CHAPTER XII—ON THE BOSPHORUS.—AMONG THE ISLES OF GREECE.
Far-Away Moses, the Famous Guide—His Numerous Brothers—His Shop in the Great Bazaar—An Evening at the “Foreign Club”—Dreaming of Polyglots and the Tower of Babel—More “Backsheesh”—Passing the Custom House—How they Protect Home Manufactures—Standing Up for One’s Own Country—“Honesty ish te Besht Bolicy”—Borrowing Money at Twenty per cent.—The Start from Constantinople—A hint to Travelers—Sleeping in Public on the Stage—Interviewing the Purser—A Satisfactory Arrangement—Baron Bruck and his Career—Unwelcome Intruders—Classic Ground—One Trifling Peculiarity.
I HAD “done” the sights of Constantinople—bazaars, mosques, dogs, dervishes and other things—and was ready to depart.
I had even “done” and been “done” by Far-Away Moses, the famous guide whom Mark Twain has sent down to posterity, and had bought several articles in his shop.
Moses is guide and merchant, and when he is not attending to business in the one branch he is attending to it in the other.
He is a dignified Oriental with a Jewish cast of features, and he bows in a way that Mr. Turveydrop would envy. He has a shop—one shop—in the Great Bazaar, but a stranger might suppose that he owned half of Constantinople.
The guides and runners are on the lookout for Americans and are always ready to take them to the shop of Far-Away Moses. The joke of the matter is that they take them somewhere else, where they can get a larger commission on purchases, and invariably tell you that it is the shop of the venerable F. A. M., Esq. If you are familiar with the features of Moses, they tell you he is just out but you can trade quite as well with his brother who is on hand to accommodate you. But if you have not met the original you are introduced to some English-speaking Turk, Jew, or Christian who affectionately inquires after Mark Twain and hopes he is well and happy.
I think about seven dozen “brothers of Far-Away Moses” were pointed out to me, and they resembled him, each other, and themselves, about as much as a cup of coffee resembles a row of mixed drinks in an American bar room.
Moses admits that like the friend of Toodles “he had a brother” but he denies fraternal relations with all the “brothers” that hang about the bazaars and hotels.
Moses narrates an experience of his mercantile life such as we sometimes hear of in America. He shipped a lot of goods to Vienna at the time of the Exposition, and on these goods he figured a handsome profit on his mental slate. They were sent by steamer to Trieste, and thence by rail to Vienna. On arrival the boxes were found to contain old iron, straw, and pieces of wood, and Moses was in great grief, for the original lot had cost him about six hundred pounds sterling.
He tried to recover, but the two companies—steamboat and railway—played “Spenlow and Jorkins” on him most admirably. Each said that the robbery must have occurred while the boxes were in charge of the other concern, and after much trouble Moses received nothing by way of indemnity. Neither company would pay a centime until the locality of the robbery had been proved, and as this could not be shown, there was no payment. And to add to the loss he could not even recover the freight charges, which he had paid in full before removing the boxes from the railway station and discovering his loss. It rained cats and dogs for two days before I left, and, as Turkish sight-seeing requires fair weather, I was kept imprisoned most of that time in the hotel. Our Consul-General, Mr. Good-enow, kindly introduced me to the Foreign Club and enabled me to break the monotony of the evenings with a few hours in the luxurious house where the association has its home. To judge by the appearance of the club, its cuisine, and other things, the foreigners in Constantinople know how to live well, and are determined to practice what they know.
The club includes many nationalities—English, French, American, German, Russian, Italian, Greek, Spanish, Swiss, and others,—in its membership, and a visit to its rooms gives one an idea of the cosmopolitan character of the population of the Queen City of the Orient. Turks are not excluded, a Turkish gentleman being just as eligible to membership as any other. Diplomates, merchants, bankers, government officials, gentlemen of fortune with nothing to do, and the other miscellaneous characters that make up a club in a large city, were pointed out to me among the members that dined and lounged in the club-house.
French was the prevailing language, but you would hear enough of other tongues in the course of an evening to make you dream all night of the Tower of Babel, and the unhappy gentlemen that found it a losing speculation.
On the morning of our departure the weather cleared up, and we had the satisfaction of bidding farewell to Constantinople under a bright sky and in the glow of a warm sunshine. Our baggage was piled on the backs of some able-bodied porters, and we followed it and them down the hill of Pera, in the same solemn procession as we first mounted it.
The Custom House was lenient in consequence of a “backsheesh” of two francs, and the odds and ends that we had bought in the city were not disturbed.
Two of our party had laid in a liberal supply of Broussa silks and other specialties of Constantinople, and consequently they did not want the officials to be inquisitive. They thought they got off cheap at two francs, and I think they did.
And here is a good place to say something about the export duty on Turkish manufactures. The English, as we all know, are very earnest in advancing free trade; they have it, and want everybody else to enjoy its blessings. Whether their theories are right or wrong I do not propose to discuss, as I am not writing a book on political economy. England believes emphatically in free trade—free export and free import—and every Englishman would tell you that a tax on manufactured exports would be the very thing to cripple home industries.
I have been informed, whether with absolute truth I cannot say, but I believe my authority was good, that the Turkish export tax was imposed in consequence of the advice of the then British Minister at Constantinople. The Turkish cabinet sought his advice as to the best means of encouraging manufacture in the Ottoman empire and making them a source of revenue.
“Nothing simpler,” replied His Excellency the British Minister; “put a tax on your exports; make all your manufactures exported to foreign countries pay a tax, say, of ten per cent., and you will make a handsome revenue for the treasury, and enable the manufacturer to realize such, a profit as to stimulate your home industries to a wonderful extent. The protection and encouragement of home enterprise is the first duty of every government. England keeps a careful watch over her manufacturing interests and does everything to stimulate them, and you can see the result in the immense prosperity of our island.”
The embassador was faithful to the land he represented; he wasn’t going to make an ass of himself by telling the Turks anything that would tend to the injury of British commerce. If manufacturing industry was developed in Turkey, it would very likely interfere, in some branches, with Birmingham or Manchester, and this is what no true English representative would wish.
I like to see a man stand up for his country and his friends.
If you are a lawyer or bootmaker, a doctor or blacksmith, in a country village with just business enough for one, you don’t want a rival setting up there, and if any young fellow wants to know how to start in your trade and is determined to try, it is necessary to lie to him and put him on the wrong track, in order to be just to yourself and your family.
“Honesty ish de best bolicy,” said a clear headed German once upon a time, “but it keeps a man tam poor.”
When your advice is asked by your neighbor, don’t fly away with the notion that you want to do him any good.
Remember that charity and all other noble sentiments should begin at home, and be careful not to advise him to anything that will interfere with yourself.
Turkish manufactures have been for some time in a languishing condition. In the early part of the present century Turkey had several important industrial centres; the most noted of them were Bagdad, Aleppo, Dierbeker, Broussa, Smyrna, Scutari, and Tournovo. Aleppo alone had forty thousand weavers engaged in i making goods of silk or cotton, either mixed or single, and in producing cloth of silk or gold thread, for which Aleppo was famous. The city now has scarcely a fifth of her former number i of weavers; and in the other places, where there were extensive manufacturers, the business has fallen off in about equal proportion. Improved machinery in England and France, and the heavy taxes on manufactures, have caused the decline; and though the government has sought to revive Turkish industry, it has not yet succeeded.
The export trade of Turkey consists mainly of raw materials, such as wool, silk, cotton, tobacco, wheat, drugs, dyes, opium, honey, and sponges. The principal manufactured exports are carpets and red cloths. The value of the imports is about double that of the exports, and much of the raw stuff sent out of Turkey comes back in the shape of manufactured goods. And this state of affairs is steadily increasing.
Turkey has become so far civilized that she has saddled herself with a stupendous debt, borrowing the money in Europe, at enormous rates of interest, and then borrowing the money to pay that interest with. She has about as much prospect of paying it as the President of the Fat Men’s Association has of learning to fly and setting up for a carrier pigeon. She has miserable roads all through the interior of the country, and only within a few years has she given any attention to building railways. She has lots of palaces, and an immense fleet of iron-clads; and when any luxury is wanted she always finds the money to buy it.
When I was in Constantinople the further construction of the railway, that is intended to connect with the Austrian system, was stopped for the want of funds. “The government is very hard pressed just now for money,” said one of the officials, “and our docks and railways must wait.”
A week later the same gentleman met me and volunteered this important information:
“Six hundred sea-coast breech-loading cannon have been ordered from Krupp, the great fabricant of artillery, and the money for them is to be deposited in Paris within the next two months.”
Krupp does not make breech-loading cannon for nothing, and he generally has the money down before he makes them.
Turkey can find money enough when she wants palaces and ships of war, but she can’t afford railways and docks. Remember, there are no docks at Constantinople where a sea-going ship can lie. They want them, but cannot afford the expense.
Now that I have had my growl, we will go on as if nothing had happened.
We were rowed out to the steamer which lay at anchor, with steam up, and was announced to sail at ten o’clock.
For some reason the departure was delayed until nearly eleven, and in consequence of this detention there was a row between the captain and chief engineer. The latter was responsible for the consumption of coal; he had been told that the steamer would sail at ten, and it was not fair to burn up his coal while lying at anchor.
The captain replied chat he would sail when he got ready. Engineer threatened to report to the management—captain told him to mind his own business—and there were several other remarks of a lively character.
As soon as the engineer retired below, the captain hustled some of his friends over the side, and the steamer sailed. The threat to report to the management had its effect.
Memorandum for travellers in the Orient:
When you feel that any imposition has been practised on you by any high attaché of a steamship, don’t make a noisy row about it, but go quietly to the one who has offended you, and in calm and dignified tones ask him to give you the name and address of his managing director. Give him a card on which to write it, thank him politely for the address and walk away. In less than ten minutes you will obtain what you previously wanted, and quite likely more than you expected. The captains do not like to have complaints going to the management, and will do anything in reason to avoid it.
To illustrate:—I one day took passage on a steamer, and was on board half an hour before she sailed. I went at once to the purser’s office, paid my fare, and asked for a room. Purser said I could not have a room, but must sleep on a sofa in the cabin.
Now, if there is one thing that I dislike more than another, it is to sleep in public on the stage in presence of a crowded audience. I want a room to myself when it can be had, as I know that while sleeping I appear best alone. And I always secure my passage early for this very reason. In the present instance, I had visited the office of the company in a vain effort to secure a place. The agent told me the tickets were sold only by the purser.
On the back of my ticket was the announcement that no room could be secured until paid for. I waited around the office, and after the boat left the port, half-a-dozen men, of the same nationality as the purser, came and paid their fare, and were assigned to rooms. Then I went to the office and complained of unjust treatment; the purser said he could do nothing for me, and unless I was careful, I wouldn’t have so much as a sofa in the cabin.
I went to the captain and complained, and the captain referred my case to the purser.
Then I returned to the purser, and put on a calm exterior, though I felt inside as explosive as an overcharged soda-fountain.
“Will you be so kind,” I said, “as to give me the address of the managing director of this company?”
“Why do you want it?”
“I have occasion to write him a letter on business of the company.”
“What business?”
“A mere trifle. Never mind what it is. It will interest him, and be beneficial to the company.”
“The name of the managing director is —————”
“Please write it on the back of this card,” and I gave him my personal card, on which to inscribe the name. The purser turned red, pale, blue, green, yellow, pink, crimson, ultra-marine, and scarlet; he could have sold his face at a high price just then to a maker of kaleidoscopes. He began writing, stopped, began again, and altogether was at least two minutes in writing the name and postal direction.
When he had finished I took the card, stowed it away in my pocket, and retired to the deck, where I proceeded to solace myself with a cigar and a study of the receding shores.
Two minutes after I reached the deck, I saw the purser and captain in deep consultation near the wheel-house. Two minutes later the purser, cap in hand, came to me, and said to me that one of the reserved rooms had not been claimed, and was at my disposal. Would I condescend to look at it?
I condescended, and descended to the cabin. The room was comfortable, and all my fancy had painted it. I was mollified, thanked the purser for his politeness, ordered the steward to! bring my baggage, and was speedily installed in the apartment. The purser could not have been more civil to the governor of the Fejee Islands than he was to me during the rest of the voyage.
We steamed out of the harbor of Constantinople towards the Sea of Marmora.
First vanished the shipping in the Golden Horn, and the never-ceasing stream of people crossing the bridge of boats. Then the irregular terraces of many-colored houses in Fera and Golata were lost to sight, though to memory dear; and then our eyes lingered on Stamboul with its mosque-crowned hills, and the Seraglio palace with its surroundings of groves jutting into the widening mouth of the Bosphorus. The sunlight played on the roofs, and domes, and minarets of Stamboul, and brightened the hills that formed the back-ground of the picture.
Long time the city remained in view, but at last it became a jagged strip of white in the horizon, then a scarcely perceptible streak like a sandy beach by the sea shore, and then it was lost to sight altogether.
I repeat what I have said elsewhere, that by far the best approach to Constantinople is by the Black Sea, and not from the Sea of Marmora; not only as concerns the city itself, but with reference to the charming panorama of the Bosphorus, which becomes more and more brilliant each mile that we advance, until at last the anchor drops at the entrance of the Golden Horn, and we stand in front of the Queen of the Orient.
The steamer that carried us belonged to the Austrian Lloyds (Lloyd Austriaco).
The company has a fleet of some forty steamers engaged in the navigation of the Mediterranean and adjoining seas, and it has its headquarters at Trieste.
In 1833 one Baron Bruck established at Trieste a reading room and marine exchange similar to the celebrated Lloyd’s at London and from which he took the name. The members of the exchange became a powerful company for commercial and industrial purposes.
In 1836, it established a newspaper which still exists; in 1837, it started a line of steamers; and in 1849, an institution devoted to printing and art. It has become a most important association and exerts a powerful influence upon the politics and finance of the Austrian Empire. Its founder became the Austrian minister of finance, but owing to certain jealousies he was removed in 1860.
His mortification at his downfall terminated in suicide.
To travel on the ships of this company costs on the average about twelve dollars a day (gold), inclusive of passage, room, and meals. Wine is charged extra, and the steward expects a financial remembrance when you bid him farewell. The servant who has attended you at table is likewise on hand when money is visible, and is generally more civil then than at other times.
During most of the day the mountains on the coast of the Sea of Marmora were in sight but too far away to be little more than outlines. We passed the Dardanelles at night, while all of us were in our bunks, which proved to be the happy hunting grounds of many members of the well-known sporting family, Cimex lectularius.
We were not greatly refreshed by our slumber, and passed a unanimous vote that the next time we were obliged to travel on that line we would seek passage on another steamer.
Morning found us running among the islands of the Greek Archipelago, and there was not an hour of the entire day when we did not have some of them in sight. They had a bleak, barren appearance, as they contained scarcely any trees on the sides visible to us, and the slopes of the rocky shores were very steep. There were not many indications of inhabitants, but now and then we could see villages near the water or perched high up the sides of the mountains, where it evidently required a great deal of glue to make them stick.
I am somewhat confused as to the names of the islands we passed and cannot attempt to give them all. I will only venture on Lemnos, Skyros, Andros, Tinos, and Kuthnos, and I won’t be very sure about these. There were Delos and Naxos, Melos and Kimolos, Mykonos and Paros and there were more ‘oses if anybody wants them. We were not a very large party and there were more islands than enough to go around. And then there were some other islands that like the lion in the boy’s picture book, couldn’t get any prophet Daniel.
The Greek Archipelago is scattered around promiscuously; it would have been vastly more convenient if the islands had been set up in rows like potato-hills, but I suppose they would not have been so picturesque as they are in their present arrangement.
I observed one geographical peculiarity and made a note of it, that every island, without regard to size or position, was surrounded by water.
CHAPTER XIII—SYRA, THE MARBLE ISLAND.—LIFE AT AN ATHENIAN HOTEL.
In sight of Syra—Active Trade in one Fish—A town all built of Marble—The “Doubter” expresses his sentiments—Gustave’s Adventure—Walking on One’s Ear—“A little more beer, boy!”—The Pirates’ Retreat—Extraordinary politeness in a café—A lesson for American Barkeepers—In the Stamboul’s Cabin—“Blowing great guns”—A tale of a Tub—Honey and Marble—Standing in the city of Demosthenes—The battle of the rival hotels—Profanity in an unknown tongue—Outgeneraling Inn-keepers—Tricks on Travelers—Useful knowledge for Foreign Travel.
A LITTLE before sunset we were drenched by a shower, and through the rifts of the heavy clouds, I caught sight of the Island of Syra, the most important of the insular possessions of Greece.
We entered the port and dropped anchor, a hundred yards from the Stamboul, an old paddle steamer which was to convey us to the Piraeus.
Though we had bought tickets through to the latter port we found that we must make the transfer at our own expense, it being the rule of the company that all landings, embarkations, and transfers are at passenger’s expense.
We waited till the rain ceased and then bargained with a boatman to take us to the other ship; the transfer was an unpleasant one as the boat danced uneasily on the water and a fresh shower gave us a very fair drenching while we were en route. The “Doubter” got the worst of it, and was so thoroughly soaked and frightened that he determined to stay and keep ship, while the rest of us went on shore to spend the evening in town.
What befell us there will be told subsequently.
Syra is not a large island, its greatest length being little over fourteen miles and its width in the broadest part about six. Homer mentions and describes it as the country of Eumæus, the faithful servant of Ulysses, and the character of the island corresponds to-day with the account given by the “blind old man of Scio’s rocky isle.”
The city which bears the name of the island is the most important commercial point in all Greece. Its population is said to be not far from thirty thousand; they are emphatically a commercial people, and when not employed in legitimate trade with outsiders, they speculate with each other. While loitering on the quay I saw a man sell a fish to another, the latter sold it to a third and the trade went on till the fish had changed hands four or five times. Whether the price was increased by each transaction I am unable to say, but am inclined to think it was not likely to be reduced.
Later in the day I saw a smaller fish—it may have been the old one worn down by manipulation—passing about with a good deal i of activity. If he could have taken a commission each time he, changed hands he could have amassed a handsome fortune and set up for a “big fish” before the end of the season.
As I had come from Constantinople where the streets are in a condition of wretchedness, as regards pavement and dirt, the streets of Syra seemed to me wonderfully clean. There are immense quarries of marble just back of the town, and marble is one of the articles of export. Marble is cheaper in Syra than n granite or brick. The houses are built of marble, the streets paved with it, and the quay and the wall that bound it are made of marble. You see marble everywhere, and after a time you begin to wish they would throw in some other stone by way of variety.
The streets are paved with broad blocks and in many places these blocks are so smooth that one is in danger of slipping unless he treads carefully. The gutters are in the middle of the streets instead of at the sides, and every few yards there is a grated hole where the water runs into the sewers. I could not see the necessity of having these holes so numerous until I learned by actual experience how the rain fell. It came down suddenly, as if the clerk of the weather had called all hands and put them to work upsetting a row of buckets right over Syra.
It didn’t rain, it poured and more than poured; the heaviest shower I ever saw in New York was the mildest premonitory sprinkle, compared to the rain at Syra. The sewer-holes had all they could attend to, and it was then that you perceived the wisdom of putting the gutters in the middle of the streets, and also the wisdom of having no cellar doors on a level with the sidewalk. Under the present arrangement there might be, (and quite likely such is the case,) a foot or so of water in the street, without doing damage to anybody, except to the unlucky pedestrian.
There is a public square in Syra paved with marble and set out with rows of trees and beggars. The latter are less stationary than the trees, and not half as pretty; I did not see any fruit growing upon either.
Viewed from the water, Syra has the appearance of half an amphitheatre, as the steepness of the hill causes the houses to rise in irregular terraces; there is a depression in the hill-side, so that the general effect reminds you of the tier of boxes in an opera house when you look at them from the stage.
This is the new town of modern Syra.
To reach ancient Syra, you have a great deal of climbing to do, as it is a long way up the hill-side, directly above the new town.
I was satisfied to do it by proxy, as I had a “game foot” that complained when I exercised it vigorously. The judge and I sat in a café, while the rest of our party climbed the hill and came back all red and weary and thirsty. Their calls for beer were like the howls of a lion in the wilderness.
The “Doubter” declared that he had his doubts about the island being fourteen miles long, but he was ready to swear that it was not less than ten miles high.
This is what Gustave said about old Syra, and I must rely on him, as I know nothing about it myself:
“You cross a deep ravine, and then you come to a stairway all of marble, and so hot under the sunshine, that it would melt the lid off a copper tea-kettle in the time you could hold a red hot nail in your ear without feeling it.”
Then we went through a lot of zig-zag streets, and then more of them, and then some more stairs and zig-zags. The stones were slippery and dangerous, especially in coming down, and two or three times I felt myself walking on a part of my body which is not ordinarily employed for pedestrian purposes.
Well, we got to the top of the hill at last, and were at the church of St. George. I was tired and foot-sore, but I think I was amply paid for the fatigue and trouble. The view was magnificent, and included the whole panorama of the Cyclades. (Garçon, encore de la bier, s’il vous plait) The guide pointed out Tinos and Mykonos, Nicaria, and Samos, and also Great and Little Delos. Off in the distance were Naxos, Paros, and Anti-paros, and they tried to point out Siphnos and Milos through a hollow in the mountain to the south of us. Down in front of us there was a beautiful view—I wouldn’t have missed it for a great deal, and I wouldn’t go up there again for twice as much as I would have missed it for. (Garçon, encore de la bier. Comme jai soif! )
We had landed at the quay in front of the custom house on the evening of our arrival, and as the rain fell by little fits and starts, we didn’t wander around very much, but made our way to the best café in the place.
It overlooked the public square, and had rows of seats on the sidewalk, which was protected by a roof impervious to water. While we sat there, a member of our party discovered an acquaintance among the coffee-drinkers at another table, and speedily there was a fusilade of congratulations in the accent and language of Northern Germany. Then we were introduced all around, and all around, too, we had fresh glasses of beer.
Our new acquaintance was a German, whose business had located him at Syra, and the indications were that he was well satisfied with it. At all events, he stood treat with a liberality worthy of a Californian, and made us feel that we owned the entire island and all its contents. The quay of Syra is an animated place, as it contains many shops and stalls, where you can buy anything from a fish up to a marine engine. The Greek boatmen are a picturesque race, with a costume that seems to be a compromise between the Occident and the Orient. Their uniform is multiform, and you are puzzled to know which is which.
Most of the boatmen and sailors wear trowsers with considerable bagginess, and a sort of loose jacket over the shoulders. On their heads they wear red caps like the Turkish fez, but with the top falling to one side, where it is kept down by a long tassel.
In character they are not over-trustworthy, and they have the reputation of being ready to turn to piracy whenever it will pay better than honest work. In times past their reputation was worse than at present, and they were at one period the terror of Oriental waters. Steam cruisers put an end to their piracy, as it has to that of many enterprising mariners elsewhere.
In our first evening in Syra we saw a couple of fights, but they possessed no interest, as the disputants were separated before they had time to disembowel each other. Two of the descendants of Homer and Ulysses were drunk in the café; under ordinary circumstances they would have been allowed to stay there, but the proprietor felt himself honored by our visit, and determined to eject his friends and regular patrons. He informed them that they had been sent for, and as the night was dark he would allow one of the waiters to escort them. They fell into the trap, and were quietly taken out, and the waiter returned after walking a couple of blocks and leaving them in a low drinking shop where they wished to slake their thirst. The whole business was managed very adroitly, and showed how much better it is for a head bar-keeper to tell a lie than to indulge in brute violence, in which he might break some of his furniture.
On this evening we did nothing in the sight-seeing line beyond the visit to the café and the public square, the journey to Old Syra being made on our return from Greece. We returned about nine o’clock to the quay, and were taken on board the Stamboul, which had her steam up for departure. Half-a-dozen other steamers were in port, and there were thirty or more sailing ships, so that the harbor presented a reasonably lively appearance. The terraces of lights in the town and extending to and through Old Syra had a curious effect, and made the city resemble an illuminated mountain. The light-houses, which mark the entrance of the harbor, were each sending out a clear flame, the rain had ceased, and the stars were beaming clear and distinct in the sky.
Although in the harbor, the steamer was pitching and rolling about, and we had experienced a very lively tossing on our way from shore to ship. A regular vent du diable was blowing outside, and things indicated that we should have all we wanted when we got into it and were plowing our way towards the Piraeus.
Half a dozen passengers were sitting at the cabin table and contemplating a bottle of Scotch whisky, which they discussed in a polyglot of languages. Two who were drunk imagined themselves sober, and two who were sober, imagined themselves drunk, so that there was a very mixed condition of things. Smoking was forbidden in the cabin, but as there was only one lady passenger, and she had retired, and moreover belonged to our party, and had a smoking husband, we lighted cigars and made ourselves comfortable before going to bed.
Just as I entered my bunk I heard the anchor chain coming in, and soon we were out on the open waters. We went along nicely for a while, till we had passed the shelter of the Island of Syros and then we caught it. Our course lay between the islands of Thermia and Zea, in the direction of Cape Sunium, which forms the extremity of the Peninsula of Attica.
All night long we tossed, and the timbers of the ship creaked so that you couldn’t hear yourself snore. Sometimes we didn’t make two miles an hour, and I could hear the other passengers, in momentary intervals of creaking, groaning and falling to pieces in the agonies of mal-de-mer. In the morning the captain said it was one of the roughest nights he had ever known in those waters. “Had I not felt,” said he, “the greatest confidence in my ship, and known that she was perfectly staunch and strong, I should have turned back after passing the Island of Syra, and learning the strength of the wind.”
And yet the Stamboul was an old tub, with a quarter of a century on her head, and barnacles on her bottom.. Let no one despise an old tub hereafter. I would give more now for the one in which Dionysius—no it was Diogenes—used to live, than for the best modern article of the same sort from the hands of the most skillful cooper that breathes, as I could sell it for more money.
When I went on deck in the morning Mount Olympus was in sight, and we could see the classic shores of Greece (expression claimed as original and secured by two patents). They were not over-cheerful in appearance, but the leaden sky, and the cold wind that was then blowing, had doubtless much to do with their aspect. Mount Olympus was less lofty than I expected to find it, and greatly disappointed me, but I felt better afterwards, when I learned that the real mountain chain which bears that name, is on the Morean peninsula and between Thessaly and Macedonia. The mountain which was pointed out to me was a small affair opposite to Mount Keratia; between the two is a small village called Olympus, and inhabited by a few Greeks, and a great many fleas.
Next we saw a long mountain with a wooded summit, and were told it was Mount Hymettus of history. This was something like a mountain and it stretched away in a ridge toward the north, where Pentelicus lay in the dim distance. In a little while we saw a sharp conical hill that marked the position of Athens, and for a short time we had the Acropolis in sight. The shore of Greece, as we skirted it, had a rough and rather barren appearance, and seemed to be indented with many small bays. Not a ship, not a fishing boat even, was in sight, and our steamer appeared to have everything to herself. Certainly our first view of Greece was not calculated to inspire us with enthusiasm.
We rounded a promontory and entered the Piraeus, the port of Athens. It is a nice little pocket edition of a harbor well sheltered and with good anchorage. Ships of war might find a refuge there, but unfortunately it could not hold many of them. The town is quite modern, and also quite interesting; nobody stops there any longer than he is obliged to, and when travellers are delayed there by the detention of a steamer, there is generally a great deal of growling.
A swarm of boats came out to the ship, and as soon as the quarantine officers had examined the health bill, and admitted us to pratique, there was a rush of boatmen, dragomen, guides, hotel runners, and the like, so that the deck was speedily covered. On an average there must have been six and a half of these gentry to each passenger.
We passed the Custom House with the usual formalities, (a bribe of two francs,) and turned our attention to the hotel runners, and standing on the soil where Homer sang and Demosthenes pronounced his orations, we drove the closest bargain which we had yet made.
Four runners from as many hotels were after us, and we put ourselves up at auction to the lowest bidder, just as they used to sell out the paupers in that respectable town in New England where I was born and bred, and instructed in the mysteries of orthography and penny-tossing. They began at fifteen francs per day for each person, including wine, candles, and service.
The Hotel d’Angleterre would take us for fourteen.
The Hotel des Etrangers would go one better; we should be taken in at thirteen francs.
The other two hotels dropped out of the competition and went to the rear, and so we had it out between the pair that I have named. The runners appeared to be personal enemies, and covered each other with epithets that were delightful to hear, as we didn’t know what they meant. It is a great pleasure to hear one blackguard abuse another, in a language of which you are entirely ignorant. You run no risk of being shocked by the coarseness of the phrases, and can quite resign yourself to a contemplation of the gestures and emphasis with which the terse little speeches are delivered. If I could find the man who offered a reward for the invention of a new pleasure, I would name the above amusement and humbly ask for the money.
We whiled away a half hour in this way very pleasantly and profitably; all the Greek profanity that those runners vented on each other didn’t cost us a cent; in fact we made money by it, as we lowered the prices of the hotels at Athens to a satisfactory figure. For ten francs per day each person, we were to have rooms only one flight up, and each room should have a balcony. We were to be roomed, fed, wined, candled, washed, combed, and attended, for that paltry amount, and we were to have all the candies we wanted. Moreover they were to make no charges for lunches when we went on excursions; this is a point on which hotels in the Orient generally lay it on thick in the way of extras. We had brought them down to their lowest terms, and almost felt ashamed of ourselves after we had done it.
We started for Athens with the question still undecided in the hope that we might get a better offer before arriving there. On the way up we developed a new dodge.
“I’ve an idea,” I said to my German friends; “suppose we divide the party.”
“You go to the Angleterre, and we Americans will go to the Etrangers. The hotels are close together, so that we can talk across from the windows, and we will then play the houses against each other.”
“Very good,” replied Charley, “just the thing. Evidently the competition between them is exceedingly bitter, and they are ready to cut each other’s throats.”
So it was agreed that we were to divide. We did not leave the carriages until the proprietors had ratified the agreements made by their runners, and we did not allow the baggage taken out till we had seen and accepted the rooms.
At the Hotel des Etrangers they were sorry, very sorry, but they had only one room with a balcony, and that was on the the second floor.
“Very well, then,” I said, “we will see what our friends can do at the other hotel,” and I turned to go to the carriage where I had left the Judge to look after the “Doubter,” and the other baggage.
“Stop, gentlemen,” said the proprietor; “I give you nice back rooms on first floor.”
“That will never do,” I replied, as I placed my hand on the carriage door.
“I just thinks,” said the proprietor, “I have single one balcony room on first floor mit two beds.”
“Never! we want three rooms with balconies on first floor,” and I opened the carriage door.
“You sell have two rooms mit three beds.”
“Never! that will not do,” and I entered the carriage and told the driver to drive on. "Oh, gentlemens, I just thinks; stop—one gentleman go away zis night and you have ze three rooms as you want. Dat is all right.”
We entered and took possession, and the landlord was all politeness.
Our German friends had almost identically the same performance at the Hotel d’ Angleterre, and with the same result.
The rivalry of these two hotels was of a bitterness rarely seen in cities; it resembled the hostility of two country boys when both are sweet on the same girl. No servant of one establishment was allowed to enter the other, and when we sent messages requiring answers, the bearer was obliged to wait outside the front door, while the porter of that house took the missive up stairs and brought the response. The rival proprietors were not on speaking terms, and the guides and runners were constantly at war.
During the whole of our stay we played upon their jealousies to the best of our abilities. When we wanted to hire carriages for drives around the city or in its vicinity we put the business in competition and reduced the rates nearly one-half. We thus obtained carriages for twelve francs where twenty was the regular price, and for fifteen francs where they ordinarily demanded twenty-five. No matter what we wanted, we always said, “We will see what our friends at the other house can do.” That always brought them to terms.
It is not often that a traveller profits by the quarrels of innkeepers. These gentry are much more likely to resemble in their discords, the operations of the two sides of a pair of shears,—they cut not themselves but what’s between them.
CHAPTER XIV—ATHENS ANCIENT AND MODERN—SIGHTS AND SCENES IN THE GRECIAN CAPITAL.
First Impressions of Athens—Opinion of the “Doubter”—“Not Worth Damming”—The Oldest Inhabitant of Athens—Celebrated Ruins—Reminiscences of Greek Grammar—A “Big Injun” on Greek—Drinking beer on sacred sol—A toper-graphical survey—The Acropolis-What is it?—The Temple of Jupiter Olympus—Seven Hundred years in Building—A young Englishman in a scrape—Sunset from the Acropolis—Byron’s glorious lines—The Parthenon and its surroundings—Foundations of the Ancient Citadel—Excavations of antiquarians—Greek Art—An important discovery—The line of beauty.
THE first view of Athens gives a stranger a favorable impression; the city stands in a plain, at the foot of Mount Lycabettus and the Acropolis, and is between the river Cephissus on one side and the Elissus on the other.
Considered as rivers these streams are of very little consequence and hardly worth mentioning, but regarded as brooks they are entitled to some respect. The Greeks call them rivers and I suppose they ought to know what they are about.
It is with some hesitation I venture to suggest that if the Elissus and Cephissus were united, it would take about sixteen mil, lion of these combined streams to equal the Mississippi. The “Doubter” said he didn’t believe that a man in search of a mill-site would consider either of these Athenian torrents worth damming.
The oldest inhabitant of Athens is dead, and his death occurred according to the historians, about thirty-four hundred years ago, or to be particular about dates, in 1643 before the Christian Era. A gentleman named Cecrops came there from Egypt and founded a city which he called Cecropia.
I enquired about Cecrops and learned, much to my regret, that he is no longer alive. Had he been in Athens I would have paid him my respects.
I will not attempt to write the history of Athens, for a variety of reasons, any one of which would be sufficient, and as two or three at least will occur to every reader, I refrain from mentioning them.
At present the city has something less than fifty thousand inhabitants, and possesses very little of the grandeur for which it was once famous.
The most attractive features about it are its ruins, and every visitor is much more interested in the Acropolis and other remains of ancient Greece than in the modern city. But I must admit that Athens has considerable beauty and is well worth a visit, apart from the historic associations that cluster around it.
There is a pretty little palace where the royal family resides, and it is surrounded by gardens arranged with considerable taste, and forming very agreeable promenades. In the square in front of the palace a band plays twice a week on pleasant afternoons and on these occasions most of the fashionables, and many of the unfashionables, of Athens come out for an airing, and to see and be seen. The balconies of our rooms overlooked this square, so that we could see the people and hear the music without the necessity of walking.
The principal street in Athens is named Hermes, and you are reminded that you are in Greece when you attempt to spell out the names of the highways and by-ways. The characters are so nearly identical with the Ancient Greek that I found my school-day studies quite convenient. When in my adolescence I spent considerable time over Anthon’s Greek Grammar, and over the Iliad and Odyssey of a party by the name of Homer, I used to ask, and sometimes with a good deal of petulance:
“What is the use of wasting time over this stuff when I might be skating or playing leap-frog?”
And my good-natured old teacher would explain that it was the most useful employment for a young man that could be advised, and I would one day see the advantage of it, and rejoice that I had made my head ache over Alpha and Omega.
I wanted to study French and German but he always told me that the modern languages were abominations, the works of a party of brimstony memory, and I should bring ruin and disgrace upon myself if I had anything to do with them. So I shunned those paths of wickedness until I reached the years of—misunderstandings, and devoted my young and happy days to Greek and Latin. For a long time I have had little to do with those dead languages, and I couldn’t conjugate a Greek or Latin verb to-day, if my life depended on the result. But I see it all now, and my three or four years of Greek were of immense advantage to me when I was in Athens.
It never took me more than a minute to spell out the name of a street; the names were painted in Greek letters, and I remembered the shape of them.
When the Judge and I were hunting for a beer shop I was the Big Injun of the party. The Judge did not know any more about Greek, than a cow does about quadratic equations, and he was obliged to ask me to tell him the names of the streets. And the way I rattled off Hermes, Eolus, Minerva, Adrian, and the like, would have done credit to a deaf and dumb asylum. Didn’t I rejoice that I was familiar with Greek, and able to save the trouble of asking somebody to direct us to our destination?
The Judge appreciated the situation and said, “What a splendid thing it is to know something! If I should ever be a husband, and a father, and the results of my paternity should be boys, I would have them study Greek. They may come to Athens some time and find it convenient in going about the streets. A good map of the city would cost fifty cents, and they will be able to save all that expenditure.”
There were tears in his eyes as he spoke, for we were in front of the beer-shop and found it closed.
Happily there was another establishment for the sale of malt liquors, and as it was only two blocks away, I was able to get my friend where he could rest and be comfortable.
“Alas for the decline of Greece,” he muttered as he brought the glass to his lips, and drew a long breath with beer in it; “Once she had her Homer, her Demosthenes, her Lycurgus, her Epaminondas; on yonder hill St. Paul preached to the Athenians his famous discourse on the unknown God; here Socrates taught his philosophy; from Argos the mighty Agamemnon and his company of warriors sailed for the siege of Troy, and hung like a bull-dog to a coat-tail for ten long and weary years; here Sculpture became the study of a whole people, and Art reached the highest point of development known to ancient times; here were fought those battles between Greeks and Persians, that will live and ring through all history, and on yonder bay that shines so placidly in the afternoon sun, the fleet of Xerxes was destroyed.
“And what have we to-day?
“The monuments of Ancient Greece are in ruins has dwindled so that it would hardly form a constituency for a custom-house collector; and the beer, just taste it; the beer is entirely unfit to drink.”
The beer was very bad, and it turned out that the bottle had been opened the day before for a customer, who concluded to take a cigar instead. We had another bottle with better success, but on the whole were not inclined to praise the Athenian beverage.
The Judge made a topographical survey of the entire city and visited every brasserie, but with no better success. Everywhere the drinks were atrocious, and he ascribed the decayed condition of the country to the bad quality of the national beverage.
“Somebody has said,” he remarked, when telling me of the result of his inspection, “somebody has said, ‘let me make the ballads of a nation and I care not who makes the laws.’
“Now I will back up the correctness of that man’s theory, provided you substitute beer for ballads. What can you expect of a nation with such beer as this?”
The great object of attraction at Athens is the Acropolis, and as soon as we had lunched after our arrival at the hotels, we set out for that interesting hill.
From the square where the palace and principal hotels are situated, it is a walk of half a mile or more to the Acropolis.
A portion of the way is through the new quarter of the city and along a boulevard of recent construction; as we approach the hill we find ourselves among some older buildings, and scattered in these are some of the tombs and monuments that have been fortunately preserved. We face the arch of Adrian, which is in a tolerable state of preservation, and halt at the temple of Jupiter Olympus, the most extensive of all the temples of ancient Athens. History tells us that it was begun five hundred and thirty years before the Christian era, and that various emperors and kings labored upon it. The work was not completed until nearly seven hundred years after the first stone of the foundation was laid. It was originally three hundred and thirty feet long, by about half as many wide, and contained one hundred and twenty marble columns, each nearly seven feet in diameter and sixty feet high!
Only sixteen of these columns remain; one of them lies where it was thrown by an earthquake in 1852, and enables a visitor to see with what excellence the Greek architects performed their work. On thirteen of the columns the architrave remains in position and one is puzzled to know how those immense masses of stone were hoisted into place.
The effect of these ruins is grand, partly on account of the vastness of the columns, and partly by reason of their isolated position, in a large open space, where there are no surroundings of other structures to detract from the general effect. A few soldiers are stationed there to prevent vandalism on the part, of strangers, and an enterprising Greek has established a miserable café, among the columns. To what base uses may we come at last!
Continuing our journey toward the Acropolis we passed the ruins of the Theatre of Bacchus; we reserved it for another day, but I may as well dispose of it here. According to some authorities it could contain thirty thousand spectators, and for a long time it was the scene of the representations of the principal works of Eschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and other famous writers of Greek drama. The stage and auditorium were built of marble and limestone, and decorated in the highest style of magnificence known to that period. The width of the stage was about eighty feet, and the diameter of the theatre on the upper rows of seats was nearly five hundred feet. There were twenty-five tiers of seats, and there were twelve passage-ways leading through them, so that an audience could be quickly assembled or as quickly dispersed. Till within a few years the whole theatre was covered with rubbish; excavations have been carried on at the expense of the King of Prussia and other crowned heads, and latterly by the Archaeological Society of Athens, so that the most of this ancient temple of the drama has been exposed to view.
Statues and fragments lie around in great profusion. In the centre of the stage there is a small hut—the domicile of an old soldier who has charge of the ruins, and presents an open hand for whatever “backsheesh” the visitor chooses to give him. The seats in the foremost range were beautifully sculptured in marble, and were evidently very comfortable places to occupy during the performance. There are fifty of these seats, and the names engraved on them show that they belonged to the priests and other high dignitaries of Athens.
The priest of Bacchus had the post of honor in the centre; his seat is larger and more elaborately sculptured than the rest and is raised a few inches higher. Behind this row there are three rows which were occupied by the magistrates and similar dignitaries, and behind these were the seats of the general public.
Between the auditorium and the stage there is an open space which was occupied by the orchestra. Not a single musician was there at the time of our visit, and not an actor or danseuse could be found anywhere about the place. All! all! were gone, and in their place a single Greek, ancient but modern, soliciting something to keep him from starving. The theatre was on the southeastern slope of the Acropolis; the stage was at the foot of the hill and the auditorium extended up the slope. From here a foot path extends along the base of the hill, and rises pretty steeply in places till it reaches a gate by the side of a modern dwelling occupied by the custodians of the ruins.
The gate is strong and high, and the lock is sufficiently powerful to defy the assaults of anybody who has not been educated either as a locksmith or burglar. We passed under the eye of a custodian as we entered, and he followed us at a respectful distance to see that we did no damage. The instructions to these custodians are the most sensible I have known anywhere in places of this kind. They do not keep with you and cause annoyance by telling you what to look at, and hurrying you through faster than you want to go. All that pleasing duty is left to the guide whom you have brought from the hotel. The government knows that he will be a sufficient nuisance for all practical purposes, and consequently the custodians keep always from five to fifty yards away from you; they let you wander where you please and do what you please, as long as you do not injure anything. They never speak to you unless you attempt to play the vandal; we didn’t learn by experience what they, would do in that case, but were told that an offender is likely to be severely treated.
A young Englishman, a few years ago, in sheer mischief, broke the nose from one of the finest statues in the collection at the Acropolis. He was arrested on the spot, and had three months in a Greek prison, in which he made up his mind not to do so anymore. He hasn’t gone around smashing marble noses since his release. And, in addition to his imprisonment, he had to pay a heavy fine, which was applied to the fund for keeping the ruins in proper repair.
We spent the afternoon on the Acropolis, studying it in its general features and listening to the monotonous drawl of our guide, as he described the various temples and other structures whose remains covered the summit of the hill. From the wall at the southern extremity we had a fine view of Athens, and looked down on the city, lying like a map beneath our feet.
We lingered on the Acropolis till the lengthening shadows told us the day was coming to a close. We watched the sun go down, and as the disc of light touched the horizon, one of our party repeated the lines which Byron is said to have written on this historic spot:
“Slow sinks, more lovely, ere his race be run,
Along Morea’s hills, the setting sun;
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light;
O’er the hushed deep his mellow beim he throws,
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it flows.
O’er old Egina’s rock and Hydra’s Ile,
The god of Gladness sheds his parting smile:
O’er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending low, the shadows, lingering, kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis!
Their azure arches through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven,
Till, darkly shaded by the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian rock, he sinks to sleep.”
The Acropolis cannot be seen satisfactorily in a single visit; two or three visits at least are necessary, and an entire week can be spent there profitably. Our first day was intended only as an outline and preliminary inspection; next morning we went to work upon the matter in earnest.
We told our guide we had no more use for him, until we had done with the Acropolis; we could be our own guides, philosophers, and friends.
We gathered all the books in our possession—English, French, and German—that had anything to say about the Acropolis, and we borrowed all that were accessible at the hotels. Equipped with these and a lunch basket well filled, we sallied forth, determined to “do” the ruins most thoroughly.
We began at the beginning, and at each ruin or part of a ruin that we visited, one of us read aloud while the others listened. It was slow work, and we took turns in the reading; we were three days at the Acropolis, and I do not believe any party of non-professional tourists ever “did” the place more thoroughly.
At this lapse of time and distance, the Acropolis and its temples and monuments stand clear and distinct before me, and there is no confusion in the picture. This is more than I can say of many other places that I have visited, where I was obliged to limit to hours and minutes what should have consumed entire and successive days.
The Acropolis is an elevated rock, scarped on all sides, and is of an irregular oval form, about nine hundred feet long and four hundred feet across its greatest width. It is comparatively level on the summit, and its height above the sea is about five hundred feet.
The first walls erected there were for purposes of fortification, and are attributed to the Pelasgians; they are said to be more than three thousand years old, and were evidently built with great care. Portions of them have been revealed by the excavations of M. Beule, and are still visible; the stones are matched only on their exterior surface and that rather roughly; they consist of the rock of the Acropolis, and not like the stones in the Greek walls, of material brought from a distance.
Not much of the Pelasgian wall remains, as it was cut away in several places to make room for the Greek foundations of the Propylæ. Near this wall there was a Greek pavement in front of the Temple of Victory. In 1853 this pavement was removed, and revealed the rock of the Acropolis, bearing the traces of chariot wheels which rolled there more than thirty centuries ago. The ancient road is clearly defined, and at its edges one can see the marks of the rude implements that were employed in smoothing it.
Walls and fragments of walls, whose erection embraced periods hundreds of years apart, appear here and there. The noblest and grandest are those of the Greeks, and they are so numerous that the plainest description of them would be tedious.
The grand staircases which look toward the sea are sufficiently intact to show their extent, though they are much injured by modern walls erected for military purposes—some by the Venetians, some by the Turks, and some by the Greeks, who were besieged there in 1822, during the war for independence. A few only of the columns of the Propylæ remain; they have excited the admiration of visitors through all ages since their erection, twenty-three hundred years ago. They were preserved almost intact down to the 14th century, when portions of them were removed for the construction of a fortress.
The Turks converted the Propylæ into a powder magazine and a depot of arms, and one day the powder blew up and smashed things generally. But enough remains to show the ancient grandeur of this portico of the Parthenon. The Acropolis contained several temples, and not, as many persons suppose, only that world-renowned structure, the Parthenon. But the Parthenon overtops them all, and that in a double sense, as it stands on the highest part of the rocky plateau. The Parthenon was the work of Phidias, or was constructed under his direction, and is generally considered the finest of the Greek temples. Though greatly ruined now, it remained almost intact until 1687, when it was occupied by the Turks, who established a powder magazine in its centre. The Venetians were besieging them, and a shell from a Venetian gun caused an explosion that blew down a large part of the building and left the walls and columns in very nearly the condition in which we find them.
Morosini, the Venetian conqueror, then entered the place; he did not undertake any more explosions, but he tore down and carried away many of the statues and decorations.
Subsequent conquerors and antiquarians carried away many other statues and reliefs, so that the most of the fine sculpture of the Parthenon existing to-day must be sought in the museums of England and France. The British Museum contains the British lion’s share.
The act of Lord Elgin in carrying away two ship loads of the treasures of the Parthenon has been severely criticised Our party had a lively discussion on the subject, and the question was argued with a great deal of vehemence.
At the time the sculptures were removed, Greece was in a very unsettled condition. The Parthenon had been greatly injured during the wars of the preceding two hundred years, and there was no guarantee of permanent peace. The Turks were quite likely to come again, and as for that matter there may be a Greco-Turkish war at anytime, that may lead to another Moslem occupation of Athens with its attendant results.
In the British Museum, the art-treasures of the Parthenon are far safer than they would be in Athens, and for purposes of art-study they are accessible to thousands of persons, when they wouldn’t be seen by dozens if in the Greek capital. For those artists who manage to visit Athens there is quite enough remaining on the Acropolis, and in and around the city, to occupy the whole of a busy lifetime of study, even if it run beyond threescore and ten years; and I further conclude that the modern Greeks, down to the time of Lord Elgin’s’ razzia, had forfeited all claim to the Parthenon by their utter neglect of it. In the interest of art, any person who would undertake the preservation of the sculptures was to be regarded as a benefactor of the civilized world.
I have said my say, and feel better.
Lord Elgin has been called all manner of hard names by a great many writers from Byron downwards, but I think he did right. If his relatives and friends wish to send me any testimonial for coming to his defence, they can remit it, post and duty paid, and I will acknowledge by return mail.
I wish to say on behalf of the present government in Greece, that it manifests a great interest in preserving the works of art that remain. And it is constantly making researches to the extent of its financial ability, and every year new treasures are discovered, and fresh light is thrown upon the art development of Ancient Greece.
Some of the excavations have been made at the personal expense of the young King, and altogether no one can complain that art matters are neglected in Athens at the present time.
An excellent museum has been formed at Athens, and it is under efficient and careful management. Students are flocking to the city from all parts of Europe, and the numbers bid fair to increase from year to year.
Enough has been printed on Greek art to satisfy the most exacting; there is little left to say. The fact that I have never studied the subject does not at all disqualify me from writing about it, if I were to follow the standard set up by some who have gone before me. Long essays have appeared from the pens of men who could hardly tell the difference between a pediment, and a cornice, or explain why a segment is not an angle or an angle a segment. It may be that I am over-scrupulous, but I have always been reluctant to write on any topic about which I was not properly informed.
In our visit to the Parthenon and in our examination of books relating to it we found something which greatly interested us; as it was in a French book, and as none of us had ever seen it in an English one I have thought well to say something about it.
For thousands of years the Greek temples have been admired for the beauty and harmony of their lines, and in modern times several attempts have been made to copy them. But the modern architects have invariably found that their productions had an appearance of rigidity and lacked the softness and beauty of the antique. What could be the reason?
The secret was not discovered until less than forty years ago.
It had been lost to the world through all the centuries that have elapsed since the temples of Greece began to crumble and decay.
In 1837 M. Pennethorne, on studying the Parthenon, made the first observation that led to the revelation of the secret; and it was afterward verified by several architects, among whom were Hofer, Schaubert, Paccard, and Penrose. The last-named gentleman has treated the subject in an excellent work (Principes de l’architecture Athénienne) published in 1851, and it has also been examined by M. Burnouf in an article in the Revue des Deux Mondes. The theories of the investigators were at first received \ with derision, but repeated measurement not only of the Parthenon, but of other Greek temples, have settled the matter beyond a doubt.
It has been found that the Greek architects gave curves and inclinations to the principal lines which modern architects have been accustomed to make perfectly straight measurements of the Parthenon and other temples show that these curves were both horizontal and perpendicular, and in every investigation they have been found mathematically exact.
“To the eye as to science,” says M. Burnouf, “the stability of the body increases with the extent of the base. The interior walls of the cella (or sanctum) of the Parthenon were slightly inclined towards each other; the columns of the peristyle were likewise inclined inward, and the same was the case with the columns at the angles. The whole structure thus received the form of a truncated pyramid which gave an appearance of great solidity.”
The inclinations thus mentioned were vertical. A slight curve was given horizontally to the floor or platform on which the temple stands, and it is found to extend outward in all directions from the point which indicates the centre.
All parts of the temple are made to correspond to this curve which is very slight, only a few half inches in a distance of a hundred feet—but at the same time sufficient to give a most harmonious and pleasing effect.
The earliest Greek temples do not have these curves, but they are found in all the later ones, so that the time of their introduction can be determined with reasonable accuracy.
It is supposed that the Greek artists arrived at the use of these curves by a careful study of nature. The straight line is a geometric abstraction which is never found in nature. The horizon is curved in consequence of the spherical form of the earth; the sea, a mountain range, or a plain, assumes a curve when we look at it from a distance, and a long line of coast will appear arched like a bow when we approach it.
Undoubtedly the Greeks gave these horizontal curves to the bases and super-structures of their temples in an effort to imitate nature. Hogarth in the last century laid down the law that the curve was the line of beauty; he was not aware that the principle had been discovered ages and ages ago by the Greeks.
For fear that I have not made my explanation clear enough to everyone let me illustrate:
We all know the earth is round—I demonstrated that to my own satisfaction by travelling steadily west until I reached home—and so many persons have done likewise since the days of Sir Francis Drake, the first circumnavigator, that the rotundity of the earth is everywhere accepted and understood Now if the whole earth is round, it follows naturally that any part of it is curved in proportion to its extent.
Is there a pond in your neighborhood a mile in diameter?
“Yes.”
Next winter when it is frozen over, go to that pond and stretch a twine from side to side. If you could stretch that line without any “sag” you would find that it would touch the ice in the centre and be four inches above it at each end.
Or go there some night in the summer and place a bright light at the water’s edge on one side of the pond. Then go to the other side, get into the water till your eye is just above the surface and endeavor to see the light. You don’t see it—because the rotundity of the earth prevents.
Now if you are building a church or a large hall, apply this principle of the curvature of the earth. Instead of making your floor perfectly flat make it swell up a little in the centre and sweep from this centre outward, toward the corners and sides. Then make your roof, pillars, and everything else in the place, and also the broad steps on the outside, curve in the same way and you will be imitating the Greek artists of the time of Pericles and Phidias. They may be said to have had level heads, those Greeks, when they abandoned the level and adopted the curve.
Enough of this.
