Early in 1803, all the sculptured marbles from the Parthenon which it was found practicable to remove were prepared for embarkation. Both of those so prepared and of the few that were left, casts had been made, together with a complete series of drawings to scale. That great monument of art had been exhaustively studied, with the aid of all the information that could be gathered from the drawings made by the French artist, Carrey, in 1674, and those of the English architect, Stuart, in 1752. A general monumental survey of Athens and Attica was also compiled and illustrated.
The original frieze, in low relief, of the cella of the Parthenon—representing the chief festive solemnity of Athens, the Panathenaic procession—had extended, in the whole, to about five hundred and twenty feet in length. That portion which eventually reached England amounted to two hundred and fifty feet. And of this a considerable part was obtained by excavations. Of a small portion of the remainder casts were brought. But the bulk of it had been long before destroyed. Of the statues which adorned the pediments a large portion had also perished, yet enough survived to indicate the design and character of the whole. Of statues and fragments of statues, seventeen were brought to England. Of metopes in high relief, from the frieze of the entablature, fourteen were brought.
The difficulties of Transport and the Shipwreck at Cerigo.
Thus far, an almost incredible amount of effort and toil had been rewarded by a result large enough to dwarf all previous researches of a like kind. But the difficulties and dangers of the task were very far from being ended. The ponderous marbles had to be carried from Athens to the Piræus. There was neither machinery for lifting, nor appliances for haulage. There were no roads. The energy, however, which had wrestled with so many previous obstacles triumphed over these. But only to encounter new peril in the shape of a fierce storm at sea.
Part of the Elgin Marbles had been at length embarked in the ship, purchased at Lord Elgin’s own cost, in which Mr. Hamilton sailed for England, carrying with him also his drawings and journals. The vessel was wrecked near Cerigo. Seven cases of sculpture sunk with the ship. Only four, out of the eleven embarked in the Mentor, were saved, along with the papers and drawings. Meanwhile, Lord Elgin himself, on his homeward journey, was, upon the rupture of the Peace of Amiens, arrested and ‘detained’ in France.
If the reader will now recall to mind, for an instant, the mortifications and discouragements, as well as the incessant toils, which had attended this attempt to give to the whole body of English artists, archæologists, and students, advantages which theretofore only a very small and exceptionally fortunate knot of them could enjoy, or hope to enjoy, he will, perhaps, incline to think that enough had been done for honour. The casts and drawings had been saved. The removal of marbles had formed no part of Lord Elgin’s first design. It was only when proof had come—plain as the noonday sun—that to remove was to preserve, and to preserve, not for England alone, but for the civilised world, that leave to carry away was sought from the Turkish authorities, and removal resolved upon.
Entreaty to the British Government that the thorough exploration of the Peloponnesus, by the draughtsman and the modeller, should be made a national object, had been but so much breath spent in vain. Private resources had then been lavished, beyond the bounds of prudence, to confer a public boon. Personal hardships and popular animosities had been alike met by steady courage and quiet endurance. All kinds of local obstacle had been conquered. And now some of the most precious results of so much toil and outlay lay at the bottom of the sea. The chief toiler was a prisoner in France.
But Lord Elgin was not yet beaten. He came of a tough race. He was—
‘One of the few, the letter’d and the brave,
Bound to no clime, and victors o’er the grave.’