From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

Like the Coliseum at Rome, the Parthenon is best seen by moonlight, for then the rents are half concealed, and as the shadows of the columns that are still standing fall across the open area, they seem like the giants of old revisiting the place of their glory, while the night wind sighing among the ruins creeps in our ears like whispers of the mighty dead.

When our American artist, Mr. Church, was here, he spent some weeks in studying the Parthenon and taking sketches, from which he painted the beautiful picture now in the possession of Mr. Morris K. Jesup. He studied it from every point and in every light – at sunrise and sunset, and by moonlight, and even had Bengal lights hung at night to bring out new lights and shadows. This latter mode of illumination was tried on a far grander scale when the Prince of Wales was here a few days since on his way to India, and the effect was indescribably beautiful as those mighty columns, thus brought into strange relief, stood out against the midnight sky.

But if the Parthenon be only a ruin, the memorial of a greatness that exists no more, fit emblem of that mythology of which it was the shrine, and of which it is now at once the monument and the tomb, there is something to be seen from this spot which is not a reminder of decay. Beneath the Acropolis is Mars Hill, where Paul stood, in sight of these very temples, and cried, "Ye men of Athens, I perceive that in all things ye are too superstitious" [or, as it might be more correctly rendered, "very religious"]; "for as I passed by, and beheld your devotions, I found an altar with this inscription, To the Unknown God. Whom therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you. God that made the world, and all things therein, seeing that he is Lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands" [here we may believe he pointed upward to the Parthenon and other temples which crowned the hill above him]; "neither is worshipped with men's hands, as though he needed anything, seeing he giveth to all life, and breath, and all things." That voice has died into silence, nor doth remain upon the barren rock a single monument, or token of any kind, to mark where the great Apostle stood. But the faith which he preached has gone into all the world, and to-day the proudest dome that overlooks the greatest capital of the modern world, bears the name of St. Paul; and not only in London, but in hundreds of other cities, in all parts of the earth, are temples consecrated with his name, that tell of the Unknown God who has been declared to men, and of a faith and worship that shall not pass away.

It is a long leap in history, from Ancient to Modern Greece; but the intervening period contains so much of sadness and of shame, that it is just as well to pass it by. What need to speak of the centuries of degradation, in which Greece has been trampled on by Roman and Goth and Turk, since we may turn to the cheering fact that after this long night of ages, the morning has come, and this stricken land revives again? Greece is at last free from her oppressors, and although the smallest of European kingdoms, yet she exists; she has a place among the nations, and the beginning of a new life, the dawn of what may prove a long and happy career.

It is impossible to look on the revival of a nation which has had such a history without the deepest interest, and I questioned eagerly every one who could tell me anything about the conditions and prospects of the country. I find the general report is one of progress – slow indeed, but steady. The venerable Dr. Hill, who has lived here nearly forty-five years, and is about the oldest inhabitant of Athens, tells me that when he came, there was not a single house– he lived at first in an old Venetian tower – and to-day Athens is a city of fifty thousand inhabitants, with wide and beautiful streets; with public squares and fountains, and many fine residences; with churches and schools, and a flourishing University; with a Palace and a King, a Parliament House and a Legislature, and all the forms of constitutional government.

Athens is a very bright and gay city. Its climate favors life in the open air, and its streets are filled with people, whose varied costumes give them a most picturesque appearance. The fez is very common, but not a turban is to be seen, for there is hardly a Turk in Athens, unless it be connected with their embassy. The most striking figures in the streets are the Albanians, or Suliotes, whose dress is not unlike that of the Highlanders, only that the kilt, instead of being of Scotch plaid, is of white cotton frilled, with the legs covered with long thick stockings, and the costume completed by a "capote" – a cloak as rough as a sheepskin, which is thrown coquettishly over the shoulders. These Highlanders, though not of pure Greek blood, fought bravely in the war of independence, meriting the praise of Byron: —

"O who is more brave than a dark Suliote,In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote?"

The interior of the country is less advanced than the capital. The great want is that of internal communication. Greece is a country made by nature both for commerce and for agriculture, as it is a peninsula, and the long line of coast is indented with bays, and the interior is very fertile; and if a few short roads were opened to connect the inland valleys with the sea, so that the farmers and peasants could send their produce to market, the exports of the country might soon be doubled. One "trunk" road also is needed, about a hundred miles long, to connect Greece with the European system of railroads. The opening of this single artery of trade would give a great impulse to the industry of the country; but as it would have to cross the frontier of Turkey, it is necessary to have the consent of the Turkish Government, and this the Greeks, though they have sought it for years, have never been able to obtain.

But the obstacles to improvement are not all the fault of the Turks; the Greeks are themselves also to blame. There is a lack of enterprise and of public spirit; they do not work together for the public good. If there were a little more of a spirit of coöperation, they could do wonders for their country. They need not go to England to borrow money to build railroads. There is enough in Athens itself, which is the residence of many wealthy Greeks. Greece is about as large in territory as Massachusetts, and has about the same population. If it had the same spirit of enterprise, it would soon be covered, as Massachusetts is, with a network of railroads, and all its valleys would be alive with the hum of industry.

This lack of enterprise and want of combination for public ends, are due to inherent defects of national character. The modern Greeks have many of the traits of their illustrious ancestors, in which there is a strange compound of strength and weakness. They are a mercurial and excitable race, very much like the French, effervescing like champagne, bubbling up and boiling over; fond of talk, and often spending in words the energy that were better reserved for deeds. They have a proverb of their own, which well indicates their readiness to get excited about little matters, which says, "They drown themselves in a tumbler of water."

A still more serious defect than this lightness of manner, is the want of a high patriotic feeling which overrides all personal ambition. There is too much of party spirit, and of personal ambition. Everybody wants to be in office, to obtain control of the Government, and selfish interests often take the precedence of public considerations; men seem more eager to get into power by any means, than to secure the good of their country. This party spirit makes more difficult the task of government. But after all these are things which more or less exist in all countries, and especially under all free governments, and which the most skilled statesmen have to use all their tact and skill to restrain within due bounds.

But while these are obvious defects of the national character, no one can fail to see the fine qualities of the Greeks, and the great things of which they are capable. They are full of talent, in which they show their ancestral blood, and if sometimes a little restless and unmanageable, they are but like spirited horses, that need only to be "reined in" and guided aright, to run a long and glorious race.

I have good hope of the country also, from the character of the young King, whom I had an opportunity of seeing. This was an unexpected pleasure, for which I am indebted to the courtesy of our accomplished Minister here, Gen. J. Meredith Reed, who suggested and arranged it; and it proved not a mere formality, but a real gratification. I had supposed it would be a mere ceremony, but it was, on the contrary, so free from all stiffness – our reception was so unaffected and so cordial – that I should like to impart a little of the pleasure of it to others. I wish I could convey the impression of that young ruler exactly as he appeared in that interview: for this is a case in which the simplest and most literal description would be the most favorable. Public opinion abroad hardly does him justice; for the mere fact of his youth (he is not yet quite thirty years old), may lead those who know nothing of him personally, to suppose that he is a mere figure-head of the State, a graceful ornament indeed, but not capable of adding much to the political wisdom by which it is to be guided. The fact too of his royal connections (for he is the son of the King of Denmark, and brother-in-law both of the Prince of Wales and of the eldest son of the Czar), naturally leads one to suppose that he was chosen King by the Greeks chiefly to insure the alliance of England and Russia. No doubt these considerations did influence, as they very properly might, his election to the throne. But the people were most happy in their choice, in that they obtained not merely a foreign prince to rule over them, but one of such personal qualities as to win their love and command their respect. Those who come in contact with him soon discover that he is not only a man of education, but of practical knowledge of affairs; that he "carries an old head on young shoulders," and has little of youth about him except its modesty, but this he has in a marked degree, and it gives a great charm to his manners. I was struck with this as soon as we entered the room – an air so modest, and yet so frank and open, that it at once puts a stranger at his ease. There is something very engaging in his manner, which commands your confidence by the freedom with which he gives his own. He welcomed us most cordially, and shook us warmly by the hand, and commenced the conversation in excellent English, talking with as much apparent freedom as if he were with old friends. We were quite alone with him, and had him all to ourselves. There was nothing of the manner of one who feels that his dignity consists in maintaining a stiff and rigid attitude. On the contrary, his spirits seemed to run over, and he conversed not only with the freedom, but the joyousness of a boy. He amused us very much by describing a scene which some traveller professed to have witnessed in the Greek Legislature, when the speakers became so excited that they passed from words to blows, and the Assembly broke up in a general mêlée. Of course no such scene ever occurred, but it suited the purpose of some penny-a-liner, who probably was in want of a dinner, and must concoct "a sensation" for his journal. But I had been present at a meeting of the Greek Parliament a day or two before, and could say with truth that it was far more quiet and decorous than the meeting of the National Assembly at Versailles, which I had witnessed several months before. Indeed no legislative body could be more orderly in its deliberations.

Then the King talked of a great variety of subjects – of Greece and of America, of art and of politics, of the Parthenon and of plum-puddings.9 Gen. Reed was very anxious that Greece should be represented at the Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia. The King asked what they should send? I modestly suggested "The Parthenon," with which Greece would eclipse all the world, unless Egypt should send the Pyramids! Of course, it would be a profanation to touch a stone of that mighty temple, though it would not be half as bad to carry off a few "specimen bricks" as it was for Lord Elgin to carry off the friezes of Phidias. But Gen. Reed suggested, what would be quite practicable, that they should send plaster casts of some of their greatest statues, which would not rob them, and yet be the most glorious memorial of Ancient Greece.

The King spoke very warmly of America. The relations of the two countries have always been most cordial. When Greece was struggling single-handed to gain her independence, and European powers stood aloof, America was the first to extend her sympathy and aid. This early friendship has not been forgotten, and it needs only a worthy representative of our country here – such as we are most fortunate in having now – to keep for us this golden friendship through all future years.

Such is the man who is now the King of Greece. He has a great task before him, to restore a country so long depressed. He appreciates fully its difficulties. No man understands better the character of the Greeks, nor the real wants of the country. He may sometimes be tried by things in his way. Yet he applies himself to them with inexhaustible patience. The greater the difficulty, the greater the glory of success. If he should sometimes feel a little discouraged, yet there is much also to cheer and animate him. If things move rather slowly, yet it is a fact of good omen that they move at all; and looking back over a series of years, one may see that there has been a great advance. It is not yet half a century since this country gained its independence. Fifty years ago Turkish pachas were ruling over Greece, and grinding the Christian population into the dust. Now the Turks are gone. The people are free, and in their erect attitude, their manly bearing and cheerful spirits, one sees that they feel that they are men, accustomed for these many years to breathe the air of liberty.

With such a country and such a people, this young king has before him the most beautiful part which is given to any European sovereign – to restore this ancient State, to reconstruct, not the Parthenon, but the Kingdom; to open new channels of industry and wealth, and to lead the people in all the ways of progress and of peace.

It will not be intruding into any privacy, if I speak of the king in his domestic relations. It is not always that kings and queens present the most worthy example to their people; and it was a real pleasure to hear the way in which everybody spoke of this royal family as a model. The queen, a daughter of the Grand Duke Constantine of Russia, is famed for her beauty, and equally for the sweetness of her manners. The whole nation seems to be in love with her, she is so gentle and so good. They have four children, ruddy cheeked little creatures, whom we saw riding about every day, so blooming and rosy that the carriage looked like a basket of flowers. They were always jumping about like squirrels, so that the King told us he had to have them fastened in with leather straps, lest in their childish glee they should throw themselves overboard. In truth it was a pretty sight, that well might warm the heart of the most cold-blooded old bachelor that ever lived; and no one could see them riding by without blessing that beautiful young mother and her happy children.

There is something very fitting in such a young king and queen being at the head of a kingdom which is itself young, that so rulers and people may grow in years and in happiness together.

I know I express the feelings of every American, when I wish all good to this royal house. May this king and queen long live to present to their people the beautiful spectacle of the purest domestic love and happiness! May they live to see Greece greatly increased in population and in wealth – the home of a brave, free, intelligent and happy people!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CONSTANTINOPLE

November 24th.

From my childhood no city has taken more hold of my imagination than Constantinople. For weeks we have been looking forward to our visit here; and when at last we entered the Dardanelles (passing the site of ancient Troy), and crossed the Sea of Marmora, and on Friday noon, Nov. 12th, caught the first gleam of the city in the distance, we seemed to be realizing a long cherished dream. There it was in all its glory. Venice rising from the sea is not more beautiful than Constantinople, when the morning sun strikes on its domes and minarets, rising out of the groves of dark green cypresses, which mark the places where the Turks bury their dead. And when we entered the Bosphorus, and rounding Seraglio Point, anchored at the mouth of the Golden Horn, we seemed to be indeed in the heart of the Orient, where the gorgeous East dazzles the traveller from the West with its glittering splendors.

But closer contact sometimes turns poetry to prose in rather an abrupt manner, and the impression of Oriental magnificence is rudely disturbed when one goes on shore. Indeed, if a traveller cares more for pleasant impressions than for disagreeable realities, he would do better not to land at all, but rather to stand afar off, moving slowly up and down the Bosphorus, beholding and admiring, and then sail away just at sunset, as the last light of day gilds the domes and minarets with a parting splendor, and he will retain his first impressions undisturbed, and Constantinople will remain in his memory as a beautiful dream. But as we are prepared for every variety of experience, and enjoy sudden contrasts, we are rather pleased than otherwise at the noise and confusion which greet the arrival of our steamer in these waters; and the crowd of boats which surround the ship, and the yells of the boatmen, though they are not the voices of paradise, greatly amuse us. Happily a dragoman sent from the Hôtel d'Angleterre, where we had engaged rooms, hails us from a boat, and, coming on board, takes us in charge, and rescues us from the mob, and soon lands us on the quay, where, after passing smoothly through the Custom House, we see our numerous trunks piled on the backs of half a dozen porters, or hamals, and our guide leads the way up the hill of Pera. And now we get an interior view of Constantinople, which is quite different from the glittering exterior, as seen from a distance. We are plunging into a labyrinth of dark and narrow and dirty streets, which are overhung with miserable houses, where from little shops turbaned figures peer out upon us, and women, closely veiled, glide swiftly by. Such streets we never saw in any city that pretended to civilization. The pavement (if such it deserves to be called) is of the rudest kind, of rough, sharp stones, between which one sinks in mud. There is hardly a street that is decently paved in all Constantinople. Even the Grand Street of Pera, on which are our hotel and all the foreign embassies, is very mean in appearance. The embassies themselves are fine, as they are set far back from the street, surrounded with ample grounds, and on one side overlook the Bosphorus, but the street itself is dingy enough. To our surprise we find that Constantinople has no architectural magnificence to boast of. Except the Mosques, and the Palaces of the Sultan, which indeed are on an Imperial scale, there are no buildings which one would go far to see in London or Paris or Rome. The city has been again and again swept by fires, so that many parts are of modern construction, while the old parts which have escaped the flames, are miserable beyond description. It is through such a part that we are now picking our way, steering through narrow passages, full of dogs and asses and wretched-looking people. This is our entrance into Constantinople. After such an experience one's enthusiasm is dampened a little, and he is willing to exchange somewhat of Oriental picturesqueness for Western cleanliness and comfort.

But the charm is not all gone, nor has it disappeared after twelve days of close familiarity. Only the picture takes a more defined shape, and we are able to distinguish the lights and shadows. Constantinople is a city full of sharp contrasts, in which one extreme sets the other in a stronger light, as Oriental luxury and show look down on Oriental dirt and beggary; as gold here appears by the side of rags, and squalid poverty crouches under the walls of splendid palaces. Thus the city may be described as mean or as magnificent, and either description be true, according as we contemplate one extreme or the other.

As to its natural beauty, (that of situation,) no language can surpass the reality. It stands at the junction of two seas and two continents, where Europe looks across the Bosphorus to Asia, as New York looks across the East River to Brooklyn. That narrow strait which divides the land unites the seas, the Black Sea with the Mediterranean. From the lofty height of the Seraskier tower one looks down on such a panorama as is not elsewhere on the face of the earth. Far away stretches the beautiful Sea of Marmora, which comes up to the very walls of the city, and seems to kiss its feet. On the other side of Stamboul, dividing it from Pera, is the Golden Horn, crowded with ships; and in front is the Bosphorus, where the whole Turkish navy rides at anchor, and a fleet of steamers and ships is passing, bearing the grain of the Black Sea to feed the nations of Western Europe. Islanded amid all these waters are the different parts of one great capital – a vast stretch of houses, out of which rise a hundred domes and minarets. As one takes in all the features of this marvellous whole, he can but exclaim, "Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, is" – Constantinople!

Nor are its environs less attractive than the position of the city itself. Whichever way you turn, sailing over these waters and along these shores, or riding outside of the ancient wall, from the Golden Horn over the hills to the Sea of Marmora, with its beautiful islands, there is something to enchant the eye and to excite the imagination. A sail up the Bosphorus is one of the most interesting in the world. We have taken it twice. The morning after our arrival, our friend Dr. George W. Wood, to whom we are indebted for many acts of kindness, gave up the day to accompany us. For miles the shores on either side are dotted with palaces of the Sultan, or of the Viceroy of Egypt, or of this or that Grand Vizier, or of some Pasha who has despoiled provinces to enrich himself, or with the summer residences of the Foreign Ministers, or of wealthy merchants of Constantinople.

The Bosphorus constantly reminded me of the Hudson, with its broad stream indented with bays, now swelling out like our own noble river at the Tappan Zee, and then narrowing again, as at West Point, and with the same steep hills rising from the water's edge, and wooded to the top. So delighted were we with the excursion, that we have since made it a second time, accompanied by Rev. A. V. Millingen, the excellent pastor of the Union Church of Pera, and find the impression of beauty increased. Landing on the eastern side, near where the Sweet Waters of Asia come down to mingle with the sea, we walked up a valley which led among the hills, and climbed the Giants' Mountain, on which Moslem chronicles fix the place of the tomb of Joshua, the great Hebrew leader, while tradition declares it to be the tomb of Hercules. Probably one was buried here as truly as the other; authorities differ on the subject, and you take your choice. But what none can dispute is the magnificent site, worthy to have been the place of burial of any hero or demigod. The view extends up and down the Bosphorus for miles. How beautiful it seemed that day, which was like one of the golden days of our Indian summer, a soft and balmy air resting on all the valleys and the hills. The landscape had not, indeed, the freshness of spring, but the leaves still clung to the trees, which wore the tints of autumn, and thus resembled, though they did not equal, those of our American forests; and as we wandered on amid these wild and wooded scenes, I could imagine that I was rambling among the lovely hills along the Hudson.

But there is one point in which the resemblance ceases. There is a difference (and one which makes all the difference in the world), viz., that the Hudson presents us only the beauty of nature, while the Bosphorus has the added charm of history. The dividing line between Europe and Asia, it has divided the world for thousands of years. Here we come back to the very beginnings of history, or before all history, into the dim twilight of fable and tradition; for through these straits, according to the ancient story, sailed Jason with his Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece, and yonder are the Symplegades, the rocks which were the terror of navigators even in the time of Jason, if such a man ever lived, and around which the sea still roars as it roared thousands of years ago. On a hill-top stood a temple to Jupiter Urius, to which mariners entering the stormy Euxine came to offer their vows, and to pray for favorable winds; and here still lives an old, long-haired Dervish, to whom the Turkish sailors apply for the benefit of his prayers. He was very friendly with us, and a trifling gratuity insured us whatever protection he could give. Thus we strolled along over the hills to the Genoese Castle, a great round tower, built hundreds of years ago to guard the entrance to the Black Sea, and in a grove of oaks stretched ourselves upon the grass, and took our luncheon in full view of two continents, both washed by one "great and wide sea." To this very spot came Darius the Great, to get the same view on which we are looking now; and a few miles below, opposite the American College at Bebek, he built his bridge of boats across the Bosphorus, over which he passed his army of seven hundred thousand men. To the same spot Xenophon led his famous Retreat of the Ten Thousand.