manhood; human law crushes its empty case. But the final Possessor and Creditor is unseen.

In our wanderings we catch glimpses of a pretty little garden, disposed in terraces, and planted with flowers, vegetables, and vines. This garden recalls to memory a gentle-hearted commandant who planted it, loving flowers, and therefore not hating men. It is a little gone to decay since he left it, but its presence here is a welcome and useful boon. After visiting its beds and borders, we take leave of the hospitable officers, and by rapid and easy descent return to the prefecture, where the breakfast-table is set, and where a large tea-pot and heaped dish of rice attest the hospitable efforts of our host.

I have only forgotten to say that on one of the ramparts of the fortress they showed us two old Venetian cannon, both of which served in the last revolution; and further, that, in returning, passing through the old gate of the town, we saw sculptured in stone the winged lion of St. Mark, the valorous device of Venice.

ARGOS.

We found the prefect at the very maximum of excitement. Another telegram concerning the brigands, and yet another. Kitzos is closely beleaguered by peasants and gens-d'armes; he cannot get away. Another head will be brought in, and the country will be free of its scourge. With much jumping up and declaiming, our entertainer shared the morning meal with us. We feed the discontented servant, whose views of life appeared to be dismal, kissed the sweet-eyed children of the family, and, as a party, leaped into two carriages, leaving the prefect intent upon welcoming with grim hospitality the prospective heads of bandits, which did not hinder him from shaking hands with us, cordially inviting us to return to the shelter of his roof. But shelter was not for us under any roof, save the ambulating cover of the carriage. We were now _en route_ for Argos. Our drivers were clothed alike, in well-worn bags of blue homespun, peaked babouches without stockings, and handkerchiefs bound about the head. The thermometer was ranging in the upper regions. Dust and overwhelming heat assail us. Stopping to water the well-flogged horses, we take refuge for a few minutes in a shady garden, planted with flowers, vines, and merciful trees with flat, not pointed, foliage. We sit around a tiny fountain, at whose small spouts the smaller bees refresh themselves on the wing. This sojourn is brief; our next halt is on the burning, dusty high-road, where the chief veteran says, "Tiryns," and leads a very forlorn hope across thorny fields and stony ditches to a Cyclopean ruin--a side and angle of old wall, built after the manner so denominated, and so solidly that it outlasts at least three thousand years. We stand and consider this grim old remnant as long and as attentively as the fear of sun-stroke will permit. The veteran, however, leads us farther in pursuit of a cave in which, during the war of Greek independence, he was wont to seek shelter from sun and rain. This cave is probably one of the galleries of the ancient fortress; for that the ruin was a fortress, they say who know. It is perhaps twenty yards in length, and three in its greatest height; for it has a pointed roof, laboriously formed by the fitting and approximation of the two sides, no arch being then invented. The stones that form this roof are very large, rather broken than hewn, and are laid together with great care. Some of them are of very hard material. From these most venerable relics we creep back, under the deadly fire of the sun, to the carriage. The remainder of our drive leads across the plain of Argos, the "courser feeding," as Homer denominates it. We come in sight of its lofty Acropolis long before we reach the town, through whose narrow streets we drive, and after a brief pause at the prefecture, find rest and shelter in a private house.

The proprietors of this house ranked among the best people of the place--_oi megaloi_, as the multitude naively denominate them. They received us in a large _salon_ without carpets, darkened by green blinds, and furnished with a mahogany centre table and chairs, all of a European pattern, with a cushioned divan occupying one corner of the room, according to the favorite fashion of these parts. The lady of the house wore a dress of ordinary figured jacconet, open at the neck, and a red fez, around which her own hair was bound in a braid. Her husband appeared in full Palicari dress, with an irrepproachable fustanella, and handsome jacket and leggings. They welcomed us with great cordiality, and bestirred themselves to minister to our necessities. Gliko and water were immediately brought us, together with the vinegar for my fevered hands. We next begged for mattresses, which were brought and spread on the floor of a bedroom adjoining. The four feminines, as usual, dropped down in a row. In the drawing-room mattresses were arranged for the gentlemen. We rested from 12.30 until 2 P. M., the hour appointed for the distribution of clothing to the destitute Cretans, of whom there is a large settlement at Argos. For I may as well mention here that our pursuit of pleasures and antiquities in the terms of this expedition was entirely secondary to the plans of our veteran for clothing the nakedness of these poor exiles. In his energetic company we now walked to a large building with court enclosed--a former convent, in whose corridors our eager customers, restrained by one or two officials, were in waiting. We were ushered into a well-sized room, in which lay heaps of cotton under-clothing, and of calico dresses, most of them in the shape of sacks and skirts. These were the contents of one or two boxes recently arrived from Boston. Some of them were recognized as having connection with a hive of busy bees who used to gather weekly in our own New England parlor. And what stress there was! and what hurrying! And how the little maidens took off their feathery bonnets and dainty gloves, wielding the heavy implements of cutting, and eagerly adjusting the arms and legs, the gores and gathers! With patient pride the mother trotted off to the bakery, that a few buns might sustain these strenuous little cutters and sewers, whose tongues, however active over the charitable work, talked, we may be sure, no empty nonsense nor unkind gossip. For charity begins indeed at home, in the heart, and, descending to the fingers, rules also the rebellious member whose mischief is often done before it is meditated. At the sight of these well-made garments a little swelling of the heart seized us, with the love and pride of remembrance so dear. But sooner than we could turn from it to set about our business, the Cretans were in presence.

Here they come, called in order from a list, with names nine syllables long, mostly ending in _poulos_, a term signifying descent, like the Russian "witzch." Here they come, the shapely maiden, the sturdy matron, the gray-haired grandmother, with little ones of all small sizes and ages. Many of the women carried infants at the breast; many were expectant of maternity. Not a few of them were followed by groups of boys and girls. Most of them were ill-clothed; many of them appeared extremely destitute of attire. A strong, marked race of people, with powerful eyes, fine black hair, healthy complexions, and symmetrical figures. They bear traces of suffering. Some of the infants have pined; but most of them promise to do well. Each mother cherishes and shows her little beggar in the approved way. The children are usually robust, although showing in their appearance the very limited resources of their parents. Some of the women have tolerable gowns; to these we give only under-clothing. Others have but the rag of a gown--a few stripes of stuff over their coarse chemises. These we make haste to cover with the beneficent growth of New England factories. They are admitted in groups of three or four at a time. As many of us fly to the heaps of clothing, and hastily measure them by the length and breadth of the individual. A papa, or priest, keeps order among them. He wears his black hair uncut, a narrow robe much patched, and holds in his hand a rosary of beads, which he fingers mechanically. We work at this distribution for a couple of hours, and return to the house to take some necessary refreshment. We find a dinner-table set for us in one of the sleeping-rooms, and are cordially invited to partake of fish cooked in oil, bread, acrid cheese, cucumbers, olives, and cherries, together with wine which our Greek companions praised as highly stomachic, but which to us seemed at once bitter, sour, and insipid--a wine without either sugar or sparkle, dull as a drug, sufficient of itself to overthrow the whole Bacchic dispensation. Having enjoyed the repast, we returned to the Cretan settlement, and continued the distribution of the clothing until all were provided. The dresses did not quite hold out, but sufficed to supply the most needy, and, in fact, the greater number. Of the under-clothes we carried back a portion, having given to every one. To an old papa (priest) who came, looking ill and disconsolate, I sent two shirts and a good dark woollen jacket. Among all of these, only one discontented old lady demurred at the gift bestowed. She wanted a gown, but there was none; so that she was forced to content herself, much against her will, with some under-clothing. The garments supplied, of which many were sent by the Boston Sewing Circle, under the superintendence of Miss Abby W. May, proved to be very suitable in pattern and in quality. The good taste of their assortment gave them an air of superiority over the usual dress of the poor in this and other countries of the old world. The proportion of children's clothing was insufficient; but who could have foreseen that the Cretans would have had such large families of such little children? Finally, we rejoiced in the philanthropic energy of our countrywomen, and in the good appearance of our domestic manufactures. As we descended the steps, we met with some of the children, already arrayed in their little clean shirts, and strutting about with the inspiration of fresh clothing, long unfelt by them.

We now went on foot to visit a fine amphitheatre in the neighborhood of the town, called by the ignorant "the tomb of Helen." The seats are hewn out of the solid rock, and occupy the whole ascent of a lofty hill-side. From the ground to the middle row they were faced with fine white marble. The remainder consisted simply of the stone itself, without covering. The division first mentioned is in better condition than the second, the marble incasement having protected the softer stone against the action of the elements. In front are some remains which probably represent the stage and its background. The extent embraced is unusually large; and as we sat in the chief seats and looked towards the proscenium, we wondered a little as to what manner of entertainment could be given to an assembly so vast. The ancient masks were indeed necessary to enable the distant portion of the audience to have any idea of the expression of countenance intended to be conveyed. But I should suppose that games of strength and agility, races, combats of wild beasts, would have been best suited to such an arena. To us it was sufficiently melancholy in its desertion and desecration--grass and thorny shrubs growing profusely between its defaced stones, the heavy twilight forming the background, while the stars that enlivened the evening were real ones, not their human symbols. As we descended, however, from our half hour of contemplation, we received notice of the incursion of busy western life even into this charmed domain. In a field hard by, a threshing machine was winnowing the Argive grain,--a thing of wonder to the inhabitants, probably an object of suspicion,--the property of a rich land-owner. Beggars are rare in Greece; but the Argos children followed us both to and from the amphitheatre with mendicant solicitations. They went thither under the plea of showing us the way, and pursued our return under that of being paid for the same. We endeavored to satisfy two or three of them; but, the whole troop following and tormenting, one of our companions appealed in Greek to the parents, as we passed their thatched dwellings. These called off the little hounds with threats of the bastinado. We reached the hospitable roof of our entertainers, first taking a lemonade at a little booth in the dark street. The mattresses were spread, the sick hands bathed, and we lay down to rest as we could, an early start being before us. A variety of insects preyed upon us, and made not very unwelcome the dawning of the early hour that saw us roused and dressed.

But here I have forgotten to make mention of a fact which had much to do with our immediate movements at this time. The evening of our sojourn in Argos saw an excitement much like that which blocked the street in Nauplia. The occasion was the same--the bringing home of a brigand's head; but this the very head and front of all the brigands, Kitzos himself, upon whose head had been set a prize of several thousand drachmas. Our veteran with difficulty obtained a view of the same, and reported accordingly. The robber chief, the original of Edmond About's "Hadji Stauros," had been shot while sighting at his gun. He had fallen with one eye shut and one open, and in this form of feature his dissevered head remained. The soldier who was its fortunate captor carried it concealed in a bag, with its long elf-locks lying loose about it. He showed it with some unwillingness, fearing to have the prize wrested from him. It was, however, taken on board of our steamer, and carried to Athens, there to be identified and buried.

All this imported to us that Mycenae, which we desired to visit, had for some time been considered unsafe on account of the presence of this very Kitzos and his band. But at this moment the band were closely besieged in the mountains. They wanted their Head, and so did Kitzos. We, in consequence, were fully able to visit the treasure of Atreus and the ruins of Mycenae without fear or risk from those acephalous enemies. Taking leave therefore of our friendly entertainers with many thanks, "polloi, polloi," we sprang again into the dusty carriages, and the sunburnt youths in blue bagging drove us out upon the wide plain to a spot where we were desired to dismount and make our way over a thorny and flinty hill-side to the spot in question. Such walking, in all of Greece with which I became acquainted, is difficult and painful. It is scarcely possible to avoid treading on the closely-growing bushes of nettles. To come in contact with these is like putting one's foot on a cushion of needles whose sharp points should be uppermost. Where you shun these, the small, pointed stones present difficulty as great. Creeping up from the plain, crying out for assistance and sympathy, beneath a sun already burning, we came to the entrance of the cave to which they give the name of the tomb of Agamemnon. This is an opening in the hill-side. Its door has long been wanting, but the formidable door-posts still remain. Two heavily-built stone sides support a single, horizontal stone, twenty-seven feet in length, by perhaps eight in breadth, and about the same in thickness. The door obviously swung open from the bottom; the traces in the stone-work make this clear. The cave itself is hollowed out from the height and depth of the hill. It is lined with large stones, carefully fitted to each other, and is in the shape of a rounded cone, whose gradual diminution to the top is very symmetrical. Here a small aperture, partly covered by a stone, admits the light. The perfection of the work in its kind is singular. From this outer chamber, an opening admits you to an inner cave, without light, in which they suppose the treasure to have been kept. This is much smaller than the first chamber, and, like it, is heavily lined with squared stone. A fire of dry brush enables us to distinguish so much; but our observations are somewhat hurried, for the chill of these interterranean passages, acting upon the perspiration that bathes our limbs, suggests terrible fears of an untimely end to be attained in some inflammatory and painful way.

The outer structure, of which I have endeavored to give some idea, is, however, indescribable, and the manner of its building scarcely comprehensible in these days. It suggests a time whose art must be as far removed from ours as its nature, and whose solid and simple construction takes little heed of the passage of time.

From the treasure of Atreus to the old citadel and gate of Mycenae, we pass, by a few painful steps, through thorns, stones, and dust. Here we sit and meditate, as well as we are able. Mycenae was in ruins in Homer's time. This gate and citadel go back at least to the time of Agamemnon. In one of the tragedies of Sophocles, Electra and Orestes meet before the gate of Mycenae, which we naturally suppose to have been this one. Its heavy stone masonry is surmounted by a curious sculpture, a bas-relief, representing two lions aspiring to a column that stands between them. The column is one of the ancient symbols of Apollo, and is met with in some of the coins of the period. Agamemnon, Cassandra, Clytemnestra,--this trio of ghosts will serve to fill up for us the ancient gateway. Of the city nothing remains save the walls of the citadel, the space within being now piled up and grassed over by the action of time. At the present day, this citadel would be of little avail, being itself commanded by an adjacent hill, from which artillery would soon knock it into pieces. The walls just mentioned are solidly built of squared stone, laid together without mortar. The briefness of our time hurried us away before we had taken in half the significance of the spot. But so it was, and we turned with regret from a mere survey of objects that deserve much study.

We were now to find our way back to Nauplia, but our fasting condition compelled us to pause for a moment at a little khan, whose energetic mistress bestirred herself, with small materials, to make us comfortable. The morning shadow threw her window in the dark. We gathered around it, escaping for the moment the scorching heat of the sun. Near us a traveller on a donkey rested himself and his patient beast. The little woman had blue eyes and chestnut hair, bound with a handkerchief. She offered us cold fish, fried in oil, from her frying pan. Each of us took a fish by the tail, and devoured it as we could. Cucumbers were next handed to us. Of these we ate with salt, which the mistress strewed with her fingers on the wooden window-sill, together with a little pepper. Wine and water she dipped out for us, the one from a barrel, the other from an earthen jar. We had brought with us two large loaves of bread from Argos, which greatly assisted our pedestrian meal. The mistress rinsed the glasses with her own hands, not over clean. When we had eaten, she poured water over our hands, offering us a piece of soap and a towel. As we laughed, she laughed--we at her want of accommodation, she probably rejoicing in its sufficiency. We now returned to our carriages, and drove back to Nauplia, and through Nauplia down to the quay, where our boats were waiting for us. The remainder of the day we passed on board the steamer, reaching Porus at sunset, and going on shore to visit its fine arsenal, and narrow, dirty streets. In the arsenal, with other heroes, hangs the portrait of Bouboulina, the famous woman who did such good naval service in the war of Greek independence. She commanded a ship, and her patriotic efforts were acknowledged by conferring on her the style and title of admiral.

From the roof of the arsenal we enjoyed a beautiful view of the harbor. The town, as seen at a little distance, has rather an inviting aspect. On a nearer view, it offers little to detain the traveller. We passed along the quay, looking at the groups of men, occupied with coffee or the narghile, and soon regained our boat and steamer. The Greeks, we are told, give Porus a nickname which signifies "Pig-city," just as our Cincinnati is sometimes called "Porkopolis." But the pigs in Porus are human.

EGINA.

We passed this night on board of the steamer, first supping luxuriously on deck, by the light of various lanterns fastened to the masts and bulwarks of the ship. The next morning saw us early awake and on foot to visit the Temple of Egina. The steamer came to anchor near the shore, and its boats soon conveyed us to land. We found on the shore two donkeys with pack-saddles, upon which two of us adventured to ascend the long and weary eminence. The temple is one of the most beautiful remains that we have seen. Its columns are of the noblest Doric structure. A number of them are still standing. His majesty of Munich and Montes robbed this temple, at some convenient moment of political confusion. He had a statue or so, perhaps several, and pulled down the architrave to obtain the bas-reliefs. Can we wonder that the Greeks do not punish brigandage after such royal precedents in its favor. A fine lion in marble, twenty feet in length, was taken from this temple, either by this or a similar marauding. The lion was sawn in three pieces, that it might be more conveniently conveyed by boat. But, being left over night, the peasants, in their rage, came and destroyed with their hammers what they were not able to protect. Here no diplomatic interference was possible, and the fact accomplished had to be accepted.

This temple stands upon one of those breezy eminences so often selected by the Greeks for their places of worship and defence. It commands a wide view of the sea and surrounding islands. On the opposite island of Salamis they show you Xerxes' Seat, the spot from which he contemplated the land he intended to enslave. Here the inexorable veteran conceded to us a pleasant half hour, enabling us to survey the fine columns from various points of view, and to enjoy fully the beauty of their surroundings. Too soon, however, came the summons to descend. I again mounted the ass, but found my sideward and unsupported seat only maintainable by a gymnastic of the severest order. I yielded, therefore, this uneasy accommodation to one who might bestride the beast at his ease, being quite of the opinion of the Irishman, who, having been regaled with a ride in a bottomless sedan chair, said that, if it was not for the name of it, it was not much better than walking. In the same way I concluded that to be so badly carried by the ass was almost as bad as to carry him myself. We were soon on board and afloat again, and a few hours of sea travel, cherished for their coolness, brought us back to busy Piraeus, and thence to torrid Athens, where the great heats now begin. We had meditated a change of hotel at the time of our leaving Athens, and had contemplated a fine apartment at lower charges in an establishment opposite to our own. But our hitherto landlord was too much for us. He was down at Piraeus to receive us. The veteran yielded to his dangerous smile, and after a brief parley, implying a slight enlargement in accommodations, we found ourselves bagged, and carried back to the Hotel des Etrangers. Here the servants cordially welcomed us, and made us much at home. I regretted a certain beautiful view of the Acropolis commanded by the hotel opposite, but my view was outvoted; and we gave ourselves up again to the imprisonment of our small rooms, and to the darkness which is a necessary attendant upon summer life in Athens. And the gallant vision of the Parados, with its prow turned to the sea, and of lofty climbings, and monument-seeking wanderings, faded from all but these notes, in which so much of it as may live is faithfully preserved.

DAYS IN ATHENS.

"As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean."

O, there were many of them, each hotter and stiller than the other. All night we steamed and sleepily suffered beneath the mosquito-net. In the morning we arose betimes. We smiled to each other at breakfast, sighed at dinner, were dumb at tea-time. The whole long day held its flaming sword at our door. Sun-stroke and fever threatened us, should we cross the threshold. Visits were tame, and carriages expensive. For many days we sat still, doing little. This is what people call "being thrown upon one's own resources." But to those accustomed to active and energetic life it is rather a being thrown off from all that usually renders the passage of time pleasurable and useful. Even those dull days had, however, their distinctions. And, like a picture of our Indian summer, hazy, dreamy, and indistinct, so will I try to give a color picture of that unheroic time, in which we grew ungrateful for classic surroundings, forgetful of great names and histories, and sat and sewed, and said, "How long?"

First, the little newsboys in the street who shriek, "_Pende lepta!_" calling the price of the paper for the paper itself. This music one may hear at any hour of the day when there is news from Crete, or when a steamer has arrived from England for the Cretan service, or when anything takes place that can motive the publishing of an extra. The veteran catches one day one of these curious little insects. He is barefoot, his hair is wild, his eyes are wilder. His extra is a single column, scarcely ten inches long; and over this he dares to make as much noise as if it were an issue of the New York Herald, or the Tribune itself, with white-haired Greeley at its back.