Greece and the Ægean Islands

by Philip Sanford Marden

The days in which a visit to Greece might be set down as something quite unusual and apart from the beaten track of European travel have passed away, and happily so. The announcement of one’s intention to visit Athens and its environs no longer affords occasion for astonishment, as it did when Greece was held to be almost the exclusive stamping-ground of the more strenuous archæologists. To be sure, those who have never experienced the delights of Hellenic travel are still given to wonderment at one’s expressed desire to revisit the classic land; but even this must pass away in its turn, since few voyage thither without awakening that desire.

It is no longer an undertaking fraught with any difficulty—much less with any danger—to visit the main points of interest in the Hellenic kingdom; and, what is more to the purpose in the estimation of many, it is no longer an enterprise beset with discomfort, to any greater degree than is involved in a journey through Italy. The result of the growing consciousness of this fact has been a steadily increasing volume of travel to this richest of classic lands—richest not alone in its intangible memories, but richest also in its visible monuments of a remote past, presenting undying evidence of the genius of the Greeks for expressing the beautiful in terms of marble and stone. One may, of course, learn to appreciate the beautiful in Greek thought without leaving home, embodied as it is in the imposing literary remains to be met with in traversing the ordinary college course. But in order fully to know the beauty of the sculptures and architecture, such as culminated in the age of Pericles, one must visit Greece and see with his own eyes what the hand of Time has spared, often indeed in fragmentary form, but still occasionally touched with even a new loveliness through the mellowing processes of the ages.

To any thinking, reading man or woman of the present day, the memories, legends, and history of ancient Greece must present sufficient attraction. Few of us stop to realize how much of our modern thought and feeling was first given adequate expression by the inhabitants of ancient Athens, or how much of our own daily speech is directly traceable to their tongue. Modern politics may still learn much tact of Pericles, and oratorical excellence of Æschines, as modern philosophy has developed from Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. Is it not even true that a large part of modern religious thought, the hope of glory at least, if not the means of grace, finds its strongest foreshadowing in the groping of the more enlightened Athenians for a hope of immortality and life beyond the grave? The transition of the crowning architectural glory of the Acropolis at Athens from a temple of the virgin (parthenos) Athena to a church of the Virgin Mary was, after all, not so violent, when it is remembered that the later paganism had softened from its old system of corrupt personal deities to an abstract embodiment of their chief attributes or qualities, such as wisdom, healing, love, and war. Down to this day the traces of the pagan, or let us say the classic period, are easy to discern, mingled with the modern Greek Christianity, often unconsciously, and of course entirely devoid of any content of paganism, but still unmistakably there. To this day festivals once sacred to Asklepios still survive, in effect, though observed on Christian holy days and under Christian nomenclature, with no thought of reverence for the Epidaurian god, but nevertheless preserving intact the ancient central idea, which impelled the worshiper to sleep in the sanctuary awaiting the healing visit of a vision. In every church in Greece to-day one may see scores of little metal arms, legs, eyes, and other bodily organs hung up as votive offerings on the iconastasis, or altar screen, just as small anatomical models were once laid by grateful patients on the shrine of Asklepios at Cos. It is most striking and impressive, this interweaving of relics of the old-time paganism with the modern Greek religion, showing as it does a well-marked line of descent from the ancient beliefs without violent disruption or transition. It has become a well-recognized fact that certain modern churches often directly replace the ancient temples of the spot in a sort of orderly system, even if it be hard occasionally to explain. The successors of the fanes of Athena are ordinarily churches of the Virgin Mary, as was the case when the Parthenon was used for Christian worship. In other sites the worship of Poseidon gave way to churches sacred to St. Nicholas. The old temples of Ares occasionally flowered again, and not inappropriately, as churches of the martial St. George. Dionysus lives once more in churches named “St. Dionysius,” though no longer possessing any suspicion of a Bacchic flavor. Most striking of all is the almost appalling number of hills and mountains in Greece named “St. Elias,” and often bearing monasteries or churches of that designation. There is hardly a site in all Greece from which it is not possible to see at least one “St. Elias,” and I have been told that this is nothing more nor less than the perpetuation of the ancient shrines of Helios (the sun) under a Christian name, which, in the modern Greek pronunciation, is of a sound almost exactly similar to the ancient one. The substitution, therefore, when Christianity came to its own, was not an unnatural, nor indeed an entirely inappropriate, one.

It all conspires to show that, while the modern Greek is sincerely and devoutly a Christian, his transition into his new faith from the religion of his remotest ancestors has been accompanied by a very considerable retention of old usages and old nomenclature, and by the persistence of ineradicable traces of the idealistic residuum that remained after the more gross portions of the ancient mythology had refined away and had left to the worshiper abstract godlike attributes, rather than the gods and goddesses his forefathers had created in man’s unworthy image. So, while nobody can call in question the Christianity of the modern Greek, his churches nevertheless often do mingle a quaint perfume of the ancient and classic days with the modern incense and odor of sanctity. To my own mind, this obvious direct descent of many a churchly custom or churchly name from the days of the mythical Olympian theocracy is one of the most impressively interesting things about modern Hellas and her people.

In a far less striking, but no less real way, we ourselves are of course the direct inheritors of the classic Greeks, legatees of their store of thought, literature, and culture, and followers on the path the Greeks first pioneered. They and not we have been the creators in civilization, with all its varied fields of activity from politics to art. Of our own mental race the Greeks were the progenitors, and it is enough to recognize this fact of intellectual descent and kinship in order to view the Athenian Acropolis and the Hill of Mars with much the same thrill that one to-day feels, let us say, in coming from Kansas or California to look upon Plymouth Rock, the old state house at Philadelphia, or the fields of Lexington and Concord.

All this by way of introduction to the thought that to visit Hellas is by no means a step aside, but rather one further step back along the highway traversed from east to west by the slow course of empire, and therefore a step natural and proper to be taken by every one who is interested in the history of civilized man, the better to understand the present by viewing it in the light of the past. The “philhellene,” as the Greeks call their friend of to-day, needs no apologist, and it is notable that the number of such philhellenes is growing annually.

Time was, of course, when the visit to Greece meant so much labor, hardship, and expense that it was made by few. To-day it is no longer so. One may now visit the more interesting sites of the Greek peninsula and even certain of the islands with perfect ease, at no greater cost in money or effort than is entailed by any other Mediterranean journey, and with the added satisfaction that one sees not only inspiring scenery, but hills and vales peopled with a thousand ghostly memories running far back of the dawn of history and losing themselves in pagan legend, in the misty past when the fabled gods of high Olympus strove, intrigued, loved, and ruled.

The natural result of a growing appreciation of the attractions of Greece is an increase in travel thither, which in its turn has begotten increasing excellence of accommodation at those points where visitors most do congregate. Railroads have been extended, hotels have multiplied and improved, steamers are more frequent and more comfortable. One need no longer be deterred by any fear of hardship involved in such a journey. Athens to-day offers hostelries of every grade, as does Rome. The more famous towns likely to be visited can show very creditable inns for the wayfarer, which are comfortable enough, especially to one inured to the hill towns of Italy or Sicily. Railway coaches, while still much below the standard of the corridor cars of the more western nations, are comfortable enough for journeys of moderate length, and must inevitably improve from year to year as the hotels have done already. As for safety of person and property, that ceased to be a problem long ago. Brigandage has been unknown in the Peloponnesus for many a long year. Drunkenness is exceedingly rare, and begging is infinitely more uncommon than in most Italian provinces and cities. Time is certain to remove the objection of the comparative isolation of Greece still more than it has done at this writing, no doubt. It is still true that Greece is, to all intents and purposes, an island, despite its physical connection with the mainland of Europe. The northern mountains, with the wild and semi-barbaric inhabitants thereamong, serve to insulate the kingdom effectually on the mainland side, just as the ocean insulates it on every other hand, so that one is really more out of the world at Athens than in Palermo. All arrival and departure is by sea; and even when Athens shall be finally connected by rail with Constantinople and the north, the bulk of communication between Greece and the western world will still be chiefly maritime, and still subject, as now, to the delays and inconveniences that must always beset an island kingdom. Daily steamers, an ideal not yet attained, will be the one effective way to shorten the distance between Hellas and Europe proper—not to mention America.

It may be added that one need not be deterred from a tour in Greece by a lack of knowledge of the tongue, any more than one need allow an unfamiliarity with Italian to debar him from the pleasures of Italy. The essential and striking difference in the case is the distinctive form of the Greek letters, which naturally tends to confuse the unaccustomed visitor rather more than do Italian words, written in our own familiar alphabet. Still, even one quite unfamiliar with the Hellenic text may visit the country with comparatively little inconvenience from his ignorance, if content to follow the frequented routes, since in these days perfect English is spoken at all large hotels, and French at large and small alike. Indeed, the prevalence of French among all classes is likely to surprise one at first. The Greeks are excellent linguists, and many a man or woman of humble station will be found to possess a fair working knowledge of the Gallic tongue. It is entirely probable that in a few more years the effect of the present strong tendency toward emigration to America will reflect even more than it does now a general knowledge of English among the poorer people. I have frequently met with men in obscure inland towns who spoke English well, and once or twice discovered that they learned it in my own city, which has drawn heavily on the population of the Peloponnesus within recent years.