DEPARTURE.
Too soon, too soon for all of us, these rare and costly delights were ended. We had indeed suffered days of Fahrenheit at 100° in the shade. We had made experience of states of body which are termed bilious, of states of mind more or less splenetic, lethargic, and irritable. We dreamed always of islands we were never to visit, of ruins which we shall know, according to the flesh, never. We pored over Muir and Miss Bremer, and feebly devised outbreaks towards the islands, towards the Cyclades, Santorini, but especially towards Corinth, whose acropolis rested steadily in our wishes, resting in our memory only as a wish. Towards Constantinople, too, our uncertain destinies had one moment pointed. But when the word of command came, it despatched us westward, and not eastward. By this time our life had become somewhat too literally a vapor, and our sublimated brains were with difficulty condensed to the act of packing. Perpetual thirst tormented us. And of this as of other Eastern temptations, I must say, "Resist it." Drinking does not relieve this symptom of hot climates. It, moreover, utterly destroys the tone of the stomach. A little tea is the safest refreshment; and even this should not be taken in copious draughts. Patience and self-control are essential to bodily health and comfort under these torrid skies. The little food one can take should be of the order usually characterized as "nutritious and easy of digestion." But so far as health goes, "Avoid Athens in midsummer" will be the safest direction, and will obviate the necessity of all others.
In spite, however, of all symptoms and inconveniences, the mandate that said, "Pack and go," struck a chill to our collective heart. We visited all the dear spots, gave pledges of constancy to all the kind friends, tried with our weak sight to photograph the precious views upon our memory. Then, with a sort of agony, we hurried our possessions, new and old, into the usual narrow receptacles, saw all accounts discharged, feed the hotel servants, took the smile for the last time, and found ourselves dashing along the road to the Piræus with feelings very unlike the jubilation in which we first passed that classic transit. It was all over now, like a first love, like a first authorship, like a honey-moon. It was over. We could not say that we had not had it. But O, the void of not having it now, of never expecting to have it again!
Kind friends went with us to soften the journey. At the boat, Dr. and Mrs. Hill met and waited with us. I parted from the apostolic woman with sincere good-will and regret. Warned to be on board by six P. M., the boat did not start till half-past seven. We waved last adieus. We clung to the last glimpses of the Acropolis, of the mountains; but they soon passed out of sight. We savagely went below and to bed. The diary bears this little extract: "The Ægean was calm and blue. Thus, with great pleasure and interest, and with some drawbacks, ends my visit to Athens. A dream—a dream!"