GREECECome, come with me to the Isles of Greece,And on o'er the seas to its golden shore;Pause not till you reach Athenia's crown,Then mount to its heaven-domed Parthenon.Its glories will feed your musing hours,When fame has dwindled to cheap renown.It isa far cry from the Bowery to the Bosporus, but only a few obstacles, such as the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, the Adriatic and the Sea of Marmora, intervene. We had overcome two of these so that it was from Brindisi, Italy, the end of the Appian Way, that we embarked for Greece.Iexpected to find tall, willowy maidens in Grecian draperies standing on the banks of Corfu waving golden lyres to welcome me to these fair Ionian Islands, with mighty warriors back of them proclaiming of their ancestors; instead, I found a pretty little island covered with blossoms, in the midst of which is the magnificent Villa Achilleion erected for Empress Elisabeth of Austria.One would never dream that the lazy sailors found along the shores of this hillyisle were descendants of those old Greeks who fought the first naval battle 2600 years ago, off its coast.One must be a good pedestrian, for even with the excellent roads it is necessary to climb on foot to the lookout if one would have a survey of the island and its surroundings. I reached it just in time to see the sun sink, all gold and orange, into the green liquid of the Adriatic.If Corfu gives one a flowery welcome to the Isles of Greece, the mainland keeps up the cordiality. Patras, its first port, a dignified, progressive little city, was not behind its island sister in greeting us. Its historic neighbor, Olympia, is reached by a bridle path, and the two days' journey will give one a better insight into the manners and customs of the ancient Greeks than months spent in a modern city. Many of the inhabitants along this path have never visited their nearest village.SHIP CANAL CUT ACROSS THE ISTHMUS OF CORINTH, CONNECTING THE GULF OF CORINTH AND THE SARONIC GULFThe road between Patras and Athens—my heart throbs now at the mere writing of the name "Athens," just as it did when I first took my seat in the train for that classic city—is different from anything else on earth, for almost all the way to the ship canal which crosses the Isthmusof Corinth the mountainsides are strewn with currants, drying in the sun on beds of white pebbles. All the dried currants, originally called "grape of Corinth," come from this part of the Levant.ATHENS:Full many a bard of thy strong walls has sung,Full many a hand has sketched thy fair outline;But none can sing nor paint all that thou art,To earnest, loving, simple hearts like mine.I feelnow as though the scratching of my pen were sacrilege, just as I first tread softly on this sacred soil and would start when I heard some one laugh aloud. I cannot tell you of the deep impression Athens has made upon me.If you were here where I could touch your hand and, without one word being spoken, we could stand and drink in all its grandeur, or sit in silence by moonlight watching the shadows come and go, you would understand—but to put Athens in cold black and white, ah, never ask me to try.The new Athens, like Florence, is broad and white, but not glistening. The old Athens—my Athens—lies yonder on the hill, a mass of monstrous rocks, giganticpillars and huge squares of stone which some mighty tempest or some avalanche seems to have scattered hither and yon.It was by the light of the moon that the vastness of the Acropolis impressed itself upon me, though the immensity of purpose—the Herculean obstacles surmounted—rather than its ponderous proportions, creates its magnitude. But it was just as the day was dawning that its loveliness appeared to me.I have been to the Acropolis with a registeredciceronewho knew every stone of it, and again with a fine young Greek who loved every atom of it, but today at dawn I stood there alone and watched the sun come up seemingly from beneath my feet. No sound broke the stillness. All nature was hushed that I might bid my beloved Athens farewell. There she lay outspread before me, bathed in the first faint glow of the early dawn. Far down is the Porte Beulé and the marble staircase from it to the Propylæa, one of whose courts leads to that diminutive jewel, the Temple of Nike, with its Pentelic marble grown yellow with age.THE ACROPOLIS AS IT WASTHE ACROPOLIS AS IT ISTHE TEMPLE OF THESEUS IN FOREGROUNDBefore the sun had climbed above the mountain, I watched the purple marble ofthe Erechtheion turn to gold, giving a rosy glow of youth to the Maidens of the Caryatides portico who have held up their canopy for two thousand years. Always before the eye, tall and commanding, in all its perfection, stands the Parthenon. Off yonder is Mars Hill, and far beyond, the Temple of Theseus, its weather-stained, golden-hued marbles, that have braved the storms of centuries, exhaling a vigorous vitality.As the sun climbed over the hilltop my heart grew heavy at the thought of parting with Athens. In a few hours I would be leaving her, perhaps forever. But Athens—Athens over whom I wept—slept on.I came back to earth and went to Piræus in a very "earthy" electric tram—think of desecrating Athens with a trolley!
Come, come with me to the Isles of Greece,And on o'er the seas to its golden shore;Pause not till you reach Athenia's crown,Then mount to its heaven-domed Parthenon.Its glories will feed your musing hours,When fame has dwindled to cheap renown.
Come, come with me to the Isles of Greece,And on o'er the seas to its golden shore;Pause not till you reach Athenia's crown,Then mount to its heaven-domed Parthenon.Its glories will feed your musing hours,When fame has dwindled to cheap renown.
Come, come with me to the Isles of Greece,
And on o'er the seas to its golden shore;
Pause not till you reach Athenia's crown,
Then mount to its heaven-domed Parthenon.
Its glories will feed your musing hours,
When fame has dwindled to cheap renown.
It isa far cry from the Bowery to the Bosporus, but only a few obstacles, such as the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, the Adriatic and the Sea of Marmora, intervene. We had overcome two of these so that it was from Brindisi, Italy, the end of the Appian Way, that we embarked for Greece.
Iexpected to find tall, willowy maidens in Grecian draperies standing on the banks of Corfu waving golden lyres to welcome me to these fair Ionian Islands, with mighty warriors back of them proclaiming of their ancestors; instead, I found a pretty little island covered with blossoms, in the midst of which is the magnificent Villa Achilleion erected for Empress Elisabeth of Austria.
One would never dream that the lazy sailors found along the shores of this hillyisle were descendants of those old Greeks who fought the first naval battle 2600 years ago, off its coast.
One must be a good pedestrian, for even with the excellent roads it is necessary to climb on foot to the lookout if one would have a survey of the island and its surroundings. I reached it just in time to see the sun sink, all gold and orange, into the green liquid of the Adriatic.
If Corfu gives one a flowery welcome to the Isles of Greece, the mainland keeps up the cordiality. Patras, its first port, a dignified, progressive little city, was not behind its island sister in greeting us. Its historic neighbor, Olympia, is reached by a bridle path, and the two days' journey will give one a better insight into the manners and customs of the ancient Greeks than months spent in a modern city. Many of the inhabitants along this path have never visited their nearest village.
SHIP CANAL CUT ACROSS THE ISTHMUS OF CORINTH, CONNECTING THE GULF OF CORINTH AND THE SARONIC GULF
SHIP CANAL CUT ACROSS THE ISTHMUS OF CORINTH, CONNECTING THE GULF OF CORINTH AND THE SARONIC GULF
The road between Patras and Athens—my heart throbs now at the mere writing of the name "Athens," just as it did when I first took my seat in the train for that classic city—is different from anything else on earth, for almost all the way to the ship canal which crosses the Isthmusof Corinth the mountainsides are strewn with currants, drying in the sun on beds of white pebbles. All the dried currants, originally called "grape of Corinth," come from this part of the Levant.
Full many a bard of thy strong walls has sung,Full many a hand has sketched thy fair outline;But none can sing nor paint all that thou art,To earnest, loving, simple hearts like mine.
Full many a bard of thy strong walls has sung,Full many a hand has sketched thy fair outline;But none can sing nor paint all that thou art,To earnest, loving, simple hearts like mine.
Full many a bard of thy strong walls has sung,
Full many a hand has sketched thy fair outline;
But none can sing nor paint all that thou art,
To earnest, loving, simple hearts like mine.
I feelnow as though the scratching of my pen were sacrilege, just as I first tread softly on this sacred soil and would start when I heard some one laugh aloud. I cannot tell you of the deep impression Athens has made upon me.
If you were here where I could touch your hand and, without one word being spoken, we could stand and drink in all its grandeur, or sit in silence by moonlight watching the shadows come and go, you would understand—but to put Athens in cold black and white, ah, never ask me to try.
The new Athens, like Florence, is broad and white, but not glistening. The old Athens—my Athens—lies yonder on the hill, a mass of monstrous rocks, giganticpillars and huge squares of stone which some mighty tempest or some avalanche seems to have scattered hither and yon.
It was by the light of the moon that the vastness of the Acropolis impressed itself upon me, though the immensity of purpose—the Herculean obstacles surmounted—rather than its ponderous proportions, creates its magnitude. But it was just as the day was dawning that its loveliness appeared to me.
I have been to the Acropolis with a registeredciceronewho knew every stone of it, and again with a fine young Greek who loved every atom of it, but today at dawn I stood there alone and watched the sun come up seemingly from beneath my feet. No sound broke the stillness. All nature was hushed that I might bid my beloved Athens farewell. There she lay outspread before me, bathed in the first faint glow of the early dawn. Far down is the Porte Beulé and the marble staircase from it to the Propylæa, one of whose courts leads to that diminutive jewel, the Temple of Nike, with its Pentelic marble grown yellow with age.
THE ACROPOLIS AS IT WASTHE ACROPOLIS AS IT ISTHE TEMPLE OF THESEUS IN FOREGROUND
THE ACROPOLIS AS IT WAS
THE ACROPOLIS AS IT ISTHE TEMPLE OF THESEUS IN FOREGROUND
Before the sun had climbed above the mountain, I watched the purple marble ofthe Erechtheion turn to gold, giving a rosy glow of youth to the Maidens of the Caryatides portico who have held up their canopy for two thousand years. Always before the eye, tall and commanding, in all its perfection, stands the Parthenon. Off yonder is Mars Hill, and far beyond, the Temple of Theseus, its weather-stained, golden-hued marbles, that have braved the storms of centuries, exhaling a vigorous vitality.
As the sun climbed over the hilltop my heart grew heavy at the thought of parting with Athens. In a few hours I would be leaving her, perhaps forever. But Athens—Athens over whom I wept—slept on.
I came back to earth and went to Piræus in a very "earthy" electric tram—think of desecrating Athens with a trolley!