J. H. Pringle.
And thus the days of Constantinople had gone by, and we were on our voyage back, westward ho! The ship had spread its sails, and the fresh north wind sped us on our way. The sea was very rough; but the movement of the ship, going with the wind, was not unpleasant.
The second night of our voyage I slept very soundly; the waves had rocked me to sleep. Suddenly I was roused by cannon shots, which appeared to be fired-off close to my cabin-window, and shook our vessel. I rose quickly, and found that we had cast anchor in the harbour of Piræus, which was full of men-of-war and other vessels belonging to different nations. All had hoisted their flags, and the Greek vessels were cannonading, for it was the 5th of May—King George’s birthday. But I had no time to lose in looking at what was going on in the harbour of Piræus, for in a few hours our boat would leave for Messina, and I wanted to see Athens during that time. I am almost ashamed to say that we did not stop a few days at Athens, but there is only one boat in the week that leaves Athens for Messina, and as we could not spare a week, we had to content ourselves with a few hours. But shall I say the pleasure was not great because it was short? Are not most of the greatest joys of life counted by minutes and hours rather than by weeks and months?
It was a splendid morning, full of clouds and sunshine. The clouds hung over the mountains, but over head smiled the blue Ionian sky. What a pleasant drive it was from Piræus to the Acropolis. After the roads of Turkey it was a great pleasure to drive at a quick pace over a good one. The road was white and dusty, a true summer-road, of which I am very fond. I should most probably have liked it better, if the dust had not been blown into our faces, but I was that morning not in a humour to find fault with anything. I think, in spite of much that is attractive and interesting, I was inwardly glad to be out of Turkey, and if ever I see it again it will not be from choice. The road, after we had driven through some waste and barren land, led through cornfields, where the corn seemed almost ripe; through hayfields and vineyards, which were studded with olive and fruit trees.
Before I left England, the wife of a soldier, who had accompanied her husband to the Crimean war, told me that she had also been at Athens, and that it was “not far from Greece.” I found it, however, farther from Piræus than I expected. It is an hour’s sharp drive, and although the hour passed pleasantly, it seemed long; perhaps because my wish to see the Acropolis was great. We stopped, however, first before the Temple of Theseus; I had seen it at some distance from the window of our carriage, and had admired the grand and noble structure. When I saw it near I found it was but small, and admired the art that could make a comparatively small and very simple building look so imposing.
A short walk brought us to the Acropolis, and when the keeper unlocked the wooden gate, my heart beat at the thought that I was in ancient Greece. With a strangely solemn feeling I ascended the steps of the Propylæa, and then I found myself surrounded by the glorious remains of those noble works of art which, for simple grandeur and beauty, are unsurpassed by anything the genius of man has since produced. Through those noble columns I beheld the very same features of land and sky on which the sages, the orators, the artists of Greece had gazed. I gathered a handful of flowers that grew among the ruins. I picked up some tiny fragment of marble, and looked at it with a feeling akin to that with which a devout Roman Catholic contemplates a relic of his patron saint. At the same moment my foot stumbled against a broken piece of a cannon-ball. And then I remembered that the “barbarous Turk,” more than the ravages of time, had changed these precious monuments of ancient art into ruins; that the Turks had made a powder magazine of the Parthenon, which exploded through a Venetian bomb, and destroyed the Temple of Minerva. And I felt that the Greeks were not to blame for hating them. I felt as if I should have liked to pull down with my own hands the rude, ugly remains of the walls with which they have disfigured the temples of the gods. I felt also very indignant against the Venetians who had no small share in the destruction of those art treasures. They should have known better than to commit such sacrilege. And shall I not say that Lord Elgin, too, committed a great wrong in carrying off those marbles that still adorned the Parthenon? There, under the blue sky of Greece, was their home, and they ought to have remained there. It is true enough that now they can be seen by “the million” that visit the dim rooms of the British Museum; but he has for ever robbed those that might have seen them where they were first placed, of one of the greatest enjoyments art can give to those that love the beautiful.
When we left the fine harbour of Piræus, the Captain pointed out to us the Bay of Salamis, the Throne of Xerxes, the Tomb of Themistocles, and other famous and interesting spots; but I listened only with half attention, for my eyes tried still to distinguish the Acropolis, and I cast many a “long, lingringlook behind;” steam and wind, however, carried me quickly away, and soon I saw nothing but the bare, cheerless coast of Greece.
Towards evening the movement of the ship became more violent; the sea rolled in large foaming waves, and when towards nine o’clock we turned Cape St. Angelo, we had some very heavy gusts of wind, which produced such rolling of the boat, that I held to the bench in order to keep my seat. It was a grand sight, but I have no liking for that kind of grandeur, so I stumbled down stairs as well as I could, in order to see no more of it.
On awaking next morning, I found, to my great satisfaction, that the ship moved along with a motion hardly perceptible, the sky was almost cloudless, and the air mild and balmy. That day passed pleasantly. I wrote my letter to my children, read a Waverley Novel, and watched the poor little swallows and turtledoves, that came with weary wing to rest on the masts of our ship. One was so tired that a boy belonging to the crew caught the little wanderer in his hand. We gave it some food and water and a free passage to Sicily, where it was set free.
I awoke early next morning, and peeping through my cabin window, saw in the rays of the rising sun the coast of Calabria. “Ah mio Lindoro presto vedremo l’Italia.” I sang, and awoke my husband. We were soon on deck. The sea was calm, and the air as soft and balmy as the day before. The coast of Calabria lay before us, and a little towards the left towered Mount Etna, from whose snow-covered crater arose a white column of smoke, as if Nature was bringing there her morning sacrifice. As we neared the coast the sea became enlivened with boats, whose white sails were reflected in the mirror of the calm sea. We gradually came so close to the coast of Calabria, that we could distinguish houses, trees, gardens, and even human beings and cattle. Through my opera glass I distinguished the very colours of the gaily dressed peasant women that were going to mass, for it was Sunday, and about church time.