From the Oak to the Olive: A Plain record of a Pleasant Journey

by Julia Ward Howe

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 Cæsar. 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 æsthetic 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 déjeûner 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.