^UBRARY^N

SAN DTBW&

THROUGH
GREECE AND DALMATIA

AGENTS

AMERICA .... THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

64 ge 66 FIFTH AVHNUR. NEW YORK

AUSTRALASIA . . . OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

os FLINDERS LANE, MELBOURNE

CANADA , THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD.

ST. MARTIN'S HOUSE, 70 BOND STREET, TORONTO

INDIA MACMILLAN & COMPANY, LTD.

MACMILLAN BUILDING, BOMBAY

309 Bow BAZAAR STREET, CALCUTTA.

THE WEST DOORWAY OF THE CATHEDRA!. AT TRAU

H?I

THROUGH GREECE
AND DALMATIA

A DIARY OF IMPRESSIONS
RECORDED BY PEN Gf PICTURE

MRS. RUSSELL HARRINGTON

" Voir c'est avoir"

ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. 1912

AH ! too true Time's current strong
Leaves us true to nothing long.
Yet, if little stays with man,
Ah ! retain we all we can !
If the clear impression dies,
Ah ! the dim remembrance prize !
Ere the parting kiss be dry,
Quick, thy tablets, memory !"

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF

HER EXCELLENCY

BARONIN VON SCHMIDT-ZABIERO

(IDA VON MOHL)

A TRIBUTE

WHEN ending my journey ings in Greece and Dalmatia by a
visit to this lifelong friend the Ida von Mohl of early days
in her beautiful villa at Volosca, she urged me to publish the
notes in pen and picture I had jotted down every day for my
amusement as my companions and I travelled along. Beyond
the personal interest she took in anything which concerned
her friends, Baronin von Schmidt-Zabiero had a great desire
that the exceptional beauty of the country and architecture
of Dalmatia should be widely known in England, so that this
curiously interesting country poor sometimes to starvation-
point should have money imported into it by richer folk.
Famines in Dalmatia and Istria are not very rare calamities.
The narrow strips of level land which border the coast, and on
which the towns are built, disappear altogether along the
greater part of it, and the rocky sides of the spine of mountains
which divide the sea from Croatia, Bosnia, and Herzegovina,
strike straight down to the edge of the Adriatic. The small
patches of earth which are deposited in the hollows of the rocks
are the only spots of land available for cultivation by the
peasants. When there is a drought a not uncommon occur-
rence the crops planted in these, so to say, lakelets of earth,
fail, and starvation stares them in the face. Austria is not a
rich country, and money is required to revive and develop many
of the industries in the towns of Dalmatia which prospered

Through Greece and Dalmatia

well during the republics of old, and which would, were they
now revived, enrich the country. The Baronin von Schmidt-
Zabiero took the warmest interest in questions relating to the
condition of all classes. She married a distinguished Austrian
official, Baron von Schmidt-Zabiero, for whom the Emperor
Joseph felt a personal regard, and who for many years was
Landes President of Carinthia. As his wife, she had full scope
for exercising her philanthropic tendencies. At Klagenfurt
she worked strenuously for a higher standard of education for
women to secure for them the same intellectual privileges
and power of artistic development which are accorded to
women in England and Paris. The hospitals she took also
under her special care. Her only sister, Anna, a lady of bril-
liant parts, had married the famous Von Helmholtz, and
assisted the Empress Frederick, our Princess Royal, in carry-
ing out various good works for women in Germany. The two
sisters one in Berlin, the other at Klagenfurt, were both
engaged in important public work ; but, however onerous her
public and social duties might be, the dear Ida of early days
ever retained the same vital interest and loving sympathy in all
that concerned her friends, in their family concerns no less
than in their intellectual and artistic occupations.

There are certain people whose lives are never written.
However important their social and official lives, however good
and beneficent their work may be, they escape the biographer.
The strength of their natures seem to lie in a power of sym-
pathy rather than in a power of self -revealing, or in an expres-
sion through any form which the public may claim as its own .
They become a part of the intimate lives of their friends ; they
enter into the inner sanctuaries with which the public has
nothing to do. When they pass beyond the veil, the void in the
lives of those friends left by their passing on is felt in that
inner personal life, and defeats very explicit description.
Such a one was Ida von Mohl. The keynote of her nature was
to be found in her affections. In 1889, in a letter she wrote to
me when she was suffering a terrible grief through the loss of
one of her sons, she quoted Browning's line, " Love is all,
Death is nought."

A Tribute

Though memory has to travel back across a whole lifetime
before reaching the days when my friendship with Ida von
Mohl began, how vividly pictures of those days start out of
that far-away past ! It was in Paris, in the well-known apart-
ment, 120, Rue du Bac, Quartier St. Germain, that I first knew
her ; on that third story where the notable and last gather-
ings of their kind were held in the salon of the brilliant
Madame Mohl and her erudite husband, M. Jules Mohl,
a naturalized Frenchman, and a Membre de 1'Institut.
My parents and elder sisters formed a lasting friendship
with the host and hostess of this salon and their niece,
Ida von Mohl, in the winter of 1855-56, which they passed
in Paris. As a legacy of their friendship, I, when not yet
grown up, had later the good luck of being asked to stay
in this notable apartment. Much my senior, Ida von Mohl
took me under her wing, opening to me mines of treasures in
the Louvre, and showing me Paris from the artist's point of
view. By nature both she and her aunt were artists. The
ranks are quickly thinning of those who visited that then
world-known salon in the Rue du Bac. Though Ida von
Mohl's place in this milieu was not exactly in the foreground,
yet assuredly it was not in the background. She stood in
a middle distance not very obvious, but very necessary.
Madame Mohl reigned as the Queen well in the foreground,
by reason of her delicious personality. She was sparklingly
alive with intellectual and artistic vitality grounded in the
kindest and soundest of hearts. A little queer very amusing,
brilliantly versatile wise, witty, and good, was this " great
little Madame Mohl." The fashion in which she had made
her first entrance on to the stage of notables was somewhat
quaint. Her genius for conversing in a manner which always
held her audience first told when, living with her mother in an
apartment in the Abbaye Aux Bois, Quartier St. Germain,
for the purpose of studying painting, she became acquainted
with the famous beauty of the Empire, Madame Re"camier,
and the famous beauty's devotee Chateaubriant, who paid his
respects to his goddess every day in the apartment below the
one occupied by Mrs. Clarke and her daughter. By that time,

vii

Through Greece and Dalmatia

however, the excitement of fervent friendship between these
celebrities had somewhat subsided. It had sobered down to
a routine process of giving and receiving respectful evidences
of adoration a process which had become apparently a little
monotonous not to say dull ! So it came to pass that the
Scots young lady of good family, endowed with artistic gifts
and brilliant vitality, was encouraged to descend from her
upper perch to reanimate the stately intercourse of these dis-
tinguished personages, and make tea for them. Apparently
they become somewhat dependent on these descents for saving
the theoretic enjoyment of each other's company from the
ignominy of falling into a state of mental yawning. Stimu-
lated by the fame of her companions, Mary Clarke's genius for
conversation thus became fledged. She acquired in the ap-
preciative company of these celebrities the assurance a young
girl requires before she can assert to be herself, and impress
that self on others. The secret of the lodestone which drew
the wide assortment of celebrities to Madame Mohl's salon in
later years was first acquired in this apartment in the Abbaye
Aux Bois, where she learnt to disclose her salient personality
in talk. In later days she returned to that time, when she
wrote the life of Madame Recamier. Her learned husband was
equally appreciated by the celebrities when once drawn there
by his brilliant wife. No humour was ever more grave or
more effective than that of Monsieur Mohl. Emerging out
of mines of solemn wisdom and knowledge, this unexpected
sense of humour had a special raciness. Walter Bagehot, for
one, was greatly captivated by it.

Those were good days spent in that apartment in the Rue
du Bac. From the windows of the salon we looked down on
the gardens of the College for Missionaries, and would watch
the seminaries with their attendant priests pacing up and down
in long black cassocks, the Dome of the Invalides rising up in
the sky behind its walls. On Friday evenings Madame re-
ceived ; a few distinguished men might be asked to dine, and
before the crowd arrived they and M. Mohl would stand in
the centre of the red furnished salon, thrashing out some
matter of interest, Madame Mohl sitting on one corner otto-

viii

A Tribute

man, Ida von Mohl and I on another, listening and imbibing.
What wonderful talk it was ! truly an art in conversing,
finely pointed, aesthetically perfect ; no monologuing, no
anxiety in any one or the other to have more than his due in
the argument a deliberate giving and taking, without hesita-
tion, strain, or impatience. Always on tall lines, it was
nevertheless typically gracious, suave, and distinguished
most pleasant to listen to. One wondered how they could do
it like that without making it up beforehand. Into this de-
lightful milieu Ida von Mohl had come, as a young girl, lent
by her father, Robert von Mohl, the great Jurist, and the
delegate for Wurtemberg at the Frankfort Parliament, to her
childless uncle and aunt, to whom she became as a child of
their own. How much of the success and charm of that
milieu depended on this unselfish, unobtrusive, ever-helpful
niece, probably few at the time realized ; but, looking back to
those days, one feels that that salon could hardly have existed
in the form it did without her. Between those early memories
of the now historic salon and my visit to the beautiful white
marble villa on the Gulf of Fiume, when I last saw my friend,
and where she incited me to publish this little diary, several
visits to England were paid by her and her aunt, several visits
to Paris by our family. Even after Ida von Mohl had married,
she faithfully took charge of her aunt, who had reached the
great age of eighty-eight, when they came to pay us a last visit
of three weeks in Melbury Road. The sparkle of that extra-
ordinary personality still nickered, but only at times, and
chiefly before noon. After twelve in the morning memory
would become uncertain, and strange situations would at
times occur, but Ida would always come to the rescue. When
Leighton, who, as a youth, had been an habitue of the salon in
the Rue du Bac, and was then President of the Royal Academy
and king of the English art world, realized this, he opened
his studio to her in the early sacred hours of work. As we
took her into the sanctum, he came forward to the little lady,
almost a nonogenarian, and, falling on one knee, kissed her
hand. " Ah ! toujours le meme ! Ce joli petit Leighton de
la Rue Blanche !" she exclaimed, the wrinkles of great age

ix b

Through Greece and Dalmatia

almost disappearing under radiant beams of approval. For
the moment she felt herself again a Queen !

After that visit and the last paid on the Gulf of Fiume,
intercourse with my friend was carried on through letters
alone. She became a widow. My sisters were with her when
her husband died. On this great sorrow followed another
immediately. Her sister, who had travelled from Berlin to
be with her during the first days of grief, died a few days after
her arrival at Volosca. Sorrow, however, never had the power
to quench Ida's delight in all that was beautiful and good.
She told me how much the loveliness of the views from her
home in the forest of bay-trees, looking over the sea to the
beautiful mountains that enclose the gulf, had comforted her
in her grief, and she continued her attempts at painting it
in her sketches to the end of her life.

Her letters were uncommonly delightful. The remarkable
gifts of character and mind ; the clear, sound understanding ;
the wit quaint and racy but ever stingless ; the keen sense
of beauty, and the intellectual aspiration which ever lifted
her interests above those of the commonplace ; a judgment,
dispassionate and shrewdly critical ; affections faithful, warm,
and very real ; excessive modesty and unassertiveness all
these choice possessions were reflected in her letters, and made
them exceptionally nourishing reading. Her domestic, no less
than her public, life was ever tuned to the high key,

" In Ganzen Guten, Schonen
Resolut zu leben."

Her life in this lovely home was cheered by the presence of
her son, his wife, and their children, who lived with her.
Baron Arthur was enabled, through his official position in
Istria, to make the beautiful wooded surroundings of Abbazia
available to the public, by cutting pathways on the hillsides
in many directions, from which the views over the Gulf are
obtained.

After the visit to Volosca hardly a letter came without some
impatient inquiry as to when the Diary would " come out."
Final arrangements for its publication were made in May,
1911. A long last letter arrived begun April 30, finished

A Tribute

May n, 1911 : " I am ill, and have been ill for more than two
months. Next year the Universal Association of Women in
Berlin is to organize there a universal exhibition of women's
work all over the world, comprising every branch of human
(female) activity arts, literature, commerce, education, etc."
Ever interested in women's work, she continued at some
length describing what was going on with reference to this
exhibition of it, and asking me to contribute to it, but ending
by : " Excuse my writing so badly and stupidly ; I am really
too ill to find proper expressions." The last loving words of
this letter were pathetic, and foreshadowed what was ap-
proaching. My answer to it ended the intercourse between
us in this world. The ominous black-edged faire-part came
but a few weeks later. On June 22 she had left us. She
wished this Diary to appear, and I inscribe it to her treasured
memory to my lifelong friend Ida.

PREFACE

To anyone who has six weeks to play with from Septem-
ber ist to the middle of October, and who wishes that the
days of those six weeks should be full of interest and
nourishment; and who craves, moreover, for the sun-
shine of the South to warm him through before the damp
fog and cold of an English winter begins, no better
recipe could be given, I believe, than that of the journey
noted in this diary.

This journey was suggested to my friend K. B. by
reading the very first-rate work, written and illustrated
by T. G. Jackson, R.A., entitled " Dalmatia, the Quarnero
and Istria, with Cettigne in Montenegro and the Island
of Grado " a book which, besides being the classic on
its subject, possesses a singular power of making the
reader participate vividly in the artist's own appreciation
of all that is beautiful and sincere in the architecture and
countries he describes. The reader cannot help catching
some of his enthusiasm, his joy. So it was that, when
studying it, the desire was inspired in K. B. to visit
that notable strip of land facing the long boot of Italy,
running from north to south between high mountains
and the sea, and throwing off from its coasts a chain
of islands into the Adriatic coasts and islands alike

xiii

Preface

decorated by rich treasures of early Venetian architec-
ture, and echoing still earlier Roman memories of Dio-
cletian and the inhabitants of Solona.

In studying maps for our travels, my friends, Mr.
and Mrs. Clarence Bourne, and I awoke to the fact that
Cattaro, the most southern town in Dalmatia, was but a
day's journey by boat from Corfu Corfu but another
from Patras Patras but eight hours' by train from
Athens! Therefore a visit to Athens must be paid.
K. B.'s genius for planning a campaign settled it on
the spot. We were to do a great deal in a very
short time in the inside of six weeks. Nevertheless,
looking back on those six weeks, few minutes, if any, can
be remembered when a sense of hurry, fatigue, or weari-
ness marred our enjoyment. Owing to the consummate
manner in which K. B. organized our journey, there were
no failures no hitches from beginning to end.

The jotting down each day in pen and picture im-
pressions inspired by the scenes we saw, have kept vividly
in mind every detail of one of the most delightful six
weeks of my life. I can only hope that, by publishing
the diary I kept of these travels, others may be induced
to go and do likewise.

E. I. B.

4, MELBURY ROAD,

KENSINGTON.

xiv

CONTENTS

PAGB

A TRIBUTE V

PREFACE - - Kill

THE OUTWARD JOURNEY

BOLOGNA BARI PATRAS - I

IN GREECE

ATHENS VAL DAPHNI SUNIUM OLYMPIA CORFU - 35

III
DALMATIA

FROM CORFU THROUGH THE BOCCHE DI CATTARO

TO CATTARO - ' T 33

DALMATIA
RAGUSA CANNOSA- - 155

DALMATIA
SPALATO SOLON A TRAU - -190

DALMATIA ISTRA

SEBENICO 2ARA GULF OF FIUME VILLA

SCHMITZ-ZABIERO - - 225

VII

ITALY ONCE MORE
TRIESTE GRADC AQUILEJA VENICE - 241

INDEX .... - 258

NOTE ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS

WHEN travelling fast there is always a difficulty in securing faithful
picture records of the impressions which scenes and places make.
Photographs are not satisfactory ; a hasty sketch is even less so,
especially if the places visited are notable for beautiful architecture.
A photograph doubtless can give the detail in architecture very
minutely, but it also gives you equally conspicuously the detail of
cast-iron railings, telegraph posts and wires, or any other modem
innovations which jar against the atmosphere of the precious old-
world look. Still, a photograph goes a long way towards giving
the skeleton of a scene correctly. Realizing this, I bought a kodak
(Eastman No. i), and though I had no experience whatever in
the use of it, the sun in the south enabled me to obtain records
which were useful and suggestive. Had I known more of the art of
photography, I should doubtless have secured results more useful
for my purpose. As it was, I had at times to use two or three
snapshots in order to get one picture. When I had the photo-
graphs enlarged, I found the difficulties were only increased.
What was out of drawing or indistinct on a small scale became
considerably more so on a larger, so that I found I had in most cases
to reconstruct and recompose many of the photo-pictures. Never-
theless, I am grateful to the kodak for giving me much that I could
not have recalled, and which, though I was fully equipped with
sketching materials, I had no time to draw adequately. My object,
naturally, was in no wise to make pictures of my own ; but, when I
decided on publishing this Diary, to record in a form that could be
easily reproduced, the scenes which had created vivid impressions,
and which had stamped themselves on my memory. In all cases
where colour and atmosphere produced the impression I have not
attempted to make any picture record. Oil and tempera are the
mediums I have used, occasionally adding pen-and-ink lines to
accentuate an outline.

XVI

-J 24

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Printed separately from the Text

1. WESTERN ENTRANCE TO THE CATHEDRAL,

TRAtJ, DALMATIA - Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

2. THE PIAZZA AND CHURCH OF ST. DOMENICO, BOLOGNA 9
3- FA9ADES OF TWO OF THE SEVEN CHURCHES OF S. STE-

FANO, BOLOGNA - 1 6

4. INTERIOR OF S. SEPOLCRO, S. STEFANO, BOLOGNA - 17

5. NORTHERN FA9ADE OF THE PRIORY OF S. NICHOLAS, BARl")

6. A STREET IN THE OLD TOWN OF BARI

7- ANCIENT ROMAN FORTRESS FRONTING THE SEA, BARI -)

f 2 5

8. WESTERN FAADE OF THE PRIORY OF S. NICHOLAS, BARlJ

9. VIEW ACROSS THE HARBOUR OF PATRAS TO THE HEIGHTS

ABOVE MISSOLONGHI WHERE BYRON DIED - "32

10. STREET SCENE IN ATHENS - 33

11. THE ARCH OF HADRIAN, ATHENS - 4!

12. ATHENS AND HER MOUNTAINS SEEN THROUGH THE'j

COLUMNS OF THE ERECHTHEION, ACROPOLIS -r 48

13. THE PARTHENON, ATHENS

14. CHURCH OF THE VAL DAPHNI - - 57

15. THE ACROPOLIS SEEN THROUGH THE DORIC COLUMNS OF

THE TEMPLE OF THESEUS - -64

xvii c

List of Illustrations

FACING PAGE

1 6. IONIC COLUMNS OF THE ERECHTHEION - 64

17. THE PORCH OF THE BYZANTINE CHURCH OF THE KAPNI-

KAREA, ATHENS - 73

18. THE OLD BYZANTINE METROPOLITAN CHURCH, ATHENS -1

19. BYZANTINE CHURCH IN ATHENS NAMED KAPNIKAREA

20. THE TOWER OF THE WINDS, ATHENS - 88

21. THE GATE OF ATHENA ARCHEGETIS, ATHENS - - 89

22. TWO VIEWS OF A BYZANTINE CHURCH USED AS A MOSQUE

DURING THE TURKISH OCCUPATION OF ATHENS - 96

23. TOWER OF THE WINDS FROM THE RUINS OF THE ROMAN\

MARKET-PLACE -

h 97

24. THE METROPOLITAN CHURCHES OF ATHENS, OLD AND

NEW - -/

25. CAPITALS FROM FALLEN COLUMNS OF THE TEMPLE OF

ZEUS, OLYMPUS - 105

26. TWO VIEWS OF THE TEMPLE OF SUNIUM, CAPE COLONNA - 112

27. BYROXIC CORSAIR, TEMPLE OF SUNIUM - 121

28. ATHENS SEEN THROUGH THE PILLARS OF THE PAR-

THENON ... - 128

29. FIGURES FROM THE EASTERN PEDIMENT OF THE TEMPLE

OF ZEUS, OLYMPIA - - 136

30. THE CENTRAL FIGURE, APOLLO, FROM THE WESTERN

PEDIMENT OF THE TEMPLE OF ZEUS, OLYMPIA - 137

31. THE CROUCHING FIGURES FROM THE WESTERN PEDIMENT

OF THE TEMPLE OF ZEUS, OLYMPIA - 144

32. HEAD OF PRAXITELES' HERMES, OLYMPIA - 145

33. A FIRST-CLASS MONTENEGRIN PASSENGER ON BOARD THE]

"SELENE " - -I 153

34- VIEW FROM " ONE-GUN BATTERY " CORFU

xviii

List of Illustrations

FACING PAGE

35. IN THE BOCCHE DI CATTARO - -\

36. " THE FALLEN KINGS " AND THE DONKEY-ENGINE ON V l6o

BOARD THE " SELENE " -j

37- " LA COLLEGIATA," OR THE CHURCH OF ST. MARIA^

INFUNARA, CATTARO - - V 169

38. THE CAVERN-LIKE ENTRANCE TO CATTARO - -J

39. CLOISTER OF THE FRANCISCAN CHURCH, RAGUSA (DATE,

1317 TO 1360) - - 176

40. THE TORRE MENZE FROM THE AVENUE OF MULBERRY^

TREES, RAGUSA -I- 184

41. THE " SPONZA " (CUSTOM-HOUSE), RAGUSA -;

42. ONOFRIO DI LA CAVA*S, SMALLER FOUNTAIN, RAGUSA - 185

43. CLOISTER OF THE DOMINICAN MONASTERY (DATE, 1348) - 192

44. LANDING-PLACE FOR CANNOSA - - 2OO

45. VILLA BASSEGLI GOZZE, CANNOSA -"I

r 201

46. " ASILE DES AMOUREUX," CANNOSA -)

47. PULPIT IN THE CATHEDRAL AT SPALATO - - 2O8

48. APPROACH TO TRAU .'..

I 216

49. THE LOGGIA AND THE TORRE DELL* OROLOGIO, TRAU -J

50. LANDING-PLACE AT TRAU - - 217

51. CORTILE OF THE PALAZZO COMMUNALE, TRAU -

224
52. COURTYARD OF A HOUSE IN TRAU

53- SEBENICO FROM THE STEAMER -

v 233

54. FORT OF CAMERLENGO, TRAU

55. PULPIT IN THE CATHEDRAL OF GRADO - - 240

56. VENETIAN WOMEN LEAVING THE SCUOLA DI S. MARCO,

VENICE - 249

57. THE CA* D'ORO ON THE GRAND CANAL, VENICE - 256

58. IN A SIDE CANAL, VENICE - 257

xix

List of Illustrations

Printed in the Text

PAGE

THE MYTHENSTOKE FROM THE TRAIN - IO
DONKEY LADEN WITH GRAPES, PATRAS - - '33

A RAILWAY STATION BETWEEN PATRAS AND CORINTH - 39

THE ACROPOLIS, ATHENS - - 6 1
CHURCH OF THE VAL DAPHNI AS SEEN FROM THE OPPOSITE

HILLSIDE - 66

MONUMENT TO LYSicRATES (minus the iron railings) - 88

REMNANTS OF VENETIAN GOTHIC WINDOWS AT CATTARO - 145
THE TORRE DEL CAMPANILE, 1480 ; THE PORTA PLOCCE ;

AND THE SPONZA, BEGUN 1312, RAGUSA - - 163

THE RECTOR'S PALACE, RAGUSA - - 165
RAGUSA IN THE LIGHT OF THE AFTERGLOW, FROM THE

BALCONY OF THE HOTEL IMPERIAL - - 169
EQUESTRIAN STATUE OF BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONI, BY ANDREA

VERROCHIO, AT VENICE ----- 252

THROUGH GREECE AND
DALMATIA

THE OUTWARD JOURNEY
BOLOGNA BARI PATRAS

September ist. The fates kind first real summer day
this year. Smooth crossing to Boulogne ; but as our
boat pushes quickly through the water, its screw turns
over waves full of clean colour, agate-green ; the foam
spreads, floating away under the surface, and dispersing
in marble-like veins of mottled white. Even a mail
steamer's machinery attacking one of Nature's elements
evokes something worth watching !

The much-abused route from Boulogne to Paris, is it
not belied ? A rainy summer is becoming to France.
Much water is lying about ; toned echoes of the sky lie
in rippling spaces among the trees. We recall Corot, the
fitful sheen, the reserve of his gleaming, quivering lights
and waving foliage in " L'Etang " and others. The
streams run briskly ; foliage, grass, and reeds are juicy
and fresh, as they wave and glisten, caught but for a
moment as our rushing train passes quickly by. The
stacks of corn burn a deep gold in the afternoon sunlight ;

The Outward Journey

old chateaux are more embedded in trees, and villages
more cosily shadowed by foliage, than one remembers
them of yore. We are apt to forget how much the outline,
and even the character, of scenery changes gradually in
time, from the way in which trees expand with compound
interest every year, each branch spreading out half a
dozen new branches spring after spring. We do realize,
however, as we pass along this route from Boulogne to
Paris, that since the days of our childhood, when this line
acquired its reputation for being uninteresting, copses
have become forests, and bare, arid spaces are studded
over with copses. We catch sight of the monstrosity we
remember first seeing in 1900 as we passed en route for
Sicily : that sacrilege perpetrated on the smooth slope
of downland " Chocolat Menier " in large glaring
white letters cut out of the turf. From old Saxon days
white horses appear on the sides of our chalk hills in
Wiltshire and Berkshire, cut out in commemoration of
a battle ; " Chocolat Menier " commemorates the making
of a food ! Neither heaven's skies nor earth's hill-
sides are safe nowadays from the advertiser !

Then comes Paris and its clatter the same as ever,
vitality rampant ! Men, women, and children out in
the streets after a hot day. The tram-cars have grown
enormous, like great lumps of houses moving about.
How any horse can keep its footing on those paved streets,
crossed over everywhere with a network of slippery tram-
lines, the horse alone knows. Jarring noises, cracking of
whips, expostulating yells from drivers the confusion
and racket of it all ! Paris as it is, ever was, and ever
will be !

Through France to Basle

September 2nd. A long and pleasant journey to Basle.
Light air, pure sunshine, clean distinct colour welcome
are these after our grey beclouded England. Notwith-
standing that for many hours the country we pass through
is very flat, and its aspect, perhaps, monotonous, the
journey is exhilarating. We are no longer shrouded
under the British veil of damp. The good cooking in
the luncheon-car is French and intelligent. We are
galloping away in this smooth express for a six weeks'
holiday from work, responsibilities from all the things,
in fact, which, like the English climate, lie as dampers,
keeping the spirits from rising to unreasonable heights.
Most of us are the better for going into retreat once a year
at least. To some a convent seems the best retreat ;
to some the profound quiet of a rural spot, where mon-
otony and solitude revive overwrought brain and nerves ;
others I among the number find their best retreat in
being taken out of themselves, out of their anxieties,
their work right away from contact with others who
are working at society or at better things by travel,
by seeing new scenes, fresh effects of Nature, of climate,
of human ways and doings ; in finding food in fact, by
looking out instead of looking in by imbibing impres-
sions created from places, things, and people uncon-
nected with our own lives and work ; and by living for
a time irresponsibly with other aspects of life, in no
wise linked with that which brings with it any sense of
duty or fatigue. Finding brain and nerves stimulated
and inspired, without any effort of our own, is, to many
temperaments, real rest real refreshment.

After hours of running through flat cornfields and

The Outward Journey

pastures, we look out on more eventful facts in the scenery.
The blown tangle of silver willow-branches against
water shining blue-green a drake's neck blue-green
and throwing up waving reeds and stiff bulrushes ; and
farther on, glistening against fresh meadow grass, pale
amethyst colchicums sprouting up between the green
blades. Towns, villages, cathedrals, we pass them all
with only a glance in our hurrying express down to
Basle.

At last we see mountains the Vosges the first
glimpse of mountains after many miles of these plains.
Such a glimpse adjusts one's standard of beauty in land-
scape. Mountains are a noble element in scenery, and
we are fast running down into them. We get to Basle
an hour earlier than our watches say we ought to get
there ! That is reaping the reward of travelling due
east. After all, however enjoyable a journey may be,
there is a further enjoyment in reaching the end of it ;
that end to-day lands us in dear old, rich, clean, Prot-
estant Basle. We are landed at the gateway opening
to the wild Alps, the eternal snow, Italy, Greece, sun-
shine and light ! Basle, the great gateway to the
Southern world ; The Three Kings, the rushing weight
of water under the old bridge are these not all associated
with the fascination of a book read in early youth, when
things catch hold with a vivid tenacity, and of the
pleasant memories of the author himself ? Books and
associations with books make for many of us pictures
in the mind, and our eyes view places chiefly as the
scenery to their dramas.

The balcony at The Three Kings, the swirling waters

The Rhine at Basle

of the Rhine flowing below it, will always be to me the
setting to Anthony Trollope's " Can You Forgive Her ?"
There they were, many years ago, Alice and her lovers,
and to-day her ghost still haunts the balcony over-
hanging the Rhine the first time with the unworthy
cousin, George Vavasor, the second time with the worthy
man, John Grey, seated on that balcony. And the
naughty Lady Glencora, on her journey of penitence, with
Plantagenet Palliser, her forgiving husband. Yes, they
all looked down on the river, and seem now as much
really part of the scene as the water itself. That rushing
Rhine, how eternally it seems to rush ! What tons of
melting snow are for ever pouring down to swell its
stream ! At Basle, on the highroad of Europe, we pay
our call, sometimes at long intervals, sometimes year
after year. Be that as it may, the great onward-tearing
stream is always hurrying by. It occurs to me, as I lean
over the side of the bridge And so are those red omni-
buses and the momentous, smelling, noisy motor-buses,
toiling from- Hammersmith to Liverpool Street, and back
again from Liverpool Street to Hammersmith, along
our High Street, Kensington, whether we can see them
or not. Refreshing thought it is that we are not going
to see them again for six weeks that straining of dear
horses under human loads, those ungainly, smelling
lumps of machinery-impelled vehicles, that teasing,
clicking bell ! Six weeks of the South, of Greece
and Dalmatia, between us and the red omni- and
motor-buses ! How much is going on always, all over
the world, and what a little bit of it do any of us see !
Associated with Basle in early days, as well as with

The Outward Journey

Anthony Trollope's " Can You Forgive Her ?" are the old
Dulwich days with Ruskin, when he, with glee and admira-
tion, showed me the reproductions of Holbein's drawings
in pen and wash of sepia, imported for the first time to
England by Dowdeswell. Has ever the story of the
Passion been shown us with more power of expression
and tragic intensity ? In later years I saw the originals
in the Museum at Basle; but to-day it is late: the Museum
is closed. We cannot revisit these masterpieces ; we can
only look down on the Rhine, and recall all that Basle
recalls, watching the water tearing along from under the
bridge, away to the cold Northern seas, where it is nice
to feel that we are not going with it. Poor Rhine ! it is
always hurrying in this breathless rush to cheerless mists,
whereas we are going to the beaming South the sun,
the heat, the real holiday from British grey skies, clouds,
and rain.

September $rd. Fresh, dewy morning air, as early our
train mounts against the collar from Basle to Lucerne
the well-known route, but ever new and inspiring as the
exhilaration of mountain air brings a sense as of youth
with each breath. At Lucerne, alas ! the station has
gone on enlarging itself till it now blocks out everything
but itself. There are tunnels, and the train shunts back-
wards and forwards, till eventually you find yourself
on the wrong side of the carriage the side you " cannot
go." When a " general post " has taken place in the
carriage, and the train moves on, and you think you are
really off, for some unknown, but beneficent, reason, it
stops beyond the station. Looking back, we catch a
view which is verily a scene of beauty. At our feet,

Matthew Arnold's " Oberland *

just beyond the juicy green of meadow grass, besprinkled
with bright field flowers and orchards laden with ripe
fruit, lies the lake a large jewel, with shimmering
surface of full liquid colour, swaying gently as the morning
breezes pass over it. The self-contained, peaked Pilatus
and the more dispersed form of the Rigi rise in shadow
beyond the lake as a middle distance. Above it all,
shimmering with the white sheen of angels' wings, among
the sunlit glowing clouds of sculptured mist, lie the eternal
snows of the Oberland, " as the wings of a dove that is
covered with silver wings,"

" The vast range of snow
Through the loose clouds lifts dimly
Its white peak in air."

Anthony Trollope, the kind and genial host and friend,
the pet novel-writer of our youth, usurped the memory
at Basle ; now, when the breath of the real Alps fans our
imagination, another personality appears : Matthew
Arnold comes in and takes possession Matthew Arnold,
the passionate, the moral, the humorous, the fastidious,
the very human, though the very cultivated ; ever
moving, ever striving to be constant ; Christian, perhaps
more because of his artistic than because of his moral
virtues Christian though the arch-enemy of the Prot-
estant Dissenter. Though cynic and satirist, who had
ever had a more profound, earnest desire to be true to
the inner light ?

" We school our manners, act our parts,

But He, who sees us through and through,
Knows that the bent of both our hearts
Was to be gentle, tranquil, true."

The Outward Journey

To the generation of poetry-lovers now being left behind
as the old order changeth to the new, the order of
Matthew Arnold to the order of Rudyard Kipling, etc.
must Switzerland and the Alps ever recall those pictures
of Marguerite :

" The sweet blue eyes, the soft, ash-colour'd hair,
The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear,
The lovely lips, with their arch smile, that tells
The unconquer'd joy in which her spirit dwells.

" On the stairs what voice is this I hear,
Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear ?
Say, has some wet, bird-haunted English lawn
Lent it the music of its trees at dawn ?"

And then the passionate, ever restless poet-lover, and
the grand, awful scenes of Nature which stirred the
further depths of his soul :

" Hark ! fast by the window

The rushing winds go
To the ice-cumber'd gorges,

The vast seas of snow ;
There the torrents drive upward

Their rock-strangled hum ;
There the avalanche thunders

The hoarse torrent dumb :
I come, O ye mountains !

Ye torrents, I come !

" Blow, ye winds, lift me with you !

I come to the wild.
Fold closely, O Nature I

Thine arms round thy child.

" On the high mountain-platforms,

Where morn first appears ;
Where the white mists, for ever,

Are spread and unfurl'd ;
In the stir of the forces

Whence issued the world."

Matthew Arnold's " Oberland "

A " -

THE MYTHENSTOCKE FROM THE TRAIN.

Those who have ever cared for Matthew Arnold, for
the poet and for the man, these agitated splendours of
the Alps must ever necessarily be associated with him
with his thrilling utterances, vitalized by a living religious
and moral sense :

" Who order'd, that their longings' fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd ?

Who renders vain their deep desire ?
A God. A God their severance ruled,

And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea."

That last wonderful line, it recalls, too, one of Matthew
Arnold's most worthy admirers, Richard Hutton, and
the short fine grass of a Somerset hillside, looking down
on Sedgemoor, away to the sunlit sky over Devonshire,
where he quoted it .

9 2

The Outward Journey

And so, as we are moving on, upwards into the heart of
the Alps, past chalets, and past villages, all so small under
the mighty heights of the Mythenstocke, surmounted by
the morning dew escaped from its summits in great white
clouds bounding up into the blue vault of heaven, the
thought of the dead is as inspiring as the sight of the pre-
sent scenes. The churches, with their pointed campaniles,
aspire upwards to the mountain peaks, shooting up from
among low, flat-roofed human dwellings. Up higher and
higher we go up into the tragic solitude of that lonely,
lifted world of heights, among towering peaks, velvety
gloom of fir-forests, leaping cascades, till, with a screech-
ing whistle, we hide ourselves in the darkness of the
tunnel under the St. Gothard Pass. The twenty minutes
over, we emerge into light, and down we hasten to the
vines and the sunshine of Italy, in company with the
rushing waters of the Ticino. Soon we see the most
beautiful decoration of the Italian slopes the noble,
dark trunks, and grand, sweeping branches and foliage
heavily weighted with fruit, of the Spanish chestnut-
trees. We look down from above on meadows where the
second or, rather, third crop of hay is being carted and
stacked by peasants in nice coloured clothes, orange and
red handkerchiefs, and shawls on the heads of the women,
their skirts, and the men's linen blouses, of that particular
blue which is so right against the meadow green. Through
corkscrew tunnels, triumphs of engineering and rather
fearful, down down with the watery tumult of the
Ticino beside us, down into Italy !

At last we escape from the gorges of the mountains,
and slip from between the high walls of the Alps into the

Alps Viewed from the Plain

spreading plain. The sun has dipped behind the fir-
covered hills, and all quiets down into even tones of twi-
light ; till, as a presence which steals upon you unawares,
but is all-pervading, held under the breath of nature
with the awe as of a message from another world, comes
the afterglow, holding air and all things in a golden haze
of fiery light.

Our fellow-traveller, till now a stranger though turning
out to be a family connection calls us into the corridor.
Looking back towards the mountain-pass we have scaled,
a strange, far-away vision is revealed. It would seem as
if a door into the very skies themselves were thrown open,
and things veiled from us in the light of day were un-
covered. Rising into the crimson gold of the sky, the
whole range of mighty ones is there. Monte Rosa, with
serrated summits lifted so high, and the rest of her
companion heights to the east and to the west, the whole
range making a crescent of clear, distinct outlines,
sweeping curves, aspiring peaks. Far to the east very
far, a great heap, a monster among monsters, blots the
fiery gold with faint grey mysteriously faint but there
Mont Blanc ! A vision in the skies, truly, unearthly
in its strange far-off ness. An even tone of soft ashen
blue, effacing all facts of Nature, lies below the distant
range and divides these wonders up in the sky from our
shadowed foreground. The afterglow light gently fades.
Still we rattle on in our dusty train, our friend, the
Ticino, with the clearest of water bubbling, leaping,
sweeping along under the soft light foliage of acacia,
loosely floating in company with the silvery willow waving
on her banks. Flowers and plants spring up in the

The Outward Journey

tangled over-abundance of late summer. Down we
rattle past it all, to Como, then to Lugano, then, at last,
Milan dinner bed .

September 4th. Milan. " La Donna e Mobile," sung
by a very high soprano girl's voice, which could only be
Italian, is the first sound that comes through the sun-
shine with wakening. No time to go into the town. We
know it well, and also the price that has now to be paid
for seeing the Cathedral, St. Ambrogio, the Brera and
it is heavy ! Incessant tramways, incessant clicking of
those musicless, startling bells, as if snapshotting on a
large scale was going on without a moment's intermission
all over the town that is what the streets of Milan mean
now. Our first exit is to the train. The sun is very hot,
and the people say they have had no rain for four months.
That things could be more equally divided ! Some of
this sun in England, some of England's rain this year to
lay the dust in Milan.

Once out of Milan, there is no sign of drought. Past
Piacenza, Borgo, St. Domenico, Parma, Reggio (Ariosto's
birthplace), Modena, to Bologna. Tasteful arrange-
ments are made for the growth of vines in the country we
pass between the towns. Their culture in Italy is
strikingly different from that of a Swiss vineyard. The
natural grace in the growth of the vine is shown to the
full, as the clusters of serrated leaves, starting tendrils,
and hanging bunches of purple fruit swing from tree to
tree, or from poles arranged tent-wise, one in the centre
and others placed in a circle round it, the vines being
trained between. Here and there an orange or a scarlet
leaf, together with the bloomed purple of the grapes, show

From Milan to Bologna

autumn has begun. These vines, mulberry trees, fields
of Indian corn a frank, deep golden-ochre colour tall
flax, with feathery plumes waving from pale yellow
stalks miles and miles of fruitful crops spreading over
a fertile land that is Northern Italy of the plains. But
beyond them, on the horizon, are the Apennines, faint in
morning light, and very far away, but yet with a fine,
distinct outline against the sky, and sculptured modelling
of forms such as only the pencil of a Leighton has given,
or could give, on paper.

A short journey, and we are at Bologna. We drive to
the Italian Hotel Peligrini. From out the midday glare
it is refreshing to get into the dark, cool passage leading
from the street entrance to the inner recesses of the old
house. A curious conglomeration of staircases, passages,
and courtyards is this Hotel Peligrini. As quiet is the
chief object in view, after considerable rambling up and
down staircases and along and around passages, we settle
in curious, quaint-shaped rooms, in the very interior of
the mass of buildings, looking on to a silent courtyard,
which is evidently a part of the very old Bologna. A
clean, native hotel, to which a good restaurant is attached,
is the best species for those who, like ourselves, do not
wish to find repeated in every place they travel to the
monotonous cosmopolitan hotel managed by a syndicate,
the triumph of which is the Schweizerhof at Lucerne.
In the restaurant of the Peligrini we get a quickly-served,
good luncheon, and then start on a ramble in this delight-
ful Bologna. Through the Mercato di Mezzo we pass by
the Leaning Towers, and wander on through shaded
arcades, a light, exhilarating air, hardly amounting to a

The Outward Journey

breeze, fanning our faces, and making the mere walking
a delight. We encounter many of Bologna's one hundred
and thirty churches and numerous palaces, before reach-
ing the Piazza, and Church of St. Domenico, where we
pause. It is here that Guido Reni is buried, also the
interesting, talented young lady painter, Elisabetta
Sirani, who met a tragic end in 1665, when, at the age of
twenty-six, she was poisoned on account of the jealousy
which her gifts excited. Specimens of her art are among
the small pictures that frame in the altar of the Church
of St. Domenico. Consequent probably on the high
intellectual enlightenment developed in her old University,
the most ancient in Italy, women in Bologna seem to
have risen to fame in may lines. Properyiade Rossi, the
sculptress, born in 1490, was a native of Bologna.
Earlier yet, in the fourteenth century, Novella d' Andrea,
renowned also for her personal charm, was a professor in
the University. This lovely lady gave her lectures behind
a curtain, in order that her pupils might not be dis-
tracted from their studies by her beauty. At a later
date, a certain Laura Bassi was professor of mathematics
and physical science, Signora Manzolince of anatomy,
and more recently, Clotilda lambroni, born in 1794, was
professor of Greek. The development of learning in
Bologna led to the training of wise women as well as of
wise men. In 1262 the University was visited by 10,000
students ; alas ! now they number only 400. But learn-
ing has left its stamp on the city. It still breathes forth
a sense of dignity and refinement.

Two well-known monuments of the thirteenth century
stand on the Piazza of St. Domenico, and two fourteenth-

St. Domenico, Bologna

century columns, surmounted the one by a statue of the
Virgin, the other of a saint, outside the church where the
poisoned Elisabetta Sirani is buried. The larger of
these monuments was erected in 1207, m honour of
Rolandino Passaggieri, who distinguished himself in the
wars between the town of Bologna and the Emperor
Frederick Barbarossa. We pass on, gaining a little
scattered information from connecting what we see with
what our Baedeker tells us is there to be seen, but a great
deal of satisfaction in finding the flavour of the old city
still so individual and unspoilt, her massive buildings and
arcades solid and dignified, and her fine masonry glowing
under the broad, flattering light of the afternoon sun-
shine. The effect of the buildings in Bologna is of too
large and serious a character to be materially interfered
with by the electric trams and other modern disfigure-
ments. It is mostly the picturesque effects in old towns,
not the intrinsic value of the architecture, which suffers
most fatally from these new elements in life .

At last we find ourselves where we most desire to be,
on the Piazza di S. Stefano, and in view of two of the
seven churches which are fitted closely one into the other,
standing on the site of an ancient temple of Isis, and
subsequently of a church founded in the fifth century.
The present pile, called the Church of St. Stefano, con-
tains buildings erected from the ninth to the seventeenth
centuries. Sunk below the level of the piazza is a
plateau of green grass, from which rise the faades of two
of the seven churches. A door in a wall at right angles
with these facades opens on a street level with the piazza.
The buildings are irregular, exciting curiosity and

The Outward Journey

interest. Happily there is no trace as yet of the bald
ironing out and tidying up of eighteenth or nineteenth
century restoration.

But it is now evening ; the church doors are closed.
S. Stefano deserves close inspection, and our powers of
appreciation at their best not after they have been
exhausted by a long day of taking in, from early morning,
when we started from Milan, to this evening hour in
Bologna.

We return to the Peligrini, via the end of the Strada di
S. Stefano, to the Mercato di Mezzo, again passing those
twelfth-century singularities, the Leaning Towers, to our
good restaurant in the hotel.

September $th. St. Stefano will ever remain to me the
particular spot in Bologna of deepest interest. Her
palaces, arcades, and courtyards, those of her one
hundred and thirty churches and two hundred and
ten monasteries, of which we saw the outside as we
wandered over the old city, so grandly and solidly built,
her " Academia delle Belle Arti," and her great Univer-
sity, not only so ancient, but truly her greatest event,
endowing her with a lasting distinction among other
Italian cities, left but a very vague impression in my mind
from a previous visit to Bologna many years ago. (We
somehow then missed seeing S. Stefano.) Now, from
henceforth, all these momentous establishments will
picture themselves but as the environments, the framing
of this precious, small, and very old bunch of seven
churches. All travellers must naturally have their own
innate preference before they start sight-seeing, and it
is the sights, that appeal most strongly to those prefer-

FACADES OF TWO OF THE SEVEN CHURCHES OF ST. STEFANO, BOLOGNA.

(See f, 17.)

INTERIOR OF S. SEPOLCRO, S. STEFANO, BOLOGNA (see p. 19).

Originally a baptistery, but transformed into a church before the year 1000. The ambo, decorated
with fine bas-reliefs, is ninth-century work.

St. Stcfano, Bologna

ences, and not the most momentous buildings, that we
retain with the greatest vividness. It is Murray and
Baedeker who tell us all we must, in duty bound, see in a
place ; but it is for each of us, and each of us alone, to
enjoy the things which inspire sincerely our keenest
personal admiration.

We have but two half-days in Bologna. Probably
many other delightful emotions would be aroused had we
longer to remain here. As it is, the general effect and
character of the town do not inspire in me the
intimate interest which St. Stefano creates. It is so
small ; the architecture of yore, in which exists perfect
workmanship and inspired invention, carried out on a
small scale, possesses for me a very great charm. There
is a special fascination in those creations in architecture
which are pleasantly measured in accordance with our
own size ; and there is sonething pathetic in small things.
Walter Pater describes that something as " caressing
littleness, that littleness in which there is much of the
whole woeful heart of things." The imagination may be
excited by great size the sense of the sublime is aroused
by great spaciousness in churches, as by widespread
landscape ; by skies full of masses of rolling clouds, and
ranges of mountains towering to the sky and the archi-
tecture which echoes such impressions may have an
uplifting effect. Still, in many of us the most tender
love remains for those places that surround us with an
intimate nearness. The buildings which can be taken
in easily as a whole, from one spot, are the arrangements
of line and space best fitted to our own size and immediate
fields of action. Clothes must be in proportion to the

*7 3

The Outward Journey

figures who wear them. Our environments beyond our
clothes appear to me to feel most comfortably our own
when they are proportioned to our human size, and not
when, Crystal Palace-like, they reduce our human figures
to the proportion of insects.

Each of the seven compartments of St. Stefano has the
charm of Pater's " caressing littleness." St. Sepolcro,
little ornamented on the exterior, is the most interesting
of the cluster. Formerly a baptistery surrounded by an
ambulatory, it was transformed into a church before the
year TOGO. In the twelfth century the tomb was erected.
The construction of this was copied from the Holy
Sepulchre at Jerusalem. The ambo, however, decorated
with finely-carved symbols of the Apostles in bas-relief,
is of ninth-century work. The twelfth-century columns
of different coloured marbles and beautifully carved
capitals form a balustrade which mounts with the steps
to the top of the altar. This is placed in the centre of
the octagonal walls, and rises high into the light, which
comes entirely from the dome above it. Round the
central altar, at a certain distance, are placed columns
supporting the walls, which carry the dome. These
columns stand in couples, one of marble, the other of
brickwork, these latter having been added in the twelfth
century to give strength to the more ancient building.
The chapel is dark below ; the two candles, lighted on
either side of the Crucifix placed on the altar, shine but
as glowing specks of light in the gloom. The very
precious quality of the work and of the materials, the
softened gleams of light on the marble spaces of wall
and on the shafts of the pillars, and on the edges of the

St. Stefano, Bologna

rich and delicate sculptures, all seem rendered more
choice by being shadowed. Unlike any other place I
have seen endearingly small, of material and workman-
ship rich and rare, this Church of St. Sepolcro has
become my most intimate friend among the sights of
Bologna.

Next in interest is the inner courtyard of St. Stefano,
surrounded by cloisters and tiers of small columns. The
sculpture of the capitals of these is very lovely, contrast-
ing not unpleasantly with the picturesque, rough tiling
of the roofing, which overhangs the arcades and shades
with a wide protecting eave the arches between the pillars
and these finely sculptured capitals. Nothing is yet
spoilt in St. Sepolcro, nor in the two courtyards which
intervene between the six other small churches. We
have only time just to glance at these. That quality,
now so rare atmosphere still hovers in every corner of
these precious precincts. May the ruthless destroyers of
atmosphere, the tidiers and the restorers, leave them in
peace for many a year to come !

September 6th. Two awakening bird -notes from a
hedge close to our train as it slackens near a station
clear, clean, piping sounds I hailed as the earliest signs
that morning was near, and the discomforts of a night-
journey from Bologna to Bari, in an overcrowded train,
coming to an end.

During the darkness we had seen Ancona jutting
out into the sea with prominent impressiveness,
her lights reflected in the harbour, exciting strong
regrets that we could not stop and become intimate
with her.

During the night it was interesting to watch a trio of
young Italian people, a brother and two sisters, travelling
in the same carriage as ourselves, also going to Bari. The
sisters, backed by decisive peremptoriness from our trio,
refused to allow the brother to smoke. He tried to
circumvent us during the whole journey, but failed ; an
English boy would have done it, or left it alone, I think.
Graceful little creatures were the sisters. As they caught
intermittent slumbers, their figures got folded up in
extraordinarily graceful, lithesome little heaps. They
seemed to have no bones under their fresh little muslin
dresses. The limp lassitude of their attitudes, very
kittenlike, was Southern and attractive.

That pipe of the half-awakened bird is the signal for
warm tints to spread up into the sky from the East, and as
we run along the coast past Termoli, the light of the
sunrise appears over the sea and behind Monte Gargano,
which lies on the promontory in front of us. We turn
inland, past the Lake of Lisina, and find we are now truly
in the real South, a little north of Naples, with the
breadth of Italy between. Buildings, vegetation, colour-
ing in sky and land, it is all really Southern blessed
South with a sun the heat and brightness of which there
is no mistaking ! But there is also air in these early
morning hours, reviving after dust and the general
horrors of a night-journey. After reaching Foggia, we
turn due East, and at Barletta find ourselves again close
to the coast. Lips of white foam break on a level beach ;
beyond, the blue Adriatic sparkles with diamonds as the
sun flashes light on her waters. We are now in the
Province of Bari, and after running along by the sea for

The Modern Town of Bari

forty-one miles, are nearing its capital, the town of Bari,
the See of an Archbishop, and the most important town
in this part of Italy, where we are to break our journey
to Brindisi.

Our fellow-travellers, the Italian trio, now bestir them-
selves ; the little maidens look still fresh and clean in
pretty muslin frocks. Out of a hand-bag white kid gloves
and extra lace collars are produced, and the brother of
the determined proclivities for smoking has a clean collar
and a smart pin added to his costume by his elder sister.
That such a night in the train should be undertaken as a
pleasure-trip, indeed, seems strange to us, who viewed
the journey as a hardship to be got through with our best
fortitude, and only as a necessity, in order to catch our
boat for Greece.

Immersed in dust and grit, the only means of recover-
ing self-respect that self-respect which a night journey
so invariably robs one of is to go at once to the Albergo
Risorgimento in the new town, and seek hot water. On
our road there we notice a long row of men, women, and
children, standing in the Corso, along the kerbstone of
the pavement. By the side of each stands an ancient-
shaped pitcher. One by one they cross the pavement,
pitcher in hand, to buy water from a man who is vigorously
working a pump. Water has money value here. Its
scarcity is again made evident to us when we reach the
Albergo Risorgimento, a rather important - looking,
grandly furnished hotel, where we chose rooms we are to
call our own for the hours we remain at Bari. But no
hot water does this grand hotel afford. It has to be
fetched from the Restaurant Risorgimento, three streets

The Outward Journey

off ! Our self-respect having been restored by ablutions,
we go to this restaurant for lunch. Murray tells us that
Bari has been celebrated for its fish since the old Roman
town Barium existed, and it fully maintains its reputa-
tion to-day. We have a frittura of baby octopi and
various other infantine fishes, which is a triumph ; ditto
is the macaroni dressed with tomatoes ; but the climax
of good things is reached by the iced figs and grapes. A
night in the train leads to a flattering view of the subse-
quent meal.

Clean, fortified, and refreshed, we go out to less material
enjoyments in the old town of Bari. Fortunately the
new town, large, white, and as uninteresting, from an
architectural point of view, as are most other modern
Italian cities, has not encroached on the medieval town.
It has been built by its side, and the old Bari remains, as
a whole, in its ancient form. Its narrow, shadowed
streets (shade by this time of the day is valued) are full of
interest. Dark archways in the high walls, flights of
steps carried up outside the buildings, break the light
and shade and produce picturesque effects. We are
anxious to find our way at once to the most notable
building of Bari, the ancient priory of St. Nicholas, founded
on the Palace of the Catapan in 1087 to receive the
remains of the famous St. Nicholas : the Santa Claus of
the stocking hung up for the babies at Christmas ; the
St. Nicholas of the expensive Raphael picture, bought
from the Blenheim collection for our National Gallery ;
the St. Nicholas who figures more than almost any
other saint in the very old Italian pictures. His remains
were brought to Bari by ancient mariners from Myra in

The Old Town of Bari

Lycia, and are contained in the interesting vast pile of
building which we reach after walking through various
narrow streets. By the side of the high fagade of the
west end is the Campanile, which is tunnelled by a fine
archway, and under which the road leads to a second
large piazza.. In the long high wall of the Priory is a
singularly striking Byzantine doorway, led up to by a
flight of steps. The sculptured moulding round this
doorway is remarkably beautiful and well preserved ; this
moulding is supported by fine shining marble columns,
resting on crouching lions. On reaching the Cathedral we
find the blemish on the old city's monuments dealt by the
restorer's hand a triumph in the power of defacement A
fine rose window has been cut into mercilessly, and the
whole facade altered to a debased style of Renaissance,
and inferior marble portrait-busts placed in a line outside,
opposite the western door.

We quickly turn away into the unspoilt picturesque-
ness of the streets, and out to the sea, round by the
fine massive, ancient Roman fort, returning to our
rooms, congratulating ourselves on the brilliant idea,
which had, of course, emanated from K.B., who has such
a genius for organizing travels, of breaking the journey
to see this old town of Bari, instead of spending the whole
day at the comparatively uninteresting Brindisi. We
start by the four o'clock train from Bari, and speed away
through groves of very fine old olive-trees, laden with
fruit their gnarled, fantastic limbs draped with a sea of
waving, silvery green, the strong blue of the Adriatic Sea
appearing like solid enamel inlaid in the gaps between
the quivering foliage. Eastern-looking villages, white,

The Outward Journey

and flat-roofed, mostly with a dome rising above their
houses, lie on the sides of the low hills. Cypresses
point, with dark decision, upwards out of the scattered,
floating olive-branches. We are indeed in the South.
Nearing Brindisi the groves cease, and the frank blue of
the sea cuts crudely in against a hard, stony shore ; a
bare and arid land on either side, save for tufts of dry
grasses, and for the low, dusty shrubs of Lentiscus, used
by the inhabitants for fuel, and out of the berries of
which, our Murray says, they make a soup. But all
glows with warm colour from under the side glances of
the sun, now sinking low, and burning light and colour
save the situation.

There are interesting things to be seen in Brindisi, but
there is no time or light. Our boat, the Scylla, awaits us
to take us to Greece. The moon has risen, the sun has
set. We are moored close to a house, the walls of which
go down into the water of the harbour. On the deck,
awaiting our departure, we find ourselves on a level with
a terrace, opening from the window of the first floor. A
family group is sitting, resting, Southern fashion, in the
cool evening air. There are old pictures of Italian and
Spanish art, in which glows a strong sense of colour,
though not one distinct colour is perceivable. So it is
in this living picture which we see on the terrace of the
old house on the harbour. The light held in the air by
the after glow spreads a warm, mellow hue over the
black, white, brown, and grey, which are the local colours
of the scene. A small palette, indeed, does Nature want
for her under-paintings, when she has the resource of
even only a Southern after-glow from the great fire of

1. ANCIENT ROMAN FORTRESS FRONTING THE SEA, BARI.

2. WESTERN FACADE OF THE PRIORY OF S. NICHOLAS, BARI.

(See p. 23.)

The Harbour at Brindisi

heaven to glaze with ! A girl's figure, which is the
prominent feature in the group, has the grace and repose
found often in every class in the South. In England
that particular power of stillness is associated with one
class, the aristocratic ; but in the South the peasant, even
more than the duchess, seems to possess it. It recalls,
perhaps, a little, the dignified serenity of certain animals.
Cats will sit in magnificent attitudes, with an air of
supreme indifference as to any effect they may be pro-
ducing. What a contrast is the calm, unmindful gaze of
the large, dark eyes of this maiden of Brindisi, to the
nervous, uneasy, self-conscious look of the up-to-date
inhabitant of London or Paris ! So near us, on a level
with our deck, this scene is one of intimate, silent domes-
ticity. We, hasty travellers, feel almost indiscreet in
finding ourselves intruding so close upon it ; but, being
people of the South, this family seem completely to
ignore such as we are, interested though we may be in
watching them. Rushing, flitting creatures, in no wise
in touch with their own fashion of life, too far away
from it in all essentials for our presence to discom-
pose them, we feel we can indulge our interest and
curiosity.

A harbour has truly a poetry of its own ; the sea is
caught in and, nolens volens, he has to be quiet and allow
reflections of his prison environments to be recorded on
his breathing surface in the warmth of the afterglow
light. Bars of green gold, caught from the full moon,
just risen above the blackness of the walls, add incident
to the deep shadows of coming night ; the harbour, even
at Brindisi the much belittled Brindisi treated by

25 4

The Outward Journey

most travellers merely as the first stepping-stone from
Europe to the East can be a thing of impressive, almost
tragic beauty. As we leave it, our imagination is haunted
by the picture on the terrace, so beautiful in an un-
expected way. In its more human, realistic side, it
recalls the serious, impressive surprises and familiarity
of a Velasquez ; in the solemn dignity and inner strength
of its colour and tone, the glory of a Giorgione. Nature
is full of the great masters, if we only have eyes to
recognize them. " Be thankful that, after all, the
entire world is one huge gallery hung round with
pictures by the Master Painter."* Watts was con-
stantly seeing a picture by Titian in Nature. I
remember as he was gazing at a few trees in Melbury
Road, when golden threads of evening light were woven
through their branches, he exclaimed : "Is that not
Titian !" With the Velasquez and Giorgione combina-
tion stamped on our memory we leave Italy, to wake
in Greece.

September 'jth. A night on the Scylla, speeding through
a calm sea, is rest, and we wake to the sight of islands
" The Isles of Greece !" May many travellers have as
favourable a first introduction to their beauty ! The
Rubbatino line of steamers is good. The Scylla is as
comfortable as a steamer can be. Breakfast is served
under an awning on deck, the stewards wear white
gloves ; no refinement or comfort is omitted, and we miss
none of the lovely outlines of the coast as we near Corfu.
We anchor in the harbour, and we realize the special
beauty of the South in Greece ; not the same beauty as

* Herbert W. Tomkins, F.R.Hist.S.
26

The Isles of Greece

that of Italy. " The Isles of Greece " are like them-
selves like nothing else.*

The Anima Attiva (otherwise K.B.) and C.B. land. I
remain with the sketch-book and water-colours on board.
Pink and violet are the Albanian mountains, azure
shadows lying like veils of blue gauze in their folds. The
amount of drawing there is in their sculptured forms is des-
pairing at once so subtle and grand, so finished and so
broad, and all bathed in a sunlit atmosphere, the atmo-
sphere of Greece. No words can convey its charm, and
only one brush has ever, to my thinking, recorded it. A
fine white line divides the coast from the water. Near
the land the sea is of a cobalt blue, shadowed with ultra-
marine, and nearer our foreground with small, dark
touches of indigo. Close to our ship the water is cerulean
blue and emerald green, not so much darker than the
distance, as stronger and more frank. But where is
colour to record such effects, and where, in a paint-box,
is there the something to give the light which is on it and
over it all ?

At four o'clock p.m. we weigh anchor, and begin our
onward journey to Patras, steaming between the southern
end of the Island of Corfu and the mountainous coast of
Albania, the channel narrowing as we pass Ayouisi and

* Lord Beaconsfield writes to his father a letter, dated Corfu,
October loth, 1830 (from the town of Corfu ; this has entirely
changed since that date). " This," he writes, " though a poor
village, is a most lovely island, offering all that you can expect
from Grecian scenery gleaming waters, woody isles, cypress,
olive, vine, a clear sky, a warm sun. Zante is, I believe, even
more beautiful, with the remnants of a decent Venetian town.
Cephalonia not so fine. Santa Maura, the ancient Leucodia of
Sappho, I hope to see, and the barren Ithaca must not be for-
gotten."

The Outward Journey

the Cape Saruna in Albania and Point Legkino in Corfu.
Again in this civilized little ship, Scylla, our meal is
served on deck, and we lose no sight of beauty on either
side of our course, neither of the Albanian mountains,
nor of the southern points of Corfu, nor of the amethyst
islands lying in golden and crimson fields of sea and sky,
below which the sun has lately sunk ; nor of the slow,
stately rising of the full moon from behind Albanian
peaks, soon showering her streams of pale, chaste gold on
the surface of the sea in a great road of light.

Before dinner is ended, our deck is lit up by electric
lamps marsala is passed round, reserve is melted, and
the company begins general conversation. An English
engineer, of wide proportions, in the employ of a French
firm, demolishes religion in a wholesale manner. A
serious, refined-looking Italian takes the engineer's
atheism seriously, qui ne valait pas la peine ! It is a
holiday, evidently, to the hard-working, responsible
engineer, who has to be infinitely exact in his own work,
to talk tall on subjects he has not mastered, and which he
considers not important enough to try to master !

We linger on deck ; but, alas ! if we want a night's
sleep at all we must take it while the Scylla speeds past
" The Isles of Greece," Leucadia, Meganisi, Kelamo and
we miss them all.

September 8th. After five o'clock a.m. it is impossible
to remain below. We are passing Ulysses and Pene-
lope's Ithaca. The island has for me also more personal
associations. The father of one of my aunts by marriage
being the English Governor of Ithaca early in the nine-
teenth century, she was born on this Homeric spot.

Nearing Greece

Byron played with her as a baby when staying with her
father, and in the ten days' visit captivated one and all
of the family in fact by some, she told me, it was thought
better he should pass on, his fascinations being almost too
great ! But, as we leave it behind in the early dawn, Ithaca
does not look as if any such modern life could have been
enacted there less than a hundred years ago. We leave it
behind in the distance a flat, grey- violet space an island
as in a dream, faint and remote, quite sufficiently Homeric,
and its atmosphere incompatible with the conception
of a modern Government House, entertainments, aide-
de-camps, visitors !

A strange effect of light appears. The sun has not yet
risen, but the western sky is rose-colour. Soon a warmth
creeps into the whole atmosphere. The full moon, pale
primrose in the midst of this pink dawn, is descending in
the east towards the sea horizon, and, as if throwing
signals to us before sinking below our world, she casts
ribbons of verdant light pure emerald green on the
crests of the waves left behind the ship as we plough
through Ionian seas. It is so strange an effect that the
whole scene feels dreamlike and unreal, a lever de rideau
appropriate, indeed, to the momentous event, longed for
so long the sight of Athens ! As paler and paler the
primrose orb becomes in the yet stronger and stronger
pink of the sunrise, we turn our eyes towards Patras for
a moment to see if the sun is visible (which he is not) and
then, looking again eastward, she is gone ! Bright
sparkles of light begin to dance over the sea. The
mountains, rising far and near in front of us, are no longer
dim, flat spaces, outlined faintly against the sky ; they are

The Outward Journey

carved, solid ranges, sculptured elaborately by the forces
of Nature and by time. Towns and villages are discernible
lying on the lower slopes at their feet, glistening out of
the mist lying along the shore. To our left rises the
pointed height above Missolonghi. Basle Anthony
Trollope ; the Alps Matthew Arnold ; Greece Byron.
Who can enter Greece by Patras, facing Missolonghi,
without the thought of Byron, his life and death there ?
Nor without a feeling of gratitude to him, who, more than
any other, rescued Greece from the Turks, and made
her a Greek Greece instead of a Turkish Greece ?

Byron's letters show us the best Byron as a man.
" Greece has ever been for me," he writes to his friend
Londo, " as it must be to all men of any feeling or educa-
tion, the promised land of valour, of the Arts, and of
Liberty. To see myself serving, by your side and under
your eyes, in the Cause of Greece, will be to me one of the
happiest events of my life." Again : " I hope that
things here will go on well some time or other. I will
stick to the Cause as long as a Cause exists, first or
second." To his doctor, who urged him to leave Misso-
longhi on account of his health and the unwholesomeness
of the place, he writes : " I am not unaware of the pre-
carious state of my health, nor am, nor have been deceived
on that subject. But it is proper that I should remain
in Greece ; and it were better to die doing something
than nothing."

Years ago were Byron's letters delightful lively com-
panions ; but the Greece from which many were written
remained a vague quantity, very unlike its real self a
mixture of schoolroom geography, British Museum and

Byron the Hero

Louvre sculptures, and water-colour sketches composed
into pictures of a soi-disant classical character. Then
the real revelation came with the sight of Leighton's
records of her real seas, her shores, her islands, and by
living surrounded by casts from the Parthenon Frieze,
and a great longing was born to see her actual self. And
now, here is Patras in front of us, and over there, beyond
the blue sea, quivering in morning light, is the scene of
strife and misery ; but also the scene of Byron's heroic,
noble end, and of his unassailably noble whole-hearted-
ness in the cause of Liberty and Justice, a justice which
showed itself to the enemy as to the friend. On
February 23rd, 1824, ne writes to his sister Augusta : " I
have been obtaining the release of about nine-and-twenty
Turkish prisoners, men, women, and children, and have
sent them, at my own expense, home to their friends ;
but one pretty little girl of nine years of age, named Hato
or Hatagee, has expressed a strong wish to remain with
me or under my care, and I have nearly determined to

adopt her, if I thought Lady B would let her come to

England as a companion to Ada (they are about the same
age), and we could easily provide for her ; if not, I can
send her to Italy for education. She is very lively and
quick, and with great, black, Oriental eyes and Asiatic
features. All her brothers were killed in the Revolution.
The mother wishes to return to her husband at Prevesa,
but says she would rather entrust the child to me, in the
present state of the country. Her extreme youth and
sex have hitherto saved her life, but there is no saying
what might happen in the course of the war (and such a
war !). I shall probably commit her to the care of some

The Outward Journey

English lady in the Islands for the present." Whatever
Byron was elsewhere, the Byron of that Missolonghi I am
gazing at across the sea was noble-hearted and tender-
hearted.*

We are slackening pace, and steaming slowly into the
harbour between ships and fishing-boats. Rising behind
and around Patras, near and far away, are mountain
heights ; Mount Boida looks very high in the south-east
distance. Close behind the important commercial
modern town rises Mount Panachaicon, on the sides of
which stood the ancient town founded by the lonians,
and subsequently the medieval city. That bright, sunny
hillside above the busy Patras of to-day, alongside whose
quay our Scylla is mooring, is linked by tradition with our
Scotch St. Andrews, on the bracing east coast of Fife-
shire, the St. Andrews of famous golf-links, of ancient
University and Cathedral, of grey mists and melancholy
dunes. Tradition says St. Andrew was crucified at

* The servant in whose arms Byron died was by name one
Giovanni Battista Falcieri, better known as Tito, who travelled
with Lord Beaconsfield when servant to Mr. Clay. He after-
wards became valet to Lord Beaconsfield 's father, and Lord
Broughton, Byron's friend, appointed him a messenger at the
India Office. Rogers mentions him in his " Picturesque Tour of
Italy ":

" Not last, nor least, Battista,

. . . who without stain

Had worn so long that honourable badge,

The Gondoler's, in a patrician house,

Arguing unlimited trust."

Lord Beaconsfield writes from Malta a letter to his brother in
1830 : " Clay is immensely improved, and a very agreeable com-
panion indeed, with such a valet, Giovanni by name. Byron
died in his arms, and his mustachios touch the earth. Withal
mild as a lamb, though he has two daggers always about his
person."

VIEW ACROSS THE HARBOUR OF PATRAS TO THE HEIGHTS ABOVE MISSOLONGHI,
WHERE BYRON DIED (see p. 30).

Landing in Greece

Patras. A Greek monk in the fourth century was warned
in a vision of some coming destruction to the town, and
forthwith escaped with the relics of St. Andrew to Muir-
cross in Fifeshire. There he erected a modest shrine,
wherein his precious freight could rest. On the site
of this shrine the beautiful Cathedral was built, the

DONKEY LADEN WITH GRAPES, PATRAS.

name of St. Andrew was substituted for Muircross,
and St. Andrew became the patron saint of Scotland.

We leave our nice ship, the Scylla, but have no time to
visit anything in Patras except the custom-house, for our
train awaits us, and is starting in a few minutes. The
carriages in this train are clean and comfortable. Once
settled, we enjoy the outlook over the harbour on one
side, and the doings of the first Greek population we have

33 5

The Outward Journey

seen on the other. The most attractive sight on shore is
that of a man selling grapes from two long baskets, slung,
pannier- wise, on each side of a donkey. For sixpence we
buy three bunches, exceeding in size any bunches of
grapes I have ever seen ; as big as those represented in a
picture of the Spies in an old illustrated Bible we had as
children ; and their quality more than equals their size
and quantity. Never were there such delicious white
muscatels each grape nearly two inches long !

IN GREECE
ATHENS VAL DAPHNI SUNIUM OLYMPIA CORFU

September 8th. We start at eight o'clock a.m., and are
due at Athens at four p.m. The journey from Patras to
Corinth is wonderfully beautiful. We begin by passing
through currant plantations to Rhion. Hot sunshine
already pours down on the open fields ; the curious little
erections, in Spain called Ajupa (we never mastered
their Greek name), are studded about as shelters from
the heat untidy, boxlike sheds, made of reeds, the
stalks of maize and matting, mounted on four poles,
about nine feet from the ground. No one seems near
them at this hour, but on the ground, within the four
posts, are bundles and garments, left by the peasants, who
have doubtless already begun their day's work. Here and
there a dog lies guarding these deposits. Grapes every-
where ! Grapes that are to be turned into currants and
shipped from Patras to (among others) our London
grocers. Commerce connects, indeed, worlds of strangely
different associations ! With all grocers and their con-
signments of currants will, from henceforth, be associated
this joy-giving country near Patras. The homely penny
bun, even, with its little indigestible black spots, will be

In Greece

linked, by them, with these wonders of land and and sea
beauty !

At Rhion we pass two Venetian forts, Castro Nureas,
on our side of the Gulf of Corinth, the Peloponnesus, and
Castro Antirrhion, across the sea, in Greece proper. How
bright and blue the sea looks, running between ! At the
points where these forts are placed, Attica and the
Peloponnesus are nearer each other than at any other
till we reach the Isthmus of Corinth. Our train now
turns due east ; we cross over a torrent at Hagios Vasilios,
the railway bridge supported by interesting old columns,
the remnant of some ancient building. Looking across
the sea is the town, still beautiful, they say, of Naupaclus,
the place of shipbuilding in ancient Hellenic times, the
Lepanto of the Italians ; but the gulf has widened, and
details on the shore are but dimly seen. Not so the
mountains, rising close behind the shore. Though
bathed in dreamy morning sunlight, the elaborate
modelling, which enriches each height, is traceable,
sculptured with Nature's finest chisel, piled up so far into
the sky, rising over this bluest of seas. As at Corfu,
there is much pink in the colouring, but here the pink is
shaded with a faint violet-grey instead of the azure veils
which lay in the folds of the Albanian hills. The sea,
bright cerulean, crisply turned over here and there with
a ripple of white froth, looks solid against the vaporous
atmosphere of sky and far-off mountains. Our fore-
ground, as we run along the coast, is rich in various
lovely shades of foliage and fruit. There are pome-
granates, peaches, oranges, and lemons, rising with
heavily-laden branches above festoons of the vine, which,

From Patras to Corinth

in this September month, are tossed about in wildly
graceful luxuriance. They are indeed having their full
fling before subsiding for the winter into dry, black sticks.
The decorative pomegranates, stained with deep red and
orange, hang very solidly amidst delicately pointed
leaves. A flower quite new to me is growing on shrubs
close to the line a beautiful blue spike, azure blue, with
grey-green, finely-serrated leaves. How to find out its
name ! The ever most attractive oleander blossoms,
pink and red, are in full bloom, throwing up gay coloured
tufts of lovely blossoms against the sea, and soft, pale
cornelian mountains beyond. Growing over the hills on
our right, and spreading down close to the seashore in
wilder spots, are woods of thickly-massed foliage, chiefly
arbutus and fir not the dark, black fir of Switzerland
and the North, but a brilliant, mossy green, velvety-
textured fir, strong in tone against the quivering surface
of the water. The coast-line is a series of indentations ;
sometimes there is a hillside covered with these trees
between us and the sea ; at others, we are hanging over
it, and looking down through the water to its very floor.
How often, on the terrace of the Castel-a-Mare at Taor-
mina, have I looked down the 423 feet on to the bays
of Sicily's coast, and seen exactly the same effect which
we catch as our train runs above these shores of the Gulf
of Corinth ! the same moving of brilliant, transparent
colour ; the same liquid amber edge of sand, dark stones
and brown seaweed, caressed by the glittering, jewel-
coloured waves, dancing round in hues of turquoise,
emerald, sapphire, and amethyst, touched here and there
with bubbling froth, creamy white. Before it is broken

In Greece

up and dispersed by the barrier of the shore, the
surface of the sea is hard cerulean blue, spreading behind
into a broad surface of ultramarine in full splendour of
colour, miles away to the feet of those mountains, quite
indescribable in their aerial loveliness. Yes, we can
attempt to put these things into words, and stammer
out some of our ecstasy, excited by the sight of wonders
in Nature's repertoire of effects ; but when all the stam-
mering is exhausted, the beauty remains untold. It trans-
ports us into another atmosphere an atmosphere of
the skies. We want other words to describe adequately
its beauty. Like Kit Marlowe's poets' best possession,
it has

"... One grace, one wonder at the least,
Which into words no virtue can digest "

only, " Voir, c'est avoir !" In more common parlance,
it is what all travellers, who have eyes to see, recognize
in Greece as her " wonderful atmosphere." John Adding-
ton Symonds has described her as a land " wherein colour
is subordinate to light, and light was toned to softness."
After Lampiri the train runs inland. We are among
vines, olives, and shaded groves. We pass a rural
station, worthy of attention as a contrast to those in
more " up-to-date " localities. At Kamarae we cross
the wide river-bed of the Erineos, running down from
its beautiful valley above. If only we had more time
more trains ! Such a longing seizes one to get out
and wander in these places. Before reaching ^Egion we
come out again to the sea. The larger town of JSgion,
the Homeric ^Egion, celebrated for its springs of pure
water, is on the hillside, 100 feet above the railway-line.

From Patras to Corinth

Looking up towards it, we have also in view the sacred
grove, close to the town, for long the spot where the
Achaeans met periodically, in like manner as the Am-
phictyons met at Thermopylae and Delphi. The course
of human ways and customs, human rites and religions,
that have been here played out on the spots of the world,
which in themselves inspire the profoundest wonder at

A RAILWAY-STATION BETWEEN PATRAS AND CORINTH.

the superhuman artist's creations, come and go, influ-
enced or not who can tell ? by the obvious religion
which the beauty of Nature is always preaching. Along
this Gulf of Corinth the churches of this religion are as
yet undesecrated by the blighting blasts of modern com-
mercial excitement, though the sacred groves are unused,
and the rites therein enacted in the far-away past are
but faint traditions in the memory of to-day.

In Greece

It is from the town of JEgion, on the shore where our
train is stopping, that sailing-boats cross the gulf to Itea,
to Delphi, and to Parnassus. Longings, indeed, arise here
to pause and sail across. We see, rising over the Bay of
Itea, but some way inland, the faint toned, huge pile of
Parnassus, and imagine the spot below its heights where
the sacred groves of Delphi lie. But we must move on,
and again at Akrata be tantalized by knowing, through
our Murray, that more sailing-boats cross thence to Itea.
Arriving at Perigiati, we catch a glimpse of old Corinth,
adorned still by remnants of her temple columns the
Corinth where St. Paul lived for eighteen months :

" After these things Paul departed from Athens, and came to
Corinth ;

" And found a certain Jew named Aquila, born in Pontus,
lately come from Italy, with his wife Priscilla ; (because that
Claudius had commanded all Jews to depart from Rome :) and
came unto them.

" And because he was of the same craft, he abode with them,
and wrought : for by their occupation they were tentmakers.

" And he reasoned in the synagogue every sabbath, and per-
suaded the Jews and the Greeks.

" And when Silas and Timotheus were come from Macedonia,
Paul was pressed in the spirit, and testified to the Jews that
Jesus was Christ.

" And when they opposed themselves, and blasphemed, he
shook his raiment, and said unto them, Your blood be upon your
own heads ; I am clean : from henceforth I will go unto the
Gentiles."

And there, on that hillside we see from the train, was
it that St. Paul dwelt for eighteen months, tent-making
and preaching.

What a different kind of place from that formed by our
imaginations when we were children ! To all children, I
suppose, who are taught the Christian religion, the whole

THE ARCH OF HADRIAN, ATHENS (see p. 49).

A triumphal archway dividing, as stated by inscriptions on either side, the city of Theseus from the

city of Hadrian.

A Glimpse of Ancient Corinth

Bible, commencing with the creation of the world and
running on into the New Testament, means the beginning
of all things, the one absorbing, prominent history of all
early times, and nothing else is definite to their minds in
the way of ancient history. Moreover, our imaginations
of places and people mentioned in the Bible are fed from
our babyhood by pictures, Anglicized-classic in style,
which distort our impressions by fundamentally unreal
records, such as reproductions of Raphael's cartoons, or
of far less worthy models. St. Paul, draped in a Roman
toga, in a stately and stagey attitude, preaching to the
men of Athens, is the St. Paul of our childhood. How
different from the idea of him that comes as we look up
to the hillside where we see the remnants of old Corinth !
St. Paul ceases to be a figure in a picture treated in a
generalized classic fashion. We picture him now as a
real living craftsman working under a blazing southern
sun. It is real impressions that suggest the most inter-
esting thoughts. How strikingly strange it appears that
what happened under such ordinary conditions the fact
that a tent-maker, abiding eighteen months in that small
town (so very small compared to our modern towns) in a
small country should have become part of that Bible,
the great lever of all truly great civilizations, translated
into every known tongue, and read by millions and
millions of people all over the world ! Was there ever a
miracle recorded that can compare in strange power with
that wrought by those who have infused and kneaded the
Christian spirit into the life of the world ?

We lose sight of the spot associated with St. Paul as
we turn under the hill into the station of Corinth. Here,

41 6

In Greece

for the first time, we alight from the train, having twenty
minutes to wait alas, only twenty minutes ! To climb
to the Acropolis and to visit old Corinth takes five hours,
so, again full of regrets, we lunch and start afresh. After
running two miles along the Isthmus of Corinth, our train
crosses the canal, 200 feet above the water. The canal
is the most important engineering feat achieved by the
modern Greeks, and cost 2,800,000. It makes the only
ugly feature of the journey from Patras to Athens.
What would the ancients have made of such a work !
Surely something more sightly and entertaining than this
costly dull construction ! The idea of cutting a canal
across the Isthmus was thought of before the tune of
Nero. Nero went so far as to commence the work with
a golden spade at a grand function. But inconvenient
insurrections broke out in Gaul, and the work had to be
dropped ; but Murray tells us that traces may be seen
of this abortive attempt on the west shore of the Isthmus
near Diolkos. We run along the farther side of the
Isthmus, which is of limestone rock, ten miles in length,
and varying from four to eight miles in width. It is not
beautiful all is stony, sun-struck glare so we fall back
on our Murray for facts.

When we reach Kalamaki we find the sea again, but
now on our right hand.

The beauty of this Gulf of gina is quite different from
that of the Gulf of Corinth. Away in the distance faint
purple, lying on a pearl-grey sheen of sea, rise the Islands
of jEgina and Salamis ; nearer, the high ranges running
south above the eastern shores of the Peloponnesus.
Here we see to perfection the distinguishing feature of

From Corinth to Athens

Greek landscape serrated shores, mountains rising high,
both on the mainland and on the many islands. It is
difficult to make out which is the mainland and which
are islands. As in the Western Highlands, gleams of
light on water shine out unexpectedly between mountain
heights, and tongues of land run out into and round the
sea. No view is without both land and water a lovely
dreamland, haunted with legends. Here, where our
modern railway-train is passing, Theseus slew the wild
sow ; farther along, looking down from the narrow pass
of Kaki Scala, is the pathway into which the giant Scoron
inveigled solitary travellers, whom he caught and threw
over as food for his pet turtle ; but Scoron in his turn, be
it noted, was kicked over the rock by the hero Theseus.

After running down a steep incline we reach Megara,
opposite the Island of Salamis Salamis, of schoolroom
record, known since the earliest days. As we travel
along in our train on this 8th day of September, in the
twentieth century A.D., we are only twelve days from the
anniversary of the great battle fought on September 20th,
480 B.C., when the 3,000 Persian ships were cut in pieces
by the Greeks, who had but 300, the disaster being
watched by Xerxes from a rock jutting out into the Gulf
of Salamis, which we are passing. There, on the spot
below us, jEschylus fought with the rest for the freedom
of his Greece, describing the great scene afterwards in
his tragedy of " The Persians ":

" One cry arose : Ho ! sons of Hellenes, up !
Now free your fatherland, now free your sons,
Your wives, the fanes of your ancestral gods.
Your fathers' tombs ! Now fight you for your all.
Yea, and from our side brake an answering hum

In Greece

Of Persian voices. Then, no more delay,
Ship upon ship her beak of biting brass
Struck stoutly. 'Twas a bark, I ween, of Hellas
First charged, dashing from a Tyrrhenian galleon
Her prow-gear ; then ran hull on hull pell-mell.
At first the torrent of the Persian navy
Bore up : but when the multitude of ships
Were straitly jammed, and none could help another,
Huddling with brazen-mouthed beaks they clashed
And brake their serried banks of oars together ;
Nor were the Hellenes slow or slack to muster
And poured them in a circle. Then ships' hulks
Floated keel upwards, and the sea was covered
With shipwreck multitudinous and with slaughter.
The shores and jutting reefs were full of corpses.
In indiscriminate rout, with straining oar,
The whole barbarian navy turned and fled.
Our foes, like men 'mid tunnies, draughts of fishes,
With splintered oars and spokes of shattered spars
Kept striking, grinding, smashing us : shrill shrieks
With groanings mingled held the hollow deep,
Till night's dark eye set limit to the slaughter.
But for our mass of miseries, could I speak
Straight on for ten days, I could never sum it ;
For know this well, never in one day died
Of men so many multitudes before."

The gently swaying sea and the calm mountain heights
on Salamis, bathed in the warm genial light of the after-
noon sun, viewed by us on this September afternoon
how innocent they appear to be of all suggestion of those
thrilling, tragic scenes of September 20th, 2,000 years
ago ! If it were not for the poets, what meagre messages
from the past even the most suggestive landscape scenes
would give us !

This great Greece, how strikingly small she is ! And
how very small are now the populated parts, compared
to her solitary mountain ranges and uninhabited plains !
Will the archaeologists ever get money enough to excavate

^Eschylus and Theognis

all her ancient sites, and smother the surface of modern
Greece with tangible records of her ancient history ?
May we be allowed to hope they will not ! ^Eschylus
and the mighty crew of poets have forwarded on to us
better records of what the Greeks had in their heads and
hearts when the great things were done, than the stones,
even in then* original completeness, could carry. They
are but records of events, scanty compared with thoughts
and feelings, and now, poor things ! they are but very
mutilated records. Is it not more decent to leave them
covered, and more merciful to leave the beauty of the
landscape of modern Greece unspoilt that beauty of
Greek landscape which inspired Pheidias, jEschylus,
and their fellow-artists and poets ?

We are stopping at the station of Megara, a very insig-
nificant-looking place now, but once a rival to Athens,
desiring to be possessed of S alarms, and only losing it
through a stratagem played by Solon in 598 B.C. But
what is really exciting about these scattered houses called
Megara is that they mark the site of the town where the
delightful poet, the poor, aristocratic Theognis, was born.
He lived some time between Homer and ^Eschylus, but
modern of the moderns is this delightful person's invec-
tive and satire against the millionaires of his now almost
legendary times. " Wealth is omnipotent. O Wealth !
of gods the fairest and most full of charm ! Everyone
honours a rich man, and slights a poor man : the whole
world agrees upon this point. Most men have but one
virtue, and that is wealth. You must fix your minds on
wealth wealth alone. Wealth is almighty !" Is not
this what may be heard any day at a London dinner-

In Greece

party in the houses of the old, refined, rather left-behind
aristocracy, over whom the larky mushroom millionaires
scamper somewhat rough-shod ? And this delightful
Theognis was born here, at this veiy unimposing-looking
Megara !

The train moves on, and we get a nearer view of
Salamis. Easy is it now to understand how the unwieldy
3,000 ships of the Persians could get jammed together
in this very narrow strait, and destroyed by those
vivid Greeks, fighting for their country's existence, and
knowing every point of the shore, every current of
the sea.

A straggling village comes into view on a flat ground
which juts out into the sea in a triangular promontory.
The straggling village is Eleusis, the scene of the yearly
functions of the Mysteries, and the birthplace of ^Eschy-
lus. Crowded, indeed, do the associations with the
greatest become as we rush on to the exciting climax of
our eight hours' journey to Athens. Only seventeen
miles remain of the 139 from Patras before we reach our
great goal. We pass on from the traces of the great
Eleusinian Mysteries with but little regret, so anxious
are we to catch the first view of " the Crown of Greece."
Leaving the coast, and turning north-east round the foot
of Mount Sacharitza, having avoided her heights, we turn
due south. Straight in front of our route, rising in the
distance there it is, dim in the distance, but unmistak-
able !

From whatever point it is seen, the Acropolis of Athens
is unmistakable. It is as if Nature and Art had together
insisted on its dominating everything else. We hasten

Arrival at Athens

towards it, but that first sight of the greatest of the
world's entities in places is lost.

As we run into the station nothing but the veriest arid
and untidy surroundings greet us. Going round from
Addison Road Station, Kensington, to Willesden Junc-
tion you pass a place called Wormwood Scrubs. Hitherto
that place has appeared to me as the most bare, squalid,
dusty repository of odds and ends, and of general untidi-
ness, that exists on the face of the earth. I think, how-
ever, the surroundings of the station at Athens would
take first prize on those same lines. True, it is autumn,
and summer heat has parched the ground and dried up
any vegetation there might be in the spring. But how
can one believe that any germ of vegetation could exist
in a foot-deep of dust that is always being disturbed and
made to fly about ? The bareness, the untidiness ! It
is very ugly ! A railway-station generally manages to
give the worst possible impression of a town. Waiting
for luggage and getting started away amidst tiresome
porters clamouring for tips are conditions that do not
conduce to happiness.

We reach the Hotel Minerva chosen because we were
told a view of the Acropolis could be seen from the
windows. We wrote for rooms having this view, but
from those reserved for us so small a part is visible, and
that small part only seen through a clink in high walls,
that we sacrifice it for better and more airy rooms.
Straight in front of my window is Mount Lycabettus,
rising above the modern town the noisy modern Athens.
If dust is the torment of Athens, noise is the torture !
" II faut payer pour tout." Evidently Athens must be

In Greece

taken another way from that which we enjoyed the feast
of beautiful sights on the journey to reach her.

During the journey, though the sensuous delight in the
beauty of the sights we saw may have been backed and
made serious and adhesive by legendary and historical,
associations, actually beautiful visions led the way : here,
in Athens, associations are the prominent interest, not
always clothed in obvious beauty. In justice to Athens,
it must be said, those associations very soon override
the physical irritations. Though the street is so need-
lessly noisy below, and the horses on the cab-stand just
under my window are incessantly striking their iron
shoes on the pavement to startle away the flies ; though
the modern houses are so unnecessarily modern ; still, as
the sweet air comes through the open window, as the
sun disappears, and one by one the lights on the summit
and slopes of Lycabettus gleam out through the twilight,
and the full moon (we have had, to all appearance, three
evenings of full moon) rises behind its shadowed peak, I
feel pacified somewhat. The ugly elements in modern
Athens cease to be ostentatiously obtrusive. A night's
rest will probably put them out of court altogether when
compared with all that Athens contains of intense interest
for the imagination. After a long and exciting journey,
a night's rest is of necessity, before further pulls are made
on the powers of enjoyment.

September gth. An eventful day in life.

At ten o'clock we drive from the Hotel Minerva,
through Constitution Square and the street beyond, to
the wide kind of boulevard which encircles Athens on
this side. Turning round to the right, we pass on our

I. ATHENS AND HER MOUNTAINS SEEN THROUGH THE COLUMNS OF
THE ERECHTHEION, ACROPOLIS

Built hetween 415 and 400 n.c.

2. THE PARTHENON, ATHENS.

(See /. 54.)

On the Road to the Acropolis

left ancient monuments, rising on bare spaces of ground,
spreading from this road away to the slopes of Hymettus
Hymettus of the honey. First the Arch of Hadrian,
the curious two-storied erection, standing separate and
isolated from other buildings, and further towards the
mountains the remnants of the Temple of the Olympian
Zeus, with its beautiful cluster of erect columns, golden
in the sunshine against violet Hymettus ; and, nearer us,
the splendid fragments of sculptured capitals of columns
that have been hurled to the ground, and left as they
fell for many hundred years.

The strangeness of being actually here ! To be really
at last in Athens almost stuns the capacity for taking
in her sights.

" Where on the ^Egean shore a city stands,
Built nobly, pure the air, and light the soil,
Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And eloquence."*

A place that was till now put so far off in the imagina-
tion !

We drive to the foot of the Acropolis, where, partly to
save our little horses the climb, partly to loiter to go or
stay as the spirit moves us we get out of the carriage
and walk. In trying to describe remnants of momentous
places in words, we should remember that, to most minds,
the words suggest far bigger sights than the eye sees when
on the spot. Stones, small and unnoticeable to the
uninitiated, may be unutterably interesting to the archae-
ologist, and when described and connected with the history
of famous events, they seize the imagination as places

* Milton, " Paradise Regained."

49 7

In Greece

which in themselves have importance. We, however,
are mainly concerned with actual impressions seized by
the eye on the spot. The first thrillingly notable remnant
we pass is the Theatre of Dionysos, lying against the side
of the castle-like rock of the Acropolis. But it is not the
perceptible theatre we see from the road which is the one
which first existed, but an unnoticeable arrangement of
stones behind the visible amphitheatre, where the
tragedies of ^Eschylus are said to have been performed
during his lifetime. However, the thought that his
tragedy, " The Persians," was given within sight of the
spot where we stand, eight years after the Battle of
Salamis, where he fought on that Gulf we passed yester-
day, is profoundly interesting, though the remains of the
theatre are entirely insignificant. The later theatre,
constructed about 330 B.C., is in tolerable repair, and in
the centre of the sixty-seven thrones of Pentelic marble,
constituting the places of honour for the Magnates of the
State, is the Throne of the Priest of Dionysos Eleuthe-
reus. This is singularly beautiful; the carving and
design of the figures are very lovely. This theatre was
buried till the year 1862, when the Germans unearthed it.
As we move on, we pass the sanctuary of ^Eschylus,
wherein is a sacred spring the stoa and temple of
Asclepios ; the stoa of King Eumenes ; the Adeion of
Herodes. But all these, are they not described in detail,
as every other spot of interest, in that triumph of hand-
books Murray's "Greece"? We pause respectfully
opposite the sites of these ruins, but cannot stay our
impatience to reach the summit above, so far as to
leave the road. We walk on to where all monuments

First View of the Parthenon

and walls cease, and, passing through a hedge of
agaves, by a steep pathway we ascend the hillside
to Beule"'s Gate. The Frenchman, Beule", only dis-
covered this ancient gateway in 1853 ; now it serves as
the entrance to the Acropolis, and it is locked at
sunset and opened again in the early morning. Though
we have climbed a stiff little hill, we are by no means yet
on the summit of this wonderful Acropolis, very much
removed from the ordinary level of life in every sense
far above in an atmosphere of its own. We pass through
the Beule* Gate, and mount the rest of our way up the
rock by steep steps, broadening out on to the pavement
of the Propylaea. On the marble steps on which we
stand, the feet of Pericles, Socrates, Pheidias, have
trodden, and the spell of the place begins to work on our
imaginations. We have entered the sacred precincts,
and when we have mounted the whole flight, we meet,
in full view, the most glorious jewel in the crown of
Athens the Parthenon in the dazzling fair light of
the morning sun " the finest edifice on the finest
site in the world, hallowed by the noblest recollections
that can stimulate the human heart."*

* " Unlike Rome, Athens leaves upon the memory one simple
and ineffaceable impression. There is here no conflict between
Paganism and Christianity, no statues of Hellas baptized by
Popes into the company of saints, no blending of the classical
and medieval and Renaissance influences in a bewilderment of
vast antiquity. Rome, true to her historical vocation, embraces
in her ruins all ages, all creeds, all nations. Her life has never
stood still, but has submitted to many transformations, of which
the traces are still visible. Athens, like the Greeks of history, is
isolated in a sort of self-completion : she is a thing of the past,
which still exists, because the spirit never dies, because beauty
is a joy for ever. What is truly remarkable about the city is

In Greece

A feeling of shame creeps over one with the thought
that in the dingy, foggy precincts of Bloomsbury, the
gloomy prison of the British Museum, the English have
incarcerated so many of its glories. Ah ! that those
matchless sculptures had been left blooming in their
beauty under these cloudless skies, warmed, as if to life,
under the rays of this sunshine the smile, it would seem,
of their own especial gods. We are told we should
console ourselves with the thought that the actual work
by Pheidias and his pupils is better preserved in our
Bloomsbury dungeon than had it been left in its birth-
place. I, personally, ought not to grumble, as I have
lived in walls lined with casts of the frieze, and thereby
have learnt Pheidias by heart in England all gratitude

just this that while the modern town is an insignificant mush-
room of the present century, the monuments of Greek Art are
in the best period the masterpieces of Ictinus and Mnasicles,
and the theatre on which the plays of the tragedians were pro-
duced survive in comparative perfection, and are so far unen-
cumbered with subsequent edifices that the actual Athens of
Pericles absorbs our attention. There is nothing of any conse-
quence intermediate between us and the fourth century B.C.
Seen from a distance, the Acropolis presents nearly the same
appearance as it offered to Spartan guardsmen when they paced
the ramparts of Decelea. Nature around is all unaltered. Except
that more villages, enclosed with olive-groves and vineyards, were
sprinkled over those bare hills in classic days, no essential change
in the landscape has taken place no transformation, for example,
of equal magnitude with that which converted the Campagna of
Rome from a plain of cities to a poisonous solitude. All through
the centuries which divide us from the age of Hadrian centuries
unfilled, as far as Athens is concerned, with memorable deeds of
national activity the Acropolis has stood uncovered to the sun.
The tones of the marble of Pentelicus have daily grown more
golden ; decay has here and there invaded frieze and capital ; war,
too, has done its work, shattering the Parthenon in 1687 by the
explosion of a powder magazine, and the Propylaea in 1656 by a

The Parthenon

to Brucciani who made the casts from the British Museum.
Still, standing here, face to face with the wreck of their
original dwelling-place, and thinking of the dark, depress-
ing, foggy atmosphere of their present habitation, we
feel as we do when a lark is encaged, and, protesting, we
are told it would probably have been killed by a hawk, or
ensnared for the poulterer, if it had been left its liberty.

That Lord Elgin did well to seize them, and preserve
them from utter destruction, no one can doubt ; but now
that their right preservation would be as much secured
on the Parthenon as in England, surely England should
rise to a generous magnanimity, and return the originals
to their right home, and substitute casts for them in our
Museum.

But the Parthenon, wreck though she be, is still

similar accident, and seaming the colonnades that still remain
with cannon-balls in 1827. Yet, in spite of time and violence,
the Acropolis survives, a miracle of beauty : like an everlasting
flower, through all that lapse of years it has spread its coronal
of marbles to the air, unheeded. And now, more than ever, its
temples seem to be incorporate with the rock they crown. The
slabs of column and basement have grown together by long
pressure or molecular adhesion into a coherent whole. Nor have
the weeds or creeping ivy invaded the glittering fragments that
strew the sacred hill. The sun's kiss alone has caused a change
from white to amber-hued or russet. Meanwhile, the exquisite
adaptation of Greek building to Greek landscape has been en-
hanced rather than impaired by that ' unimaginable touch of
time,' which has broken the regularity of outline, softened the
chisel-work of the sculptor, and confounded the painter's fret-
work in one tint of glowing gold. The Parthenon, the Erech-
theum, and the Propylaea have become one with the hill on
which they cluster, as needful to the scenery around them as
the everlasting mountains, as sympathetic as the rest of Nature
to the successions of morning and evening, which waken them
to passionate life by the magic touch of colour." JOHN ADDING-
TON SYMONDS.

In Greece

beautiful, still grandly dominating though how pathetic !
The two figures, the only two left in the western pedi-
ment, which our Theseus and Ilissos (as they were
originally named) and all the other great sculptures,
filled of yore how intensely pathetic ! Still, though
pathetic, though in rags, the Parthenon is still a queen,
stately and dominant, rising out from the chaotic
mass of stones, blocks of marble, fallen columns, all
huddled together and lying anyhow, mighty remnants
of the most perfect building human beings have ever
created. Strange it is that even so much remains. The
destroyer has assailed the Acropolis in every sort of way.
Inimical attacks have been hurled from Nature and by
man in nearly every destructive form, and yet it is still
there still the most momentous spot in the whole world,
as being the shrine for our most vivid associations with
legend, history, and art in the far-away of the most
momentous past. The light is everywhere ; here again
we feel, as J. A. Symonds says, " colour is subordinate to
light, and the light is toned to softness." There is a
bloom of light on the old marble, broadening the forms,
and making the whole aglow in sunshine, except where
the scaffolding, with which, at this moment, large portions
of the Erechtheum is covered, causes a jar in the tone.
This scaffolding also destroys the beauty of line from
many points of view, and, together with the utter con-
fusion and ruin on the ground, spoils much of the fore-
ground from a pictorial point of view.

True, it is a mass of ruins ; yet, how strangely the
impressiveness of those ruins steals over you ! How
dominant and intrinsic must be their beauty to retain

The Genius of Greek Art

such a power to conquer but in a few minutes the first
general impression of chaos ! It sets one speculating as
to wherein lies the power of this great Greek Art its
sublime serenity, calm force, supreme inevitableness.
In this art once the theme given conception and
execution work under the peremptory, unquestioning
dictation of intuitive impulse. The actual touch of the
chisel shows a large, loose handling, unfidgeted because
spontaneous ; no detail is focalized specially with any
desire for display ; all the touches emanate from a sense
within, working outwards as everything in the world
that is worth while is worked from within outwards
the feeling of the whole conception vibrating through
every detail and guiding the chisel from the first touch
to the last. In the outset were not these conceptions of
the Greeks inspired by intimacy with their gods, to whom
they erected these temples as votive offerings ? The
artists and poets of Greece entwined the spirit and action
of their gods into the expression of their own genius. All
that makes Greece so beautiful her lovely skies, land
and sea, shaded groves, rivers and sculptured mountains
were so many gracious influences reverenced with an awe
which was inspired by religion. Was it a feeling of
nearness to those they worshipped that made these
giants in art rise to such perfection in the work of their
own hands ? In short, was not this perfection the result
of the unquestioned reality of the spiritual life within
them ?

Standing here on the Acropolis we see the spot, below
us, the Hill of Mars, where St. Paul stood when he
addressed the Athenians.

In Greece

" Then Paul stood in the midst of Mars' Hill, and said, Ye
men of Athens, I perceive that in all things ye are too super-
stitious.

" For as I passed by, and beheld your devotions, I found an
altar with this inscription, To The Unknown God. Whom there-
fore 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 ;

" Neither is worshipped with men's hands, as though He
needed anything, seeing He giveth to all life, and breath, and
all things ;

" And hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell
on the face of the earth, and hath determined the times before
appointed, and the bounds of their habitation ;

" That they should seek the Lord, if haply they might feel
after Him, and find Him, though He be not far from every one
of us :

" For in Him we live, and move, and have our being ; as
certain also of your own poets have said, For we are also His
offspring.

" Forasmuch then as we are the offspring of God, we ought
not to think that the Godhead is like unto gold, or silver, or
stone, graven by art and man's device.

" And the times of this ignorance God winked at ; but now
command eth all men everywhere to repent."

St. Paul was speaking 500 years after the Parthenon
was built, when the decline of Greece had been acceler-
ating downwards for four centuries. We cannot feel
that the thoughts and feelings of those who lived during
the ninety years of her prime, when every human power
seemed to culminate in a crisis of perfection in Greece,
were turned to the worship of gold and silver, but rather
to the spirit of wisdom and truth " For we are also His
offspring, as certain of your own poets have said." In
this Greek art, even in its ruin, there was no material-
izing element in its aims ; there is undoubtedly the
appeal from spirit to spirit. Were the times when these

CHURCH OF THE VAL DAPHM (see p. 63).
A By/antine building modified by the French in the thirteenth century.

The Caryatides

things were made those which " God winked at " ? one
asks.

We have turned from gazing on the Parthenon, and
are facing the Erechtheion and the six Caryatides calm,
dignified, and carrying with power the weight they bear.
During the disasters that have befallen the poor Acropolis
since these grand women were given their part to play
in sustaining the temple, three of the six were cast down
and laid low among the ruins. One of these was caught
by the English, and now lives far away from her sisters
in the British Museum. She was replaced in the Erech-
theion by a copy in terra-cotta, when the other two
fallen figures were raised to their original position in 1845.
Facing the Erechtheion, this copy stands as the second
from the western end, and is distinguished by its darker
reddish colour. All the figures are worn and maimed
still, however, actually beautiful, serene, and dominating.
The work of Leighton and Watts comes to mind. Truly
and instinctively have our two great English artists
echoed the intrinsic value of style in this Greek work.
The beauty in the landscape, the far-off, finely-chiselled
mountains, pale cornelian pink, across the Gulf of
Corinth, and the sea of so solid a blue, recalled yesterday
those landscape sketches by Leighton, unrivalled records
of the beauty of Greece her very self, as we see her. Of
her greatest art, and the principles which intrinsically
guide it, we find echoes both in Watts' and Leighton's
work. Thoughts fly back to the studios in Kensington,
where these earnest workmen of the nineteenth century
created their art, both aiming, with the same instinct
for noble style, at achieving that beauty in it which

57 8

In Greece

elevates and ennobles, as does great poetry and great
music.

A vision of a certain morning, many, many years ago,
comes to mind, as we stand before those Caryatides a
morning when I was called in to hear the discovery of a
principle of form. Before Watts' statue of Hugh Lupus,
now at Eaton Hall, was begun, and before the design was
even in embryo of " Physical Energy," which has travelled
to a spot near the grave of Cecil Rhodes, on a summit of
the Matoppo Hills, Watts had made a wooden section
of a horse and covered it with brown paper. On this
paper he drew in charcoal the lines of the structure of the
horse in the movement he wanted. During this process,
he discovered a definite principle which embodied his
instinctive admiration for the suggestion of size in form.
Great was his glee when he had evolved this instinct into
a principle. Watts explained the principle in the follow-
ing manner. A curved line which is part of a small
circle will suggest a small form to the eye; whereas the
straighter a curved line is made, the larger in character
will be the form suggested, the reason being that the eye
completes for itself the circle of which the curved line is
a portion. With the Caryatides in view, it is easy to
realize that, consciously or unconsciously, this principle
was followed by the Greeks of the Pheidian school. Each
limit to the sculptured planes is a series of almost straight
lines. The same principle obviously applies to the
various masses in each form as to the limit line at any
given point. One is the natural result of the other.
Each silhouette is outlined by the limit of projecting and
receding planes, seen from whichever point a form in the

Essence of Beauty Undefinable

round is viewed. No muscle in any human figure or in
any animal, no fold of drapery or accessory is expressed
in Pheidian sculpture, by sections of circles, which, if
carried on, would be found complete within the design ;
they are, on the contrary, rendered in the marble by a
series of slightly and variously curved planes, subtle and
almost imperceptibly jointed together. Every curve, if
continued into the circle of which it is a section, would
reach far beyond the design.

Interesting as such a principle may be in order to
explain what is understood by style in form ; yet,
neither this nor any other principle worked out by
the human mind can, I suppose, fully explain the
cause of the impressive beauty, stately dignity, and
repose of the best Greek sculpture. No technical law,
nor teachable discovery, could alone account for the
impression of dignity and beauty in the form, and
in the breadth and freedom in the workmanship-
As easy would it be to unravel the process which pro-
duces the charm in a living flower : for instance, how
to explain in definite thought, much less in words, the
splendour of a great magnolia bloom, like a beautiful
white ivory goblet springing with such grand freedom,
yet subtlety of line, from a layer of green enamelled
leaves ; nor the exquisite spiral curve of the arum lily,
as she unfolds and throws back her one creamy white
petal to the light ? And in the greatest art there is that
same quality as there is in Nature a quality which beats
all human reasoning to explain. Agencies are at work
which have been taught their lessons on lines no human
reasoning can fathom. We accept the results call it

In Greece

genius and are thankful for the art of the greatest
workmen, be they modern or ancient craftsmen, as we
are for the " lilies of the field," which surpass in beauty
Solomon and all his glory.

Through the ruined heaps of marble we wander away
to the Museum, take a cursory view of its treasures, then
again out into the dazzling sunshine, round the southern
side of the Parthenon, to the Temple of Athena Nike, or
Nike Apteros, standing just above the steps we had
mounted to reach the summit of the Acropolis, with her
graceful Ionic columns, smaller in character than those
of the Erectheion, though in beauty of proportion and
delicate workmanship unrivalled by any other. The
temple shows no signs of having been entirely removed
by the Turks in the seventeenth century, and entirely
reconstructed and replaced in the nineteenth century,
yet so it was.

The sun is very hot, and we have had for the moment
our fill of impressions ; so, passing out through the Beule
Gate, we walk down the scorched pathway to the hedge
of agaves. Since we climbed up that pathway two hours
ago, and in through that Beule Gate, one of the great
events of life has occurred. We have stood on the
Acropolis of Athens ! We have gazed on the long longed-
for sight the Parthenon ! Was it a disappointment ?
No ; it was different, as all real places always are from
those we picture in our imagination. We may see any
number of pictures and photographs of a place ; after we
have seen the original these may help faithfully to recall
it, but before, somehow, they cannot reveal it. The real
Acropolis, the real Parthenon, were revealed to us this

Drive out of Athens

morning under that light of Greece, the light compared
to which all colour, however bright, is shadow. Through
all the ruined untidiness the grand beauty of the place
has asserted itself, and left us satisfied.

THE ACROPOLIS, ATHENS.

Luncheon at the Minerva over, we start again, this
time for a drive out of Athens in search of the old Byzan-
tine church of the Val Daphni. If the carriage were a
little more comfortable, the roads a little better made,
the seven miles would have been a rest after the excite-
ment of the morning. Even as it is, to get into the
country is very pleasant. Leaving Athens, we drive
westwards between pleasantly planted gardens, fields,
and avenues of trees, until we cross the bridge over the
River Kephisos, where but a scanty trickle of water runs
in its narrow course. Our road passes near the remains
of the Sacred Way, but we have not time to trace the
stones which mark it. The Sacred Way led to Eleusis,

In Greece

where, in the old days, the " Greater Mysteries " partly
took place in this very month of September. These
" Mysteries " lasted nine days. On the evening of the
fifth day a torchlight procession bearing a statue of
lakchos (Dionysos) left Athens, and passed along this
Sacred Way, through the wooded groves to this River
Kephisos this trickle of water embedded hi a ditch which
we have just crossed ; then mounting the slopes of Mount
^Egaleos, open to the sky, wound through the Val Daphni,
shadowed in woods, and, passing the Temple of Aphro-
dite, the long train of torch-lit devotees reached the sea,
and continued their way along the coast, rounding the
Bay of Salamis to Eleusis, where the My she, or " Initi-
ated," underwent a series of final purifications. That one
could have witnessed such a function ! What it must
have been, in the beauty of an early autumn southern
night, to watch that stream of moving lights and groups
of figures, voices chanting hymns in chorus, torches burn-
ing then* flickering flames now tangled in the leafage and
shadow of the olive-groves, now flaring brightly up into
the soft mystic grey of the moonlit sky ! To the fisher-
men lying in their boats, swayed by gentle tides off the
shores of Salamis, how strangely beautiful must have
been the sight as the procession glides out from the
shadowed Val Daphni and moves onward towards the
coast, reflections from the torches like ribbons of light
strewn on the crests of the waves, the chanting of the
voices floating to them over the water ! One can fancy
it all ! There were giants in those days in the art of
creating beautiful and poetic situations !

But to return to where we are and that is driving up

Val Daphni

a steep slope of Mount ^Egaleos in afternoon sunshine,
through rows of agaves, throwing up stiff flower-stems
made after the fashion of wrought-iron work. Reaching a
higher level, we enter the pass of the Val Daphni. Here
the hillsides are covered with fir-trees and olives, and all
traces of the distressing bareness, which strikes one so
uncomfortably in the immediate surroundings of Athens,
has vanished. We have not driven far through the valley
before the carriage stops by a wall under the shadow of
a large ash-tree. In this thick ancient wall in front of
us are blocked-up arches, ending in a castellated tower,
suggesting fortifications. We pass through an opening
in the wall, and find ourselves in presence of the beautiful
old Byzantine church we have driven seven miles to see.
The central door is raised by steps from the courtyard
where we stand, and is included in a very high recess,
which mounts almost to the flattened dome of the roof.
The recess is arched at the top, and above the door are
two tiers of triple round-headed lancet windows. General
proportion, detail, light and shade, broken colour all is
delightful. Nothing is in rum, nothing obviously re-
stored. Two stately cypresses guard the portal, and
much of the attractiveness of the whole scene is owing
to these and to the other trees that fill the courtyard.
On the branches of one is slung a large ancient bell. A
Benedictine monastery adjoining the church was built
by the French. It has long been suppressed. The bell
has often been rung to call the monks to their services in
the church, but one wonders who now worships there>
so alone, solitary is this beautiful building. We enter
the church, and find a very rare specimen of worthy pre-

In Greece

servation. Originally lined entirely with mosaics, it now
has many bare spaces of wall. Of course, most restorers
would have given a job to a modern worker in mosaics,
and filled in the gaps with Renaissance or modern dis-
cordances. But the skill of the exceptionally reverent
preserver who has been at work here has refrained from
confusing and destroying the effect of those left by
adding any new mosaic work. He has prevented further
destruction without encroaching on the atmosphere of
the place. A strangely impressive picture of our Lord
is perfectly preserved in the centre of the dome. The
countenance is stern, powerful, full of meaning. Beyond
the gold background of this central design are many
small pictures of saints and prophets. Four spandrils
are filled with figures of angels, and remnants of other
designs exist still on the walls. There is but little bright
colour in the mosaics ; the whole effect is singularly
harmonious in grey, golden, and brown tints, and is that
of a truly ancient, unspoilt, but well-preserved interior
a thing most rarely to be found in any country now.

Returning to the courtyard, on the opposite side to
that of the archway by which we entered there are
remains of a very ancient cloister. Evidently the
materials, at least, belong to an older period than the
church. The enclosing walls, Murray says, are built of
stones taken from a temple of Apollo. The original
Byzantine church was modified in the thirteenth century
by the French, who also built the now deserted monas-
tery. Passing out of the courtyard, we mount a little
way up the tree-covered hillside to look back on the
whole block of buildings, of which the church is the

a b
o o

a: J

Val Daphni

centre, and the opposite hill the background. What
could be more different than the effect which the Acro-
polis had on us this morning, and the impressions created
by this Christian Byzantine church and its surroundings !
This is a picture a deeply interesting picture. The
building is very aged, beautiful in its structure, in light,
and shade, and in broken colour, and having, besides its
perfection of architecture, proportions, and symmetry,
surroundings of trees and wooded hillside, all conducing to
pictorial charm. Whereas, on the Acropolis, ruin, and not
only ruin, but molested ruin meets the eye the untidy
and unsightly state of ruin not brought about by natural
decay or by Nature's forces only, but by military on-
slaughts, excavations of archaeologists, scaffoldings of the
restorer. It is in that transition state (necessary, of
course, but hideous) between the complete and comely
ruin which has clothed itself decorously with time-
beautifying tones and harmonies, and with the dignity
of acquiescence, " where we fall, let us lie " between
this state and complete restoration, which is disconcert-
ing, by reviving the original aspect.

How much of our vivid impressions, while on the
Acropolis for the first time, was due to the interest of
association who can say ? These things are part of the
subconscious machinery of that cerebellum which works
without our will, as it does in our dreams. Certain it is
there are elements which arouse a deeper aesthetic emotion
than that of the simply pictorially charming. Most en-
joyable is this hillside, the shading branches of trees, the
long streaks of warm afternoon sunlight striking along
brown earth between their shadows. Goats come troop-

65 9

In Greece

ing down the hill, and leap about in the small trees grow-
ing against the strong wall encircling the precincts of the

CHURCH OF THE VAL DAPHNI AS SEEN FROM THE OPPOSITE
HILLSIDE.

church. They are fascinating to watch everything is
charming in the Val Daphni but, unlike the untidy,

Temple of Theseus

chaotic Acropolis, the deeper recesses of conscious-
ness are not reached by it. This scene will ever remain
one of the prettiest pictures we saw in Greece but
that is all !

Driving down the slope of Mount Areopagus, between
the avenue of the wrought-iron agaves, we get a view
across the plain of Athens of the spreading city encircling
her crown. Reaching the town, we stop at the entrance
of the Street of Tombs, the ancient Cemetery of Ceromicos.
There is great beauty in some of the sculpture in these
tombs, but everything that can be covered with wire
netting is covered, and the effect of the monuments is
thereby cheapened. Who can enjoy the sight even of
the best sculpture, when seen through the teasing net-
work of wire ?

We walk on, past the Theseion Station, along a planted
space, up a steep road to the Temple of Theseus, the
most perfect of the architecture of the ancients left.
It is evening, but the kodak must do its best. Unfor-
tunately, my first snapshot was taken on the top of the
Mount Areopagus view, so both are lost. The solemn
weight of Doric columns massed together, as we approach
them from below, is impressive, rising dark against the
evening sky. On the right, four gaps between the pillars
let in the light, and through one gap the view of the
Acropolis crowned by the Parthenon. Of the sculptures
of the Theseion in this evening light we see little. Earth-
quakes have shaken many of the drums of the columns
more or less out of line, but none have ever fallen. There,
as the Greeks in 400 and more B.C. raised them, do they
now stand. As we mount the steps of the temple plat-

In Greece

form, and walk among the great Doric pillars, it feels like
entering a dark wood of huge forest-trees, the outline of
each trunk cut into by the sunset sky beyond. Standing
within the outer row, on one spot, two of these marble
trunks just frame in the fine view of the Parthenon ;
turning eastwards, through others we get a view of the
quarries on Pentelicus, which gave forth the marble of
which all these great things were built. One of the dis-
tinct charms in these views of the monuments of Athens
lies in the very becoming backgrounds against which
they are seen the ancient deeply toned, weighty marble
against the violet slopes of Hymettus and Pentelicus.
and, nearer, against the steep pinnacle of Lycabettus
softly tinted, vaporous spaces of lovely colour.

Returning to the Hotel Minerva in the twilight, we see
modern Athens beginning its evening life. Already
strollers are walking up and down Constitution Square.
An hour or so later, after we have dined, we cross it
again, on our way to the Acropolis, to view it by moon-
light. It is crowded, and a band of music is playing.
Athens' world concentrates itself round cafes in the
evening, and Athens' world makes a great noise round
these cafes. Happily, all this is left behind us before
reaching that hedge of agaves we have again to pass
through before mounting the steep hillside to the Porte
Beule. Singularly silent and lonely is the feeling of the
place as we look up at the rock, crowned by her temples,
rising high above us into the shaded moonlit sky.

At the Porte Beule we show our pass, and the grey-
headed, Egyptian-looking porter rattles his keys and
unlocks the gate lingeringly a lingering suggesting a hint

The Acropolis by Moonlight

for a tip. The broad steps in dark shadow lead us up to
the Propylaea, and when we reach the top we see before
us " The Acropolis by Moonlight." We have it all to
ourselves. The workmen no longer hammer on the
scaffoldings ; we see no human beings save each other.
But the moon itself in the south seems a presence a very
all-pervading presence. She obliterates the untidy con-
fusion of the chaotic ruins, she broadens out effects of
light and shade, and leaves the four grand remnants of
buildings the Propylaea, the Temple of Athena Nike,
the Parthenon, and the Erectheion sole possessors of
the ground. We walk round the Parthenon, then sit on
a block of marble, where we face a view of the entire
length of the ruined structure, the Erectheion being to
our right and the Propylaea beyond.

Yes ; this moonlight is a presence, a someone hovering
over the scene, possessing an intimate yet a mysterious
power, half-revealing and half-hiding her meaning. She
spreads a shimmering lace-work of light over the mighty
weight of the marble structures, trembles along the great
widespread slabs of the pavement, creeps into the fluting
of the massive Doric columns. Her glistening silver light
and ashen shadow carry with them interpretations of the
scene deeper into the recesses of our consciousness than
can even the glorious beams of bright Zeus in the day-
light.

Sitting there before the Parthenon, the moonlight
starts memories and suggests other scenes, other soul-
stirring moments when Artemis opened the door of her
sanctuaries. The magic of other Southern moonlit
nights strange, ghostlike visions revive in the memory.

In Greece

Things generally considered as the most important events
and feelings of life may fade away into the vaguest of
recollections, but the subtle poetry of those moonlit
nights in the past still remains a reality in the inner life.
This spot, sacred as the one in which the spirit of human
art in her highest mood has reigned supreme, starts the
recollection of moments when other scenes struck the
same stratum of entrancement. Perhaps it is that all
momentous effects in nature or art arouse the most real
feelings within us the deepest feelings and how simple
and sincere these feelings are ! And so, besides the emo-
tions produced at the moment, such effects of the present
recall those of yore, those which memory holds in her
inner fastnesses only to be awakened when others, tuned
to the same key, hail them as fellow-feelings : deep,
lasting revealings, ever alive, though at most times
suppressed under the fretted turmoil " the petty dust of
daily life."

A spring evening, so many, many years ago, comes to
join company with this intimate, thrilling moment. The
liquid trickling of the fountain in the Palace Square at
Malta makes an accompaniment to the music playing in
front of the Palace. Violets and orange flowers fill the
inner courtyard with a delicate aroma. There, in early
youth, in the balmy night-air of the South, did some door
open and a shrine became revealed a shrine which the
personality of no human being the goddess Artemis
herself alone inhabited. (The Greeks knew well how im-
personal, though so intimate, is the message of the moon,
when they invented chaste Artemis.) A great spirit
seemed to come quite near, and the first consciousness

A Vision of Sicily

was awoke of the personal possession of " the best
thing in the world, the something out of it." How many
arrive at this " something out of it " through the medium
of the best things in it !

Then, yet another guest from those inner stores of
memory enters the stage. In the " wunderschonen
Monat Mai," in an orchard beyond the walls of Taormina,
Artemis again offered a welcome to the enjoyment of her
mysteries. While strolling in groves of olive and almond-
trees, high above the swaying surface of the sea, in the
night air of the far South, in that Sicily, girt round by a
moonlit sea a breathing jewel murmuring in a hushed
undertone so peacefully around her shores was the
spell of the enchantment cast. The scene seems as vivid
as that of this moment on the Acropolis. A white sail
slips through the olive boughs twinkling with silver-lit
foliage ; a flutelike whooping from an " Assuolo Europa "
the little brown owl that has its nest underground
makes a treble to the low, hurried rush of the wavelets,
as they break on the shore below. From far down, close
under our own rocks, swayed gently by the tide, a light,
like a glow-worm, hangs on the prow of a fisherman's
boat, and shines up to us through the tangles of the
orchard. The almond-trees, that flush Sicily with pink
in the beginning of the year, are laden in this month of
May with fruit grey-green eggs, covered with downy
bloom, solid among the fluttering leaves. And we talk of
Tschaikowsky. In the smothered tragedy of the pizzi-
cato movement of his great Trip, is not the effect
of the hidden mystery as of moonlight strangely
suggested ? And, surely, nothing in sound was ever

In Greece

more like moonlight than that andante cantabile in his
Quartet ? The pizzicato, that mitigated sound, a child's
voice speaking under its breath, seems to weave a mystery
of moonlight into the strings. How, with the same
insidious charm, does the movement steal over us, re-
strained, yet so delicately intimate ; like dreams that
put things a little farther off, but are yet in better tune
with that inner intimate self below and within the con-
scious life. Nature herself seems dreaming when lit by
moonlight, and the fantastic element of dreams is not
left out. Beethoven's scherzo, in the " Moonlight
Sonata," how it skips and leaps about with dainty,
fantastic starts, as moonlight dances into the shadows
of light trees or on the watery turmoil of a gurgling
stream ! But in gazing on the Parthenon it is not the
scherzo, but the grave, solemn beginning of Beethoven's
supreme work which is recalled, as being strikingly in
harmony with Athena's temple, seen lit by the rays of
Artemis, gliding serenely across the sky. The broad
suffused light which floats across the widespread flooring ;
the hidden mystery of shadow ; the dignity and simple
strength of the great columns ; the dark angles of the
pediments, cut decisively against the dim night sky,
corresponding to those bass notes striking weightily
into the smooth legato cadences all that Beethoven
seems to have put into sound in that first movement of
the " Moonlight Sonata," and all that Madame Schumann
made out of it in the days long ago seems interpreted
afresh through another effect. So one record of one
mighty giant is echoed to us by records of brother giants.
We seem mounted very tall on a high level, and find

THE PORCH OF THE BYZANTINE CHURCH OF THE KAPNIKAREA, ATHENS.

(See p. 78.

The Profoundest Modern Expression

ourselves in the company only of the great. On this
Acropolis, rock and temple alike appear as part of the
permanent facts of Nature, things which ever have been
and ever shall be.

But how is it that music is now in our modern life
the art which alone suggests the adequate expression
of our highest, profoundest, aesthetic sensibilities ?
Watts called the pictures in which he strove to
put the best of himself " Anthems." John Addington
Symonds, in recounting the transcendent glories of the
Vision he saw on land and sea as, on leaving Greece, he
passed Leucadia, wrote, " Only the passion of orchestras,
the fire-flight of the last movement of the ' C-minor
Symphony,' can in the realms of art, give utterance
to the spirit of scenes like this."*

* " At length the open sea is reached. Past Zante and
Cephalonia we glide ' under a roof of blue Ionian weather '; or,
if the sky has been troubled with storm, we watch the moulding
of long glittering cloudlines, processions and pomps of silvery
vapour, fretwork and frieze of alabaster piled above the islands,
pearled promontories and domes of rounded snow. Soon Santa
Maura comes in sight :

" ' Leucatae nimbosa cacumina montis,
Et formidatus nautis aperitur Apollo.'

Here Sappho leapt into the waves to cure love-longing, according
to the ancient story ; and he who sees the white cliffs chafed
with breakers and burning with fierce light, as it was once my
luck to see them, may well with Childe Harold ' feel or deem he
feels no common glow.' All through the afternoon it had been
raining, and the sea was running high beneath a petulant west
wind. But just before evening, while yet there remained a
hand's-breadth between the sea and the sinking sun, the clouds
were rent and blown in masses about the sky. Rain still fell
fretfully in scuds and fleeces ; but where for hours there had
been nothing but a monotone of greyness, suddenly fire broke
and radiance and storm-clouds in commotion. Then, as if built
up by music, a rainbow rose and grew above Leucadia, planting

73 10

In Greece

We leave our marble seat and pause, facing the Erec-
theion. The grand forms of women, carrying their
burdens with such strength and ease, appear in this
moonlight as eternal records of the great ones of the
human race ; but, moving on to the edge of the Acro-
polis, we look over the wall which crests the rock down
into modern Athens. What a contrast ! A howling
wilderness of cafes, noise, and flickering lights. As the
sound of Christie-Minstrels in St. James's Hall jarred on
the ear through Madame Schumann's playing of Beeth-
oven, so, through the solemnity of the Acropolis, do these
untuned, rasping voices rise. It might be the brewing of
twenty revolutions going on, so great seems the turmoil.
It only means, however, the natural expression of the
Athenian temperament, emphasized by the fact that a
new mayor is to be elected next week. It is the old story
repeating itself Athenian vitality, and intense engross-

one foot on Actium and the other on Ithaca, and spanning with
a horseshoe arch that touched the zenith the long line of roseate
cliffs. The clouds upon which this bow was woven were steel-
blue beneath and crimson above ; and the bow itself was bathed
in fire, its violets and greens and yellows visibly ignited by the
liquid flame on which it rested. The sea beneath, stormily
dancing, flashed back from all its crest the same red glow, shining
like a ridged lava torrent in its first combustion. Then, as the
sun sank, the crags burned deeper with scarlet blushes as of
blood, and with passionate bloom as of pomegranate or oleander
flowers.

" Could Turner rise from the grave to paint a picture that
should bear the name of ' Sappho's Leap,' he might strive to
paint it thus : and the world would complain that he had dreamed
the poetry of his picture. But who could dream anything so
wild and yet so definite ? Only the passion of orchestras, the
fire-flight of the last movement of the ' C-minor Symphony,' can
in the realms of art give utterance to the spirit of scenes like
this." JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS.

A Contrast

ment in its own interests ; her Dionysos enthusiasm
bursting forth at the slightest provocation ; equally now
in mindless excitement about current events, as of yore
for the wisdom of a Pericles or a Socrates. Athens is
still Athens, though left behind in the race. In the
noises she produces, it would appear she has stopped
short of the kind of civilization most modernized cities
have acquired. There is a barbaric tone in her voice, an
absence of any remote hint of restraint or definite mean-
ing in the sounds she emits. But, looking across this
flaring, roaring, temporary town, stretching all round her
and far beyond, are again the Eternities, again the peace
and beauty of the Greece which is incomparable. Folds
of sweeping mountain forms, inlets of gleaming seas and
hilly isles bathed in silver light. How accidental does
the intermediate bivouac of noisy modern life appear !
But, alas ! some of it has appeared on our scene ; a gay,
loud-talking party is close to us. We must fly, or
memories of the " Acropolis by Moonlight " will be marred
for ever and aye !

Walking down the still, solitary hillside to the hedge
of agaves, one thought comes uppermost. These great
impressions that are vouchsafed to us on red-letter days,
we enjoy through the possessions we bring with us quite
as fully as through the actual sights before us. When
our keen sensibilities and deepest interests are really
aroused, salient moments of the past make part of our
present, and our whole self, more worthy than our every-
day self, comes into action.

John Addington Symonds chose as the text for his
" Study of the Greek Poets " Goethe's lines :

In Greece

" In ganzen, Guten, Schonen,
Resolut zu leben."

An accumulation of inspiring visions and the noble
thoughts of the great ones stored in the memory must,
indeed, always be a profitable investment, for it brings in
a large and compound interest.

That one could have brought to the Acropolis the
fruits of classic learning ! What a vast mass of appro-
priate ideas would have been added to the interest of the
scene, more appropriate than the scenes of yore ; thoughts
rather than feelings, however, and hardly so personal or
individual. In the midday sunshine, the value of our
own great English art ; in the moonlight, Tschaikowsky's
pizzicato movements, Beethoven's creation of moonlight
in music, and Madame Schumann's interpretation thereof,
together with equally soul-stirring moments in Southern
climes, have had a share in stamping into our minds
impressions which are now precious possessions as long as
consciousness remains.

September loth (Thursday). To-day we are to wander
about the streets of Athens on foot. Besides the ancient
monuments, which are to be found among the streets and
houses of the town, there are small Byzantine churches,
of the type of the church of the Val Daphni, which, till
recent years, have been but little noticed, but which,
after our experience of yesterday, we are keenly anxious
to find. Starting from the Minerva Hotel, and turning
left down the Stadium Street, past the Houses of Parlia-
ment, and again to the left among a network of small,
narrow streets, we discover one of these on a piazza., the
Church of St. George, but, alas ! hardly recognizable as

Street Scenes in Athens

an old church, so complete and fundamental have been
the restorations. New paint and bright colours have
obliterated all trace of old stonework. The life, how-
ever, going on in the small streets surrounding the church
is picturesque and well worthy the notice of the kodak.
The sight of a kodak, however, is as fruitful as is a broken
down motor-car in at once collecting a crowd. It springs,
you know not whence ; but there it is, filling up the
whole of the " finder " !

At every turn we meet donkeys, laden with grapes, in
the same fashion as on the ass we saw at Patras ; there
are fruit-shops garlanded with bunches of grapes and
the leaves and tendrils of the vine. Banked up from the
pavement to the roof (these fruit-shops have no windows)
are baskets full of apples, tomatoes, figs, oranges, lemons,
and strange fruits and vegetables of to us unknown
names ; autumn fruits of the earth, such as we saw grow-
ing in such abundance along the Gulf of Corinth. These
depots of fresh, juicy products, delightful masses of bright
colour, are in every one of these little streets and at every
corner, and, added to the itinerary shops of grapes on the
donkeys' backs, prove that the Athenians eat fruit in
abundance.

At the doorstep of an old house in a narrow, steep
alley is a boy loading a donkey with red pitchers of un-
glazed ware. For the donkey's sake it is to be hoped
they are not heavy, for a considerable bunch of these large,
long, prettily-shaped jars is being adjusted on the saddle
by means of ropes tied through the handles. They spring
out all round the little animal, waiting so patiently to
receive its burden.

In Greece

In the entrance of one fruit-shop stands a man in real
Greek costume, white-fluted skirts, bound-up legs, fez,
and shoes turned gondolier-like up at the points, the first
we have seen, for of these Greek costumes but few appear
in the streets of Athens. The dress of the main popula-
tion belongs to the type of garments you see on the towns-
people in all countries dark cloth clothes, worn by the
Athenians of to-day in a slovenly manner. There is a
singular lack of any racial distinction in the majority
you meet in the streets. They are undersized, and have,
as a rule, countenances absolutely lacking in interest or
beauty. Jews and Armenians abound in Athens
Levantines, in fact.

Returning to the Stadium Street, we walk to Con-
stitution Square. Facing the palace, on the opposite
side, is the wide Hermes Street, which we take, in search
of the old Byzantine Church Kapnikarea, named from
a picture of the Virgin, which suffered in a fire at the end
of the seventeenth century, the head becoming blackened.
We catch sight of it some little way down the street,
blocking up the centre of Hermes Street. The founda-
tion is supposed to date from the year 444, but the
actual building is ninth-century work, therefore centuries
earlier than the part of the Val Daphni church that was
built by the French. The Kapnikarea Church is a most
attractive building, and forms, indeed, a happy contrast
to the large modern houses which surround it. Fortunate
is it that no Borough Council has added importance to
Hermes Street, as is, alas ! so often the case in England,
by sweeping away this impediment to its straight
monotony. The beautiful little building is formed of

Byzantine Church Kapnikarea

a cluster of many-roofed erections of various heights,
culminating in one principal domed octagonal tower,
each facet ornamented by a round-headed lancet window.
The flattened dome is ribbed with curved tiles descending
to a point at each angle of the six sides. It is surmounted
by a cross. The design of this cupola is charmingly
decorative. To the right of it, looking westwards as we
approach it, is a similar smaller dome, which was built
much later, and covers a chapel added in the seventeenth
century. Walking round to the left, at the end of the
south wall we find a beautiful little porch, and over the
western wall are four gables of small proportions and full
of grace. This building, like our friend St. Stefano of
Bologna, has the charm of Walter Pater's " caressing
littleness." Standing modestly among the bare frontages
of " important " modern houses, it is like a precious jewel
set in a framing of coarse ormolu. The workmanship
throughout is perfect. The surface of the stonework is
enriched and toned by the bloom of time. Light and
shadow play in and out most pleasantly among the many
angles in its walls and roofing ; there is delightful variety,
and, at the same time, completeness in the design, which
creates a most interesting impression. Humble in its
proportions, it is, nevertheless, distinguished an unique
and rare gem in architecture. A suggestion of the East
echoes through the little Christian edifice, which links it
with associations of the first spreading of Christianity
westwards. What a contrast to the grandeur of the
Parthenon is this sign of the invasion of the religion
preached by St. Paul in their city to the Athenians !
Entering through the door of the church, we find every-

In Greece

thing rich and costly, well cared for and in order.
Finely wrought metal lamps hang from the ceiling, and
the screen in front of the altar is painted in bright colours
on golden grounds. Obviously the religion is alive of
which this church is the shrine. We have met priests in
the streets of Athens, for the most part of a singular type.
They bear the impress of being holy men refined in
feature and countenance a race apart, very different in
every way from the undersized Armenians, Jews, and
Levantines, of whom the street population is chiefly
composed. The priests have long hair, twisted up behind
as women dress it. A curious green shade in the pale
olive hue of their skin distinguishes their complexion
from that of the ordinary modern Athenian. The ex-
pression in their dark, quiet eyes indicates an aloofness
from ordinary life and non-concern with what is passing
before their eyes. Their minds are bent on other matters ;
they lead a life apart, in the world but not of the world ;
judging from their countenances, they are separated from
modern herds by the most separating of all distinctions.
They are not occupied by money-making, nor are their
souls by the love of money or what money gets. Many
of these priests' faces are singularly beautiful.

Leaving their church, Kapnikarea, and returning a few
steps up Hermes Street, we take the first street that
crosses it. Turning to the right, we see beyond it the
open square on which stand the metropolitan churches
the old and the new cathedrals the new a very large,
high building, constructed in 1855 from the material
of seventy demolished churches, and from the designs
of four different architects so Murray tells us. Looking

1. THE OLD BYZANTINE METROPOLITAN CHURCH, ATHENS.

2. BYZANTINE CHURCH IN ATHENS. NAMED KAPNIKAREA.

Its foundations dale from A.D. 444. The actual luiilding is ninth-century work.

(See f>. 8 1.)

The Old Metropolitan Church

at it in this midday sun, it is a very glaring and white
building, of pretentious size and importance, and as regards
these distinctions, overpowering the tiny little edifice
below it. But here again is suggested the precious jewel
set with large, empty, incongruous framing, winning
sympathy through quality, not quantity. Unfortunately,
however, the little treasure loses some of its effect by
standing on a lower level than the pavement of the
square, and from its being surrounded by a common cast-
iron railing. Much smaller than the Kapnikarea, being
only 40 feet by 25 feet, it is also simpler in design. It
is beautifully proportioned, and built entirely of white
marble, now tinted golden by time. It dates from the
thirteenth century, but its marble surface is chiefly
made up of fragments of Greek and Roman sculpture,
placed upside down, anyhow, without reference to the
designs of the blocks. This has no harmful effect on its
general appearance, though to the archaeologist it may
seem to be desecration. We go inside, and find the orna-
ments of the church are rich and costly, and evident care
and reverence bestowed on the services, as in the Kapni-
karea. Perhaps it is the unexpectedness of these old
Christian churches in Athens which produces such a
striking impression ; also their perfect preservation in the
centre of a town that has been in ruins and has been
rebuilt so often, and that has now for the most part the
aspect of a modern among modern cities.

After luncheon we start again on foot to view other
things of note in the streets. Again walking down
Hermes Street, round and past the Kapnikarea Church,
we continue to descend. The streets below the church

81 ii

In Greece

have a less modern, more picturesque aspect ; the houses
are older and less uniform than those near Constitution
Square, the centre of the royalty and riches of the Athens
of to-day. We get into the JEolus Street, named from
the Tower of the Winds, to which it leads us. Fruit-
stalls, rich in colour, decorate this quarter ; creeping plants
festoon the walls with green ; there is more dirt, more
untidiness, more picturesqueness. We reach the
curiosity, the Tower of the Winds, a truly striking and
comely curiosity. It was built as a sundial, and a water-
clock by Andronicus Cyrrhestes, an astronomer, between
the years 100 B.C. and 35 B.C. It is an octagonal tower
of marble, 44 feet high and 27 feet round, roofed by a
flattened cone of marble tiles. In the centre of this roof
rises the stand for the now vanished revolving bronze
Triton, who held a wand which served as a weathercock.
The porticoes, as shown in the design on the cover of the
descriptive notice of our English Royal Meteorological
Society a copy of this Tower of the Winds as it was
have also vanished, leaving but short stumps of the columns
that supported them. The design of the Tower is in-
teresting and uncommon, chiefly owing to the deep cornice
of figures, sculptured in high bas-relief, which runs round
it, below the projection of the roof. The figures, though
distinctly not designed on the lines of Pheidian traditions,
are notable, full of movement and purpose. They repre-
sent the eight different winds. Boreas, the north wind,
is thickly habited, but his drapery is swirled out with
the force of the Bora. He holds a shell in his hand from
which he is blowing. Kalkias, north-east wind, holds
out a plate of olives, which he has blown from the trees.

The Tower of the Winds

Apetiotis, east wind, is burdened by flowers and fruits.
Eurus, south-east, is mantled and looks ominous ; a hurri-
cane is at hand. Notus, south wind, is about to shower
the ground with rain. Sipo, south-west wind, drives
before him the symbol of a ship, favouring the sailor with
a quick voyage. Zephyrus, west wind, is gently floating,
strewing flowers from his lap. Skiron, north-west wind,
carries a caldino, with which he means to scorch up the
rivers. They all tell their stories very well, besides being
strikingly decorative. We pass through to the interior
by an open gateway, placed in the original doorway,
flanked by two broken-fluted Corinthian columns, and
stand on the original pavement made of marble slabs.
Traces are still to be seen of the manner in which the
water-clock was worked, and of the cistern which supplied
it with water in a semicircular turret on the north side
of the tower.

Leaving the tower, we turn to the large space before
us covered with very important looking ruins, the remains
of the old Roman market. Columns, more or less muti-
lated, blocks of marble, any and every shape and size,
fill the space. We descend by marble steps into the midst
of these, and having walked half-way towards the Gate
of Athena Archegetis, the western entrance to the market
looking back we have a good view of the Tower of
the Winds, guarded by two cypresses springing darkly
into the sky on either side. Of the Gate of Athena
Archegetis, four Doric columns, the architrave, and the
pediment remain standing. The space between the
columns in the centre was evidently made for carts to pass
through, bringing produce to the market, whereas the

In Greece

smaller side spaces were meant for foot passengers.
Engraved on a stone which belonged to the gateway, we
see the wording of an edict of the Emperor Hadrian
respecting the sale of oil and the tax to be paid
on it.

Walking down a short street to our right, we come to
the Stoa of Hadrian. Unfortunately, the view of the
most striking part of this ruin is defaced by an iron
railing, mounted on a small stone wall. The seven plain
Corinthian columns, standing in front of the old wall,
and a fluted column, standing by itself at one end, are
the only remnants left of the central gateway leading into
the enclosure. Trees of light foliage grow against the
ancient wall, the capitals of the columns are elaborately
carved and well preserved, and the effect, had the iron
railings not been added, would have been attractive.

A few steps beyond this fa9ade we face a very pictur-
esque pile of building of most exceptional design. It
served as a mosque when the Turks were in possession
of Athens, and is now used as a military store. Raised
high on a wall, the entrance is under a portico supported
by graceful pillars. It is led up to by a flight of steps,
the basement below which is open to the street, being
used for warehouses and stores. Many loiterers are
standing about, and we refrain from mounting the steps.
A flattened dome, like those on the Byzantine churches,
rises behind the striking portico, adding much to the
picturesque effect of the pile, the most distinct record
which exists of the Turkish occupation.

Running parallel to the northern wall of the Stoa of
Hadrian is a narrow street containing the last remnant

A Turkish Bazaar

of the Turkish bazaar, the only place which we have yet
seen where the desire to annex a curiosity is inspired, and
even here the desire is not uncontrollable. The trouble
of choosing, bartering, and bargaining, and, above all,
the difficulty of packing anything more in our moderate
amount of luggage, overcomes it easily. The scene is
very brightly coloured, and thoroughly Eastern in its
arrangements. The fustanelle i.e., the plaited white
petticoats, the heavy coats, waistbelts, and sachels of
leather, studded prettily with metal and ornamented
with embroidery, the scarlet shoes with turned-up toes
like the prow of a gondola, a large round tassel sitting
on its prow all the items of the costume we call Greek,
though, in fact, Albanian are to be bought here ; also
carpets, shawls, and various curiosities are displayed to
tempt the passer-by. However, we pass them by
without yielding to temptation, and reach the end of
the bazaar, to find ourselves again on the square of the
two cathedrals. Notwithstanding the area-like railings
enclosing it, the grace and almost pathetic littleness of
the ancient metropolitan church fascinate us. The wor-
ship of empty size in architecture, how it is spoiling the
aspect of modern towns ! How much space of sky do
the bare white walls of the new cathedral take up, without
giving anything interesting or beautiful to look at in
return ! How they block out all vistas beyond with large
flat impediments that mean nothing !

K. B. and C. B. start to walk up Lycabettus ; I start
to make a better acquaintance with the Arch of Hadrian,
the Temple of Zeus Olympus, and the monument of
Lysicrates, which we passed yesterday on our way to

In Greece

the Acropolis. The Arch of Hadrian has an uncomfort-
able aspect, lamentably unconnected with anything else ;
the more so as the arch is surmounted by a second story
of pillars, causing an awkward effect which Roman archi-
tects were obviously capable of producing the Greeks
never. The reason for the erection of this elaborate arch
was, it seems, to carry two inscriptions, one on either side,
stating that the arch divided Athens, the City of Theseus,
from the Roman Athens, the City of Hadrian.

Climbing up a low bank, a few steps beyond the arch-
way, a good view is got of the beautiful columns of the
Temple of Zeus Olympus. Grand remnants are the two
isolated columns and the cluster beyond. They rise
with stately height on a widely extending stage against
the slopes of violet Hymettus. These fifteen are the only
columns left of the original 104. Grouped round their
base are broken fragments of their fallen comrades.
These remnants show the magnificence of their sculptured
Corinthian capitals. Here, indeed, is size that had a
meaning, rich and full of interest, every proportion in the
detail adding to the impressive stateliness of the whole
not vacant and bare like the modern structure of the new
cathedral. Philostratus calls this Temple of Zeus
Olympus " a great victory over Time," as 700 years
elapsed between the time when it was begun and when
it was finished. Started on the site of an earlier shrine
by Peisistratos, it was finished by the Emperor Hadrian.
What a splendid pile of architecture it must have been in
its completeness ! The few records left to us of its glory
glow this evening in the warm sunlight ; the deep golden
shafts of the columns left standing rise against the violet

The Temple to Lysicrates

slopes of Hymettus undisturbed by any detail in the
landscape. Nothing but the ruins, the mountain-side,
and the sky come into view. Modern Athens is to be
congratulated in that she has left space round most of
her mighty possessions of the past ; bare, untidy places
though they be, they do not at least impede the view of
the old monuments from a distance, nor of their beautiful
mountain backgrounds.

Turning round, away from the Temple of Zeus, opposite
the Arch of Hadrian, the lovely monument to Lysicrates
comes into view, embedded in little streets, an exception
to these generally happy conditions. Alas ! again, as in
the case of the ancient Byzantine cathedral, a kind of area
railing protects the treasure. It only emerged into light
in modern times, when the greater part of the Convent of
the Capuchins was burnt down in the first half of the
nineteenth century. The graceful Ionic structure had
been built into the south-east corner of the convent,
which, in the eighteenth and early part of the nineteenth
centuries, was the usual residence of the English who
visited Athens. Byron was one of the latest guests,
and many of his letters, now published, were written from
this Capuchin convent. An inscription on the architrave
of the monument explains the origin of its erection :
" Lysicrates of Cicyna, the son of Lipitheides, was
choregus. The tribe of Acamantis obtained the victory
in the chorus of boys. Theon played the flute, Lyocades,
an Athenian, trained the chorus. Evainetos was archon."
Very graceful and charming is the architecture, though
its general effect is jadly destroyed by the iron railing.

The evening life of Athens is now beginning in the

In Greece

twilight. How far away is this life in the streets of
Athens from the records of the past we come so far to see !
Equally remote are our own interests from those which
are engrossing with such fervour and excitement the

MONUMENT TO LYSICRATES.
(Minus the iron railings.)

Athenians of to-day. In one day we have imbibed
impressions which we should consider sufficient nourish-
ment for a month, a year, of ordinary life at home. At
the end of it, one feels somewhat stunned by its fulness.

THE TOWER OF THE WINDS, ATHENS (see />. 83).

GATE OF ATHENA ARCHEGETIS, ATHENS (see p. 83).
It formed the western entrance to the Roman market, date between 2 B.C. and A.D. 2.

Start for Sunium

But these things, seen so quickly, will stretch out and fill
many an hour of after-days with pictures, when life is
moving slower.

September nth. By 7.30 we are driving with a
luncheon-basket to the Kephisia Station to catch the
train for Laurion, whence we are to drive to Sunium,
the Cape Colonna which Byron visited three times.
" In all Attica," he writes, "if we except Athens itself
and Marathon, there is no scene more interesting than
Cape Colonna. To the antiquary and artist the columns
are an inexhaustible source of observation and design,
to the philosopher the supposed scene of some of Plato's
conversations will not be unwelcome, and the traveller
will be struck with the beauty of the prospect over those
isles that crown the ^Egean deep." Thus advised of the
value as an impression of this Temple of Sunium, we
have settled to devote one of our very precious days in
Greece to visiting it.

The terminus in Athens of this railway from Laurion
is in the middle of a wide street, and has no more import-
ance assigned to it than have the town tramways, tickets
for the journey being taken at an office in one of the corner
houses of the street. Though we are going to the most
southern point of Greece, we start by travelling due north.
The railway-line ascends, passing through welcome groves
of olives and fir-trees. Through the grouping of their
foliage we get glimpses of Pentelicus to the north-east,
and of Hymettus to the south, appearing as spaces of
blue, hazy colour, very pure and clean, when we get clear
of the town. There is a singular charm of effect, a tender
delicacy, in this landscape of the country of Greece, a

89 12

In Greece

rare fineness in the atmosphere, especially in the early
morning hours, very reviving after the torture of the noise
in Athens. Floating on the air come whiffs of aromatic
scent from the wild herbs. We are mounting on to the high-
land between the summits of Pentelicus and Hymettus, and
five miles from Athens we stop at a station called Arakli,
the junction where travellers change when they mount
the slopes of Pentelicus. While our train for Laurion
stops, we watch a charming group : two countrywomen
seated on a log of wood among the trees, a child and a goat
skipping near them. We are in the profound country,
and a gentle grace, in tune with the landscape, seems to
flavour the scenes of human life we catch sight of as we
pass. We are now proceeding due south, through woods.
Every interstice between trunk and foliage is filled with
the clouded blue background of Hymettus.

In the thickness of olive groves we stop at Chalandri.
Hastening through the trees come running two men of
ancient, godlike form. Panting, they arrive in time to
catch our train, and pause before mounting into it. They
are both very tall, their throats and chests are, indeed,
Thesean, but nature is more beautiful even than the
sculpture of Pheidias. The younger of the two men has
the finer face, but the form of each is of a type we see in
England alone in the best Greek sculpture. Pheidias had
but to copy nature, to choose, not to create a type. The
most striking difference of form between our northern
types and these splendid specimens of humanity, still found
in the country in Greece, lies in the manner in which the
throat springs, column-like, from the chest and shoulders,
a separate form distinct both from the head and from

Pheidias Alive

the torso ; also in the place the ear takes on the head.
In the profile view of the Greek face, the ear is placed in
the centre, between the facial line and the back of the neck,
the line of the jaw from the chin curving forward from
behind the ear ; whereas, in the northern type, the ear is
generally placed further back, behind the angle of the
jaw. The race, to which belong these splendid creatures
we are watching, is supposed to be originally from the
mountains, and very similar to that of the Albanians. The
white plaited petticoats that look so inane when badly
drawn in costume-books appear quite attractive on the
magnificent figures of our fellow-travellers. The short,
rough coat, slung from one shoulder, hangs down straight
and heavily, making one line with the fustanelle, alias the
petticoat. The isaronchia namely, shoes with gondola-
prow tips with their stiff round tassels seated thereon
elongate the feet, and are a good base for the tall, broad-
shouldered figures. Great beauty, how very, very rare
it is ! Men and women who possess it, how they start
out from the common herd !

Unfortunately for us, these two Greek countrymen
who possess the rare gift mount into another carriage,
and we see them no more. We pass Jerakas and other
less important stations. We stop at all, and take four
hours to travel forty miles. When we reach Marcopoulo,
twenty-two miles from Athens, we find great festivities
are going on. The principal church is named St. Friday,
and something very special is being commemorated on
this Friday. The church, built on rising ground above
the station, is decorated with flags, and crowds of people
are gathered in front of the west door and round the res-

In Greece

taurant of the station below. Here, for the first time,
we see Greek women in their national costume de fete.
The fronts of the smartest dresses are covered with coins,
the head-dresses being decorated to match ; yellow and
other bright coloured silk handkerchiefs are worn as head-
gear, and fichus, also brilliant coloured shawls, abound.
But there is among the crowd a young woman in black
who, as soon as seen, absorbs our attention. Here,
again, indeed is that rarest of gifts, transcendent beauty
a beauty certainly very strange and very rare. The
countenance is singularly sensitive. Watts and Leighton
would both affirm that among the Scotch you find faces
very Greeklike, of the type of the best period of Greek
coins, owing to the beauty and distinction in their " bony
structure." This vision in a black dress and black lace
shawl, draping her head and shoulders, reminds me of
Scotch beauties I have seen. The mouth is very sweet
but rather sad, its expression womanly and diffident ;
but the form of every feature is more distinctly modelled,
and more grandly drawn than is the case in those Scotch
faces she recalls. The expression is strangely bewitching.
There is a subtle fascination about her face which, hinting
at every kind of charming quality, assures you positively
of none. Here is a countenance in which there is a
miracle of mystery. As the mystery tantalizes, so does
it intensify the interest. Scotch, Greek, ancient, modern,
whereever you find it, you are enthralled. It compels
a response of intimate sympathy, all the while suggesting
a something which cannot be defined. The Mona Lisa,
the Faun of Praxiteles, the eyes of Titian's Ritratto
Virile in the Pitti Palace, the gentle Greek lady in the

A Mining District

black lace mantilla at the Marcopoulo station restaurant
they all arouse in different ways the same indefinable
interest which touches a most innermost chord. The train
has stopped for ten minutes, and for ten minutes this in-
spiration has cast its spell. We move slowly away from
St. Friday's scene of revelry, and the last I see of my
beautiful vision, never to be forgotten, is the black draped
figure seated at a round table with two companions
beginning a meal. In one short half -hour the rarest of
all sights, perfect beauty in human form, both in man
and in woman, Greece has accorded us.

After passing the station of Keratea, we descend still
due south from the high land we have been traversing,
along the lower slopes of Hymettus, down the valley
between green hillsides studded with groups of fir-trees,
to the ugliest place we have yet seen in Greece Laurion.
The town itself is the centre of the mining district in
which Greek and also French companies have their works.
Several kinds of zinc and lead, also galena, are found.
The mines are given dignity by having been mentioned
by ^Eschylus, and Murray tells us that 2,000 ancient
shafts and galleries have been discovered, some of the
chambers being 30 feet high and 50 yards wide. Many
old lamps, pickaxes, and tools have been found therein.
But naught of this do we see. Nothing but disturbed
ground, disfigured hillsides and wastes ; high chimneys
all this ugliness rampant ! However, the carriage we
telegraphed for from Athens awaits us, and we gladly
leave the scenes of these mining industries, past and
present, to drive over the hillsides which lie between
Laurion and Cape Colonna. The sea is generally in

In Greece

sight, bestudded by pale amethyst islands, hazy in
sunlight :

" Isles that crown the ^Egean deep."

At times the road runs above the shore, and we look
down into a brilliancy of jewel colour through the shallow
coast waves of the sea. Deep golden grasses and green
herbs wave against the liquid blues and greens of the
water. The Island of Helen is the one nearest to the
coast. Its modern name is Macronisi, or Long Island ; the
tradition of Helen having rested on it when flying with
Paris from her husband and her home, having apparently
faded from the mind of the modern Greek.

Up and down, on the sides of the hills, we drive for
nearly two hours, on a rough road. Then we come in
view of the white marble columns of the Temple of Sunium,
perched on a steep, isolated rock rising across a valley,
and in twenty minutes we are at the foot of the rock.
The coachman cannot leave his horses, so C. B. at a quick
pace, weighted with the luncheon-basket, manfully
mounts the steep ascent. Up the thyme-scented path
K. B. and I slowly follow. It is one o'clock ; the sun
shines everywhere ; but this light air of Greece mitigates
the effect of overpowering light and heat. There is no
wind, but a feeling of briskness, an ozone in the air, is
inspiriting and joy-giving. We reach the beautiful white
ruins, so very white against the blue sea below, the violet
isles beyond. We go to the outer limit of the marble
flooring of the temple, and look straight down into the
sea below. What colours float round this coast of Greece,
all faint in the light, yet so pure and distinct amethyst,

Luncheon at Sunium

emerald, opal, agate hues, all mingling in the wavelets,
and melting into the fields of vast sapphire blue beyond.
Across these plains of gently swaying colour, in the great
days of Greece, these white columns of marble, quarried
from the slopes of Hymettus of the honey, hailed a
welcome-home to the warriors returning in their galleys
from foreign shores. The temple was raised to Poseidon,
close to a sister temple raised to Athena, the foundations
of which alone remain.

A dramatic, Byronic corsair, white petticoated, gondola-
tipped shod, gun in hand, starts up on the sky-line.
He is eminently picturesque, tall and handsome, but not
of the Pheidian type. He is the conscious beauty of
the place. He starts aside as we advance, and strikes an
attitude with his gun against a wall. Among the marble
blocks we find a shaded corner, looking inland. Here
we lunch. Below us, on the hillside, are hovels, and a
few workmen standing about. C. B. is inspired with a
wish to feed these men with meat, as he supposes they
rarely taste it, and, as is always the case, hotels provide
piles of slices for a picnic. So C. B. clambers down the
rock, and gives the workmen a packet of meat and bread.
At once more natives appear ; the dramatic corsair also
is soon seen among them. We make up another packet,
which is gratefully accepted. Now the good people want
to do something for us. Do we want water ? No, we
have water and wine. But the corsair can be snapped ;
so I make explanatory signs with the kodak. He under-
stands at once. Perhaps he exists there for the purpose
of being snapped. He, in his turn, makes signs, and
shoots into a little house on the other side of the temple,

In Greece

over which on the sea stretches the Island of Helen. In
three minutes he emerges, alas ! in a clean, stiffly starched
petticoat of glaring white. He had a well-toned, limp
fustanelle on before. He did it for the best, according to
his lights, so he must be taken in the washed garment,
first standing, then sitting. He evidently knows it all
by heart, as well as could any model in a school of art.
Then, as our time is up, we begin descending the rock.
Only one train comes from Athens and goes back to
Athens in the day.

Delightful has been this hour spent among the white
columns of the Temple of Sunium. Everything in
Greece, excepting always the frightful mining district
of Laurion, leaves you with the feeling that some day
you must go back. The warm afternoon light catches
the tops of the hills as we ascend the valley to Keratea.
We again stop at Marcopoulo. In vain do I look for
the black figure of enchanting beauty. The festa is
over ; the crowd has mostly dispersed. Above the station,
in front of the church, two huge men in full costume are
mounting small donkeys. One has evidently com-
memorated the feast of St. Friday by getting inebriated.
He is much too big for his ass, which, however, is an
animal of character, for he steadily refuses to go over an
impossibly steep mound, and instead turns round and
round in front of it, the plaited skirts of his rider flying,
teetotum-like, in the air. No blows from the Balaam
have any effect. Eventually, as our train moves on,
we see the man and beast settling down and jogging
along comfortably together.

Again we are passing through the olive-groves through

TWO VIEWS OF A BYZANTINE CHURCH, USED AS A MOSQUE DURING THE
TURKISH OCCUPATION OF ATHENS (see p. 84).

a Q

A Mason-like Picture

which the Pheidian figures ran to catch the train this
morning. This time two little maidens are strolling
along among the trees, driving in gentle fashion a flock
of geese in front of them, and to guide this flock they hold
in their hands two long reed-wands, in length quite six
times their own height. Twilight still lingers in the
sky, but in this grove all is dusky shade, except the geese,
which gleam out white in the gloaming. The uncon-
scious grace of the little girls, as they loiter after their
flock, makes a Greek Mason-like picture a lovely com-
bination. What is there about this Greece of the country
which turns everything into poetry ?

" A grazing flock the sense of peace
The long, sweet silence this is Greece."

Yes, but not Athens ! The mayor's election next
Friday, a week hence from to-day, the function which
arouses the extra amount of Dionysian excitement and
noise in the streets of Athens every evening, is affecting
our peace, even here in the train.

At Marcopoulo an individual, who seems weighted
with an important mission, comes into our carriage. At
every station he alights and speechifies, a small crowd
quickly gathering round him. He is the spokesman,
evidently, of the anti-democratic candidate, and is
electioneering. A handsome, elderly gentleman, in full
Greek costume, bearing the air of a solid country gentle-
man, comes in at one of the stations, and evidently agrees
with the orator. He has, however, the. calmness and
pleasant ease in carrying on the discussion which denotes
the breed of Matthew Arnold's Barbarian. The carriage

97 13

In Greece

fills as we are nearing Athens, and politics is the subject
of the talk. As far as we can understand it, the fanati-
cism of the democrats is being decried. It has become
night. The sky is full of stars, brilliantly bright and
large. Little oil lamps are lit in our railway carriage,
and our fellow-travellers still go on talking with fervour,
and our orator still jumps in and out at each station.
We have had a long day. We are weary of this slow
going and continual stopping. The dawdling of the
train seems to become a chronic condition. The hope of
ever reaching Athens fades away as we begin to dose
from weary fatigue. At eight o'clock, however, we do
find ourselves in the noisy street at the so-called station,
Kephisia.

As we drive to the hotel, we notice that the streets
have an aspect even more restless than on the previous
evening. While we are sitting at dinner it bursts forth
in a demonstration. A procession passes the window,
the centre figure being the democratic candidate, sitting
with three allies in an open carriage, amidst a roaring
noise of unrestrained voices, flaring torches, glaring
Bengal fire, and whistling rockets. The " fanaticism "
of the democrats, what a noise it can make !

An elderly officer, to whom the waiters pay special
respect, has just sat down to dinner near us. As the
tumult passes the windows, he gets up, and, taking hat
and sword, leaves the room. Are soldiers necessary to
keep the excitement within safe bounds ?
Whatever is going to happen, we must go to bed.
September i2th. K.B. and C.B. leave early by train,
via Aralki, in order to mount Pentelicus. I have chosen

Political Excitement

to-day to worship alone on the Acropolis. All the
ferment and agitation of last night's demonstration have
totally disappeared from the streets, but, while I am
lunching, three solemn, dark gentlemen sit down at a
table near mine. One under his breath emits momentous
information. No one off the stage ever indulged in
such dramatic gesture, or intense sense of mysterious
communications ! Are they playing at being con-
spirators ? or are they brewing some terrible plot ? The
trio looks very tragic and revolutionary, and I ask the
head factotum whether the war has any influence in
disturbing Athens. Not in the least, he replies. Athens
is quite indifferent to Macedonia and her troubles. The
commotion is solely on account of the election of the new
mayor next Friday.

I drive up to the Acropolis. It is two o'clock ; the
sun is very hot. How deep and full is the blue of the
sky seen between the columns of the Propylaea ! It is
the first time since we arrived in Greece that I have felt
the heat too great. The shade from the columns of the
Parthenon is only very mitigated glare, and would be
sunlight in England. Such as it is, I must rest in it,
for walking in the sun is impossible as yet. The heated
vaporous atmosphere, intervening between these huge,
solid columns and the slopes of Lycabettus, and the
more distant Pentelicus and Hymettus, accentuates both
the mighty weight of this ancient masonry and the aerial
distance of the mountains. It is difficult to realize the
age of these clusters and avenues of columns. As I
touch the actual trace of the workman's chisel in the
marble, I try to find a landmark in order to place their

In Greece

date somewhere in my imagination. When things get
very far back, perspective gets lost, just as you lose all
sense of distance between the telegraph posts along a
road beyond a certain distance. So in some minds
mine, I am afraid, among the number everything which
is B.C. has no distinguishable intervals, except in the
history of the Bible.

The recollection of a talk at a London dinner-party
comes to my aid, as I lean against the shaded side of
this column of the Parthenon. Mr. Charles Elton gave
me a most interesting resume of his book, " The Origin
of English History," and told me how one Pythyas, a
Greek astronomer, was sent from Athens to find tin in
certain islands beyond Spain, where tradition said it
was to be found, the Carthaginians having usurped all
the tin-mines in Spain ; and how this Pythyas was re-
ferred to by later Greek writers as " that liar Pythyas,"
because he said that the Baltic was a cul-de-sac, and that
there was no way of going by sea through the Baltic
down Russia to the Black Sea. Pythyas kept a diary
while he made this voyage to discover tin hi the islands
England, Scotland, and Ireland. However, this did
not give Great Britain a standing in history. She
returned again into the world of legends for some time
after the diary was written. This diary was lost, and
its existence is only known by quotations and references
made in later writings.

These columns, and those marks of the chisel in the
flutings of each rib, so sensitively cut, were guided by
the eye and hand of workmen living a hundred years
before this first mention of our Great Britain in the

100

Pre-Pheidian Sculpture

history of the civilizations of the world. Through this
round-about process it seems easier to realize their real
antiquity, and the distance of time since their creation
to this hour on September i2th, between two and three
thousand years after they were cut in the marble, when
my fingers are touching them. The imagination wants
the help of such landmarks before it becomes duly in-
flated with the wonder inspired by realizing how long
good work by human hands can last ! It is so easy to
classify monuments as ancient, medieval, or modern,
without realizing what the words ancient and medieval
mean in their fullest sense. Again, how modern is the
Parthenon, though so much older than England, com-
pared to the monuments excavated in Crete these last
years. Little England is indeed a mushroom !

It is possible now to move at least, just possible to
move across the space between the Parthenon and the
Museum. In the first rooms are fine, bold, archaic
designs, and in the next many statues of the sixth
century B.C., and therefore pre-Pheidiari, which were
buried under the ruins of the citadel when the Persians
invaded Greece, and remained hidden till the year
1882, when they were excavated. While strictly con-
ventional in general treatment, there is great variety
and often astuteness in the expression of the countenances
in these statues. In the sixth room there is a little lady,
who is numbered 683, and described in Murray as
" grotesque and clumsy, but with expressive face."
It is the very portrait of the little French lady, who
travelled in the same carriage with us from Boulogne to
Paris twelve days ago, and who, looking very greedy,

101

In Greece

ate many courses out of a padlocked luncheon-basket.
Not the best drawing in Punch could record comicality
in a human countenance better than did the sculptor
of this " expressive face."

The link between Egypt and Pheidian treatment in
sculpture is conspicuously illustrated in these sixth
century B.C. statues. In the seventh room are three
metopes from the Parthenon and casts of those we possess
in the British Museum. In room eight are casts of two
pediments, reconstructed, serving to show how the
figures were placed ; also an engraving after drawings
by Carrey of the entire procession forming the Parthenon
frieze, and many original fragments, among which are
those matchless draped figures alas ! headless from the
Temple of Athena Nike. I know of nothing more
beautiful, or, indeed, to my eye, so beautiful in plastic
art, as the headless figure of Victory fastening her sandal.
The supple grace of the bending, slightly twisted figure,
modelled with consummate feeling for style, each form
traced under the crisp folds of the swaying drapery,
firm yet tender, with subtle suggestion of the texture
of real flesh and bone, is, I think, matchless in sculpture.
The figure, poised with a sense of spring and strength,
tapers finely down to the ankle of the foot which carries
its weight. It is an inspiration, a perfection of beauty,
which, even among the creations of the greatest artists,
must be rare. That these unsurpassed sculptures,
these maidens of Athens, could be liberated from the
prison of a museum, and placed again in the full light
and air under the fair sky of Greece, round the temple
of their goddess, for whom they were created, facing the

102

Looking Westward from the Parthenon

setting sun, and viewed across the plain as the ships
arrive in the harbour of the Piraeus !

The warm glow of afternoon is encirling the marbles
and the landscape. Having worshipped at the shrine
of these maidens, I straightway leave the museum. This
South, this South of light and warmth, what a great joy
in the feeling of living does it pour into our veins ! No
wonder that these great Greeks, being the artists they
were, poured it also into their work.

In our misty, stormy land September means " Wild
west wind," the " breath of autumn's being," and all
the agitations of the equinoctial gales. As with Shelley,
they tune in us the consciousness of the tragic side of life,
and arouse egoistic interest in our own sensibilities ;
whereas in the triumphant serenity of these southern
effects we get out of ourselves as we become tuned to
their entrancement, and an existence outside our personal
temperament awakens a joy as we feed on them.

Walking towards the West, inside the Parthenon, the
vista of columns ends in a doorway of golden glory,
narrowing towards the base as do the skirts of those
ancient sculptured figures in the museum. Through the
portal, between the glowing amber ribs of the Doric
columns, fold on fold of violet and azure slope sweeps
down from the finely-drawn sky-line to shaded valleys,
slopes and valleys receding away past the harbour of
Piraeus far into the gleaming light on the Sea of ^Egina ;
again, past the sea, islands, and promontories just hinted
at so faint in the mist of golden fire, till all form becomes
quite lost in the burning sky. The rock and foreground
bristle over with tufts of bronzed grasses, each ridge

103

In Greece

lighted into shining gold by the level rays of the sinking
sun, and glistening vividly against the vaporous purple of
the distance. Grasses and weeds do not damp off here and
become limp and flabby as in northern countries in their
decay ; they are scorched to death by the heat of July
and August, and remain standing stiffly erect, covering the
burnt earth with a mantle of " old-gold " coloured fur.

Lord Beaconsfield wrote the following interesting letter
describing the sight he had of Athens looking from the
Harbour of Piraeus towards the spot whence I was viewing
the Piraeus :

" ATHENS,
" November $oth, 1830.

" MY DEAREST FATHER,

" I wrote you a long letter from Prevesa, and
forwarded it to you from Napoli through Mr. Dawkins.
You have doubtless received it. As you probably would
be disappointed if you did not also receive one from the
' City of the Violet Crown/ I sit down before we sail
from the Harbour of Piraeus to let you know that I am
still in existence. We sailed from Prevesa through the
remaining Ionian islands, among which was Zante,
pre-eminent in beauty ; indeed, they say none of the
Cyclades is to be compared to it, with its olive-trees
touching the waves, and its shores undulating in every
possible variety. For about a fortnight we were for
ever sailing on a summer sea, always within two or three
miles of the coast, and touching at every island or harbour
that invited. A cloudless sky, a summer atmosphere,
and sunsets like the neck of a dove completed all the
enjoyment which I anticipated from roving in a Grecian

104

K =
H =

Letter from Lord Beaconsfield

Sea. We were, however, obliged to keep a sharp lookout
for pirates, who are all about again. We exercised the
crew every day with muskets, and their increasing prowess
and our pistol exercise kept up our courage. We sailed
round the coast of the Morea, visiting Navarino (which
has become quite a little French town, with cafes and
billiard-tables), Modon, and Napoli. From hence we
made excursions to Argos, Mycenae, and Corinth. Napoli
is a bustling place for Greece ; Argos is rising from its
ruins ; Mycenae has a very ancient tomb or temple of
the time of their old Kings, massive as Egyptian ; and
Corinth offered to us a scene which both for its beauty
and association will not easily be forgotten. From
Napoli we had a very quiet passage to this place.
November has been warmer than our best English
summers, but this is unusual. Never was such a season
known, all agree. On the afternoon of our arrival in
Piraeus, which is about five miles from the city, I climbed
a small hill, forming the side of the harbour. From it
I looked upon an immense plain, covered with olive-
woods, and skirted by mountains. Some isolated hills
rise at a distance from the bounding ridge. On one of
these I gazed upon a magnificent temple, bathed in the
sunset ; at the foot of the hill was a walled city of con-
siderable dimensions, in front of which was a Doric temple
apparently quite perfect. The violet sunset and to-
day the tint was peculiarly vivid threw over this scene
a colouring becoming to its beauty, and if possible in-
creasing its delicate character. The city was Athens ;
but independent in all reminiscences, I never witnessed
anything so truly beautiful, and I have seen a great deal.

105 14

In Greece

We were fortunate. The Acropolis, which has been
shut for nine years, was open to us, the first Englishmen.
Athens is still in the power of the Turks, but the Grecian
Commission to receive it arrived a short time before us.
When we entered the city, we found every house roof-
less ; but really, before the war, modern Athens must
have been no common town. The ancient remains have
been respected ; the Parthenon, and other temples
which are in the Acropolis, have necessarily suffered
during the siege, but the injury is only in detail ; the
general effect is not marred. We saw hundreds of shells
and balls lying about the ruins. The temple of Theseus
looks at a short distance as if it were just finished by
Pericles. Gropius, a well-known character, was the only
civilized being in this almost uninhabited town, and was
our excellent cicerone."

I sit down on the steps in the glorious golden portal.
Below, over the first hillside, climbs a little pathway,
leading away to the sun. When it nearly reaches the
top, cypresses with dark, pointed fingers spring up on
either side, and just before the pathway creeps over the
crest of the hill, a cluster of the sable spires are knotted
round a white-walled dwelling one touch of human life
in this superhuman beauty of Nature's Greek skies, seas,
and hills ! Looking away thus westwards, for the
moment no modern Athens exists. Here there is but
rock, ruins, landscape, sea, sky. The sun dips in a haze
of light below the farthest outline. The gates of the
Acropolis close. Shall I ever pass through them again ?
Outside, in the shadow, are the dark red walls of the

106

A Vision of Glory

ruined Roman theatre. Little pathways lead to new
views of the wonderful rock, crowned with temples.
It is impossible to leave the spot while there is any ray
of light left. A lingering farewell no return will be
possible this time before leaving Athens. But at last
even the twilight is fading, and I start down the pathway
to the hedge of agaves.

As I climb down the rocks, a glow comes into the air.
A rosy flush suffuses everything. Brighter and brighter
it burns, and turning, looking upward to the summit,
a strange and glorious vision starts from out of the dusk
out of the dark shadow which sweeps away all the
untidiness, the debris, the arid bareness of the rock,
under a broad purple shroud and rises up into the sky.
Glowing fire from the light of her sun-god burns on
Athens' altar, on the shrine of her Virgin Athena, on
the Athena of Victory, on the Propylaea. Columns
spring up into the night-shrouded sky like torches of
sculptured flame, cornelian scarlet. Brighter and brighter
glows the flame. It is unearthly in its glory. At last,
shadowed by a soft pink carmine, it slowly fades. A
dusky curtain falls over the scene, and the vision is gone !
For over two thousand years have these torches, lit
from the sky, burnt on Athens' votive offering to her
gods, as the great god of her skies hails her temples
before leaving our world in darkness. The traveller sees
them once, then passes on back, if he be English, to a
winter of mists and fogs and closed-in skies. Here every
evening the glory returns. The passer-by must be con-
tented to have seen it once ; to be able, in the eye of
memory, to relight this vision, this wonderful vision of

107

In Greece

the greatest monuments of the world, seen glowing under
a baptism of scarlet fire from heaven.

DEUS DEORUM.

" The Lord, even the most mighty God, has spoken, and called
the world, from the rising of the sun unto the going down
thereof."

The Greeks may have worshipped unknown gods, but
they were to them gods and not mammon. Whereas
our modern world, what does it, in reality, worship ?

I was summoned down from the skies by a greeting of
cheery voices. K.B. and C.B. were ascending by the
pathway to meet me after their long day's work the
momentous ascent of Pentelicus.

September i^th. Only a short time for the National
Museum, for we find at the last moment that it closes at
twelve o'clock on Sundays. Such a collection requires,
of course, months of study, if it is to be thoroughly taken
in. On a first short visit, one becomes only conscious
of the fact that a great many statues, including a re-
markably large number belonging to the best period of
Greek sculpture, painted vases, and Tanagra figures, all
of supreme interest, and the whole of the Schliemann
collection, are there to be seen ; also, a so-called copy,
in a much reduced size, of the great chryselephantine
statue of Athena by Pheidias, which was the kernel, the
chief glory of the Parthenon. In the copy, little of the
wonderful impressiveness is suggested which, from all
accounts, must have existed in the original. It looks
thick, clumsy, and uninspiring. Captivating are the
little ladies from Tanagra. These, independently of all
historical, archaeological interest, are so intrinsically vital

108

Tanagra Ladies " in Society '

that they quite overmaster the dry flavour of a museum.
Very human and very socially inclined must the ladies
have been whom they represent. They remind one of
Gorgo and Phaxince, the two Syracusan ladies residing
in Alexandria who visit the festival of the Resurrection
of Adonis in Theocritus' idyll. What so modern, and yet
what so Greek ! The dancing figures are extraordinarily
captivating, but, with all their forthcoming womanly
fascinations, in the character of their form, in the pro-
portion and pose of their figures, they have the style and
nobility only to be found in great Greek art. What a
huge mistake some make in connecting classic art with
what is unemotional and uninspired ! We see the kind
of rare beauty and grace, existing in the Tanagra figures,
among the English and Scotch of the highest type, but
it is rare, and must have probably been rare, even in
the time when these little ladies were created. But the
Greeks were ever choice in their selection. Their pro-
clivity for beauty made them choose beautiful models.

To what a different class of humanity do these inmates
of the museum belong to that of the young Athens we
return to in the streets ! On Sunday they are crowded.
Tram-cars rush about in the heat, and make one feel
hotter. The hotel is pleasantly cool and shadowed ;
but the mental atmosphere of the Minerva is disturbed.
There seems to be something of mysterious importance
going on. When we reach our landing we meet a huge
square lantern, a transparency ; on each of the four
sides, portraits all the same portraits of the demo-
cratic candidate seeking for election next Friday. In
the coat of each of the four portraits is a buttonhole

109

In Greece

a real flower ! Imagine our borough council in Ken-
sington stooping to such trivialities ! There is to be an
extra demonstration to-night because it is Sunday a
bigger procession, more noise, more rockets, more
torture !

In the afternoon we take refuge from the noise and
glare of the streets in the comparative seclusion of the
Palace Gardens. Here the small torment, the dust, has
crept in, to the defacement of greenery and flowers.
Still, the gardens are quiet, and we can sit there under
the shade of trees. Then, in late afternoon, we begin
slowly to mount the streets, which evidently contain the
houses of the rich inhabitants of Athens, to the stony
base of Lycabettus. As we mount the slope, the arid
bareness of the ground is alleviated by fir-trees. We
reach a pathway in a fir-wood leading to the halting-
place we are making for a small stone house, from the
steps of which we are bent on seeing the sunset on the last
evening we are at Athens.

From this seat we look straight down on to the " Frog's
Mouth." What a frightful spot it is ! The actual rock
is not beautiful, but its surroundings are typical of all
that is most untidy, arid, squalid, and unsightly in
modern Athens. It is a great deal worse than Worm-
wood Scrubbs, of which we were reminded on our arrival.
The gipsies give a hint of human picturesqueness, which
mitigates the vacant scrappy formlessness in the London
suburb. But soon the " Frog's Mouth," the modern
streets, the whole town, is wiped out by the shades of
evening. Sunlight still strikes the rock of the Acropolis
and her temples, and the summit of the circle of

<c Violet-crowned Athens '

violet hills surrounding Athens. How violet they all
become ! " Violet-crowned Athens," indeed ! Spaces of
green sky, pure chrysolite green, open out from the
purple haze in the sky above the Piraeus ; inlets of the
sea, the same pale green, shine out. Through the
columns of the Parthenon we see this green sea and the
violet hills beyond ; then, one by one, the big stars come
out in the sky, and the redder lights in the town. A
rocket starts up. This is the signal for the " revelry by
night " to begin.

We return to the Minerva Hotel to find our friend, the
lantern with the buttonholes, stationed on the balcony.
The dining-room is very full and very smart. A large
banquet is going on upstairs, in the room above us, the
balcony of which the lantern decorates. We awake to
the alarming fact that the Minerva will be the centre of
the tumult. The popular candidate is being dined here.
There is a simmering of intense excitement in the streets,
but it does not fully express itself till we are again in
our rooms upstairs. Cavalry gallop momentously fast ;
bands of music strike up ; processions form under the
balcony, on which the would-be mayor appears. A true
pandemonium reigns. In front of a vociferous pro-
cession, held high in the air, the notable lantern is carried.
Rockets startle us, as they tear up whistling close past
the windows ; the poisonous smell of the glaring Bengal
light makes us shut them. We are stifled, and nothing
shuts out the yelling. The air is full of brainless sounds ;
the whole town seems to have gone mad with senseless
excitement. More or less does this go on till six o'clock
in the morning, and together with the assiduous atten-

iii

In Greece

tions of a mosquito, keeps me wide awake in a fever all
night long. Never visit Athens when they are going to
elect a mayor !

September i^th. The crispness has gone out of the air.
The light north wind has turned to a sirocco. Our actual
farewell to Athens is of the most unemotional character.
To be quiet in the train, the noise of the train alone
audible, to get out of Athens and to close the eye that is
peace.

The journey back to Patras is beautiful, but not so
beautiful as when we travelled to Athens. This is almost
a relief, as forming an excuse for dozing instead of looking.
The views are veiled in a haze, and there is little colour.
It is dark when we reach noisy, commercial Patras.
The chief hotel is also the principal restaurant of the town.
There are countless tables spread over the square in front
of its entrance. Everybody is talking as if on what they
say hangs " the issue of the day " ; talking to each other,
talking to themselves ! Keen vitality, dramatic instincts,
very little education, plenty of new Greek wine all com-
bine to make the Greek of the street intolerably noisy.

The first object is to secure, if possible, a quiet room.
A vast apartment, decorated by paintings on walls and
ceiling, meant evidently for a banqueting-hall, but turned
temporarily into a bedroom, is given to me at the back
of the house. I feel lost in it, so tremendous are its
proportions. An open doorway leads into a loggia full of
large growing plants, quite a little wood of foliage, the
stars above looking down between the leaves. This
feels delightfully quiet and remote. In this dignified
chamber quiet rest will surely come. But no ; there

112

TWO VIEWS OF THE TEMPLE OF SUN1UM, CAPE COLONNA (see p. 94).

En route for Olympia

must be noise of some kind. A dog begins to bark inside
the house ; the cook begins to sing in a fine, loud, baritone
voice. Noises inside an hotel may not be so confused or
so meaningless as those in the streets, but they come with
more startling peremptoriness. The dog and the cook
must be stopped, for our train starts for Olympia at seven
o'clock next morning, and one night's sleep must be
secured after three nights disturbed by Athens' wild
revelry. One word, and the dog and the cook are mute.

September i$th. We reach the train in time ; Patras is
busy marketing at seven o'clock a.m. If Greece only knew
what a much nicer place she would be if her turkeys and
chickens were not tied by the legs and held upside down
in that agonizing manner ! Such sights spoil the best
scenery, and poison the most interesting associations.

The journey between Patras and Olympia is very
beautiful. From the aspect of the houses and the gardens
outside Patras, evidently rich Greek people live there.
The fruit-trees are highly cultivated. They are laden
with peaches, pomegranates, oranges, lemons, etc.
Oleander-trees, with gay bunches of pink and damask-red
blossoms, fringe the garden-walls. Care, cultivation,
watering, are evidently bestowed ; these, with the sunshine
of Greece, produce beautiful gardens. No wonder that
the rich people of Patras build villas along the lovely
shores of their gulf. Across the blue waters to the north
are seen first the noble mountain heaps above Missolonghi,
then north-west the southern points of Ithaca and Cepha-
lonia, and nearer the coast the whole length of the
beautiful island of Zante. To the left of our route, looking
south and inland, are the mountain ranges of Achaia and

113 *5

In Greece

Elis. Every view looks enchanting in the early freshness
of this bright September morning.

Our train passes over the River Peiros. Wild oleanders
and great rushes grow in the bed of its stream. It is the
land of currants. Vines and olives form the foreground,
when the rich villas are left behind. While stopping at the
stations, we see masses of small grapes being turned into
currants by lying in flat boxes, or in great heaps, drying
in the sun. Presently we turn into parklike ground
studded with oak-trees, the property of the Crown Prince
of Greece, and pass by the large lake, full of fish (Murray
tells us), which lies between the railway and the sea.
The striking ruin of the Castle of Chlannutzi comes into
sight, built in the thirteenth century by Geoffrey II. of
Ville-Hardouin, during the French occupation, to overawe
the disaffected Greeks. Tout passe, tout casse, tout lasse !
The fortress of enormous strength was destroyed in 1825 by
Ibrahim Pasha. Now, as we see it from the train, from
across the sweet sunlit country of Greece (we feel, indeed,
the delight of being in the heart of the real country, and
how reviving it is), the mighty fortress is but a striking
incident in the landscape.

We stop continually at small stations, and change once.
Eventually we reach the terminus, Olympia. Two hotels,
the museum, and the large field full of excavated rums
that constitutes the Olympia of to-day. We had written
to the longest established hotel for rooms, but in Greece
the postal arrangements are casual. The newer hotel is
connected with the hotel at Patras where we stayed, so,
knowing we were coming, its people had stolen our card,
and awaited us at the station with glee and triumph.

114

Irregularity in Postal Arrangements

We, however, resisted (K. B. quickly mastering the whole
situation), as the old hotel is on higher ground, and has
the best view. A contentious discussion, partly in bad
Italian, partly in French, is carried on for many minutes ;
but in the end our luggage is put on ponies, and we start
on foot along a hot white road up the hill to the hotel,
which does not expect us. Great is my satisfaction to
meet the beautiful blue flower which grew, but was un-
approachable, along the Gulf of Corinth. Here it can be
picked, and sent home to be named. As we toil up the
steep side of the hill, leaving the museum on our left,
we come in sight of the mass of ruins, and, bordering the
ground on which they lie, the River Alpheus, a Greek
river, strange to say, full of water at the end of the summer.
Like a blue ribbon of light it curves under the hills that
mount beyond it to the South.

The Padrone of the hotel, having received no announce-
ment of our coming, is unprepared ; and, September being
a month when but very few travellers appear, nothing is
ready. However, we find comfortable bedrooms, which
are soon put in order. Throwing open the shutters, there
is a beautiful view to be seen, and the freshest of breezes
floats in, scented with fine aroma of hillside herbs. Here
is, indeed, peace and beauty. There is no process to be
gone through, as at Athens, before enjoying the poetry
and associations of the place. There is no modern
Olympia to be first obliterated. It is in unmolested
beautiful country that these treasures of Greek art can
be best enjoyed.

Luncheon over, at 3.30 we descend the hill to the
museum. Its custodian goes to sleep from twelve till two

In Greece

o'clock, therefore there is no admittance between those
hours. But now we are assured it will be open. But, no ;
we ring, we knock, we call. Dead silence, locked doors !
C. B. mounts to the hotel and annexes the waiter. He
vociferates, and we all continue to call and to knock. K. B.
in aggrieved tones protests to the waiter : " Mais il faut
que nous entrons. Nous sommes venus tout expres pour voir
les monuments qui sont dedans." " Vous avez parfaitement
raison, madame," says the waiter, increasing the force of
his knocking. Not a sound within. " Where does he
sleep ?" we ask. Round the corner of the building up-
stairs. I feel lazy, and remain under the shade of the
portico, while the assaulting trio go round and pelt the
upper windows with small stones. Presently I hear a
stealthy footstep within. A key is furtively turned in
the lock, followed by hurried footsteps in full retreat.
I push the door open, just in time to catch sight of a
receding figure, draped, not exactly clothed, in a sort of
bath-towel, vanishing into a cupboard. Exultingly I call
to K. and C. B. We enter the hall, and are proceeding
into the museum, when a head pops out of the cupboard,
clutching the bath-towel arrangement round his neck, and
calls out : " // faut laisser les ombrelles /" In such un-
conventional manner are we admitted to the great art of
Olympia !

The museum was built by Mr. Syngros, a banker in
Athens, and the principal hall was constructed so as to
contain the exact length of the two pediments of the
Temple of Zeus, and the statues are arranged as they
originally were placed in the pediments. Both in
character and workmanship the eastern and western

116

A Great Unnamed Sculptor

pediments are entirely different. The general view taken
is that the eastern pediment is the superior of the two.
But to be sincere, with all deference, I must differ from
this general view. I have never seen any sculpture which
made such a sudden and profound effect as do these figures
in the western pediment. It has not the serenity or the
complete fulness of Pheidias or his school, but the work
appears to me to be that of one of those artists who, like
our own Watts, has outstepped by his individual genius
the feeling and work of any classified school. His indi-
viduality expressed itself in marble with an originality
and a dramatic force of feeling I have never seen equalled.
They are to me the utterances of a great imagination,
arranged most effectively as decoration, a revelation of
the power sculpture can possess in recording the drama
of human feeling in the attitude of the human figure.
The central figure, supposed to represent Apollo, though
finely modelled, is the least notable as regards the special
qualities in the genius of this artist. The proportions are
not beautiful. The throat is short, the face large in pro-
portion to the height of the figure and the size of the head.
The figure is straight and stiff. It could not move with the
power of action shown in those figures on either side. The
whole design of the pediment doubtless culminates finely
in the quiet, passive lines of this central figure, but
intrinsically it has not the beauty found in the best period
of Greek sculpture. The Lapiths and Centaurs fighting
at the wedding of Pirithous is the subject of the design.
The almost excessive action of the figures on either side
of Apollo is again contrasted with the figures crouching
lengthwise, which fill in the narrow ends of the space,

117

In Greece

watching with upraised faces the fight without taking
part in it.

The eastern pediment, by another hand, is conceived
in a totally different style. It represents the prepara-
tions for the chariot-race between Pelops and (Enomaus
for the hand of Hippodamia, the daughter of (Emano.
Death was to be the result of defeat. The competitor
was given a start, while the father of the prize sacrificed
a ram on the altar of Zeus. Hitherto the competitors
had been overtaken and speared by (Enomaus, but
Pelops, through some bribing and underhand work,
manages to kill him and possess himself of his kingdom
and of his daughter. This achievement has been thought
worthy of the prominent place the eastern pediment
took in the great Temple of Zeus at Olympia. The
figure of Zeus stands in the centre, corresponding with
that of Apollo in the western pediment. Upright figures,
horses, and chariots fill in the space on either side, the
tapering ends being again filled by crouching figures.
There is one kneeling female figure in the design, grace-
fully draped, which is singularly beautiful, and in the
whole group there is the serenity and dignity which we
are accustomed to associate with classic art, but nothing
which aroused in me any special enthusiasm. It seems
that the names of the sculptors of these important works
are not known, the best authorities in archaeology dis-
crediting Pausanias' statement that Paeonius executed
the eastern pediment and Alcamenes the western. They
are supposed to have been sculptured between the years
480 and 400 B.C.

Another important work in the central hall is the

118

The Hermes of Praxiteles

celebrated statue of Victory, standing on part of its
original pedestal, made by Paeonius of Mende in 424
to 420 B.C. This figure appears to me to be heavy in
form and wanting in style ; recalling the consummate
winged figure in the Louvre of a similar design, it seems
to be positively clumsy. The drapery, a long chilon,
however, is full of movement and character. We pass
into the room where reigns in solitary beauty the Hermes
of Praxiteles, carrying on his arm the infant Dionysius.
Alas ! modern hands have completed the fragments
found, infinitely more beautiful than are any casts of
the original work ; but the modern additions seem to
cheapen the impression of the statue as a whole. The
head, quite untouched by the restorer, is very beautiful
in the fine marble, the type of feature differing very dis-
tinctly from any other Greek statue I have ever seen.
In the other chambers of the museum are many beautiful
draped figures, named as Roman ; but who knows now
which are executed by Romans or by Greeks employed
by Romans ? Finely carved Corinthian capitals of the
earliest date when this order was first invented, and
much else that is interesting, fill various small rooms ;
but we do not linger, as we have to see the ruins outside
in the country before the light fades.

We walk down the hill from the museum, passing the
stream Kladeos on our left, which flows into the larger
River Alpheus lower down, the Kladeos being the boundary
of the sacred precincts of ancient Olympia on the western
side, the Alpheus on the south. Facing us, as we descend
the hill, are the Phellon Mountains, a beautiful violet
range, sweeping down to the bed of the River Alpheus.

119

In Greece

Crossing a bridge over the Kladeos, we find ourselves at
once among the mass of ruins from which were unearthed
the treasures we have been viewing in the museum.
The excavations were begun by the German Government
in 1875. It gave a grant of 8,550 for the purpose, but
over 30,000 was eventually spent on the work. The
place appears, as you enter, to be a chaotic mass of
ruined columns and shapeless blocks, but not bare and
untidy as on the Acropolis at Athens. More money has
been wanting, and the excavator's hand has been at rest
long enough to allow a clothing of beautiful vegetation
to cover the ground and to fill in the spaces between the
blocks. The slopes of Kronos, which rise on the northern
side of the ruins, are covered thickly with trees. We
pass isolated columns, still erect, then arrive at the ruins
of the Herseon, the most ancient Greek temple hitherto
discovered, supposed, says Murray, to have been dedi-
cated to Zeus arid Hera. It is of the Doric order and
lines of broken columns still give the outline of the temple.
The Hermes of Praxiteles was found here buried in clay
at the foot of its pedestal, which still exists. Turning
to our right we reach the great heaps of ruins, huge
blocks, the remnants of the Temple of Zeus, of the pedi-
ments, and of the famous colossal chryselephantine statue
of Zeus, by Pheidias, which stood in the cella and was
taken to Constantinople and melted for the value of the
gold. Likon was the architect of the temple erected by
the Elians between the years 472 and 269 B.C. Two
disastrous earthquakes destroyed the temple in the
beginning of the sixth century A.D. The remnants,
which a wholesale upheaval have left in stupendous piles

120

BYROXIC CORSAIR, TEMPLE OF SCXIUM (see p. 96).

A Thousand Years of Games

of chaotic masonry, are huge. C. B. mounts the pile to
show how small a human being looks beside them !
We wander about among the different sites of the monu-
ments of the ancient world, and find the exact spot
whence the Hermes was taken, but we are not in an
archaeological frame of mind. Afternoon lights glow
warmly through the midst of these ruins, and on the rich
green of the fir-woods. Here, as at Athens, the stalks
of the grasses and seeding plants do not damp off as in
England, but have an autumn beauty as dried, not
decayed, vegetation. Like golden threads they creep
all around ; they weave their glistening lights among the
imposing chaos of marble blocks and columns, filling
in the interstices, and softening with furry edge the
shattered masses of ruin. We have neither knowledge,
time, nor energy to try and reconstruct the building in
our imaginations ; we are lazily content with the scene
as it is, with its present poetic suggestiveness.

Being in sight of the Alpheus River, C. B. wants to
bathe. Wherever C. B. sees water, whether it be river
or sea, C. B. wants to bathe. We divide, and while
slowly walking back alone to the hotel, the charm and
individuality of the place is very distinctly felt. Olympia
has a powerful atmosphere of its own, very enthralling.
The sweet country air rings with echoes of those mighty
influences of the so-far-away past, when every fourth
year, for upwards of a thousand years, the Olympic
Games gathered together the whole Hellenic nation
" from Marseilles and Sicily to Trebizond and Cyprus,
and from Crete and Cyrene to Corcyra and Epidamnus,"
at the moment when autumn's first moon was full.

121 16

In Greece

Now, as I walk home alone from the ruins which still
mark where this monster gathering was held, what a
sense of profoundly rural peace haunts the spot ! The
sun has set, and over the scenes of these world-stirring
games, the intimate quiet of twilight has fallen ; the
flowing rivers, which ran in the same courses then as
now, alone keeping the sky's light upon the earth. The
stars are quickly conquering the twilight, and shine out
brighter and brighter, now, as they did then. Here
there is no modern life to disturb the pictures of the
past.

September i6th. We have till two o'clock p.m., then
back to Patras to catch our boat for Corfu. Delicious
is the air and very beautiful the view from my window
in the early morning. A room with a view is a great
treasure when travelling. You get the atmosphere of a
place better when resting than when on the trot. But I
feel I must see that western pediment again. It has struck
home its fervour, its originality, its passion of drama.
The unnamed sculptor was doubtless a lonely spirit,
lonely as was Michael Angelo. While his brother-artists
were aiming at serenity, restraint, and sobriety in design,
he was aiming at something quite his own. The struggle
between the Lapiths and Centaurs he meant should be
a struggle, not a mere statement in marble treated on
conventional lines of a struggle. What knowledge and
feeling for human structure he must have possessed
before he was able to throw into those attitudes all the
force and movement we see in them ! C. B. and K. B.
have started on a climb up the mountains, so I descend
the pathway to the museum alone. The custodian has

122

A Descendant of Praxiteles' Model

not yet retired to his midday slumbers. The western
pediment is all it was to me yesterday, and more.

Returning to the hotel, I am hailed by a great many
dogs barking. " Comme vous aimez les chiens !" I say
to the Padrone. " II faut Uen avoir les chiens, madame.
lei on est tres solitaire." He goes on to say that last
week a Paris de Rothschild came to Olympia, escorted
by half a regiment of soldiers ! I feel glad I did not
know of dangers to be feared when I walked home after
sunset alone, enjoying so intensely the solitude. Probably,
not being a Rothschild, there was nothing for me to fear.
Again, " II faut payer pour tout!" Rothschilds must
pay for being Rothschilds.

We walk down to the station, and pass the shrubbery
of the beautiful flowers. C. B. cuts branches of the blue
spikes for me ; one shall go home at once, to be named
by my botanical friend. The journey back to Patras is
still more beautiful in the afternoon of to-day than it
was in the morning of yesterday. One thing that
happens in these parts is truly alarming, much more
so than latent terror of brigands. Little boys will jump
up on the steps of the railway carriage when it is moving
to shove bunches of grapes and postage stamps into the
window for purchase. Two or three of these little urchins
jump up as we leave a station. One has precisely the
face of Praxiteles' Hermes ! A wretched little scrimpy
body, wriggling and darting about like a lizard, but
surmounted with that most unique type of face, that
peculiar arch of the frontal bone above the nose, and the
fine modelling of the nose itself. Never in art or in
life have I seen that special character of form, except

123

In Greece

in the Hermes and in this little creature. Is the imp
perhaps a descendant of Praxiteles' model for the
Hermes ?

We reach the oak woods. Processions of peasants
and laden donkeys pass along in between the trees.
Bristling remnants of summer's grasses and flowers burn
in tufts of golden light, and the trees cast violet shadows
along the ground. Magpies flit about in the branches,
and we try to make out that they appear in lucky
numbers. Beautiful Zante rises purple into the golden
sky, an amethyst inlaid in such a sea of blue as only
flows among the Isles of Greece. A finger of bright sand
runs out into the blue waters, just as it does in Leighton's
sketch taken in Rhodes looking across to Asia Minor.
We cross streams, and the wild rhodedaphnea (oleander)
holds rosy sunsets of its own, glowing blossoms tossed
up from out the shaded water-beds. The violet moun-
tains on Cephalonia are now between the breathing
surface of the sea and the ever more and more burning
light in the sky. An isolated cypress, then groups of the
sable spires spring dark and steadfast from the coast,
past the swaying waters, up into the rosy glow what
colour ! what an atmosphere ! no words are there to con-
vey the joy their beauty evokes. Ahead is Missolonghi,
and away to the north-west a deep, distant, faint amethyst
rests on a surface of light Ithaca of Ulysses. Such
scenes may perhaps ought to tune our thoughts to
Homer ; but how much of his Ulysses and Penelope did
that Ithaca ever contain ? A strong personality with a
taste for wandering, the husband of a wife with enough
imagination to understand her husband's peculiarities,

124

Ithaca and the " Odyssey '

and instil in her a confidence that he would return ;
perhaps so much of Ulysses and Penelope may have
lived in Ithaca and have instigated the creation of the
" Odyssey." Suggestions taken from life strike a creative
mind and make a basis for the weaving of a story. When
the imagination of genius sets to work, a very slight
suggestion, a series of ordinary events and indications
of character playing in those events, may strike the
chord which stimulates creation ; but, in the world-wide
renowned creations, it is a comfort to think that there
is ever a note of noble beauty inspiring the creation.
Penelope's constancy inspired enthusiasm in the heart
of the poet who immortalized her. Such creations can
become more real than reality as centuries remove them
farther and farther back into the past ; they are depicted
with such a convincing sense of accuracy that unimagi-
native minds can only conceive them as copied from
actual life. In the future they become part of a kind
of legendary history, rather than what they really are,
inventions of genius.

" So let me sing of names remembered,
Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead."

But who has ever written a notable story, without most
readers attaching originals in real life from which the
actors in it are said to be drawn ?

Dark purple and indigo blue, deep orange and scarlet,
touched with warm russet black, is the colouring of the
scene as we turn north-east and run along the Gulf of
Patras. The stars have come out in a night sky before
our train stops in the noise of the quay.

125

In Greece

If only for one day and night, let no traveller miss
going to Olympia if he finds himself at Patras. The
journeys alone, there and back, four hours each way,
are feasts of delight ; and at Olympia itself, added to the
associations and the sight of great art, we have the real
Greece the Greece we felt as we loitered in our lazy
train over the lower slopes of Hymettus and Pentelicus.

" The sense of peace
The long sweet silence this is Greece."

September ijth. Not a comfortable night. Even in the
harbour at Corfu it is rough for little boats. Moreover, a
catastrophe happens ! Last night, on taking possession
of my cabin, the bunch of still-to-be-named blue flowers
was put into water. I go on deck in the morning.
The steward enters, tidies the cabin, empties the tumbler,
and throws my precious Olympian flora into the sea !
Now I shall never know its name !

It is afternoon before we land. A lively scene is
going on between a beautiful Albanian, who is exhilarated,
unsteady, dramatic, and very talkative, and the boat-
men who are about to embark him from the quay. He
steps into the boat at last, and falls straight over the
seat, head downwards, causing much amusement.

Corfu still bears the stamp of the former British
occupation. It was tidied up and stiffened into official
importance the impress we leave on most places where
we have reigned and this impress remains. We mount
the steps of the fortification walls, walk over the square,
planted with trees, to the fort, and to the beautiful
cypresses which nobly decorate the rock. The cypress
is to the colouring of southern landscape what the gondola

126

Vagaries of our Steamer " Selene "

is to the coloured marbles of Venice. It gives a sombre
note which enhances the value of every tint. The erect
spring of its growth rises with frank strength against the
quivering lights and swaying surface of the sea, against
the faint aerial Albanian mountains and hazy atmosphere
of distant skies. There is more pink and less violet than
in the colouring in Greece, and as sunset lights fall on
the distance, the pink of the far-away mountains becomes
extraordinarily vivid.

We sleep at the St. George Hotel. Our Austrian-
Lloyd steamer, the Selene, which is to carry us to
Dalmatia, has chosen, for the first time, to go on to the
Island of Santa Maura the Leucadia of Sappho's Leap
in order to pick up a cargo of currants ; and because
the Selene has never done this before, it is quite un-
ascertainable at what hour she is likely to return. The
authorities promise that she will not start from Corfu
till the next morning. All these proceedings in Greece,
however, are on such happy-go-lucky lines, that it is
with a certain amount of nervousness that we settle for
the night.

September i8th. At five o'clock an alarm is given.
Our boat is said to have arrived. Much hurried, we walk
down to the quay. All a mistake ! Of the Selene
nothing has been seen. We are, moreover, solemnly
assured (probably there are no data whatever for the
assurance) that she cannot possibly arrive till seven
o'clock.

I am seized with a longing to drive in this delicious
fresh morning air to the one -gun battery. In early
days at Malta, this drive was fixed in my imagination

127

In Greece

as most beautiful by the report of certain captains in
the Navy who were sent with their gunboats to Corfu.
We mount again to our hotel, and on our way meet a
row of goats, standing against a white wall. The boy
who has just milked them is there with a can full of
new milk and a mug. Never was any breakfast more
delicious than this mug of milk, bought for twopence,
and drunk at 5.30 a.m., while we look across the sea,
twinkling in sunrise glitter, from this bastion in Corfu
over to the Albanian mountains. In a carriage with
two fast ponies we are soon rattling along the streets,
out in the direction of the one battery road. Many of
the famous old olive-trees have been cut down ; but,
notwithstanding, the drive is a lovely one. We get out
at the one-gun battery, and the kodak is rapidly brought
into action.

We have no real reason to hurry, but the idea that
the erratic Selene may come in and go out again without
us, is agitating, however unreasonable. We pass one of
those fascinating old Byzantine churches to which we
lost our hearts in Athens. The glades under the olive-
trees are lovely, but our ponies run us along very quickly,
and within an hour and a half we are at the hotel again.
The Selene has arrived, but does not start again till
eldven o'clock. As we walk leisurely down to embark
on her, we notice in the street, on the steep hill immedi-
ately over the quay, a small shop where wine and spirits
are sold. Over the door is written in large, painted
letters :

MRS. CUMMINGS,

" VENGEANCE IS MINE !"
128

A Canny Scotswoman

What is this Mrs. Cummings about, appropriating to
herself the fulfilling of judgment ? " No," says C. B.,
" that is not the way to read it. It is latent terror in
the mind of Mrs. Cummings, put into a religious form.
It is a protest against free fighting among the sailors and
Albanians to whom she gives exciting liquors ; a warning,
in guise of a text, not to carry out their racial differences
or their sudden quarrels on her premises, a remnant of
Scots caution in Biblical language left on these Greek
shores."

We row off in a small boat to the Selene. She is not
so elegant as our Scylla of the Rubbatino line, but clean
and comfortable. In full view from our deck is one for
second-class passengers. This is completely covered by
families of Turks, who squat in heaps on the floor amid
their luggage consisting of bundles of every imaginable
colour. En masse, the families look more like cargo than
human beings.

Our short night and the agitation and early morning
alarms, caused by catching our Selene after her unexpected
and inconvenient escape to Santa Maura in search of
currants, are over, making it a luxury to lie on deck-
chairs and feel that for a whole day we have nothing to
move or to catch. A fresh air, not amounting to a breeze,
meets us as we move smoothly through the bright sea
in the warm sunshine, the coast of Corfu to the west,
the ranges of Albanian mountains to the east. On the
Selene we ought to feel very Greek. She brings to mind
Theocritus and his Simaetha, and her invocations to
" Selene." " Bethink thee of my love, and whence it came,
my Lady Moon !" But, alas ! we are fast leaving Greece.

129 17

In Greece

" The Isles of Greece ! The Isles of Greece !

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace,

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung !
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set."

It is the moment for Byron. We call out for a Byron,
but not a Byron has either of us brought ; C. B. tries to
quote, but, strange to say, does not get far. Usually
C. B. can quote everything. We must pay a tribute
from our hearts, without the help of Byron, to the
wonderful Greece we are quickly leaving behind us. The
Greece of the antiquary, the archaeologist, the excavator,
we are not wise enough to know much about. Our
tribute of love and gratitude is to Greece as she now is
the Greece that also inspired Pheidias, Byron, and
Leighton ; the Greece that needs no reconstruction or
restoration. The mountain forms and matchless atmo-
sphere that fed the eyes of the all great galaxy of seers ;
the bloom and breadth of sky and land that we have
been seeing as they, too, saw them ; the same beauty
that tuned the souls and genius of ^Eschylus, Sophocles,
and all the mighty crew to distinction in thought and
feeling, has been spread before our actual eyes. The
landscape, seas, and skies of Greece have that quality
recognized as distinction in a unique degree. Greece
means a high aristocracy in natural effects. The carving
of her mountains, compared to others, is as fine sculptured
marble is to rough-hewn stone-work. Her air is per-
fumed with rare aromatic scents from the wild herbs of
the mountain side ; her birds fly, isolated, with clear, swift
sweep of the wing. Greece yields yet such a feast for

130

Two Sides to Every Question

aesthetic enjoyment that there is, maybe, no room left
in the small capacity of some for the erudition of the
archaeologist to come in. Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis
folly to be wise ! There are two sides to every question,
however. Byron's servant's remark concerning Greece
was, " It's a land of lies, and fleas, and thieves. What
my lord is going there for, the Lord only knows, I don't."
Seeing his master was looking at him, he added, " And
my master can't deny what I have said is true." "No,"
said Byron, " to those who look at things with hog's
eyes, and can see nothing else, what Fletcher says may be
true ; but I didn't note it." Had we " hog's " minds,
to have noted the torment of dust, the torture of noise,
the horrors resulting from the election of the mayor in
Athens ? Ought I to feel a shame in having recorded
these ? No ! I am convinced even Byron could not
have stood with patience a whole night full of screeching
rockets, glaring Bengal lights, and of roaring, senseless
yelling, ending up by the feverish teasing of a mosquito,
without rinding a vent in vindictives for such tortures.

From the heaps of human cargo squatted on the second
deck we hear voices chanting in chorus. We go to the
end of our deck and look down. Fine, tawny-faced
Turks in Albanian costume are grouped close together,
singing very seriously a monotonous ditty. Each verse
ends with a jerky note, sprung out with sudden fervour,
and then stopped as suddenly. They seem to be a
kindly, well-conditioned set of friends, though not over
clean. One, sitting near the singers, is pressed into the
service. They flatter and encourage him ; he is self-
conscious, diffident, shy smiles and demurs. Yielding

In Greece

at last, he sets to work. Once seated cross-legged with
the rest, no smiling ! This singing is a very serious
business, evidently.

The Levantine is a humble being : he is abject before
the Austrian. Twice does one of them sit down over a
ventilator which opens on to the second deck. Each
time a steward comes in wrath and sends him flying.
The Levantine only looks as if he thought it very kind
to be allowed to squat on a deck at all. They are interest-
ing people to watch, but, alas ! the donkey-engine begins
to work. What was difficult before, becomes now im-
possible. The mixture of spiced Turk and hot donkey-
engine grease, makes an odour that even Byron must
have noted ! As C. B. leans over the railing of our deck,
looking down on these spiced Turks and working donkey-
engine, he murmurs, not Byron, but Dr. Watts :

" By nature bears and bulls and swine.

With fowls of every wing,
Are much more clean, more strong and fine,
Than man, their fallen king."

These fallen kings, pleasant, domestic, comfortable-
looking people, squatted round their bundles, emit a
sickly odour, such as many things have in the East,
and which, when mixed with that of the hot oil of the
machinery of a steamer reaches the climax of impossibles !

The donkey-engine begins to work, because we are
steering due east, towards Santi Quaranta. As we turn
into the harbour, the last point of the northern end of
Corfu disappears.

We have left Greece, but Greece has not left us, nor
will she ever, so long as memory remains.

132

Ill

DALMATIA

FROM CORFU THROUGH THE BOCCHE DI CATTARO
TO CATTARO

GREECE would not have been enjoyed by us in this
month of September had she not been tantalizingly near
Dalmatia. When we began looking at maps and arrang-
ing our journey to the Adriatic, we could not help in-
cluding a run down of ten days to the land and seas we
have just left. Really we owe both Greece and Dalmatia,
if we seek the true fountain head, to Mr. Jackson's
book the classic on Dalmatia. This inflamed K. B.'s
imagination when it first came out, so that she made a
vow that at the arrival of the first opportune moment,
she and C. B. would explore this country, described by
the author as abounding in all kinds of natural and
artistic beauty. How can we adequately express our
gratitude to him for this delightful work which com-
bines so exhaustively in ts pages the different keys to
all the interests the traveller seeks when visiting a
country like Dalmatia ts history from the early days
of the Roman Empire, its racial distinctions, its natural
scenery, and last more intrinsically interesting than
aught else its architecture, which includes many ex-

133

Dalmatia

amples of the purest early Venetian Gothic. One and
all teem with a rare flavour, and are introduced to us
by Mr. Jackson with consummate knowledge and in a
singularly stimulating style. There is surely no greater
benefactor to civilized mankind than the one who kindles
in others an intense interest in any subject which is
non-material, non-egoistic ; the one who widens our
visions of life by inspiring an enthusiasm for tilling new
fields for impressions and experience. To be introduced
to Dalmatia by Mr. Jackson is truly a liberal education.
By having read his book we owe to him already a debt
for the joy of anticipation ; we are now eager to increase
that debt by the satisfaction of actually realizing the
delights of the promised land.

It is noon, and our Selene is nearing the Quay of Santi
Quaranta, formerly the ancient Anchiasmos, named after
Anchises, the father of ^Eneas, who, according to Virgil,
went there. But little of the modern town can be seen
from our ship, which anchors some distance off the shore.
Rising on the hillsides and extending along the coast on
our left are considerable remains of an important walled-
in city of the Lower Empire. Here, from our ship, we
trace many more important ruins than those better
known to fame, but no excavations, no restorations.
Alas ! we have no time to land and examine them.
Walls of a blue-grey stone, towers, and archways tunnelled
under the towers, still remain as, from a pictorial and
poetical point of view, all ruins ought to be allowed to
remain solitary and unmolested. These, differing in
tone so slightly from the background of the hillside,
appear to the eye to have grown into becoming almost

134

The Charm of " an Atmosphere ''

part of the rising ground on which they were built. Yet
a vital difference virtually exists between the ruins and
the unhewn rocks, and this difference is felt as we go on
gazing. From the deserted remnants of the old city
rings out a note that melancholy note which hovers
in the air round all deserted buildings, once the homes
of men and women and their children, when they are left
unchanged and untouched by modern hands and modern
tools. As we look across the bright and happy sea, all
smiles, and rippling over with high spirits, those sedate
old walls, archways, and towers, lying so solitary and
deserted on the hillside by the shore, the midday sun-
shine obliterating all dark shadow and spreading a bloom
of heated light over their ashen, time-worn surface, they
seem verily haunted by the ghosts of a far-away past.
They arouse a feeling of old-world associations ; and a
real flavour of Virgil seems to hang about the place.

That the great value of preserving an atmosphere in
places could be taught as part of our modern education !
Then perhaps the hand of the excavator and restorer would
be taught more restraint than it is apt to exercise. Atmo-
sphere is the unwritten poetry of the world. A rare and
precious atmosphere infuses into the perceptions a fine
and delicate aroma, elevating and drawing our senses up
from the coarser material world we have generally to
live in, as a Keats or a Shelley tunes the mind to the
more ethereal side of our thoughts and ideas. That
very undistinguished quality, curiosity, is allowed a
great deal too much free-play, and has to answer for the
spoiling of much of the world and its romantic and old-
world atmospheres ; but curiosity has not spoilt Santi

135

Dalmatia

Quaranta yet, neared by our steamer Selene as we lose
our last sight of Greece.

To the right of her ruins, at a little distance, stands
a large white house near the shore, presumably the
custom-house. From under an archway in the walls of
the building is emerging a stream of donkeys, each little
dark animal following the other in single line, like a pro-
cession of black ants. They pass on along the quay,
and then mount the hill which rises to our right, winding
round it on a pathway which leads, we are told, to
Delvino, a decayed Albanian town, six miles inland from
Santi Quaranta, and which possesses, according to
Murray, every possible charm of scenery around it. The
stream of donkeys which the archway emits seems to
be interminable. A fine ruin of a medieval church
crowns the high hill round which it winds. The build-
ing was the church of the Santi Quaranta, from which
the newer town is named.

We have been watching the shore some twenty minutes,
when the donkey-engine is again at work, and we are
starting to pastures new.

When the events always attendant on departures and
arrivals in a steamer have subsided, and we are well
on our way again, we dine. The Selene provides a very
good, well-cooked meal, over which we make the acquain-
tance of our captain, to whom we speak in French. He
is huge and a somewhat rough-looking person, but
possessing a kindly countenance full of individuality.
After dinner comes a long afternoon of enjoyment on
deck-chairs, in fresh, bracing air, full of sunshine, moving
smoothly along the Albanian coast, whence rise, high

136

British School at Athens.

THE CENTRAL FIGURE, APOLLO, FROM THE WESTERN PEDIMENT OF THE TEMPLE.
OF ZEUS, OLYMPJA (tee /. 117).

In the Gulf of Avlona

above the blue wavelets, piles of beautiful mountain
forms. They are very arid and stony, but here and there
in a crevice nestles a dark cluster of trees, and some-
times, though rarely, a vein of more amenable soil allows
of tracts of woodland even to their very summits ; but,
as a rule, their sternly-cut ridges and rocky slopes face
the sun naked and bare, grand and splendidly modelled,
though lacking that very sensitive grace with which
Nature has chiselled her mountain forms in Greece.
Alas ! we are fast steaming northwards, a little west till
we reach the long point of Linguetta, curling out into the
sea and enclosing the Gulf of Avlona. We steam round
the point and anchor in the Gulf. This bay has the
appearance of a lake, so surrounded is it by hills and
mountains. The town of Avlona of many minarets is
clearly seen on a hillside as it catches the afternoon
sunlight. It is a mile and a half from the sea. Olive
woods stretch over a plain running inwards from the
level shore. A road runs along the coast of the bay
we watch two little horses drawing a carriage, galloping
along it to catch our boat. But there is no desperate
hurry ; we do not start yet awhile. While in port our
captain is off duty. He is one of those who is evidently
possessed by the passion for fishing. That gruesome
little story by Guy de Maupassant concerning two
Frenchmen who were likewise possessed by that passion
during the siege of Paris by the Germans comes back
to me as I watch him how, through their fervour for
the sport, they obtained a pass to reach the river beyond
the French sentries ; how they set to work in their joy,
so saturated with satisfaction at being once more at their

137 18

Dalmatia

game that they did not hear the enemy's approach till
they were surrounded. Taken into German quarters,
they were bound and shot, the last thing their eyes rested
on in this world being the little fish they had caught,
thrown alive and wriggling hi the frying-pot, as they
were scalded to death, watched by gleeful German eyes
gloating over the prospect of eating them. The little
story so wonderfully told, you cannot forget it however
much you try to it will come back, in all its pathetic,
hideous cynicism, as our bulky captain of the Selene
alertly strides to the bow of his ship, and, with thick
fingers and intense engrossment, arranges his fishing-
tackle. He has but a few minutes ; but during those
few his delight in his mania shall be gratified to the full.
A boat rows up to the Selene ; a man in blue linen garments
is standing up in it, a strong box stowed next the oars-
man. The man, erect, addresses the captain ; an alterca-
tion goes on, the gist of which is, as far as we can gather,
that the captain refuses to allow the man to bring his
box on board because it contains skins. The altercation
becomes more and more impressive, the dramatic action
of the appealer more and more violent. " Non voglio
pelle !" roars our huge captain, the while not oblivious
of his fishing-line. The pelle which he refuses to allow
on board might, we surmise, entail quarantine. A calm
Englishman would find but little difficulty in explaining
the matter in a few words, but the fun of life to the
Southerner is to put as much drama and noise as they
can into every event which comes their way. With
outstretched arms and still more passion does the man
in the boat below make his appeal ; with still more

138

The Bocche di Cattaro

despotic power in his voice does the angler roar, " Non
voglio pelle, signo.r, non voglio pelle !" The owner of the
pelle, tragic vengeance lowering in his face, departs for
the shore, but when the fishing is over and the Selene
is just ready to start, dejected and minus his suspicious
box, he reappears, and the altercation begins afresh at
closer quarters on deck. It is cut short by the captain
again taking command of his ship. We leave the Bay
of Avlona, and the scenery as we coast along under the
mountains becomes every moment more and more
beautiful as the afternoon lights grow warmer. The
mountains inland become piled up very high into the
sky. We pass Dulcigno, but do not stop. It is the little
seaport which was given to Montenegro by the Treaty of
Berlin in 1878, the only direct access to the coast which
the small kingdom possesses. We are making up for
the time lost by the detour the Selene made to Santa
Maura, and, contrary to our fears, before the sun sets
we reach the entrance to the world-famed Bocche di
Cattaro. " The bocche consist of a ganglion of five or
six basins joined by narrower channels, and arranged on
the irregular winding line of the great mountain valley
of which they form the watery floor." Thus Mr. Jackson
describes them. Before turning our course to enter the
bocche, straight in front of us juts into the sea the
promontory of the Punta d'Ostro, " with its old moulder-
ing ochreous-coloured castle, which once defended the
southern extremity of the Ragusan land." Steering
round to the east, and leaving this on our left, we face
gorgeous mountain heights rising as if to block further
progress. Grand slopes sweep down and very nearly

139

Dalmatia

meet, but our Selene, making for the point where they
seem to join, finds, nevertheless, a channel and passes
through it into the first sea-lake. As she emerges from
this first pinch in the bocche, we face the town of Castel-
nuovo, a picturesque group of houses surrounding the old
castle, which gives the town its name. Built by Ivartko,
King of Bosnia, in 1382, it became the most important
key to the farther inlets of the bocche, and has had during
its five hundred years of existence an eventful history,
having belonged successively to eight Europeon nations,
associated, moreover, with the great Charles V. We
approach Castelnuovo, leave it on our left, and steer
through the narrow channel of Kumber into the Basin
of Jeodo, a large triangular sheet of water, pointing
south-east towards the town of Radovic. Our route
turns north-east to the very narrow channel called Le
Catene (the chains), because formerly, when invaders
sought a passage to Cattaro, all further ingress for ships
was prevented by chains being swung across the channel.
We pass two islands ; on one is the pilgrimate church of
Santa Maria della Scarpello, on the other the Fort of
Santa Croce. As we steam into the Gulf of Cattaro, we
make for Perasto where our captain has his home, and
where he alights to spend Sunday with his family. The
church possesses a fine campanile, one of several notice-
able towers on the shore of the bocche. On the heights
to the north-east of Perasto lies the Krivorie, famous for
notable revolts and tumults, and hi consequence at
present the most strongly defended line of border-land
between Austria and Hertzegovina. We can trace below
the Krivorie, above the town of Risano, the curious

140

The Cavern-like Town of Cattaro

Zoput cavern, from which at times a spring of water
bursts forth marked now by a stony bed, descending
steeply down the mountain-side. Every moment the
scenery becomes more and more impressive. The even-
ing glow of rosy carmine now strikes but the summits of
the mountains above us. Below, all around us is solemn
shadow, deep purple and dark russet, the water liquid
indigo, with strange, warm, half-lights floating about on
the surface. The grandeur of these mountains, which
enfold deep down at their base the waters of the sea into
these bocches, is truly tremendous. It is as if some very
gigantic giant had taken in his two hands vast masses
of rock and earth and twisted them backwards and for-
wards, letting the waves of the sea flow in between.

After leaving our captain at Perasto, we strike south
into the very innermost crease of these sea-lakes to the
town of Cattaro a very small and shadowed town which
is to be the terminus of our circuitous route amid the
stupendous effects of Nature which have surrounded us
on every side since we turned from the open sea by the
Punta d'Ostro. What a tiny little place it looks ! Such
a little town to so much Nature ! It has to be squeezed
into a very small space to get it in at all between the
sea and the rock, rising so straight and high behind the
houses, and between the walls of its own fortifications.
These fortifications are impressive, climbing zigzag up the
mountain rock. Entering into its harbour is like going
into a half-lit cavern, for by this time every ray of even
afterglow light is so high above us as to be quite out of
the picture. In this gloom of cavern shade we leave our
Selene for two nights. Carriages do not seem to exist in

141

Dalmatia

Cattaro, so we follow the porters on foot across the quay,
and, passing through the Porta della Marina and across
a square, we enter into intricacies of narrow streets and
passages cramped together into the smallest possible space.
These lead us to our hotel, the Stadt Graz.

Trees, creepers trained over a pergola, flowers hanging
in baskets, make the place attractive outside. Inside it
is rough. However, the inn belongs to a family who
treat us as guests and make us welcome. In the bed-
rooms one sign of civilization we find any quantity of
water ; but the furniture is not all one could wish. I try
to open the door of a wardrobe ; it at once begins to fall
down upon me. I push it back towards the wall with
all the force I have and leave it alone. I try another
piece of furniture ; the drawers in this are full of the
family's best frocks. However, the beds are clean, and
there is no noise of wheels outside. A large picturesque
fountain stands below my window, and many of the
inhabitants, holding buckets in their hands, are gathered
round it drawing water. As we reached the Stadt Graz, a
tall Austrian officer presented himself. K. B. and C. B.
have Austrian friends in the navy at Pola, who, through
their comrades at Cattaro, give us a most kindly wel-
come to Dalmatia. The first naval officer was soon
followed by Schief-Lieutenant S. Both are charming, kind
friends at once. The world, indeed, would be a pleasant
place if all the peoples of civilized countries had the
manners of Austrians ! They are also excellent linguists.
Our Schief-Lieutenants tell us they have to know five
languages before entering their navy German, French,
English, Italian, Slav. Their English is delightful, good

142

We do not go to Cettigne

and fluent, with a pleasant ring in it, denoting that mixture
of simplicity and finished refinement which gives the
peculiar charm to the personality of an Austrian. But
we have had a long day, so anything more than first
impressions, both of Cattaro and our new friends, must
be postponed till to-morrow.

September 20th. K. B. and C. B., great pedestrians,
begin early to mount the road to Cettigne. Having but
one day at Cattaro, I had petitioned not to go to Cettigne,
notwithstanding the sentence with which Mr. Jackson
begins his chapter on Montenegro : " To visit Cattaro and
not to go on to Cettigne would be unpardonable." But
his subsequent description of the journey inspired rather
the desire to spend the one day we had before re-embark-
ing on the Selene in becoming acquainted with Cattaro
and its ways, instead of taking a twelve hours' drive out
of it. The drive to see Cettigne is in a country which
Jackson himself describes in the following words : " A
more bleak, inhospitable fatherland has never inspired
its sons to shed their blood in its defence." The ex-
cursion, one knows only too well, would mean two little
horses pulling you up and down mountain passes and
jolting over rough roads you all the time, for pity of
the poor little strained animals, longing to get out and
pull also to see, after six hours of this tugging and
toiling what ? Again to quote Jackson, the Dalmatian
classic's words : " Cettigne, the humblest capital in
Europe, is more regularly built than I had expected. It
consists of a very broad, well-metalled street, between
regular lines of houses, varying from one to two stories in
height, and generally with shops on the ground-floor,

143

Dalmatia

standing open to the front. . ,. . The latest wonder of
the place is a large, half-finished building (I presume by
this time quite completed and quite up-to-date, and as
unsightly and uninteresting as are most modern buildings
of the kind), which is to contain a theatre, a reading-
room, a library, and a museum, all under one roof." All
praise to the Prince of Montenegro for advancing his
country in the ways of modern life, but some may prefer
to remain without a hasty sight of his newly-built capital,
though unpardoned even by Mr. Jackson ! Hasty it
must be if you return the same day, as there is the six
hours' drive back to Cattaro. While K. B. and C. B.
are climbing the mountain, I wander about the town.
It is a fete day, and the churches seem preparing for
special services. I hear sounds of military music and
the tramp ol soldiers and of a crowd following, some-
times loud, sometimes far away, as the soldiers march in
and out of the passages in the squeezed-up little town.
In these narrow, cramped streets many people live, and
many in very gay, smart dresses are walking about and
filling the churches. Before ten o'clock San Nicolo, the
Cathedral of the Orthodox Greek Church, is crowded to
overflowing. The piincipal service is evidently about to
take place. I walk on, not knowing exactly where I
am going, but, looking down a passage, see a remnant
of an old Venetian palace built in between modern houses
Earthquakes and sieges have destroyed most of the
buildings possessing any architectural value in Cattaro,
but these and other ruined remnants that remain record
signs of beautiful things that have been. One lovely
sight is now in its glory. Everywhere, from crevice, wall,

144

HEAD OF PRAXITELES' HERMES (see f. 119).

Found n the most ancient Greek temple yet discovered, named "The Heraeon," Olympia.

The " Campanula Pyramidalis '

and building, out of
sculptured stone, cen-
turies old, spring long
spikes of fresh blue
flowers the Campan-
ula pyramidalis. Lifted
upwards on long stalks
towards the light, how
pure and clean and
alive the blossoms look
against the stained and
time-worn grain of the
old stonework ! By
whiffs of azure blue,
the little goblets sprout-
ing out on each side of
a firm stalk echo the
blue so far above them
in the sky down into
the narrow, shadowed
streets below. Flowers
often record more last-
ingly in the memory
the days that pass than
does any handiwork of
man. The combination
of old masonry and the
Campanula pyramidalis
in Cattaro is peculiarly fascinating. If only the steward
on the Scylla had not thrown away my precious un-
named blue spikes from Olympia !

145 19

REMNANTS OF VENETIAN GOTHIC
WINDOWS AT CATTARO.

Dalmatia

After passing the Venetian windows, the Collegiata, or
the Latin Church of Santa Maria Infunara, soon comes into
sight. Its small size, low dome, and tiled roofing, recall
our beautiful little Byzantine churches in Athens. The
sound of really musical music conies from within, which
is sweet to listen to, and the sheltered crucifix fixed on
the south wall makes an outside altar at which to worship.
It is the best moment in the day.

Turning to the left, through passages hardly to be called
streets, I come to the Greek Church of San Luca standing
on an open paved space. It is so crowded that people are
standing thickly outside the open doorway. The building
has a central cupola and an elongated nave, like Santa
Maria, but is on a smaller scale, and has a miniature apse
joined on to the principal apse only four feet six inches in
diameter, forming the eastern end of a tiny temple, dedi-
cated to San Spiridion. Over the west doorway, where the
crowd is thickest, is a bell-cot a later addition. San Luca
is mentioned in 1270, but it was restored in the fourteenth
century, and referred to by Farlati as having been con-
secrated by Bishop Doimo in 1368. The church stands
against the rock mountain, the height of Stirovnik, which
overshadows Cattaro, and is crowned by the old castle,
led up to by the zigzag walls of the fortifications. Jackson
describes this as " perched like an eagle's nest on a needle
of rock." I next make for the large square through
which we entered the town last night, and the Porta della
Marina, leading to the quay. Between the fortifica-
tion walls and a row of trees are tile-roofed sheds
where the marketing for food of the town goes on. The
vendors and buyers are busy at it. Fruit, vegetables,

146

Southern Boundary of Cattaro

meat, and fish are all sold here. On the other side of the
quay is the stillest of waters. The opposite mountain,
the ships and sails, are all reflected absolutely in the sea.
Having reached the end of the sea-wall, I come upon a
large tank of fresh water, filled from a spring issuing from
the mountain outside the Porta Zordiccehio, the southern
end of the town. The inhabitants are filling pitchers with
the fresh water from the tank, going in and out of the
Porta Godicchion in picturesque groups. At this spot
you easily understand why the town is so squeezed up
into a small space, as the rocks rise straight from the sea
immediately outside this gateway. Passing through it
back into the town, everything looks very dark, the walls
and gateway very high and narrow. Flights of steps
take you over the rocky foundation of the town. Walking
northwards, the ups and downs of the space between the
mountain and the sea widen gradually, and eventually,
in front of the Cathedral, leave space for quite a large
square. Alas ! the Cathedral is being restored and is
closed. The front was built after the great earthquake
of April 6th, 1667. The original church was erected in
809 to receive the bones of its patron saint, San Trifone,
bought from Venetians who were driven by a storm into
the bocche. This church was destroyed by Saracens or
Bulgarians, and another built in the twelfth century.
Part of it remains, but the towers and frontage were
erected after the earthquake, and the architecture of it
is Renaissance.

It is now time for the pedestrians to return. As I
reach the Stadt Graz, there is again the sound of military
music cheerily parading the town. I find the pedestrians,

147

Dalmatia

and they bring a wonderful description of their climb,
and how they just reached the country of Montenegro,
having first seen from the height of the castle a striking
bird's-eye view of the chain of bocches out as far as to the
open sea. The charming and kind Austrian Schief-
Lieutenants present themselves, and take us off to lunch
at a restaurant, the best in Cattaro. How delightful
it is in travelling to find yourself sometimes taken under
the wing of inhabitants ! To desert hotels for the nonce
is a rest. A sense of leisure pervades the atmosphere at
once. We wander out after lunch to see more of the
town of Cattaro under their guidance. We walk to the
gardens reserved for the naval and military officers, out-
side the Porta Fuimara. Near this is a lake formed by
the torrent Scurda. We feel quite in possession of the
place, so much deference is shown, so many salutes are
given to our guides. We enter the town through this
northern gateway, Fuimara. To our left steep steps form
the streets on the rocky hillside. One of these leads to
the zigzag mule-track up to the castle. We mount by
it to the Greek chapel. Halfway up the ascent our
progress is stopped for a moment. Soldiers are stationed
to guard shut gates, in order to practise, our friends tell
us, the guarding of fortifications. More saluting, and
the gate flies open. The hillside is covered with shrubs,
wild pomegranates among them. Fruit is hanging on
their branches. Most decorative is it ; I want to possess
one. Lieutenant S. cuts one, and also his finger. Alas !
the blood of this kind cicerone is shed in order to gratify
my acquisitiveness. He has won medals hi the China
War, and tells much that is hit cresting as we climb up

148

True Civilization

to the chapel. Once there, we rest and contemplate the
view of the town and bocche below, the hills opposite, and
the tops of the mountains beyond. I see the churches
I visited this morning, and another, a large, not very
interesting-looking church, round which are gathered
groups of people. The church, Lieutenant S. says, is
that of San Nicolo, the Orthodox Greek Church, and
to-day's festa, causing crowds to gather round it, is held
in memory of the birthday of Brankovic, the Servian poet.
Later on the Croatian band will play in his honour in
the public gardens, and we must hear it. On this wild,
rocky hillside, opposite the steps of the tiny Greek church,
we sit watching all the movement of this feast in honour
of a poet who, though he spoke their own language Slav
was not a Dalmatian. How many Tennysons, Brown-
ings, Swinburnes, and Matthew Arnolds, England's very
own poets, might live and die in England before their
birthdays were ever realized, much less recognized, by
the masses, or commemorated by a popular fete ! Still
less imagine bands of music, and Hyde Park full of people
amusing themselves, because it was the birthday of
Robert Burns ! No ; here, within this out-of-the-way,
squeezed-up little town of Cattaro, in the terminus of
many folds of sea-lake creases, at the far southern end of
the Adriatic, we find a higher standard in theory, at
least and a more vivid realization of what is really
important in the living of life, than in our very rich,
educated, confident, powerful London, with its London
County Council, its many Borough Councils, its mighty
s0//-importance !

We descend by the steps on the edge of the mule-track

149

Dalmatia

the same way as we climbed up, pass through the town
out of the Porta Marina into the public gardens, which
take the place outside the fortification walls on the
northern side of the Porta that the provision market
stalls take on the southern end. Smart Cattaro is sitting
around tables, drinking coffee, listening to the Croatian
band. We and our Austrian friends do the same. We
find how much of English literature these officers know
and have enjoyed Dickens, Thackeray, George Eliot,
Byron, and, most of all, Shakespeare ; but, indeed, all
our best is a pays tres bien connu. And how these Slavs
can play ! With what spontaneity, what passion, do
they make their music ! Such art goes straight into the
individual lives of us all. Here, for the price of a cup
of coffee, one is stirred by music's own true meaning, and
given an inspiring experience which certainly few guinea
concerts in the London season afford. It is very pleasant
sitting with our charming Austrian friends, listening to
Smetana's " Verkaupte Braut " under the trees in the
twilight. The warm evening air is fresh and delicate ;
the gardens on the one side are guarded by high and
ancient fortification walls, festooned with creeping plants,
out of which start upwards beautiful blue spikes of our
friend the Campanula pyramidalis ; on the other side
picturesque fishing-boats are lying along the quay,
loosened sails draping their masts ; beyond, gleaming in
the soft twilight, the still, glassy surface of the bocche.
Cattaro leaves a lovely picture in the memory of us
passing travellers ; but Schief-Lieutenant S. says : " When
I came here first I thought I should go mad ! There was
nothing to do." But, then, Schief-Lieutenant S. loves

150

Return to the " Selene '

Vienna the theatres, the concerts, society. Neverthe-
less he has resources ; so he did not go mad in Cattaro,
but instead studied more languages, and read a great
many English books.

September 2ist. We are on our Selene by ten o'clock.
The weather still quite perfect. We have just settled on
our deck-chairs when the Schief-Lieutenants arrive with
a momentous piece of English political news. Such
news, and C. B. at Cattaro ! We have not received
a post since we left Athens, but are expecting our letters
to be awaiting us at Ragusa. There is nothing to do
but to speculate as to the whys and wherefores, and go
on with our enjoyments just the same as if nothing had
agitated the political world in England. And surely, if
any journey could make such events seem but trifles, it
is the beauty of the bocche this morning.

At Perasto our large captain comes on board, and the
Dalmatian custom of waving handkerchiefs on every
occasion is exercised conspicuously. The family and
friends of the captain appear at one and all of the windows
of a large house standing near the water's edge, and
from each fly ample handkerchiefs, waved energetically
in the air. From the Selene the captain gives answering
waves. At Risano at every place we stop at or sight
whether or not the wavers have friends on board, we are
saluted in the same manner. The Bocche de Cattaro
may not appear so impressive as on our arrival in the
evening two days ago, when the coming gloom of night
had shadowed the waters and the lower mountain slopes
with deep purple and russet, the highest summits alone
glowing in warm gold and crimson light ; but in this

Dalmatia

clear morning sunshine we see more detail, more of detail
in the villages, in the fine Venetian Gothic campanili,
which rise many stories high from the level of the shore.
From ten o'clock a.m. till three o'clock p.m. our Selene
is wandering up and down, in and out of the folds of the
bocche, collecting passengers and cargo. Splendid piles
of luminous cumulus clouds shine out from skidding
storm-racks. Is our wonderful weather breaking ? That
is a far more important matter to us at this moment than
that political fusses are rampant in England. Castel-
nuovo is very striking under this stormy sky. The
white houses look very white, the trees in which they
are embedded, very black, while the mellowed tone of
the rugged grey walls of the old castel makes an imposing
centre, seeming to gather all the less important edifices
in the picture round its feet in the service of its design.
In this stormy effect, the town, the mountains, sky, and
sea look impressive and strong, the lights and shadows
decided and salient. No effect like that did we see in
Greece, nothing violent or ominous. The landscape of
Dalmatia is grand, picturesque, and interesting ; but
the contrast existing between it and the scenery in Greece
brings out more than ever the unique loveliness, the
heavenly, aerial fineness of the effects of atmosphere in
the land we have left. The delicate chiselling of marble
has been replaced by the bold, vigorous hewing of Nature's
coarser masonry. A very finished specimen of humanity,
however, appears on our first deck in full Albanian garb ; a
contrast to the humble, second-deck native fellow-
passengers we noted between Corfu and Santi Quaranta :
a high-class mountaineer, whether from the Albanian or

152

2 3

o <"

w :

w w

H a

Z H

o
s

Our First Shower of Rain

Montenegran heights, we do not discover ; but that he
comes from an aristocratic class is evident.

We have now passed Porto Rose and are going through
the narrow pinch of the last sea-lake, the Punta d'Ostro
facing us. Steaming round it, we emerge from the
bocche out into the open sea. For the first time since we
started from Victoria on September ist, rain-clouds gather
round us ; then falls a sharp half-hour's storm shower ;
after which all is brilliant sunshine again, pouring warm
afternoon light over the sea and the light range of moun-
tains rising from the water's edge to our right as we
steam northwards. Ahead of us, beyond Ragusa Vecchia,
are dark purple spots on the sea, islands which lie opposite
the coast, on which stand Ragusa and Gravosa. We see
a curious effect consequent on the very vivid light the
sun is shedding on the sea after the storm. The ends of
these islands appear to be lifted up from the gleaming sea
as the line of the stern and prow of a boat are raised out
of the water-line. We seem to be seeing under and beyond
the ends of the islands to still brighter golden sheen
farther away. C. B. says that he has seen the effect
before, and that it is caused by the vividness of light on the
water beyond overpowering the darker tone of the shore-
line. Every moment the colour is becoming intensified.
No, this is not Greece, but it is very splendid. Every
tint seems to have burst out richer and fuller after
the thunderstorm has cleared the air. We pass by the
imposing city of Ragusa, with its grand fortifications and
citadels, our Selene being too large a boat to get into
her harbour. We have to make for the more hospitable
Gravosa port, and return thence by road to Ragusa.

153 20

Dalmatia

As we steer into the quiet waters where our Selene is to
cast anchor, the scene is gorgeous in solemn colour.
Sable black cypresses start up round the shore of the
gloomy glass surface of the water ; the colours in the sky
above and in the open sea beyond the shaded haven in
which we find ourselves, are intense purple, carmine,
scarlet, orange, and green, but toned and put into a world
of solemn mystery by the twilight. Life indeed is a
feast of colour in these waters of the Adriatic. In one
day we have witnessed scenes coloured from Nature's
paint-box by more positive strength of hue than we might
look for in vain during a whole year in sober England.
Every moment seems to bring with it fresh revelries in
colour.

We part from our Selene with regret. She has enter-
tained us for two delightful days. Theocritus again
recurs, obviously :

" Farewell, Selene, bright and fair ; farewell, ye
Other stars, that follow the wheels of quiet night."

154

IV
DALMATIA

RAGUSA CANNOSA

A FEW minutes later and we are being rattled off to
Ragusa by two quick little ponies. The road reminds
us of the Riviera a low wall on the side of the sea,
vegetation among the rocks going down to the water's
edge ; while on our left are hillsides covered with olive-
trees and bushes topped by bare, stony summits. As
we approach Ragusa, villas in gardens appear on either
side of our route, and oleander bushes in masses. Evi-
dently the oleander is the flower of Ragusa as the Cam-
panula pyramidalis is of Cattaro, and September is its
special month. In various shades we see the delightful
bunches of blossoms everywhere. What can be more
beautiful ! The delicate pink, the deep carnation red,
the creamy and the pure white, the pale buff and carmine
scarlet, thrown so lavishly in clusters from slender stalks
and pointed grey-green leaves. As we turn into the
garden of the Hotel Imperial, we find ourselves in a
veritable bower of oleanders. This establishment is the
Schweitzerhof of Dalmatian hotels. Every civilized
comfort good beds, delightful balcony, and an im-
mediate welcome from Count Gozze, the magnate of

155

Dalmatia

Ragusa, who has been told off by the kind Austrian
officers to take care of us during our stay here. He
appeared as we reached the hotel, and at once arranged
a future meeting.

September 22nd. It is well to take rest in civilized
surroundings. The quaint and the queer are amusing,
but it is the accustomed that tends to repose. The
the complet, served with clean, neat accessories, is sooth-
ing and refreshing before effort of any kind has to be made.
As I open the shutters on to the balcony, striking views
are visible. Fort San Lorenzo, placed grandly on a
steep rock to the north of the town, lies a little to the
right of our hotel, and a pile of buildings, strongly
fortified by walls and surmounted by a citadel, lies to
the south. The gap between the two piles of rock and
buildings is filled by the very blue sea which faces the
Hotel Imperial, and flows to the feet of the two imposing
eminences rising straight from out of the water on their
western front. The valley between the town and Fort
San Lorenzo is filled on the land with trees, the foliage of
high fir-trees fringing the foreground against the blue
waves beyond with a crisp edge of dark, velvety green.
In the garden below my balcony are masses of gay
oleander flowers. Such a view in the bright morning
sunshine is quite good enough for an hour or two. The
sense that we are not going to move on for four days is
in itself resting. Here the wardrobes, when you touch
them, do not fall down as they did at Cattaro, and
altogether a feeling of decorum in life returns. In the
scuffling of travelling, the sense of dignity departs.
There are situations when it is quite impossible to keep

156

Ragusa the Noble

tight hold of it ; but here, in the Hotel Imperial, after a
good night, it is creeping back. Such a frame of mind
is only fitting when one greets a noble city like Ragusa
embowered in her elegant rhodedaphnes, the oleanders of
the Greek.

It is not till after luncheon that we walk under the
lovely trees, through shaded pathways, out into the road,
where we soon find ourselves in the famous avenue of
mulberry-trees which leads direct to the Porta Pile.
Before descending into the labyrinths of this great gate-
way of the town, we catch a view on our left of the
stupendous fortifications which grasp the rocky side of
Monte Sergio, and culminate in the magnificent bastion,
by name the Torre Menze, the work of Giorgio Orsini
Dalmatico, in the year 1464. The Menze family, from
whom the Torre took its name, was extant till the
present century. All in Ragusa flavours of grandeur,
force, and order of great ancestors, hi fact.

" The traveller who descends from the grove of ancient
mulberries in front of the Albergo Miramar by the wind-
ing road that leads him under the shadow of enormous
medieval fortifications to the Porta Pile, and who finds
himself for the first time within the walls of Ragusa, will
not fail to feel the difference between this and other Dal-
matian cities. The stately Corso lies before him, running
with an even and imposing width between regularly built
houses, which, though not older than the great earth-
quake of 1667, are not without a certain grave dignity,
contrasts strongly with the narrow streets of picturesque
Zara, which made one think of an Oriental bazaar, or
the tortuous and squalid alleys huddled together within

157

Dalmatia

the walls of Diocletian's house at Spalato. As he advances
between the graceful votive Church of San Salvatore and
the public fountain of Onofrio di La Cava and traverses
the length of the Corso, the interest increases in proper
dramatic ratio ; fresh buildings come successively into
view ; and when he arrives at the dogana, and a new vista
opens to the right, disclosing the palace of the rectors
of the republic, the duomo, and the Church of S. Biagio,
a very imposing architectural climax is reached.

" But Ragusa is unlike the other Dalmatian cities,
not only in being more spacious and more regularly
built, but also in the character of her architecture, which
reflects the difference of "her history. Like the ancient
free cities of the Low Countries and Italy, she possesses
all the material apparatus of an independent common-
wealth. As in ancient Greece, so here, the splendour of
the city depends on public buildings, which were the
common property of the citizens." So writes Mr. Jackson.

We cross over the moat by a bridge, and pass through
the archway of the Porta Pile, and find it is but the first
of many portals to be passed through before reaching
the gate which gives actual access to the town. Was ever
masonry more solid and massive ! Large trees grow be-
tween and over the several walls in the fortifications of
Porta Pile ; the blossoms of the oleander feather the crests
of the bastions ; a huge fig-tree throws its branches over
the pathway from above the summit of the wall. The
whole construction, with its decorations of trees and
vegetation, forms a beautiful and noble entrance to this
stately old city of Ragusa. Passing through a small
pointed doorway, we find ourselves in the Corso, and at

158

Through the Porta Pile into the Corso

once in the precincts of interesting architecture. Imme-
diately under the great wall of the fortifications to our
left is the Church of San Salvatore. We learn by an
inscription over the western door that this church was
built in consequence of a vow made by the Government
after the first great earthquake, in 1520 the first of the
fatal series from which Ragusa suffered. Opposite the
Church of San Salvatore is the large fountain, built by
the famous architect Onofrio in 1437. It consists of a
trough, some three or four feet from the ground, surround-
ing a wall built in facets. At the joint of each of these
facets rise elegant columns, surmounted by well-carved
capitals. The water springs from richly decorated spouts
placed in the lower centre of each facet. There are women
and boys filling copper vessels, such as are used in Venice,
with water from the fountain. Passing on but a few
steps, we find ourselves in front of the fine late Italian
Gothic doorway of the Church of San Francesco, sur-
mounted by a beautifully sculptured Pieta. We take a
glimpse through the door of the inside of the church, but,
as usual, everything of architectural interest is submerged
beneath coats of paint and modern decorations, anything
but beautiful. But a few steps farther on in the Corso,
however, passing through a doorway, we find ourselves
in the beautiful cloisters of the San Francescan Convent,
which have survived the great earthquake in 1667, which
destroyed many of the greatest architectural treasures in
Ragusa, including marvellous choral books, and 6,500
precious volumes belonging to the Francescan Library.
The fire which succeeded the earthquake accounted also
for the destruction of the miraculous crucifix that rested

159

Dalmatia

on the beam of the high-altar, many pictures, the precious
altar of massive silver, and twenty-six silver statues, a
braccio and a half high, that adorned it, and the very
beautiful ceiling of the church " a masterpiece," says Mr.
Jackson, " of carving and gilding." However, notwith-
standing the fact that, owing to these catastrophes, parts
of the convent have been extensively modernized, there is
much of the old-world atmosphere still remaining in the
shadowed cloisters and the square within their sculp-
tured arches. Large orange-trees flourish happily within
this garden space. They are laden with fruit, and cast
clearly-drawn shadows on the beautiful masonry sur-
rounding them. Seeing a staircase leading to the upper
stage of the cloister, we boldly mount, and get a good
view of the campanile, of which the upper stage of the
cupola alone has been restored. A piece of a fine sculp-
tured frieze also comes into view, and we have just dis-
covered an interesting terrace on one side, leading from
the cloisters, when we are accosted by a man, who has
hurriedly rushed up the steps to beg us at once to come
down, as no " femine " are allowed up there. We have
intruded into masculine monastic life ! In haste and
much abashed we fly down. But, snapped in all inno-
cence before we guessed we were trespassing, my two
little pictures remain ! As we pass from the cloisters to
the Corso, we see on our right a dignified chemist's estab-
lishment belonging to the convent. Everything in
Ragusa tells of the prosperity that has been, and the
order that still exists. The wide, well-paved Corso, where
once the canal flowed which divided the fortified rock
on which stood also the ancient town a Roman settle-

160

1. IN THE BOCCHE DI CATTARO.

2. THE " FALLEN KINGS " AND THE DONKEY-ENGINE ON BOARD THE

" SELENE."

(Set fi. 13-1.)

The Corso

ment is a great contrast to the narrow alleys and path-
ways in Cattaro, and also, indeed, to the streets of the old
Ragusa itself, built on the island. We look up some of these
little streets on our right hand as we walk down the Corso
from the Porta Pile. They are mostly formed of flights of
steps, with only here and there a level piece of pavement.
The upper storeys of the houses in the Corso are compara-
tively modern, but the basements, used as shops, are very
old, and recall to our trio those in Randazzo, the ancient
town built of black lava, 3,000 feet high on the slopes of
Etna, where we three found ourselves in the spring of 1900.
Precisely similar in both cities is the arrangement of the
stone counters which run half across the arched door-
ways, making the actual inlet to the shop one-sided, and
but half the width of the arch. Gold and silver buttons,
eastern embroideries, inlaid leather and metal work, are
among the attractive wares displayed in many of the
shops, but I saw nothing that was quite irresistible.
Again, Sicily is recalled in the work on the gold buttons
which are now being made in Ragusa, and bought by
all who wear the Dalmatian costume. In Sicily, alas !
the poor inhabitants have to part with their beautiful
heirlooms, and no new gold beads or buttons are made.
They are too poor, too much ground down by the taxes
that are levied in the vain attempt to make poor little
Italy one of the first European Powers, for any delightful
art or industry to flourish in their island. Austria may
be poor compared to other foremost nations ; but poor,
beautiful Sicily is aggravated, as well as starved. She
sees miles and miles of waving corn Demeter reigning
over a generous abundance of Nature's gifts, which ought

161 21

Dalmatia

at least to supply enough food for her people all shipped
off to other shores ; her sulphur mines worked by foreign
capitalists ; the hotels built and managed by syndicates
from more commercially awakened countries, to receive the
ever-increasing troops of tourists ; but nothing in the way
of prosperity coming to the poor native folk of the soil

With talk and thoughts of Sicily, we walk to the end
of the Corso of Ragusa, and, turning to get a view of it
in all its length, we see the fine campanile of the Fran-
ciscan Convent rising at the end of the wide, well-paved
street ; above the enormous fortification walls, pierced
by the pointed doorway through which we reached the
Corso. The shops, full of gaily coloured wares, run on
each side, and bring bright, varied colouring into the
scene. Turning again, we face the Porta Plocce, which
leads into the city from the south. Here, as we stand on
the piazza into which the Corso runs, we are surrounded
by important buildings. The town belfry surmounts the
archway of the Porta Plocce ; the beautiful sponza or
dogana in other words, custom-house stands at right-
angles to the belfry on the eastern side of the piazza.
This is a very beautiful building, and next in importance,
from an architectural point of view, to the palace, and
Jackson writes, " already an ancient building in 1440,
when De Diversis described it." It is still used as the
dogana of the city. " Composite as it is in style and
date, the building is a very charming one, and not a
little of its piquancy is due to the fantastic battlements,
or shall we call them pinnacles, that stand along the
eaves like those of the Ca'd'oro at Venice" (Jackson).

But everything in Ragusa is charming. From every

162

The Public Buildings of Ragusa

point in this noble city comes in sight some fine crafts-
man's handiwork, carrying out the true spirit of citizen-
ship which inspired this ideal republic of Ragusa. While
facing the grandeur of its architecture, the truth of Mr.
Jackson's words is enforced to repeat them yet once again,

RAGUSA: THE TORRE DEL CAMPANILE, 1480; THE PORTA
PLOCCE; AND THE SPONZA, BEGUN 1 312.

so very true are they : " As in Greece, so here, the splen-
dour of the city depends on public buildings which were
the common property of the citizens ;" but note that
"common property" was wrought in as artistically per-
fect a manner as human brain and hand could fashion it !

163

Dalmatia

Turning our backs on the sponza, we walk past the
smaller of Onofrio di la Cava's fountains, and reach the
greatest architectural treasure spared by the earthquake
namely, the Rector's Palace, very fully described by
Mr. Jackson. He recounts how, in 1388, an old castle,
which had served originally as an outpost for the Roman
settlement, which inhabited the craggy hill to the south,
was subsequently used as the seat of government, and
later had been replaced by a new palace for the Rector.
This building was destroyed by fire on August loth,
1435, after which the Ragusan Government employed
" a certain Master Onofrio Giordani di la Cava, of the
kingdom of Naples," to use the words quoted by Jackson
from De Diversis, to build " a magnificent construction,
sparing no expense." In 1462 this building was in
greater part also destroyed by fire. The Grand Council
then entrusted the work of repairing the damage to two
" famous artists," Michelozzo Michelozzi (a pupil of
Donatello) and Giorgio Orsini called Giorgio Dalmatico
who constructed the palace as we now see it. Much
of the earlier and beautiful work of Onofrio di la Cava
which escaped the fire, however, still exists, notably the
magnificent Gothic doorway of the principal entrance.
Unfortunately for us, the Rector's Palace is under-
going repair on a large scale, and scaffolding and general
disorder prevents our getting any complete impression of
the inner court of the palace.

Across to the west rises the important -looking
cathedral, alas ! dating only from the seventeenth
century. " Of all the losses Ragusa sustained by the
great earthquake of 1667, that of the ancient duomo

164

Dalmatia

is most to be regretted," writes Jackson. However,
the new duomo is not offensive in any way. A flight
of steps leads to the large entrance, and increases
the imposing appearance which the classic building cer-
tainly possesses, and, shadowed as it is in the afternoon
light, it takes its place becomingly in the striking picture
the piazza affords. The graceful fountain, considerably
smaller than that next the Porta Pile, but also the work
of Onofrio, stands on the right of the Porta Plocce. On
a line with both, and facing the southern wall of the
cathedral, stands the gem of Ragusan architecture the
Rector's Palace. Standing surrounded by the most im-
portant buildings of Ragusa, we try to master the original
plan of the city, when the Corso was a laguna, and Ragusa
proper an island. The passage through the Porta Plocce,
under the town belfry, leads to the gateway of the old
harbour of the Republic too small a haven for such
ships as our Selene to anchor in. Before the moles
existed built in 1495 by Pasquale di Michele, a Ragusan
engineer the laguna, flowing where the Corso now runs,
joined the sea in the original natural harbour of Ragusa,
cutting off the rock and citadel of Ragusa and the Rector's
Palace and Cathedral from the mainland and also from the
heights of Monte Sergio, which rose from near its shore.
At the Porta Pile end of the Corso the laguna found an
outlet between the craggy peninsula on which the town
was built and the fortified rock crowned by San Lorenzo.
The history of all the vicissitudes which befel Ragusa
is amply recounted by Jackson. We find it was not
till Ragusa established itself as a Republic, in the early
part of the fifteenth century, that the two portions of

166

The Ancient Town of Ragusa

the town became united, the laguna being filled in, the
Corso made, and the huge walls and towers which encircle
the harbour and the town rising on the Monte Sergio to
the Torre Menze, erected. From the piazza we walk past
the Rector's Palace on our left, and on our right the
Pillar of Orlando, erected as the flagpost of the Republic
" when floated the gonfalon of their patron, St. Biagio."
This afternoon the column forms the centre of baskets
of pomegranates, grapes, and other attractive-looking
fruits and vegetables, which are being sold on the pave-
ment. We are in a roaming mood ; the outside of the
buildings being so extraordinarily attractive and interest-
ing, we feel no inclination to go inside anything. We
turn into the old town, and find that, on account of its
having been once a fortified island, the buildings are
squeezed into as small a space as possible. Foot
passengers, man or beast, can alone wander among the
alleys, and up and down the steps in it. Terraces on
the tops of walls and houses are turned into little gardens.
Every inch is made the most of. A few very ancient
carvings and tablets round and over doorways still exist.
We try to reach the citadel on the summit of the rock,
but every door and gateway that would seem to lead to
the fortifications is fast closed. Walking in a northerly
direction, we come on shops and a more animated appear-
ance in the life of the alleys. At length we turn out of
their labyrinths, and find ourselves near the Porta Pile,
and return through the Avenue of Mulberries to our
hotel. Having taken in many delightful impressions
from very beautiful and notable specimens of Early
Gothic architecture the most fascinating to my mind

167

Dalmatia

being from the hand of Onofrio di la Cava from
interesting street scenes, and from that most rare of
all impressions to be acquired nowadays namely, an
atmosphere of the stately dignity of olden times, which
reigns in the noble city of Ragusa, unspoilt as it
yet is by cosmopolitan cheapening we sit on the
balcony outside our rooms, and again enjoy a civilized
and refreshing the complet. So beautiful is the view
from the balcony that I am content to do nothing
but watch it while the light lasts. The town rises in a
dark mass against a clear sky, full of warm light, the
sea below being but slightly lower in tone, though fuller
in tints of blue and gold. Strips of vivid pink cloud float
over the grand mass of buildings, piled up so high above
the sea-line. The building of the San Domenico Convent
and Church on the original shore of the mainland rises
at the foot of the old town, and the campanile of the
Franciscan Convent fills in the extreme left of the
picture one truly of imposing dignity and beauty. I
do not remember ever before having seen a medieval
town which produced such an impression of grandeur.
As evening advances, the mass of buildings, the fir-trees
and oleanders, which make the foreground of the scene,
become almost black against the light. One by one the
lights in the fortresses pierce the gloom of shadowed walls ;
one by one the stars begin to pierce the softened blue-
grey of the sky. It is extraordinarily lovely. Why do
not more English visit Ragusa ? Perhaps because it is
still so unspoilt ! It is not yet made into a Nice, a
Cannes, or a Mentone, though the Hotel Imperial is
replete with up-to-date comforts. But the mass of

168

I. "LA COLLEGIATA," OR THE CHURCH OF ST. MARIA IXFUNARA, CATTARO.
Rebuilt in 1220 on the plan of a more ancient edifice.

2. THE CAVERN-LIKE ENTRANCE TO CATTARO.

(See p. 141.)

Dalmatia

sun-seeking travellers go to meet people, not to see
places.

September 2yd. Wandered out early into the town to
visit the Dominican Convent we had missed seeing yester-
day. How fresh and pure the air feels, blowing under the
avenue of mulberry-trees. How brightly pink, red, and
white the oleander blossoms look, out in the sunshine beyond
the fir-trees, and viewed from under their shadow ! If for
no other reason than that the oleanders are in bloom in
September, should September be chosen as the month in
which to visit Dalmatia. The Porta Pile reached, even
inside the labyrinth of fortifications oleanders are here,
there, and everywhere peeping over the walls, springing
up from the ground, emerging from holes in the masonry.
Such beautiful things as these are never allowed free play
in up-to-date towns. They are allowed to do as they
like here in Ragusa, as the Campanula pyramidalis does
at Cattaro. The forms natural growths take mean always
something beautiful. The vegetation at Ragusa seems
also to be unencumbered by dust. Ragusa is a clean place.
The Francescans at one end and the Dominicans at the
other seem to do their duty well, using their influence
in the direction of order and education. At this hour
about 9 a.m. we meet neatly-dressed children, books
under their arms, satchels hanging by their sides, trotting
off to school in cheerful, businesslike fashion. We walk
the length of the Corso facing the Civic Campanile and
Onofrio's smaller fountain. At the very end, on our left
hand, the little narrow street is reached which leads to
the church and convent of San Domenico. We mount
a flight of steps, with a remarkably beautiful old sculp-

170

San Domenico

tured balustrade, and we are at the door of the church,
which was first opened for Divine worship in 1306. In
1348 the convent, with its beautiful cloisters, seems to
have been completed ; and 1424, according to Professor
Gebrich, is the date of the campanile, the architect being
Fra Stephano, a brother of the Order of San Domenico,
though, as we learn from Jackson, that could only be
the date of its beginning, for De Diversis speaks in 1440
of it as still incomplete " and growing daily." The inside
of the church is large, but consists only of one great nave.
There are good pictures in the choir ; one over the first
altar by Titian ; but coming out of the morning sunshine,
even Titian looks somewhat dingy. Nothing looks very
alluring in the shadowed building. Pleasanter is it to
pass out into the cloister, where sunshine and shadow
are playing over beautiful fourteenth-century work. As
in the Franciscan cloisters orange-trees, covered with
fruit, are growing happily within the quadrangle, their
foliage reflected in flickering patterns on the walls and
arches that close round the little square garden in the
centre. Other plants and shrubs grow within the limits
of low white marble walls, built on the pavement of the
court. A well-head forms the picturesque centre of the
square. It is surmounted by a Renaissance erection,
columns supporting it on each side, bearing the date 1623.
Again we meet with the restorer's hand. Citizen Amerling
having extended his benefactions to the convent and
cloisters of San Domenico, untidiness has vanished.
The restoration is completed, and doubtless time will
soon bestow its blessing of tone. At this moment I find
I have exhausted my kodak films, but Ragusa proves
sufficiently within the radius of civilization to supply

171

Dalmatia

fresh rolls. They'are advertised in the window of a shop
in the Corso. Going inside, I find Eastman No. i as
easily as in Regent Street.

Our appointment with Count Gozze is fixed for this
afternoon at his domain at Cannosa. At three o'clock
the little steamer which is to take us thither starts from
the harbour at Gravosa. Two little ponies, round and
well-cared for, rattle us, apparently in a desperate hurry,
from the hotel to our point de depart. When we reach
Gravosa, with its belt of black cypresses, our little boat
awaits us. It is white and clean, and very like a toy-
steamer, its brass funnel very bright, and the portion
reserved for pleasure trippers encased in glass. Other
passengers are on board, for Count Gozze opens his
grounds to the public on this day. Exactly at three
o'clock away we start, passing out of the port of Gravosa,
cutting through a choppy sea, cerulean blue drake's
neck and peacock mixtures of blue and green for shadows
and gorgeous orange for lights all colour and movement
between the islands and the shore ; the islands Cala-
motta, Mezzo, and Guipana by name are the same
which we saw from the Selene afar off as we approached
Ragusa from the south in the strange light after the
short storm when their ends seemed to be turned up out of
the sea. Straight in front of us is the southern point of
that curious long tongue of land, Sabbioncello, which
seems to have been meant for an island but by some
mistake had hung on to the mainland by the very narrow
strip where the town of Stague was built. Formerly,
we learn, the inhabitants resented being called Dal-
matians, they only acknowledged the name Ragusans.

172

In the Toy Steamer to Cannosa

Their territory stretched from Sulorina in the Bocche
di Cattaro along the coast to Klek in the Canal di Na-
renta, Sabbioncello and the large islands of Lagosta
and Meleda, likewise the smaller islands we pass on the
way to Cannosa, all belonging to the Ragusan Republic.
From the Punto d'Ostro on the Bocche di Cattaro to the
northern end of Sabbioncello measures just under a
hundred miles ; the width of the territory consists only
of the few miles of coast between the sea and the moun-
tains. We realize these facts as we plod on in our toy-
steamer through the brilliantly-hued sea, between us and
the shore, and the waters to the west, which are but a
sheen of dazzling sunshine. How exhilarating to the
spirits is all this colour and light in the South ! The
rocks on the shore are orange and red ; oleanders, olives,
myrtles, and pine-trees grow freely among them, the
dark finger of a cypress starting upwards here and there
from its less aspiring comrades. We pass the fine
ruin of an old castle on a rock overlooking the sea. We
turn a point, and steer inwards and southwards to the
little miniature harbour of Lerdupina. The voyage
from Gravosa takes just one hour. A white wall juts
out and acts as a breakwater. Placed at the end of the
wall is a truly southern piece of decoration, reminding
me of Malta in its native, festive moods ; a small fir-tree
in a pot stands as a sentinel, hung with bright feathers
and beads, which are tied on to its branches. We alight
from our little steamer. As along the coast, but closer
together and apparently more cared for, cypresses, pome-
granates, olives, and orange-trees cover the steep hill-
side above the landing-place. These must be the out-

173

Dalmatia

skirts of Count Gozze's famous garden. We have not
mounted many steps up the hill before the cordial,
welcoming voice of the owner greets us, and soon
we are in the old-world atmosphere of his home. In
A.D. 740 a sort of king of shepherds, owning thousands
of cattle and flocks of sheep innumerable, was in pos-
session of this Ragusan territory when the inhabitants
of Solona, Epidaurus, Montenegro, Herzegovina, and
Servia fled before the invasion of Barbarians over the
mountains and along the shore to this part of Dalmatia.
The ancestor of our host, the king of shepherds, was
elected as their patriarch, and from that time the Gozze
family has been prominent among noble families of
Ragusa, and now its representative is the only magnate
remaining of those who dated from the commencement
of the Ragusan State.

Full of kindness and vitality talking French with
volubility Count Gozze leads us through pathways to
our first halting-place. It is a room built apart from
the house overlooking the sea. From the open windows
a beautiful view is before us. " Ah ! les vers d' amours
qui ont ete ecrits dans ce bosquet-ci ; les situations qui ont
eu lieu entre ces quatre murs. C'est le vrai asile des amour-
eux !" exclaims our host. It is truly a most romantic spot,
in a garden of palms. Groups of cypresses rise up from below
in their rich velvety darkness, framing the sea and the
small purple islands lying on the surface of golden sheen.
Farther out to sea is a long, violet-blue strip, the island
of Meleda, and on the right the southern point of Sabbion-
cello. Between the cypresses grow orange and pome-
granate trees, laden with fruit, glowing out of their

174

In Count Gozze's Famous Garden

bright green foliage in brilliantly warm colour against
the ever-varying and shifting hues of the water, into the
very depths of which we look straight down from this
perch. Turning out of this " asile des amoureux," and
passing through a formal garden, we approach the house.
We do not now enter within, as the programme is arranged
by Count Gozze for us first to see the famous garden.
He is much distressed that we see it at such a mauvais
moment. The drought has wrought lamentable results.
Most of the flowers are more or less shrivelled up. The
fruit trees especially the fine specimens of prickly pear
bushes are evidently not much affected by the want of
water, as they are amply laden, nor are the flo\vers in
pots, which seem happy enough ; but we are tantalized
by descriptions of what is to be seen here in the way of
roses, etc., in the months of January and February.
Behind the house stands the private family chapel over-
shadowed by the famous oak, under whose branches,
Count Gozze tells us, Popes, Emperors, Kings, and
Queens, our late King, when Prince of Wales, and sundry
great magnates have sat and drunk their coffee with
our host no less than with his ancestors. Some few
years ago, he says, Lord Rosebery visited him at
Cannosa from his yacht. The famous gardens spread
far up the hillside. It takes time to wander in and
out of the shaded groves of evergreens, to view the
wonderful specimens of rare trees, the grottos and the
many pathways, and before reaching the foremost
curiosities of the estate namely, the biggest trees in
Europe the shrill whistle of our toy-steamer penetrates
the sylvan glades. We are alarmed. " Oh ! ny faites

175

Dalmatia

pas attention. Us savent bien que je viens ; c'est a dire
si vous me permettez I'honneur de vous accompagner a
Ragusa." (What it is to date back to the eighth century !)
With this reassurance from our host, we go farther and
farther away up the hill We emerge from the garden
thickets on to a rocky hillside, from which spring many
groups of cypresses and a few olive-trees. The small
village of Cannosa surrounds the parochial church, on
the southern side of which grow the world-wide renowned
giant plane-trees. We come first to a platform of earth,
built up on a low wall, on which grows one of the three
giants. Its stem is eleven metres in circumference.
Then, on a slightly lower stage, we see the second,
twelve metres round the stem. The third is considerably
lower down the hill and not quite so large. These are
the wonderful sights of Cannosa which allure the visits
of travellers from all countries. They appear to be in
perfect health, though said to have been planted in the
fifteenth century by a peasant, belonging to a family
named Miljas, from seeds or small plants brought from
Constantinople. As we gaze up hi wonderment into
their wide-spreading branches, the shrill whistle of our
steamer again rises from the harbour. It is becoming
impatient ; the whistle repeats its piercing appeal several
tunes. At last Count Gozze deigns to notice it. He
tells a little boy, who is standing near us, to run down
and say we shall not be very long ; they must wait.
He will not hurry us, however. Everything must be
seen. We return by other paths from those we mounted
down to the house where we are to meet Count Gozze's
great treasure, a young niece, the daughter of a sister

176

CLOISTER OK THE FRANCISCAN CHURCH, RAGUSA (fee /. 160)
Huilt between 1317 and 1360.

A Modern Lady Jane Grey

who is dead. She lives with him, and he adores her. He

tells us she is an angel of goodness, spending her life

among the poor of Cannosa and Ragusa, helping the

needy and sick. Her education has been carried on by

professors. She is very wise, and devoted to reading

and music. She is so retiring, she can hardly be induced

to see strangers, but she will see us ! We look forward

with interest to being introduced to this modern Lady

Jane Grey. On entering the hall we are shown, among

the family portraits, that of the Count's beautiful Irish

grandmother, and also the family tree, illuminated on

parchment, starting with the shepherd king. We mount

stairs to the drawing-room, where the modest chatelaine,

of sweet countenance and perfect manners, greets us

most charmingly a rare specimen of the vieille cour.

We are led to a second drawing-room through it may

be but the thickness of the old walls a space large

enough to contain a little altar decorated with flowers

and ornaments and a painted figure of a Madonna and

Child. A pretty and most enticing colazione is spread

in the farther drawing-room tea and fruits, cakes and

bon-bons, wines and liqueurs. Notwithstanding the poor

people in the toy-steamer below, already kept waiting

more than half an hour, our hosts insist on our partaking

of the attractive feast. The house is full of beautiful

old and curious furniture and ornaments, very southern

in character, which means, as at Malta, a touch also of

Eastern taste. Our young hostess, retiring as a rule,

does us the honour of being forthcoming and friendly.

She has the attraction which is often found in those

who live much alone. There is depth in her sweet

177 2 3

Dalmatia

regard, and her words seem to be dug out from thoughts
very much her own. Her personality in itself inspires
profound respect. It gives me positive pleasure that
she seems to like us. With her adieux, she presents
K. B. and myself with large bouquets of flowers arranged
on a solid background of palm leaves. We accept them
with a genuine admiration even affection for the
donor. Cannosa has given us a picture of a life beautiful,
but, alas ! how rare ! The old order, alas ! with its
delicate perfumed atmosphere of high breeding, changeth ;
but when, by happy chance, a small remnant of the
real thing crosses one's path, what an indelibly lasting
picture of charm it leaves in the memory ! The charm
may be impossible adequately to describe difficult,
even, to suggest one can only say that, compared to
it, all other charms are but shoddy !

Now that the toy steamer and its crew has to be faced,
we do hurry down the pathway ; but how patient are our
co-voyageurs ! Not a frown not a word not a
grumble ! That it is to be with Count Gozze the repre-
sentative of the owners of the soil ever since the eighth
century A.D., who accompanies us back to Ragusa.
The bright little brass funnel puffs away, and we are
off. Through the cypresses we look up to the famous
garden on the hillside. There, at the casement of the
arbour house of romantic situation asile des amour-
eux sits the sweet, wise descendant of the shepherd
king, the veritable impersonation of the " old order."
She leans forward out of the casement and waves
a scarf. Her uncle is delighted ; so are we ; and all
wave handkerchiefs from our little, eager, vibrating

178

A Memorable Vision

barque. The sunset lights strike on her bower on the
gracious little figure and the scarf blown aloft in the air
a picture never to be forgotten ! Grand in savage,
arid loneliness, the rocky heights above catch sun-rays,
orange and pink ; the velvet darkness of cypresses are
richly aglow in the level light ; oranges, pomegranates,
and palms frame the walls of her bower; the little
lady, a Princess in her own domain, floats a signal of
friendly greeting from her casement. We round the
point jutting out beyond the harbour, and the picture
has vanished. Behind us still stretches out the long
tongue of land so nearly an island, thickly wooded,
where, Count Gozze tells us, jackals still abound. All
belongs to the descendants of the patriarch shepherd.
What a rare mixture of the wild, the lonely, and the
strange, with all that is most delicately pointed, most
profoundly civilized, most subtly finished ! Cela donne
d penser. As we land at Gravosa we are amused by an
existing sign of our host's position with the Ragusans.
The coachmen of the carriages on hire crowd round
Count Gozze, each begging him with dramatic action to
intercede with us to engage his special vehicle to drive
us to Ragusa.

September 24^. C. B. and K. B. fly off at dawn with-
out me by a single railway-line into the interior to visit
Trebinje. I am sceptical of finding anything unspoilt
to which a railway leads, also I have not yet had enough
enjoyment out of Ragusa to leave it. Count Gozze, re-
appears this morning, with the information that he has
made necessary elaborate arrangements for us to see the
treasures in the Cathedral to-morrow morning. This is

179

Dalmatia

a great privilege, only to be obtained by interest. Per-
mission is required from the three highest potentates in
Ragusa namely, from the Bishop, the Commandant,
and the Mayor. Three keys have to be sent by their
representatives before the doors of the treasury open.
Count Gozze tells me much that is interesting of the
history of the town* and the part his family took in its
Republic. When he leaves, I start with the kodak
through the garden, the avenue of mulberry-trees, the
Porta Pile, away into the town. It has a peculiarly
dignified fascination. From the beginning of its exist-
ence, the right, truly enlightened civilization seems to
have guided its construction and all its main public
proceedings. The aims of those in power apparently
were to encourage beauty, order, and dignity in the
lives of its citizens. In very early days slavery was
abolished in Ragusa, it being considered equally humilia-
ting to the State which allowed human beings to be
bought and sold as to the slaves themselves. In the
fifteenth century the Ragusan territory seemed governed
by ideal Republican institutions^ and the town still

* Mostly recounted also in Mr. Jackson's book.

f " With the period of her freedom and autonomy, Ragusa
entered on a career of increased activity and progress ; the city
was adorned with numerous public buildings, and various public
improvements were effected. The legislation of the time does
honour to the humanity of the citizens. In 1417 slave-dealing
was prohibited as base, wicked, and abominable. In 1432 a
foundling hospital was established to counteract the practice of
exposing infants, and in 1435 public schools were formed, in
which education was given gratuitously by masters of eminence,
who were invited from Italy.

" Water was conveyed to the city from Gionchetto, eight miles
off, and laid on to conduits, under the direction of the Neapolitan
architect, Onofrio di La Cava, who erected the handsome foun-

180

View of Ragusa from the South

retains the dignity which a feeling of true nobility in-
fuses into a Government. It is difficult to convey in
words the peculiar attractiveness of the city, but when
there, it creates a feeling of bien etre, as does contact
with first-rate, perfectly balanced natures in human
beings.

Passing through the archway under the clock-tower
a labyrinth of fortifications leads to the Porta Plocce.
Below the massive walls lies the picturesque harbour of
Ragusa. As I follow the road above it, delightful views
of the coast come into sight, still more beautiful than
those between the Porta Pile and Gravosa, while, on
looking back towards the town, a very striking picture
is obtained of the splendid position on which it is built.
It is singularly impressive from this southern aspect.
I had noticed, in passing through the fortification walls
to the Porta Plocce, the fasades of no less than three
small churches, evidently built in order that the Ragusan
soldiers should be supplied with places of worship when
the town was in a state of siege.

On returning to the hotel, after a delightful morning's
roaming, I found the travellers somewhat disappointed
with their expedition to Trebinje. They had spent much
time in a very slow train, and had not found anything of

tain, still standing, though much defaced, near the Porta Pile,
and the smaller one at the Corpo di Guardia near the Dogana.

" Onofrio found another opportunity for the display of his
skill in the rebuilding of the palace, which was destroyed in
1432 by a fire and an explosion of gunpowder in the adjoining
arsenal. The new palace was begun in 1435, and De Diversis,
who saw it building, has left an account of it." See JACKSON,
vol. ii., p. 299.

181

Dalmatia

special interest at Trebinje itself. C. B. goes forth to
bathe in a place he has spotted outside the Porta Plocce.
K. B. and I turn out of the garden walk along the
Gravosa road. In vain has C. B. tried to mount to the
summit of the various fortifications, whence, obviously,
the view must be superb. Locked doors and gateways
had frustrated him at every point. However, keen-
sighted K. B. had noted a rough lane, which led from
the Gravosa road to a third great rocky promontory,
which starts out into the sea, the first being built over by
the old fortress town, and the second crowned by the
St. Lorenzo. We make for the rough lane, and mount
by it to the top of the third promontory, unbuilt on and
covered with grass. There has evidently never been a
lagoon separating this eminence from the mainland, but
from its summit we see how nearly the sea surrounds the
other two promontories. From our rough lane we get
a splendid view of St. Lorenzo and the grand rock striking
straight from the fortress down into the sea, the old town
rising behind, and both aglow in evening light, the sea
below in deep shadowed colour, encircling the base of the
great rock fringed with white eddies of froth. Monte
Sergio, with its " stupendous Torre Menze," fills in the
picture on our left. The lane ends in a footpath, which
leads to the grassy summit of the hill. Crossing it to the
north we look down on the fourth bay, and below, on its
southern shore, on to the Chiesa alle Dance, built in
1457, on this quiet and beautiful spot by the sea as a last
resting-place for the poorest inhabitants of Ragusa.* The

* " Following the footpath over a bare, stony down with a
rounded summit, we descend the gentle slope on the other side

182

The Pauper Cemetery

touching appeal and pathos of the scene is difficult to
describe. We have just been gazing on Nature in her
grand and dominant moods allied to the results of man's
belligerent instincts in the imposing and momentous
forms they take at Ragusa. Turning to the little build-
ing, with its pauper cemetery on the very edge of the
great restless moving waters, the contrast is pathetic ;
it looks so still, so small, unprotected, and isolated yet
telling its own story convincingly. One little house
stands near it, the custodian's. He has a small garden
for his vegetables and fruit ; otherwise, all within view of
Chiesa alle Dance is wild Nature, wild and beautiful.

towards the sea, here an unbroken expanse, unchequered by
islands, with nothing between us and the Apulian shore. At the
very verge of the low cliff against which the sea beats we found
the little Chiesa alle Dance, which was begun by public decree
in 1457, to provide a resting-place after death for the city poor,
as an inscription attests which is affixed to the wall on one side
of the chancel arch :

" DIV^S MARINE VIRGINI
S. C. DECRETO AD PAVPERVM SEPVL

EX JER PVB DOTIBVS
VIII IDVS DECEMBRIS M CCCCLVII
D

" Though building for a pauper cemetery, the Ragusan senate
did not starve the design, as a modern vestry might have done.
On the contrary, the church is very pretty, and the west door-
way is even magnificent, and though the interior is plain, it
contains some good pictures, which have an especial interest
because the painter was native Ragusan. There are two pictures,
of which the more interesting one hangs on the north wall.
*****

" The pictures are interesting as proving the existence of a
native school of painters, who modelled their style on that of
Italy, though painting, like architecture, lagged behind in Dal-
matia these paintings of Nicolo Raguseo in 1517 being as archaic
in style as those of Crivelli sixty or seventy years earlier."
JACKSON, vol. ii., p. 382.

183

Dalmatia

The Ragusans placed the last resting-place of their poor
where no worldly grandeur, no mighty monuments,
should mark a difference between the noble and the
pauper in the last sleep where all distinctions cease ; but
they placed it where Nature should alone surround it
Nature, whose beauty is the common treasure of Kings
and peasants. Rarely distinguished was the feeling of
this great Republic !

Count Gozze dines with us, and tells us we are to be
admitted to the treasures in the Cathedral at ten o'clock
to-morrow morning, also that we are on the eve of being
invaded by a hundred doctors and their families, who will
arrive in half an hour on their way from a medical com-
ference which has just met in Croatia. And, sure enough,
as we sit drinking our coffee after dinner, a great hubbub
is heard outside the hotel. The space in front is quickly
crowded with carriages and luggage. There is accom-
modation only for sixty of the hundred doctors. The
last comers have to drive off again. But what a turmoil
the sixty can make ! They come with wives, sons, and
daughters from all countries in Europe. Two hours
they take to settle in then we can sleep.

September 2$th. At ten o'clock we are at the Cathedral.
The three keys to unlock the treasure-chamber have not
yet arrived. A nice priest shows us over the church.
We gather from him the information we much want
namely, how we are to develop our gratitude for the
approaching privilege into a practical form. When
such privileges rise to the altitude that ours do on the
present occasion, it becomes puzzling to know how to
effect this without encroaching on the dignity of the

184

< 8

ONOFRIO DI LA CAVA's SMALLER FOUNTAIN, RAGUSA (see p. 164).

A Great Privilege

situation. Our good priest tells us we can satisfactorily
effect all that is expected and desired by putting some-
thing into the box for the poor.

Alas ! that the disastrous earthquake in 1667 destroyed
the precious edifice on whose site we stand.; built at
least, so tradition says by Richard Cceur de Lion as a
votive offering in memory of his having been rescued
from shipwreck on the Island of La Croma, opposite
Ragusa. From all accounts, it must have been one of
the most beautiful and the costiliest Cathedrals in Dal-
matia. The present building is large, and contains a
few good pictures, the most striking being a very fine
head of our Lord by Pordenone, and a beautiful triptych
recalling the work of Memling. An altar picture, the
Assumption of the Virgin, partly painted by Titian, is
much darkened by age and probably by the candles
which burn under it on the altar.

But the great moment has arrived, and the three
representatives of the town magnates advance with the
keys in their hands, and proceed to open the door of
the treasure-chamber. We pass through it, and it closes
behind us. Our nice priest with the sacristan shows the
marvels it contains, which were found under the ruins of
the Church of San Stefano after the earthquake, and
placed in this later Cathedral when it was built. Of
San Stefano a doorway in the oldest part of Ragusa is
the only remains. First and foremost is the Reliquiario
des Teschio di San Biagio. Mr. Jackson gives an in-
teresting account of this beautiful piece of work" a
crown-shaped casket of enamelled work, in which the
Ragusana venerate the skull, or part of the skull of their

185 24

Dalmatia

patron saint, San Biagio, or St. Blaise " and made an
exquisitely fine drawing of it, which is reproduced in his
book.

We are indeed duly impressed by the treasures so
much so that the ever just and generous C. B. feels we
must deposit yet a further donation in the box for the
poor, or the amount of pleasure and interest they have
given us would not be fairly represented. We are grate-
ful beyond words to the good priest, and to the emissaries
holding the keys, but we dare not approach them with a
gift!

Alas ! it is our last morning in the noble town. In bright
morning sunshine we wander about for an hour among its
charming buildings, and then, passing back through the
Porta Pile, see them no more. Will some happy fate
bring us back again one day to its Corso, Onofrio's foun-
tains, the Sponza, the Rector's Palace, the Cloisters of
the two guardian convents sentinels at each end of the
city the avenue of mulberries, and the beautiful,
delightful oleanders ?

It is four o'clock p.m., when we quit our comfortable
rooms in the Hotel Imperial. As we near the rough lane
leading to the grassy promontory overlooking the little
Chiesa alle Dance, we see a procession moving on in front
of us, headed by a priest bearing a crucifix, an acolyte
walking on either side. It is a funeral procession on its
way to the lonely little pauper cemetery by the sea over
the hill. All engaged in the ceremony are evidently dressed
in their best, in full Dalmatian costume ; not one single
figure in black. The colours of the coats and gowns and
the wealth of ornaments are such as we have not yet

186

A Contrast

seen in Dalmatia. In Ragusa assuredly the dead would
be honoured. Respect for the shell whence the spirit has
fled is the sign of something which common, unfinished
natures lack. It comes from a desire to give something,
to do something, in memory of those who can give nothing
in return. The fine, earnest faces of the peasants carry-
ing the coffin have no professional solemnity, no put-on
funeral expression, but belong to those who, having the
daily labour of the world's hard work to get through,
can yet, as a matter of course, when a friend or relation
passes on to his rest, find time to help in the last office.
With the sight of the funeral procession turning up the
little rough lane with its burden a picture from the old
national life of Ragusa lingering in our memory, we
drive on to Gravosa to face the new world and its ways ;
the largest steamer on the Austrian Lloyd service of
boats coasting up and down Dalmatian shores ; the hun-
dred doctors and their families returning with prompti-
tude on this large vessel to their various homes all over
Europe ; the getting on the ship ; the donkey-engines at
work ; the rattle of chains hauling the luggage of all
these medicos on board ; the heaving up of the anchor in
fact, all the confusion of ugly sounds and sights conse-
quent on a very large, full steamer getting under way.
But when we are once off, all this " ceases to annoy,"
for we are coasting away between the islands and the
mainland, where beauty reasserts herself as mistress of
the situation. There we see the charming Cannosa ; we
can even discern our Lady Jane Grey's arbour hanging
over the sea, perched up above the cypresses, oranges,
and pomegranates, and, farther back, the home of the

187

Dalmatia

dynasty of Gozze. But our important, businesslike
steamer ploughs the waters so much faster than did our
little brass-funnelled pleasure toy, that we cannot, as we
pass them, view things on the shore intimately and calmly.
We are rushing at such a pace with our powerful engines
that no sooner is Cannosa spied than it is already left
far behind. We pass through a narrow strait between
small islands and the southern point of Sabbioncello, out
into the wider Canale di Meleda, the island of Meleda
on our left, and the coast of Sabbioncello of the wild
jackals on our right.

Meleda, the ancient Melita, is the place supposed by
some to be the island on which St. Paul was shipwrecked.
This is a very old tradition, and the natives still believe
in it, a St. Paul's Bay being shown as one of the sights
of Meleda. We are fast leaving the seas of the grand
ancient Republic of Ragusa, and entering those of the old
Venetian dominion. We long to have had time to linger,
and to have seen the interior of the island of Meleda
with its romantic lake, and the Convent of Santa Maria
del Lago, built on an island in its centre ; but, alas ! the
largest of Austrian Lloyd steamers, with its hundred
doctors and their families and ourselves on board, quickly
passes by it.

The sunset light is waning ; scarlets fade to crimson, gold
to dusky orange, and the stars come out clear and bright.
To our left, in the lighthouse on the rocks of Lagosta,
the island farthest out in the open sea, the guiding star
is lit. In front of our ship rises darkly the eastern point
of Curzola, and we soon find ourselves in the Canale,
with the shadowed, wooded mountains of Sabbioncello

188

Passing the Island of Curzola

still on our right, and the Island of Curzola on our left.
Now it is quite night. On opposite shores, first the lights
of Orebic gleam out, then those of the noted town of
Curzola, their reflections trickling far down into the sea.
Sad indeed is the thought that there is the beautiful
Duomo, the Badia, and Franciscan cloisters and their
treasures, and we are passing them all without seeing
them. Tantalizingly near is that cluster of buildings,
the cupola of the Duomo of Curzola rising in its centre,
and the lights of the town flickering in the water down to
the very side of our ship. If even we could only have
passed it by daylight ! Sabbioncello being at last left
behind, we find ourselves between the islands of Lesina
and Lissa, and then steer westwards out into the open
sea, till, turning round eastwards through a narrow
canale, at eleven o'clock we reach Spalato.

189

DALMATIA
SPALATO SOLONA TRAU

JUST four weeks ago, in the soft West of England air
of Herd's Hill the Herd's Hill where Walter Bageliot
lived and died ; the Herd's Hill of the pink China roses,
the queenly magnolia trees of the ivory-cream goblets ;
the very closely grown, very green lawns, the soft blue
distances peeping in through rounded masses of monster
elms, and peacocks perching above the gold-amber of the
Ham stone balustrades, their bluest of blue necks making
every other blue grey in this bower of beautiful West
Country garden sights we read (in Jackson, of course)
of the wonderful Spalato and its original creator, the
great Roman Emperor Diocletian, the master of the world,
the dominating, interesting personality.* Now, only four

* " Had Spalato no other claims to our attention, the mere
name and character of Diocletian would be enough to make it
interesting. His life had been one of activity in the field, and
the acutest statesmanship in the Court, a life which was nothing
if not ambitious, during which he had raised himself from ob-
scurity to the mastership of the world, a dignity which he had
been careful to strip of the last faint semblance of popular magis-
tracy, and to invest with the trappings of Oriental despotism.
From all this he retired at the vigorous age of fifty-nine, laying
aside the diadem which he, first of Roman Emperors, had dared
to wear, and returning to lead the life of a private citizen in the

IQO

Letters from Home

weeks after, we are on the quay under the very walls of
Diocletian's palace, following on foot the porter (as at
Cattaro there are no carriages) to the Hotel Troccoli, in
the Piazza dei Signori. Here even interest and curiosity
concerning this most curious of towns gives place to the
excitement of finding huge piles of letters awaiting each
of us letters which have accumulated at this hotel ever
since we left Athens. Nothing can impress the mind
better with the value of travelling than to read a pile of
letters from those who are staying quietly at home, and
to compare the fulness of life during a few weeks' journey-
ing and the comparative monotony of those few weeks

country and neighbourhood where his father and mother had
lived as slaves.

" Here he grew famous cabbages, whose cultivation he pre-
ferred to the cares of empire, and spent the remaining nine years
of his life in contented retirement. ... A shadow rests on the
last days of Diocletian himself, and it is supposed that he cut
short his life by a voluntary death, either to escape the pangs
of a chronic malady which tormented him, or to forestall the
sentence pronounced against him by the jealousy of Constantino
and Licinius.

" His palace at Spalato remains as a monument of the splendour
he took with him even into his retirement. More than six cen-
turies after his death it fetained so much of its original magnifi-
cence that the imperial historian, ' born in purple ' himself, and
used to the semi-Oriental state of Constantinople, declared that
it surpassed even in its ruin all powers of description. And even
in its present state, ruined, defaced, and overgrown with the
mean accretions of fifteen centuries, its vast proportions and
solid construction excite our astonishment. So much of it
remains that it is easy to recover in imagination what is lost.
The principal buildings within the walls, and nearly the whole
of the exterior walls themselves, remain standing. The two
temples are turned into churches, the peristyle forms the town
square or piazza, the outer walls still fence in the older town
the original city and three of the four gates still exist, and form
the ordinary entrances. The Porta .flinea, or eastern gate, has,

Dalmatia

when remaining in one place. Were we to travel quickly
for long, as we have travelled, our powers of taking in
might be reduced to the sort of confused, flickering
activity of animated photographs ; but what visions,
vivid, new, and inspiring, has this flying over the ground
for one month left in our possession ! What a fund of
new material for our memory's enjoyment ! Happily, the
contrast is not borne in distressingly to those at home,
and it is a delightful ending to an eventful day to get good
news from our own, who are enjoying their satisfying
monotony in the soft West of England air, notwithstand-
ing the fact that it has done nothing but rain !

indeed, disappeared, and a mean modern doorway has taken its
place ; but the Porta Aurea, or north gate, still remains, with its
bracketed colonnettes and arcadings, that seem to have been
imitated by Theodoric in his palace at Ravenna ; and the Porta
Ferrea, or west gate, capped with a coquettish medieval cam-
panile, still admits from the Borgo to the precincts of the older
town. Standing in the old peristyle, with the blackened and
defaced Corinthian colonnade on each side, the portico of the
domed vestibule in front, and the two ancient temples to either
hand, it is not too much to say that so much of Roman handi-
work surrounds one that the later buildings seem mere excre-
scences upon it, and in this respect no other inhabited relic of
the old Roman Empire can be compared with Spalato.

" The interior of the palace is naturally changed from its
original state even more than the exterior. Within the circuit
of what had been one man's house a city has been compressed,
for nine and a half acres, though a fair allowance for a palace, is
not very large for a town. The refugee inhabitants, as their
numbers increased, had to make the most of their space. The
large halls were divided into several houses each, the open squares
were covered with buildings, and the wide thoroughfares or
streets which intersected the palace were encroached upon and
narrowed into miserable alleys, compared with which the streets
at Sebenico and Zara are spacious and airy.

" The palace of Diocletian was first reconstructed on paper by
the English architect, Robert Adam, one of the Adelphi, who
visited Spalato in 1757." JACKSON, vol. ii., p. 17.

192

CLOISTER OF THE DOMINICAN MONASTERY, DATING FROM 1348.

CSV* A 170.)

Spalato

September 26th. The Hotel Troccoli is not of the
Schweizerhof type, nor can it vie in luxury and finish with
the new Hotel Imperial at Ragusa. It is, however, com-
fortable though the house is old, and attached to it is a
good restaurant. As I open the shutters after a restful
night, the view of the Piazza dei Signori presents itself.
Directly facing the hotel is a public building, which has
windows and arcading of good Venetian architecture.
Also, in some of the private houses looking on the piazza
there are the same. This square forms an interesting
feature of the medieval town built outside the famous
palace of Diocletian, within whose walls is tightly squeezed
the real town of Spalato, every building outside belonging
to what is counted as the borgo.

Early we start on a walk of discovery. From our piazza
we pass through the Porta Ferrea into the town of Spalato,
on the site of the Emperor's palace. The houses are
built very high and close together, so that the little alleys
are narrow and very much in shadow. I look in vain
for a flower that may stamp itself on the memory as
belonging specially to Spalato, as did the oleanders 'at
Ragusa, the Campanulas pyramidalis at Cattaro. The
objects that lend a living grace to the otherwise ancient
and somewhat squalid conditions in this curious place are
the wise-looking, pretty little brown owls that sit out-
side the shops on perches, as do our parrots at home.
Perhaps it is a remnant of the far-away-in-the-past great
reverence for Athena that induces the inhabitants of
Spalato to keep these dear little wise-looking birds as pets.

The Porta Ferrea, through which we passed, is the
western gate of this singular, squeezed-together herd of

193 2 5

Dalmatia

houses. It is " capped with a coquettish medieval cam-
panile." The alleys are for foot-passengers only. Variety
in the architecture of the houses is rampant. No two
houses are alike no two streets are alike. The general
aspect of the place is confused, disorderly, and crowded.
The little winking brown owls Athenas on a very small
scale seated on their miniature parrot-stands, self-com-
posed and unimpressed by our notice of them, are the
only neat, well-finished people we came across ; " their
fallen kings " are neither one nor the other. As we near
the central point of interest, the Cathedral, we meet with
that special form of untidiness produced by scaffolding,
with which we have been haunted more or less since we
began our journeyings.

It is very difficult to imagine Spalato as it was, to
reconstruct the picture of it in one's mind, the encum-
brances of hoardings and scaffoldings so completely
impede any shaping the old out of the new. The very
high medieval campanile outside the chief approach to
the Cathedral is still covered to the top with scaffolding,
as it has been for the past twenty years. The sphinx of
black granite in the peristyle court of the palace, now
the Piazza del Duomo, is invisible, owing to the hoard-
ing around it. In fact, no complete idea can be formed
of the plan of the buildings. This was also the case, Mr.
Jackson writes, in his book published in 1887, when he
visited Spalato ; but evidently, with the time and know-
ledge he had at his disposal, Mr. Jackson became ulti-
mately impressed with an image of the past splendour of
the palace.* How we reach the door of the Duomo I
* Jackson, vol. ii., p. 19.
194

The Cathedral, Spalato

cannot quite understand. We go down steps and through
a covered passage, then up a staircase, through intricate
paths, reaching at last a small, quiet corner, where we
find a side-door opening into the Cathedral. The principal
entrance, leading by a flight of steps from the peristyle,
is shut off during the restorations. The building was called
a temple, but whether it was actually a temple to Diana
or Jupiter, or, according to writers in the Middle Ages,
the mausoleum of Diocletian, remains undetermined.
Fergusson writes : " My own impression is that it was a
tomb, or at least a funeral monument of some sort."

The side-door which we have found is open. The church
is full of people, and the sound of chanting comes from
within. While the service goes on we remain just in-
side the doorway, whence we can form a good idea of
the whole effect, and also get a full view of the exception-
ally beautiful pulpit, which is the most perfect ornament
of the church. The principal doors are richly carved
with subjects from the life of our Lord. The carver was
a Slav artist, by name Messer Andrea Guvina. He was
also a painter, and executed a picture for the Duomo in
the year 1214.* The building is very small for a cathe-

* " These doors are in two flaps, each flap containing fourteen
panels surrounded by borders of romanesque knot-work and
scrolls, and each panel is carved with a representation of some
subject in the life and passion of our Lord.

*****

" The doors, then, were carved by Messer Andrea Guvina,
painter of Spalato, who also at the same time painted a figure
of St. Christopher for the duomo in the year 1214, and this is a
date of the greatest importance in the history of Dalmatian art.
It is also interesting if, as is asserted, Guvina is a Slavonic name,
to observe that the Slavs who settled within the Dalmatian pale,
and became Latinized, showed a capacity for art which did not

195

Dalmatia

dral only 453 feet 3 inches in diameter inside the walls,
and 35 feet 3 inches inside the row of columns, which,
like the Church of San Stefano, at Bologna, divide the
centre of the church from the colonnade running round it.
Into this centre space juts out the very notable pulpit,
resting on six octagonal columns. The body of the pulpit
above is a hexagon, and colonnaded round by pillars of
various coloured marbles. A crucifix is fastened to one
angle of the hexagon, and on the opposite side is a carved
eagle, supported by a beautiful spiral column running
down the centre of one of the eight faces, and ending in
a finely sculptured, quaintly designed lion grappling with
a serpent. This pulpit is a beautiful object, taken as a
whole, and the details of the carving show " the richest
fancy of romanesque art. In point of technical execution
and ingenuity of design, I know nothing in romanesque
art to surpass them," writes Mr. Jackson. Besides this
gem of architecture, the centre space of the Cathedral
is also partly occupied by two Gothic chapels, that stand
on either side of the high altar. Both have a most
picturesque effect, the ornamental work on the canopies
being exceedingly rich and elaborate. The Chapel of
St. Doinio, to the right, was constructed in 1427 ; the
other, dedicated to St. Anastasio, in 1448.

We wait patiently till the service is concluded and the

reach development among their brethren who remained without.
The style of Guvina's work has nothng distinctively Slavonic
about it, but is thoroughly romanesque, and the scroll-work
carved on the main cross-framing is obviously inspired by the
similar ornaments that surround the door of the smaller of the
two temples of Diocletian's palace, though they far exceed their
prototype in fancy, and equal it in technical merit." JACKSON,
vol. ii., p. 46.

196

The Cathedral, Spalato

congregation disperses before we enter the Cathedral.
The circular building is covered by a dome, supported by
two tiers of columns. Under the cornice below the dome
runs a quaint frieze in bas-relief. The subject appears
to be that of a hunting scene, but not entirely terrestrial.
Winged boys ride horses, drive chariots, and fight wild
beasts, in pursuit, apparently, of stags, all represented
as running round in animated action. The choir is of
more recent construction, and owes its existence to the
famous Archbishop Marc Antonio de Dominis, the Dal-
matian clerical magnate who was connected with Eng-
land and the anti-Papal movement. " The Jesuit Farlati,
who naturally had little liking for him, says this choir is
the only good thing he has left behind him." The beauti-
ful carved stalls in the choir are older, and were moved
from the centre of the temple when the choir was added
in the early years of the seventeenth century.

Notwithstanding the fact that the beautiful work it
contains is of an essentially Christian character, the
general effect of this interior seems somehow more suited
to the name " temple " than to that of " cathedral."
Everything ancient in Spalato is, as a matter of course,
twisted into what it originally was not intended to be,
so no impression is quite satisfactory. It would seem
that something of the pagan element creeps into the most
ecclesiastical conceptions ; at the same time, all trace of
pagan grandeur is marred and thwarted by things being <
converted into a something alien to its genius. In
Spalato you find not only the signs of a natural develop-
ment from medieval to modern conditions, but the genius
of both grafted on to an ancient anti-Christian sub-

197

Dalmatia

stratum, still too visibly prominent to allow an entire
transformation to be felt in the impressions it inspires.
How inferior in impressiveness is everything here to all
we found in Ragusa ! In Spalato no consistent strong
conviction dominates the purpose of its construction ; no
inspired, creative enthusiasm is felt as having evolved
its making as it now stands. The place is assuredly most
curious and interesting, but beautiful as a whole it is not,
and without the element of beauty crowning an effect,
no impression of the highest order can be conveyed,
beauty being obviously the poetry of the material world.

The personality of Diocletian is the true interest of
Spalato, and all that has been done in it for many ages has
tended to obliterate the traces of that personality. Still,
the Roman Emperor in his retirement remains the most
attractive interest in it ; and nothing, surely, in this world
can compare in interest with those dominant personalities
who start out in history with convincing individuality.
The first crowned Emperor, at the age when most great
rulers care to reap the fruits of effort by dominating more
and more of the world, Diocletian retires to the far-off
spot where his father and mother had been slaves. These
salient personalities of the world, how constantly they
surprise us by doing the unexpected ! So few of us
realize how much we live in grooves grooves made,
moreover, by the habits and customs of other people,
not by ourselves. But these truly great people escape
from out of such grooves ; they have within their own
powerful individualities the initiating impulse of their
actions.

From the Cathedral we wend our way by a lane leading

198

Buildings as Diocletian Viewed Them

westwards to the Battistero di San Giovanni, an unspoilt
Corinthian edifice, raised on a flight of steps. Here, again,
there is a difference of opinion as to the function for
which it was originally built, some being of opinion that
it was a temple dedicated to JEsculapius, others that this,
not the Cathedral, was the mausoleum of Diocletian.
The font, placed when it became the baptistery, seems
to be the only comparatively modern innovation in the
interior ; and we can, within these walls, realize one of
the actual interiors which Diocletian himself viewed. The
stone waggon vault is exactly as it must have been in his
time ; likewise the scroll-work round the great doorway, an
amusing arrangement of animals and little figures, very
decorative and pretty, which has stood the wear of ages
unspoilt. Many interesting sarcophagi are placed in this
baptistery, the descriptions of which are to be found in
Jackson's account of the building.

Emerging out into the light again, we return to the
Cathedral, and, taking a street running north-east, reach
the Porta Aurea. It is the most imposing feature now
left of the palace as it was first constructed, owing its
good preservation to the fact that it was only a short
time ago brought to light. The Porta yEnea has quite
disappeared, and the Porta Ferrea has been medievalized.
Passing through the Porta Aurea, we mount a flight of
wide steps facing it, and find ourselves on a level with the
road to Salona. Evidently, at some period, the earth
fell in from this higher level, covering Porta Aurea till
quite lately, when it was disinterred. Our desire now is
to find a means of getting on to the top of the walls, so
as to obtain a bird's-eye view of the plan of the palace

199

Dalmatia

as far as it is possible to trace it. We find on the inner,
town side of the walls of the Porta Aurea a doorway, with
steps leading up from it. This looks promising, and we
mount the narrow spiral staircase. Before long, how-
ever, we are confronted by a shut door. We try knocking
at it, and do so with success. A nun opens it, and we
find that embedded in the thickness of the Roman Em-
peror's walls is a convent. The nun is a friendly person,
who speaks Italian. We ask her if we can reach the top
of the walls through the convent. She answers that she
will ask the Superior if we may penetrate ; meanwhile,
would we like to see their chapel ? She opens a door on
the side, and we enter a miniature chapel, constructed
within the masonry of the Porta Aurea. It is spanned
by a screen of marble, which divides the body of the
chapel from the chancel. This is decorated with beauti-
ful work in relief, a cross rising from its centre. Probably,
in the many sieges and assaults from Tartars and Turks
to which Spalato was exposed since the inhabitants fled
for refuge within the huge palace, this little chapel, high
up between the massive walls, served for a place of worship
for the Christian inhabitants, the outlook above giving a
view of the events going on inside and outside the town.

The nun returns. Alas ! we are not allowed to mount
to this outlook, as the Lady Superior is not at home,
and she alone can give permission. We descend into
the streets, and find our way to the former site of the
Porta 5nea, passing interesting gateways and court-
yards en route. Outside the doorway, which does duty
for the Porta ^Enea as an exit through the east front of
the palace, is a fine Roman sarcophagus, and let into the

200

LANDING-PLACE FOR CANNOSA (see p. 173).

I. VILLA BASSEGLI GOZZE, CANNOSA.
2 "ASILE DES AMOCRECX," CANNOSA.

(See p. 174.)

Spalato Reconstructed by Robert Adam

wall above, a sculptured lion, probably dating from the
Venetian occupation in the fifteenth century. To the left
of the Roman sarcophagus is the door of the museum.
We find the interior much like that of other museums
of the kind, full of fragments of sculpture, idols, trinkets,
glass vessels, bronze vases, and some interesting sarco-
phagi, on some of which are carved Christian and medieval
Croat inscriptions. The remnants of ancient sculpture
have been brought chiefly from Salona. More interest-
ing to us than all these objects, which require more
archaeological knowledge than we possess fully to appre-
ciate, is the extraordinary work of our English architect,
Robert Adam, who visited Spalato in the year 1757.
He was one of the " Adelphi/' and brother of the famous
decorator whose art we are at this moment of fashion
so incessantly imitating. A copy of the book, written
and copiously illustrated by Robert Adam, contains on
paper his reconstruction of the palace of Diocletian, and
though Mr. Jackson says recent explorations have proved
it to be in a few details incorrect, on the whole it is a
most interesting and accurate work, and when studied
on the actual spot, quite fascinating.

We return through the town to our hotel, and lunch
in the vast banqueting hall, pleasantly cool and dark,
where meals are served at the Troccoli. We have,
however, little time for resting, and are soon out again,
crossing the Piazza dei Signori, through a suburban
street, in order to reach the carriage, which is to take
us to Salona, for even in the borgo, outside the palace
walls, carriages do not enter. The drive to Salona is
delightful ; the air feels deliciously fresh and pure, the

201 26

Dalmatia

views are lovely, and the whole country through which
we drive is animated by scenes connected with the
vintage which is going on apace. This land between
Spalato, Salona, and Trail seems to be the fertile spot of
Dalmatia. Groups of peasants here and there, near a
pathway or a road, indicate the nucleus where the grapes
are carried to be crushed, before the juice is poured into
the pigskins in which it is conveyed to the town for
further processes of straining and refining. We meet
many donkeys on the road, bristling all over with these
pigskins nearly bursting with vine- juice, square pillows,
tied up at the four corners, where formerly each poor
little trotter came out. Like air-balls, they seem to
float out from the sides of the donkeys. They remind
us of the donkey in the side street in Athens, which
sprouted over with terra-cotta jars. Perhaps these
pigskins even more than the miniature brown Athenas
on their perches will remain as a memory-picture of
the specially local feature of Spalato and its present life,
as did the oleanders of Ragusa, and the Campanula pyra-
midalis of Cattaro. They are so incessant, you see them
everywhere in this September month of the vintage.

We also meet, in our drive to Salona, waggons con-
taining vats full of grapes, and barrels of vine-juice,
drawn by mild-eyed oxen (the eye that Homer loved),
mostly w r hite or silvery grey. The grape-harvest here
is later than our corn-harvest in England, but the sun
still strikes down with the hot vigour of summer in the
South, and the colour of the landscape, the violet and
blue mountains, which rise behind the vineyards, the
purple grape-stain, the splashes of splendid scarlet and

202

The Vintage on the Road to Salona

amber of autumn-tinted vine-leaves amidst abundant
foliage still green, from which the spiral tendrils escape
with such grace of unexpected curves, the tawny faces
of the peasants, habited in costumes of every brilliant hue,
and above all the sense of eager human activity engaged
in this function of the vintage, fits in more appropriately
with associations of the great Diocletian and all his
glory than does the tale told by the town, Spalato, of
to-day, where we see but the defacement of that glory.
Where indigenous local habits have not been completely
stamped out by the dull, even dye of cosmopolitan so-
called civilization the work of syndicates and companies
they are retained with a strange tenacity through all
the visissitudes in the history of a place. As where seeds
of wild flowers, in some untraceable way, have chosen
to sow themselves in certain places, the flora of those
places, if not interfered with, remains constant in its
reappearance every year ; so do local ways and customs.
Everyday usages survive countless changes in the more
historically important records of a town and its govern-
ment. The habit of using these pigskins for the wine
probably dates back through many and many a change
in the public affairs of Spalato, maybe to the time of
Diocletian himself. Be that as it may, the vines and
all the beauty of their colour and form, the living sense
of Dionysius, flowing in their veins ; the glory of moun-
tains and skies, fertile plains, and swaying waters, are
the same as when the great personality travelled through
this country from Salona to Spalato, where his father
and mother had been slaves, to inhabit his stupendous
palace on the shores of the Adriatic.

203

Dalmatia

One of the great charms of this drive between Salona
and Spalato is the sight of sea and river constantly
appearing between the mountains, the plains, and the
vineyards.* As Mr. Jackson remarks, we " uncon-
sciously " enter the precincts of Salona, for vineyards
still cover the ground and peasants in brightly coloured
garments are busily picking the purple bunches hanging
under the sunlit leaves a feast of colour in no wise
suggesting an ancient city in ruins lying underneath.

As the road descends into the valley of the Riviera
dei Castelli, beyond these brilliantly coloured vineyards,
and closed in westwards by the long Island of Bua, lies
the beautiful sea-lake of Salona, a sheet of smooth,
shimmering, blue water, and along its shore? are studded
the seven villages Castelli, each clustered round its
campanile. On our right runs the bright, quick-flowing
stream of the River Giadro. Were it not for the pigskins
we are constantly meeting, for about a quarter of a mile we
might imagine ourselves back in England. We see the

* " From Spalato, the road rises to the crest of a low ridge,
and then descends into the valley of the Riviera dei Castelli,
which extends from Salona to Trau. To the right may be seen
striding across the valley the aqueduct built by Diocletian to
serve his palace with water, which, after a period of ruin and
neglect, has now been repaired, and supplies the town of Spalato
from the sources of the Giadro or lader. About three miles from
Spalato the road crosses a stone bridge, which spans a rapid
stream running between brilliantly green meadows a strange
sight in Dahnatia. This is the ancient lader, the modern
Giadro, whose water, says the imperial topographer, is ' sweet
above all waters, as they say who have tasted it.' Beyond this
lies the modern village of Salona, a collection of scattered houses,
of which every one has its walls full of fragments of Roman
sculpture and inscriptions, and here we unconsciously enter the
precincts of one of the proudest provincial cities of the Roman
world." JACKSON, vol. ii., p. 86.

204

The Christian Basilica, Salona

first green meadow-grass we have looked upon since we
crossed the St. Gothard, three weeks ago. Beyond the
meadows, over the nearer hills and the valley of the
Giadro, rise the higher ranges of the grand Cabani
Mountains, rose, purple, and blue, singularly beautiful
in colour this afternoon. Then we mount again, and
England is left behind. Vines, and nothing but vines !
We see the actual process of squeezing the grapes into
vats, the pigskins filled, and the donkeys laden. The
road mounts till we come to a curious house, built in
recent times of various fragments of old sculpture, Roman
and early Christian. Here we stop and leave the
carriage. We have driven over the site of Salona, and
find ourselves close to the remains of the Christian
basilica outside the walls, built in the fifth or sixth
century, and destroyed in 639. Its ruins have not long
been excavated. A certain number of columns remain
standing, but three only of these have retained their
capitals.

Mr. Jackson has worked out a complete plan of the
building from actual measurements made on the spot,
and gives an interesting and detailed description of it
in his book. He is disposed to think, from certain
reasons he gives, that this basilica was a monastic church,
not the metropolitan cathedral, which would, in all
probability, have been erected close to the baptistery,
which has been unearthed within the actual city walls
of Salona. In addition to the walls and columns of the
building that remains visible, a great number of sarco-
phagi were found during the excavations. These were
found below the flooring of the basilica, and from

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Dalmatia

other remains found underneath, it is evident that a yet
older building stood on its site. The finest of the sarco-
phagi was removed to the museum at Spalato, where
we saw it this morning. From the site of these ruins
striking views are obtained of this singularly beautiful
part of Dalmatia. From a platform of ground above
the ancient city, we see over its site down to the edge
of the Salona sea-lake. This served as a natural harbour
and port in olden times. Now we look down on it
shimmering in the sunlight. Here and there, visible
among the delicate growth of leafage and tendril, is an
arrangement of masonry, which indicates the site of a
former gateway or of the outer wall of the Roman town.
Turning eastwards, we see the violet mountains filling
in the spaces between the silvery-toned columns. The
grouping of these Cabani heights, also their individual
forms, are strikingly beautiful from this spot. We walk
through what was formerly the nave to the western end,
not yet excavated. Here the ground is covered with
grasses and delicate little flowers. I noticed specially
the blue chicory and wild larkspur in blossom.

Leaving the platform whereon stood the basilica, a
rugged footpath leads us along the hillside, where we
hope to find remants of the Roman city, but we can
discern nothing, so retrace our steps, and in doing so are
gladdened by a superb view. On the horizon a cleft
in the mountains breaks their line against the sky.
In the middle distance, striking down perpendicularly
into the valley of the Giadro, juts out the splendid rock
on which is built the fortress and town of Clissa, the
scene of many struggles, and the stronghold of various

206

Mosaics at Salona

successive peoples. And no wonder that Clissa played
so prominent a part in the countless wars and aggressions
which took place around Spalato, for its natural position
is eminently fitted to disconcert the besieger. Round
this defiant rock the hillsides, from which it starts forward
like a watch tower, slope down in gentle, lovely folds
into the valley of the Giadro. Olive-trees, the ruins of
the basilica, and the curving line of the old city wall,
form the foreground of a picture, perhaps the most
beautiful landscape we have seen since we left Greece.

Returning to the house built of many fragments,
where we left the carriage, we annex a very small boy, the
son of the padrone, who in his turn annexes a companion
of the same size. These tiny creatures are the only ciceroni
available who can lead us to the notable remains of
Salona. After passing a group of wine makers a vat,
a donkey, and a heap of purple grapes ready to be crushed
we descend by a very rugged path to a spot where the
rock shelves steeply down to a level space covered with
small pebbles and earth. We have barely caught sight
of it, when two other little urchins appear on the scene,
and with many gestures and words we cannot under-
stand fly down on to the level space below, and, falling
on their knees, begin clearing away in patches the earth
and pebbles, exposing thereby a piece of interesting
mosaic flooring. As soon as we have seen one patch
they cover it up quickly, and dart off to another spot,
and go through the same process. This level space is
the flooring of the baptistery. Mr. Jackson, referring
to it, writes : " Of this pavement we could see nothing,
as it is covered over with earth to protect it from the

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Dalmatia

mischievous curiosity of visitors and collectors, who have
destroyed piecemeal one part, in which two stags were
represented with the text, ' As the hart pants/ etc."
Evidently since Mr. Jackson's visit these little urchins
have found a means of earning a few pence by tem-
porarily uncovering the mosaic flooring. The plan of
the building is easily traced, as the bases of the pillars
still exist in their original position, and the walls have
not been entirely destroyed. Mr. Jackson says, with
reference to a capital belonging to one of the pillars in
the museum at Spalato, that it " has all the character of
Byzantine sculpture of the sixth century."

Returning by the pathway we descended, we are
guided to the ruins of the Porta Caesarea, which divided
the western from the eastern city. We are next shown
a trench, dug close to the wall, at the bottom of which
lie fourteen stone sarcophagi in a row touching each other.
We then walk on till we reach the extreme western end
of the old city wall. Here, from our pathway, we look
down on the amphitheatre, supposed to be the only build-
ing that was not destroyed by the conflagration in 639,
when the Avars set fire to Salona ; but now a level oval
space, a few arches of rough masonry in the surrounding
walls, and portions of the eastern entrance, are all that
remain of it. The view, however, from our standpoint
on the pathway, is indeed worthy to be noted. A warm
afternoon glow spreads over the scene, brightening and
deepening the purples and chrysolite green of the grapes
and the brilliant hues of their foliage, gilding the waters
of the lovely bay of Salona, and the western sky, so full
of light against the violet ranges of mountains on the

208

PULPIT IN THE CATHEDRAL AT SPALATO (see p. 196).

Stengel ana Co-

A Domestic Function

Island of Bua. The ruins of Salona are for the archae-
ologist and the architect, but their lovely covering of
rich vegetation, the superb views of landscape and sea
obtained from their site, are for all who have eyes for
the beautiful for ignoramuses who, like ourselves,
cannot fan up any strong excitement about the very
scanty indications left of the ancient buildings of Salona.
From the amphitheatre the wall of the city turns straight
southwards to the edge of the sea. Halfway down it
is cut through by the carriage road from Spalato to
Traii, and at this point our carriage is waiting for us.
We are detained, before descending, however, by the
fascination of an episode which is taking place around a
cottage. Evidently it is a family function a family
group engaged in making its own wine, as farmers in
Somerset and Brittany make their own cider. Both
men and women are busily working over two large vats
and a barrel full of grapes. A huge pile of the fruit is
heaped on the ground, ready to be crushed. The inevit-
able donkey, which plays a part in all these scenes, is
now burdered by the baby of the family, held on by its
mother. They appear happy, kindly people, thoroughly
enjoying the work of the vintage. Naturally they must
feel an excitement when the fruits of the soil repay the
labour of the year, for vines, as we learnt in Sicily,
require tending assiduously during all the months of
the year, in order to produce a good crop of grapes.
Our return drive to Spalato is as enjoyable as our drive
thither, the colour of the hills and water being even more
beautiful in the evening light.

Once back at our hotel, we are eager to sally forth

209 27

Dalmatia

again. C. B. and K. B. wish to climb to the top of
Mount Marian ; I have a desire to try again to realize
the presence of Diocletian's palace in the town of Spalato
itself, which I had failed to do in our morning's walk.
Entering again by the Porta Ferrea, and wandering
through the shaded valleys, I find the place looks tidier
and more peaceful than earlier in the day. Before I
have wound my way through the labyrinths of passages
out to the sea-front, the sun has set, but all is still aglow
in warm light, and walking to the edge of the harbour
and looking back at the town, I at last get what I went
out for to see. In imagination I can reconstruct some-
thing of the grandeur o'f that enormous palace on the
sea. The great columns and the large corner towers,
that seemed overpowered by the rubbishy buildings
which now choke them up, stand out impressively in
this light- cornelian red. All that one does not want to
see seems smoothed away by the afterglow light, striking
through the evening shadows. As in Athens, all the
untidiness, the squalor, the modern confused empti-
ness, seem to take a back seat ; they become, indeed,
obliterated, and the splendid quality and workmanship
of the ancient art of building reasserts its due prominence
notwithstanding the " mean accretions of fifteen cen-
turies." A pier runs out from the quay into the harbour,
and walking to the end of it, I not only get a completer
view of the western fa$ade of the palace, but I also get
a foreground of water in which cornelian red reflections
are swaying in the liquid, moving shadow. Enormous
barrels of wine are strewed about on the pier ; a finely-
shaped boat, with sails loosely furled and Bari written

210

Diocletian's Palace Realised

on its stern, lies alongside of the quay ; the massive pile
of building, the palace home of the great Diocletian, all
aglow with the last burning rays of evening light, fills
in the whole background of the picture. I am quite
content. I have seen Spalato as I in anticipation had
hoped to see it when revelling over Mr. Jackson's pages
a month ago, in our soft West of England air, in the garden
of China roses, bay-trees, Ham stone balustrades, giant
elms, and peacocks.

Walking eastwards from the quay, I soon find myself
on the Piazza dell' Erbe, from which rises a fine old
Venetian tower. Here indeed, all mellowed in the
gloaming, is colour to delight the eye. On the ground
are baskets full of tomatoes, oranges, pomegranates, and
other fruits and vegetables grown in the fertile soil around
Spalato under the warmth of the southern sun. High
above in the air, the old masonry of the tower, lit by the
lingering rays of evening light, is coloured with tints
of old ivory and amber. Farther on in our Piazza dei
Signori every house seems glorified by this evening glow.
In southern fashion, the people are turning out of their
houses on to the piazza, to walk up and down in smart
hats and frocks. Half of the piazza is now covered
with little tables, all emanating from our Troccoli
Restaurant. Southern cosmopolitan ways rule the
situation, and of such ways there is not often anything
particular to record.

September 2jth, Sunday. We have been one week in
Dalmatia. Last Sunday we spent in Cattaro ; to-day
we are to spend Sunday in Trail. A small steamer starts
at 8 a.m. from the harbour of Spalato. K. B. and I

211

Dalmatia

walk leisurely along the quay at 7.45. The fresh morning
air is very pleasant and everything looks clean and
bright. We meet donkeys laden with pigskins, and we
notice that many of the men who are grouped near the
boats, are, like those we saw at Ragusa, truly magnificent
types of humanity. They are very tall ; they have
small heads, and, as a rule, fine features. Quite Pheidian
in type is the structure of throat and shoulders, the
latter broad and squared . Their movements are loose and
easy, possessing a grace denoting latent power. These
Dalmatians are physically a different order of being to our
northern peasant classes, and still further are they re-
moved from the type of the townspeople in southern cities
a race apart, evidently belonging to that same moun-
tain breed of which we saw a few specimens in Greece.
We reach our little Trail steamer, but C. B. is not here,
so we stand waiting on the pier, and examining the
Great Campanile, or, rather, the scaffolding that has
enclosed it for more than twenty years. It towers far
above everything else in Spalato. The different tiers
of roofs belonging to the scaffolding jut out like those of
a Chinese pagoda, and appear to be constructed as a
covering to the work of restoration, and to remain for
ages to come. Mr. Jackson gives us a perfect idea of
the campanile on paper in an illustration in his book ;
though, owing to this scaffolding, he was unable, in 1882,
to make a drawing of it with complete details. C. B.,
much hurried, arrives, and we go on board. There is
sufficient comfort, though no luxury, on the little steamer.
By means of small barrels of butter, which are travelling
with us and are convertible into footstools, I find a

212

The Canale dei sette Castelli

thoroughly restful seat on deck from which to enjoy
the sights of a truly ideal trip. As we move out of the
harbour of Spalato, Mount Marian rising to our right,
we get, for the first time, a good view of the high moun-
tain, Mossor, behind the town some way inland, which
dominates the whole promontory on which Diocletian's
palace was erected. Turning round the Point of San
Stephano, and steering due west, we reach the extreme
point of this promontory, Point San Giorgio. Turn-
ing it, we enter the Canale dei sette Castelli, which east-
ward ends in the Bay of Salona, and into which flows
the River Giadro, whose beauties we enjoyed yesterday.
The sette Castelli are old fortresses built by the Traiiini
in the fifteenth century as defences against the numerous
assaults of the Turks, who attacked in turn all the
prosperous communities in Dalmatia. The Castelli are
studded at intervals along the whole northern coast of
the Canale between Salona and Trail. Round the
fortresses, villages have spring up, dominated by high
campaniles. If driving from Spalato to Trail, the
traveller passes through these and arrives at Trail by a
bridge spanning the Canal, which was cut, in the Middle
Ages, through the neck of the peninsula " in shape
like a water-melon," wrote Constantine Porphyrogenitus
in the tenth century and which canal saved the town
from destruction by Tartar hordes in 1242, when Caydan,
their leader, was in pursuit of Bela IV. This King had
fled for refuge to Trail, and the Tartars, having no boats,
had to remain on the eastern side of the canal, and never
reached the town.

After turning the point of San Giorgio, we steer

213

Dalmatia

straight across the gulf to Castelnuovo, one of the largest
of the seven Castelli. Our little steamer glides through
the water almost as smoothly as a sailing-boat. There
is something indescribably enjoyable in the light feeling
of the morning air, in the delicate colour of sea, sky,
and the shore to which we are making, overhung by
distant hills. This Canale, the Bay of Salona, the River
Giadro, are all pervaded with a peculiar beauty of
atmosphere and colouring, which single them out as the
loveliest scenes in landscape we have yet seen in Dal-
matia quite as noticeable in the lighter, fairer scale of
tints of early morning as it was yesterday in the warm
glow of afternoon. As we glide through the smooth
azure waters of the waveless sea-lake towards Castel-
nuovo, we catch from out the tall campanile of its church
the sound of the bells clanging forth to the villagers their
call to Mass ; the voice of those metal tongues, ringing
to us across the water, carries with it an intimate, curious
charm as coming from some dreamland. We see on the
water another campanile reversed a perfect reflection
of the one from which the bells are hailing us, coming
down towards our boat, swayed but just a little here
and there by the gentle breathing of the sea. Perfect
reflections of objects in water, what a sense of calm and
peace they defuse into a scene !

We near the village, and, stopping, annex another
passenger from a rowing-boat ; then, to our surprise,
instead of continuing our route to Trail, we steer in the
direction of Salona, pass Castel Vitturi, and stop again
at Castel Lucuranz. Here a pier is in process of being
made, but our boat tries in vain to get alongside of it.

214

Recklessness Triumphant

Ropes are thrown, but not caught. Much turmoil ensues.
There are several mighty barrels of wine rolling on the
unfinished pier that are to travel with us somewhere on
our boat. There is, needless to say, a congregation of
idlers watching the dilemma. More efforts are made :
more ropes thrown more failures. Everyone concerned
gets impatient and noisy. Recklessly one huge black
barrel is thrown into the sea to float by itself within reach
of our boat. Consternation ! The barrel does not re-
appear ! These are moments of breathless suspense.
The crowd on the pier closes in to watch the face of the
water where the barrel is expected to come up to the
surface ; but there is nothing but water. At last, under-
neath where we stand, close to the side of the steamer,
we see a rounded slatey-black surface, like the smooth,
wet side of a whale, heaving itself about in the water.
Recklessness has answered. One after the other the
remaining huge barrels are thrown in, while all our crew
and men in small boats are engaged hurriedly (for the
captain is urging haste) in getting the first barrel on
board no easy task. At last we are ready to leave
Castel Lucuranz with our added burden of wine cargo.
We steer across the Canale to the narrow strait running
between the Island of Bua and the town of Traii. We
are soon there. The bridge connecting the two opens,
and our steamer passes through. The beautiful cam-
paniles of the churches in Traii have been visible from
afar, and we see them now, as we steam close to the quay,
rising behind a very irregular line of houses facing us.
Large barrels of wine are crowded on the quay ; pic-
turesque boats lie alongside. Interest grows as we slowly

215

Dalmatia

steam along to the end of the city, and stop where the
stately old Fort of Camerlengo, with its large imposing
tower, still stands as the sentinel of the town, grand and
massive : " One of the finest relics of the Venetian period
in Dalmatia," writes Mr. Jackson, " and calling to mind the
ancient fortress by the sea at Bari." We land and make
for the handsome old doorway of the town, the Porta
Marina, flanked on either side by columns, and " sur-
mounted, as usual, by St. Mark's lion, but instead of
displaying the page Pax tibi Marce, the book is shut,
the Republic being at war when the gate was built
in 1454."

Through the Porta Marina we enter the town of Traii.
The streets are but narrow passages, and we are puzzled
how to find our way to an inn. All the delights of the
morning have made us hungry. After passing through
labyrinths of small alleys, we come suddenly on to the
delightful Piazza, del Duomo. Experience has told us
that where you can get sleeping accommodation as under-
stood by modern wants in an old town, there, to a certain
degree, invariably, you find the old town spoilt. It is
in Traii in Dalmatia, Castrogiovanni in Sicily, San Gimig-
niano delle belle Torre in Italy, where you cannot sleep
the night (unless by lucky chance you know an inhabitant,
who offers hospitality), where the true old medieval
flavour of a place is retained. It may be difficult to trace
exactly wherein lies the spoiling, but when you face the
entirely unspoilt, as on the piazza, in Trail, the fact that
here is a genuine medieval atmosphere still pervading
is unmistakable, and creates a feeling of rare and intimate
interest.

216

A Squeezed-in Restaurant

First, however, we must find an inn where we can get
food. We address natives, but they can only speak and
understand Slav. As we are trying by gestures to make
ourselves understood, an inhabitant approaches who
speaks Italian. He kindly leads us to two very old,
Venetian-like houses, where we can order a luncheon.
On the second and third floors of one of these houses are
very beautiful windows of the best Venetian type of
architecture. They do not, however, look on to the
street passage, but on to a still narrower one dividing the
two houses belonging to the inn. Here is a mark of olden
times, when a town had to be crushed together in a
small space on account of the necessity of living within
fortifications, and yet where the inhabitants made the
architecture in a building ornamental. It is, however,
almost impossible to get a comfortable view of the lovely
windows. The landlord of the inn speaks Italian. Of
course, he has nothing ready. Visitors evidently rarely
invade Trail. If we will go to the Cathedral, when he
has got ready the luncheon he will come and tell us.
Evidently he foresees no difficulty in finding us anywhere
in the town. We return, therefore, to the piazza.

From the uneven cobbles of the little alleys we walk
on to the smoothly paved square. Here, to our right,
is the loggia, " a perfect example of a public Court of
Justice of the Venetian period," says our Baedeker, and
" one of the most remarkable examples of that kind of
building," says Mr. Jackson. Rising behind it is the
fine old clock tower, which was erected as part of the
Church of Santa Maria in Piazza, built in the eighth
century, the oldest church in Trail of which traces remain.

217 28

Dalmatia

The portico of this church opened out into the loggia.
Raised on a wall some three feet high, the interior of
this interesting loggia is approached by a flight of five
semicircular steps, placed between the two centre columns
which support the roof. Iron gates above the steps guard
the entrance. Between the columns on either side a
beautiful balustrade surmounts the wall. This loggia
faces the Cathedral, the Palazzo Columnale standing at
right angles completing the square on one side, while the
Palazzo Cippuco does so on the other.*

We must now devote ourselves to the Cathedral. The
north wall of this wonderful church faces the piazza.
In its centre is a doorway, raised from the pavement by
a semicircular flight of steps. At the western end of this
wall is the entrance into the loggia, under which is found
one of the greatest glories of Dalmatian architecture, the
superb vestibule and porch of the western entrance to
the Cathedral. " The porch is vaulted in three bays, a
square bay under each tower, and an oblong bay opposite
the nave. The transverse arches are round, and the
vaults are quadripartite with ribs and panels, the length
of the central bay causing the vault to rise in quite a dome
above the level of the flat terrace roof of the porch. The
wall shafts are spirally fluted, the bases are Attic with

* " The Palazzo Columnale has in the cortile an effective out-
side staircase springing from brackets and arches, and in every
part of the town beautiful doorways and windows abound. On
the west side of the piazza is the ancient palace of the Cippico
family, with windows and doors of Venetian- Gothic, which are,
however, on the verge of melting into the Renaissance style,
being mixed with fiat fluted niches in sham perspective, like the
work of Georgio Orsini at Sebenico, or that of Alecxi of Durazzo
in the Duomo here." JACKSON.

218

Traii Cathedral

" toco," and they rest on a stylobate or seat of marble,
of which the riser is ornamented with blank arcading.

This porch forms a magnificent vestibule, adding much
to the dignity of the church, and the tempered light
which reigns within enhances the solemn splendour of the
sumptuous western portal of the nave ; the glory not of
Trail only, but of the whole province a work which in
simplicity of conception, combined with richness of
detail and marvellous finish of execution, has never been
surpassed in romanesque or Gothic art. Erected, as the
imperfect inscription on the lintel records, in 1240, it is
still thoroughly romanesque in general design, but its
comparatively lofty proportion and the refinement of its
execution show that it belongs to the late or transitional
period of the style. It is round-arched and square-
ordered, but slender octagonal shafts are set in the square
reveals of the jambs, and roll mouldings run continuously
from them round the arch. It has the square lintel and
semicircular tympanum of all Dalmatian portals, but
above the arch is a gabled and crocketted pediment traced
on the wall by a projecting moulding, enclosing a small
niche and a figure of San Lorenzo, which shows the lateness
of the date more than the lower part of the doorway " *
(see frontispiece).

Great as had been our expectations, they are surpassed
by the actual sight of the Trail Cathedral. We enter
through the " sumptuous western portal," to find the
church crowded, and High Mass being chanted. Though
this prevents our examining the detail of the chancel, it
infinitely increases the impressive solemnity and rich
* Jackson, " Trau."
219

Dalmatia

beauty of this unspoilt basilica. The value of limitation
in size ; the value of shade ; the beauty of rich, mellow
colour ; the meaning-full intention in every ornament ;
the total absence of any spot of restoration all these
are the virtues in this beautiful church which at once
strike the eye. As we look farther, we perceive that
there is, opening from the aisle on the north side, a chapel
built in an early and rich Renaissance style. We creep
round behind the congregation to get a nearer view. This
chapel was erected in memory of one T. Giovanni Orsini,
by Nicolo Fiorentino (who likewise worked at Sebenico)
and Andrea di Alessi, an Albanian artist, who also worked
at Sebenico and on the Island of Arbe. Giovanni Orsini
was born at Rome, and became Bishop of Trail in 1064.
He was a great mechanician and engineer, and his
scientific feats caused his simple contemporaries to believe
he was aided by supernatural powers. All this we learn
from Mr. Jackson. His chapel in the Trail Cathedral
is elaborately decorated, but belongs to the fifteenth
century, before the vitality of feeling in architecture had
begun to wane. From the entrance of this chapel we
get a good view of the pulpit of the church, which is
beautiful, and resembles though perhaps it is not quite
equal to the pulpit in the Cathedral of Spalato. The
workmanship in it is similar to that of the baldachino
over the altar, and probably both are by the same hand,
and belong to the thirteenth century. The carving of the
double row of choir stalls suggests a somewhat later day,
probably the middle of the fifteenth century. But we
might try to describe every detail of this basilica, and
still leave quite untold the curiously fascinating charm

220

The Value of "Atmosphere"

which on the spot arouses such deeply satisfying admira-
tion. The source of impressions such as are made by
these rare sights is not only to be traced to the scene itself,
nor to the actual beauty of the place we see. We are
taken back into the atmosphere of an ancient world and
its ways a world crowded with romantic associations,
into which beautiful inventions, such as this church is
full of, fit in harmoniously and with entire consistency.
Long may Trail exist, without the blight of modern
so-called comfort and its consequent ugliness, which jars
with the more subtle impressions an old-world place
inspires, withering up the sources of any profoundly
interesting associations.

We pass out of the church through the unrivalled
porch and vestibule, cross the sunlit piazza., through
shadowed alleys, to the inn in the old Venetian house,
our host meeting us halfway, and announcing that our
meal is ready. The meal all that we require is cooked
in one of the houses and eaten in the other. I am very
anxious to find a staircase whence a better view of the
fine windows could be got ; but the daughters of the house
say that the starcase is not used. It is very old and
not safe. When I persist, however, they begin to think
an ascent might be accomplished without danger. I
make the attempt, but, alas ! from no hole in the wall
can I get a view of the windows. On the opposite wall
there is an aperture, however, and a very rickety stair-
way up to it. I make the perilous ascent, and am re-
warded by a sight of the top and upper stages of the
beautiful Cathedral campanile. The retreat down the
three flights of decayed stairs is even more alarming than

221

Dalmatia

the ascent, but I reach the ground-floor with no broken
bones .

We wander out into the town again. We have still
an hour and more to spend in Trail before our boat arrives.
Crossing over the piazza, and turning towards the quay,
we find the Church of San Domenico. The three apses
of the east end face the quay, the nave rising high above
the centre apse. Turning round, we look over the sea
towards the Island of Bua and the hills on the mainland.
The water is breathless ; calm stillness reigns. The heat
is trying. This still, dreamy feeling in the air denotes
sirocco. We must, however, find the Church of San
Giovanni Battista. In our wandering we come across beau-
tiful remnants of Venetian palaces, old gateways, attrac-
tive windows, and outside flights of steps with sculptured
balustrades, all rather fragmentary, but architecturally
very interesting. At last we find San Giovanni Battista,
but where, with reference to the piazza, I cannot say. It
it impossible to master the geography of these alleys in
Trail on a first visit. Of the church itself Mr. Jackson
writes : " The Church of San Giovanni Battista, which is
now roofless, though otherwise well preserved, is by far
the most interesting church after the Duomo. In its
arcaded cornices, sunk dentil courses, and chain-mail
ornaments, it corresponds with the details of the Duomo
so closely that there can be little doubt of its being coeval
with it. It has a bell-cot for three bells, approached by
an outside staircase, and in the interior are some interest-
ing details. The church was attached to a Benedictine
abbey, and has the peculiarity of a square east end."*
* Vol. ii., p. 146.

222

The Return to Spalato

Leaving this roofless remnant of a beautiful building,
we wander through more narrow alleys to the bridge
crossing over from Trail to the Island of Bua. From the
centre we get a striking view of the town ; the grand
Castel Camerlengo makes a fine feature in the scene.
The sun, however, without a breeze in the air is oppres-
sive. C. B. and I can do no more. We return into the
shade through the Porta Marina, and find a flight af
steps, not particularly dirty, where we sit while I'Anima
Attiva, who has yet more powers of walking, continues to
explore the town. Gradually twenty-one children (C. B.
counts them carefully) collect in front of us. They
thoroughly inspect us. We, in return for their curiosity,
inspect them. They are chattering one to the other in
Slav. Some have remarkably pretty faces ; all have a
quantity of thick hair.

When our steamer is due, we leave our little inquisitive
crowd, and turn again into the heat of the quay. Soon
the boat comes in sight. We stop nowhere on our way
back to Spalato, which we approach when the evening
light is glowing on the walls of Diocletian's palace. Our
expedition to Trail, from beginning to end, has been
enjoyable. The day has been one full of delightful sur-
prises the surprises that inspire memorable recollections.
We seem, for the time, to have stepped back in the world's
history four centuries at least. Let us, like Mr. Jackson,
take leave of Trail by quoting Farlati's description of its
people : " The Traiirini are endowed with susceptibility
for every virtue ; they are lovers of equity and justice,
and haters of fraud and deceit ; they are skilful, indus-
trious, very diligent in their own affairs, liberal, benign,

223

Dalmatia

polite, and disposed to religion and piety ; and they are
not less ready-witted in all the sciences than endued
with prudence and capacity for managing affairs of
importance." It is such people as these who invent
beautiful monuments to be enjoyed by all who follow
after.

To-night at ten o'clock we go on board our large
Austrian-Lloyd steamer, the Alissa, which is to take us,
via Sebenico, to Zara.

224

1. CORT1LE OF THE PALAZZO COMMUNALE, TRAt).

2. COURTYARD OF A HOUSE IN TRAt).

(See p. 218.)

DALMATIA ISTRIA

SEBENICO ZARA GULF OF FIUME VILLA SCHMITZ
ZABIERO

September zSth. I go up early on deck, only to find it
floating in water. We have passed Santa Clanka, and
are steering through small islands, neither striking nor
beautiful. K. B. and C. B. join me as I at last manage
to extract a cup of tea out of the waiter, and hot boiled
milk, which, on these steamers, means condensed milk.
Rum is offered as a substitute for cold milk ! To our sur-
prise and delight, Schief-Lieutenant S. appears. He has
moved from Cattaro to Sebenico, whence he made an
excursion to Spalato, returning with us in the Alissa.
We breakfast together, and we cease to feel like strangers
in a far country, but as those who are welcomed as its
guests. That is the change which charming Austrian
manners can bring about.

Returning on deck, we find the ship is steering due
east through a narrow neck of sea, opening into an inland
sea. Rising from its shore in front of us is the striking
and beautiful city of Sebenico, crowned by the great
fortress of St. Anna, and behind, on yet loftier heights,
those of San Giovanni and Forte Barone, named after

225 29

Dalmatia

Baron Degenfelt, who successfully defended Sebenico
against the Turks in 1647. The high white dome of the
notable Cathedral forms the centre round which other
buildings are grouped. Against the shore lie coasting
boats, their large lateen sails reflected in the still waters
of the sea-lake. Early morning light is becoming to
buildings as to landscape. There is a fair, clean crispness
in the lights and shadows as we view the beautiful town
across the shining, waveless water. We land, and, with
Schief-Lieutenant S. as our guide, start on our way to
the Cathedral. We are soon met by Schief-Lieutenant H.
(also an acquaintance from Cattaro), who joins in escort-
ing us through the town. We have but one hour too
short a time, indeed, to pay a satisfactory visit to such
a place. We reach the Piazza del Duomo through several
small streets, where the shops seem to be more modern
in character than those in Spalato and Trau. On one
side is an old loggia. To quote Mr. Jackson : " On the
left is the Cathedral, and on the right, built against the
steep hillside, and overtopped by the buildings on the
ascent behind, is the old loggia a long arcaded building
of two stories, now turned into a cafe below and a casino
or club-room and reading-room above. It is dated 1552,
and is a structure of some stateliness. But the Duomo
opposite is worthy to rank with any Italian work of its
date and class that I know, and, though there are churches
as beautiful on the other side of the Adriatic, it would be
difficult to match it in singularity of construction.
Indeed, not only Italy, but Europe may be challenged
to show another church of this size in which neither
timber nor brick is employed, everything being con-

226

The Great Duomo of Sebenico

structed of good, squared stone, marble, and metal. In
England we have a few rude churches in Pembrokeshire,
the chapel at Abbotsbury, and the little fourteenth-
century treasury, Merton College, in which the vault and
roof are united in one solid structure of masonry, and
in Ireland we have the Chapel of St. Cormac, at Cashel,
similarly constructed, but nearly all of these are on a
diminutive scale. At Sebenico, however, the whole of a
great cruciform church is covered by a waggon roof of
stone, the underside of which forms the ceiling, the stone
covering being visible both internally and externally,
without the outside roof of timber and tiles or lead which
exists in ordinary cathedrals above the stone-vaulted
ceiling. The effect both within and without of these
simple waggon vaults over nave, choir, and transepts,
interrupted only by a dome at the crossing, is very
simple and imposing, and the design is not less successful
architecturally than it is original."* Mr. Jackson con-
tinues the description of the Cathedral otherwise the
Church of San Giacomo by telling us its architectural
history, which accounts for the fact that in the building
are two distinct styles : the one Italian-Gothic, the work
of Pietro Paolo, a Venetian ; the other Early of Giorgio
Orsini, born at Zara, and a member of the ancient and
princely Roman family of Orsini, and the architect whose
work we saw at Ragusa. The beautiful lion doorway,
one of the most notable features of the Cathedral, like-
wise the west doorway even richer in design are
Gothic, and therefore Orsini's, and the part of the build-
ing erected between the years 1430 or 1431 till the year

* Vol. i., p. 378.
227

Dalmatia

1441. " In that year," writes Mr. Jackson, " for reasons
which are not quite intelligible, the building committee
became dissatisfied with their architect and his plans.
They explained without, as it seems to us, due reason
that there were many errors and defects in the work ;
that it was not done as they intended ; that much of
the money spent on ornament had been quite thrown
away ; and that unless a change were made, things would
go from bad to worse. To us there seems no fault in the
design of Antonio, and no extravagances in his orna-
mentation ; his construction is solid and well put together,
and in his sculpture we recognize the touch of a master
hand. Messer Antonio, however, was dismissed, and
another architect, Messer Giorgio, invited from Venice to
continue and complete the Cathedral.

" Giorgio seems to have been born at Zara. His father,
Matteo, was a scion of the ancient and princely Roman
house of Orsini ; but the branch to which he belonged had
sunk in the world, and been reduced to support itself
by manual arts, inconsistent with the idea of nobility
as then understood, and the family name had been
allowed to fall into disuse. Giorgio studied architec-
ture at Venice, where we find him, still a young man,
married to Elisabetta da Monte, who brought him as her
dowry some house-property in that city. After his
engagement at Sebenico in 1441 he seems to have made
that city his domicile. It was here that he invested his
savings, in concert with two partners, in a grocery
business and in a merchant-ship, connected perhaps
with the former concern ; and here he finally built
himself a house and settled down, close to the great

228

The Fortress of St. Anna

church on which his fame as an architect principally
rests,

" Giorgio was already more than half a convert to the
Renaissance, although that movement had hardly begun
to make itself felt at Venice. He discarded the style of
his predecessor all the more easily, no doubt, because of
the discredit that had fallen on his plans, and started at
once in the new manner. The task before him was to
build the choir, of which the foundations had not been
laid, to raise arid roof the nave, which was only com-
pleted to the top of the aisle vaults, and to construct
some covering, either by a lantern and cupola or other-
wise, over the crossing. Giorgio did not live to accom-
plish his task."*

Having walked round the exterior, we enter the build-
ing. The interior is most striking, and unlike any church
I have ever seen. The mark of originality in the design
is very notable. The building is very lofty, and the
elevation of the choir produces a striking and impres-
sive effect. In the details, as in the whole design, the
arrangements are original, and such as are quite new
to us.

Our time is short, and our ciceroni are bent on our
ascending to the Fortress of St. Anna. In doing so we
see charming fragments of old houses and outside stair-
case, windows of Venetian-Gothic in their make and
other relics of the past. From the fortress we have a
fine view inland, and also over the town and its natural
harbour. We return to our ship feeling that, though we
have seen Sebenico, we have hardly mastered its sights.
* Jackson, vol. i., p. 388.
229

Dalmatia

We bid farewell to our kind friends the Schief-Lieutenants
on the Alissa finally, alas ! so far as this journey to
Dalmatia is concerned and steam away en route for
Zara. From deck-chairs at the prow of the ship we have
views of the coast-line, the dancing blue surface of the
sea, and the islands, stretched in long slips and double
rows, lying between us and the open Adriatic.

At four o'clock we reach Zara, the capital of Dalmatia.
Built on a comparatively flat coast, the town appears
from the sea less strikingly Dalmatian in character than
any of the towns we have been seeing. In the distance
the sun lights on the crests of the stony Velebic Moun-
tains, which recall the romantic impressions of Southern
Dalmatia, but the town, as we first see it, is common-
place and modern compared to Cattaro, Ragusa, Spalato,
and Sebenico, the front row of houses being high, uni-
form, and dating from yesterday. We are but a few
steps on our way to the hotel, which forms part of this
row of buildings facing the sea, when we are met by
E. von R. N., who has received a telegram from our
friend Schief-Lieutenant S. from Sebenico, noting our
arrival. We at once feel initiated into the real life of the
place, no longer mere tourists and outsiders. A few steps
farther the aide-de-camp of the Commandant of Zara,
Lieutenant V., appears, and, being introduced, joins us
in our walk to the hotel. These two gentlemen appoint
themselves our ciceroni during our short stay in Zara.
Under an awning in front of our modern hotel we and
our new friends take tea, and thence proceed to see the
town.

We are first taken to the Duomo, dedicated to St.

230

The Duomo of Zara

Anastasia. The present building, on the site of a more
ancient church, described, Mr. Jackson tells us, by Por-
phyrogenitus as " floored with marvellous mosaics and
decorated with paintings that were ancient even in the
tenth century," was not begun before the thirteenth, and
was consecrated by Archbishop Lorenzo Periandro, a
native of Zara, in the year 1285, though the inscription
on the great door tells us that the Romanesque facade
was built later in the year 1324. The baldacchino and
the choir stalls are the most striking features of the
interior, the plan of which is that of a basilica. " The
baldacchino," writes Mr. Jackson, "is on a grand scale,
loftier, as the Zaratini boast, than the famous one in
St. Mark's, and though it dates only from the fourteenth
century, it preserves all the chaste severity of an earlier
style. It rests on four columns of beautiful Cipollino
marble, which are ornamented something after the manner
of our Elizabethan chimneys, the front pair being richly
diapered with sunk work, and the back pair fluted, one
of them spirally and the other in zigzags. . . . The choir
stalls are undoubtedly the most magnificent examples of
a class of woodwork that abounds in Dalmatia and the
Littorale, resembling the well-known stalls of the Ferari
at Venice." The treasury of the Duomo is very rich, but
it is not on view for us. The baptistery is evidently a
more ancient construction than the Cathedral itself, but
the campanile was begun by Archbishop Maffeo Valaresso
only in 1480.

From the Duomo we are taken to the Church of St.
Simeone, to view the great silver ark, supposed to con-
tain the entire skeleton of St. Simeon, who held the

231

Dalmatia

infant Christ in his arms at the Presentation in the
Temple.*

Our aide-de-camp is anxious for C. B. to play lawn-
tennis with him and other friends with whom he has an
appointment, and we are somewhat discouraged in our
desire to see other churches in Zara, of which we have
read. We are taken round the old walls looking over
the harbour, which runs in from the sea behind the town,
and then to the lawn-tennis ground by a ferry on the
opposite side. In Zara the idea is to become English.

* The story of this precious treasure, finished in 1380, pre-
sented by Queen Elizabeth of Hungary, is described by Mr.
Jackson as follows : " This church was originally the collegiate
church of S. Stefano, the establishment of which was suppressed
in 1393, and it changed its name when the ark and relic of St.
Simeon were moved hither in 1625. The church is a simple
building of the early Renaissance, pleasing but not remarkable,
and the campanile, which has fairly good outline, was built as
lately as 1707.

" The glory of this church is the great silver ark, in which lies
the body, as the Zaratini believe, of Simeon, who held the infant
Christ in his arms at the Presentation in the Temple. After
various vicissitudes and removals, this magnificent piece of
silversmith's work, the largest, it is said, in the churches of the
Austrian Empire, is now to be seen above and behind the high-
altar, supported by two bronze angels, and reached by a narrow
flight of stairs from each side, so that the faithful who come to
adore the saint may ascend on one side to see the relic and kiss
the shrine, and descend on the other. This they may be seen
doing all day long ; but on the Feast of St. Simeon, October 8th,
they come in enormous numbers, and each pilgrim receives a
bombace, or little tuft of cotton-wool in a paper envelope, which
has been shut up in the ark, and has thereby imbibed virtues
which are miraculous in cases of toothache or earache or other
minor ills to which cotton-wool is applicable, and with which
the nerves and the imagination have much to do. For three
months beforehand the business of making these bombaci goes on.
No less than 25,000 were ready when we were there, filling three
large chests, some in pink envelopes for the Zaratini, the rest in
white for pilgrims from without. We were presented with a

232

1. SEBENICO, FROM THE STEAMER.

2. FORT OF CAMERLENGO, TRAU.

Built about 1424.

(See p. 226.)

Reverence for England at Zara

The aide-de-camp is teaching his chief's daughter riding
in a riding-school, and hurries away from the lawn-
tennis game (not conspicuous for good play) to give his
lesson. " A little riding and a great deal flirt," says
Lieutenant E. von K. as his friend departs. Insisting
on carrying my waterproof, this gentleman exclaims :
" What an honour to carry an English lady's English
waterproof !" Before parting from our friends this
evening, an arrangement is made to go out with Lieu-
tenant V. in his yacht the next day. We reserve the

handful as a reminiscence, and thereby some poor Croat was,
perhaps, consigned to the pangs of hopeless toothache if the
number happened to fall short.

" The story of the arrival of the relic, which Fondra, its his-
torian in the seventeenth century, candidly admits he was the
first to put in writing, is this : Either in 1213 or 1273 a ship was
driven to Zara by a tempest, having on board a nobleman who,
during his stay, deposited in the cemetery the body, as he said,
of his brother, which he was taking home for burial. The noble-
man, however, died at Zara, and from his papers it was discovered
that the body was none other than that of Simeon the Just, who
had held Christ in his arms in the Temple. Dreams and portents
were not long wanting to confirm the discovery, and the body
was taken to the collegiate church of S. Maria, where, by the
expulsion of devils from demoniacs, and other satisfactory
miracles of the same kind, it sufficiently asserted its sanctity.

" In 1371 Lewis the Great of Hungary, with elder and younger
Elizabeth, his mother, and wife, visited Zara after his conquest
of Dalmatia. The younger Queen, so says the legend, was so
desirous of possessing a piece of the relic that she broke off a
finger and hid in her bosom, but she instantly lost her senses,
and only recovered them on restitution of her theft. The finger
miraculously attached itself to the body, and the bosom of the
Queen, which had begun to mortify and breed worms, was no
less miraculously healed.

" After this, we at last touch historical ground. Elizabeth
wrote to certain nobles of Zara to have a rich ark of silver made
to contain the relic. They entrusted the work to one Francesco
d'Antonio di Milano, a goldsmith of Zara, with whom they

233 30

Dalmatia

morning for discovering the old churches, which we have
not been allowed to look for by our new, up-to-date
acquaintances.

September 2gth. We first make for the museum,
formerly the Church of San Donate, a round church
built by Bishop Donato in the ninth century on the
foundations of a Roman temple, which were covered up
till recently, but are now visible an example, indeed,
of the old order changing to new ! Fine pieces of fluted
columns are sideways on the ground, the curved surface

entered into a contract in 1377 ; and the ark was finished in 1380,
as we know by the inscription on the back, in which Francesco
di Milano has recorded his own name as the artificer. The ark
is an oblong coffer with a coped roof and a gable at each end,
and is long enough to contain a human body at full length.
The front is hinged, and falls down, disclosing in the interior,
behind a glass panel, the ghastly and withered mummy of some
poor son of earth, whoever he may have been. Both within and
without the whole ark is covered with silver plates, embossed
with figure subjects, and chased with diapers and ornamental
borders.

" The effigy of Simeon lies on the slope of the roof towards the
church, and the rest of the surface is occupied with various
scenes of the arrival of the relic at Zara, and of the miracles it
performed there, the only historical subject being the Presenta-
tion in the Temple, which occupies the central panel of the front.
Of the other subjects, different persons give different explana-
tions, and some are generally admitted to be inexplicable.
Fondra finds in one group on the back of the lid the story of
Elizabeth and the rape of the finger. His editor believes this
to be nothing of the sort, but finds the story of the stolen finger
in the group at the left-hand end of the ark, which Fondra, on
the contrary, takes to be merely a representation of the solemn
entry of King Lewis and his Queen into Zara. When two such
faithful doctors disagree, we may perhaps be allowed to question
whether either of these pictures represents the story of Elizabeth,
and even whether the origin of the story itself may not be found
in the attempt of some ingenious person to explain pictures of
which the true history had been lost."

234

Church of San Donate, Zara

of these drums serving as the foundations for the bases
of the subsequent columns of a Christian church. Flights
of steps lead to an upper gallery, running round the
building, in which are placed a great number of objects
of antiquity, such as are found wherever the Romans
have colonized. " By a systematic examination of the
fragments, Professor Hauser is led to conclude," writes
Mr. Jackson, " that there are among them the spoils of at
least four public buildings. Two of these were of mag-
nificent dimensions, their columns being about thirty
feet in height." San Donate has completely lost the
character and atmosphere of a Christian church by reason
of this museum finding a place therein, also on account
of the excavations under the flooring of the later building
disclosing the remains of the Roman temple. The im-
pression it leaves is of an edifice of great massiveness and
of a certain grandeur in the proportions, but the fact of
its being an absolutely round building suggests that the
space is confined too rigidly within its walls, as is always
the case where there is no break or outlet in a true circle,
the real size of a building thereby not carrying with it
the sense of its due importance.

We walk on through wide and narrow streets, where
the side alleys are rather overcrowded by wine-makers.
The process of crushing the grapes is going on, and
evidently, from the aspect and voices of the men engaged
in the work, not quite all the juice has found its way into
the vats. We reach at last the Church of San Grisogono,
" the most interesting in Zara after the Duomo." Very
ancient is it. " Originally dedicated to S. Antonio, and
served by Egyptian priests, it was rededicated in 649 to

235

Dalmatia

San Grisogono when the relics of that Saint were brought
from Aquileia, and when he was formally adopted as
patron of the city" (Jackson). The interior has little
in it to arrest attention, but the exterior on the south
wall, and the apses at the eastern end, are of beautiful
design and workmanship. " The apses are extremely
beautiful, the open gallery, with its delicate colonnade,
being equal to anything of the kind in the Lombard
churches of Italy" (Jackson). The surrounding build-
ings press too closely on the little church for it to be
really comfortably seen from any point. The church of
greatest antiquity in Zara, after San Grisogono, is the
Church of Santa Maria, but of this we only saw the tower.

Zara does not impress us as so interesting or curious
as the more southern towns in Dalmatia. The modern,
cosmopolitan element in the life of the city is fast
obliterating the intrinsic, national flavour. Perhaps, also,
the fact that our kind acquaintances think we shall be
more interested in the modern life that they are leading
there than in its ancient architecture has something to
do with our impressions of Zara.

After luncheon we are fetched by Lieutenant von K.
and conducted to the ferry and over the harbour to the
yacht belonging to Lieutenant V. Both officers are
hopeful, as there is a hint of tramontana in the air which
promises a possibility of a sail. The little yacht is a
dandy everything most spick and span, and Lieu-
tenant V. is in the lightest and smartest of yachting
costumes. We start away, and are carried by the sails
out of the harbour. The water is so clear that we easily
see everything that is lying on the ground below it.

236

The Last Day in Dalmatia

But, alas ! we are going slower and slower. The sails go
into folds, and flop about in hopeless lassitude. No ;
calm has triumphed. There is no sailing to-day, and we
can only get back into the harbour by means of our host
and his friends plying the oars. They are to dine with
us, and then C. B. and K. B. are to embark on the steamer
to Polo, and I am to remain till the morning, and then
take ship to Fiume, to be met there by a dear old friend,
whose friendship dates from early youth, and whose
home is a beautiful villa near Abbazia, on the shores of
the Gulf of Fiume.

September soth. The last day of the month the last
day, or rather morning, in Dalmatia ! How much we
have seen, how much left unseen, in this fascinating,
brilliantly coloured, romantic country ! I get up and
open the shutters. A lovely, opalesque sky and sea
dreamy, faint colour ; not a breath of wind, not a sail
flying oars doing all the work. Lieutenant K. comes
to accompany me on board, and the Commandant and
his family also arrive. Our large steamer starts, and we
slide through the waveless waters, quickly away from
Zara. From the sea it looks fine as a town, and the
campanile very tall. The beautiful Velebic Alps rise
behind the shore, softly coloured, the lights a faint pink,
the shadows a yet fainter, softer azure. Once out and
away from the shore, it is all like a huge opal. A flight
of porpoises dolphini appear, leaping in loops out of
the glassy surface of the sea near our ship. They are the
only hint in view of any dark tone. Of course, someone
tries to shoot one of the happy shoal. Naturally and
fortunately, he fails. In Austria there is a mania for

237

Dalmatia

trying to shoot everything the only habit I should
criticize adversely in this delightful country, so far as we
have seen it. The voyage is a lovely one ; but the sirocco,
and the dreamy aspect of all the scenes we pass, likewise
the comfort of a deck-chair, have a sporific effect. Many
small islands we pass before entering the Canale Quara-
nero. Punta Croce, the northern point of the large
island Cherso, is on our left. Then, on our right, is
beautiful Arbe, the island of the row of towers, rising
golden into the opal tints of hill and sky, and shining
down, unfluttered by a single wave, into the faint azure
of the sea. Of all regrets caused by the want of time,
not seeing Arbe is the keenest. Mr. Jackson writes :
" Of all Dalmatian towns, there is none, to my taste,
so lovely as poor, plague-stricken Arbe." We had said,
when arranging our journey, whatever we do or we do
not see, we must see Arbe. And yet here I am, in the
large Austrian-Lloyd steamer, passing it by without
making its acquaintance ! Oh, the tyranny of dates and
steamers !

Ahead of us is Veglia, and soon we are steaming through
the narrow strait between Cherso and Veglia, the islands
which surround the southern limits of the Gulf of Fiume,
and make it, to all appearance, an inland lake. We are
now in the Quaranero, Istria, beautiful Dalmatia being
left behind. Escaping from between the shores of Cherso
and Veglia, we steam straight northwards into the open
gulf towards the important town of Fiume, on the shore of
the eastern upper corner of the gulf. The scene is one of
the most beautiful of the many beautiful scenes of our
journey, recalling visions of Turner's later records of all that

238

A Happy Meeting

is most wonderful in colour, light, and atmosphere. Very
deep toned against the warm light of the sky, the solemn
purple Monte Maggiore fills in the western side of the bay.
Vermilion-coloured rocks rise from the shore between
Abbazia and Fiume, catching the glow from the setting
sun. The same vivid red, varied with burning gold and
amber, is scattered on the surface of the water by the
sails of the Chioggia boats, which throw back fluttering,
brilliant ribbons of scarlet and gold as they glide along
on the bluest and greenest of seas. The smoke from the
town of Fiume rises, a mist of fire against the purple of
inland mountain ranges. From the farthest standing-
point on the prow I see it all, and as we near the harbour,
standing on the quay I see Her Excellency and Baron A.
awaiting me. The many years that have passed since
I saw that friend, and yet the figure, once recognized
across the waters, is unmistakable ! A small steamer
conveys us across the gulf from Fiume to Abbazia, and
thence in a bright-coloured boat we are rowed to the
white marble steps of the beautiful villa on the edge of
the sea, in the forest of bay-trees, where the iron gates
close on the public. One incident of my delightful visit
to my old friend I must, however, record, as it is asso-
ciated with that wonderful journey from Patras to
Corinth, and again with that memorable day we spent at
Olympia.

On October 3 my friend took me to the interesting
town of Lolbianu, on the shore, under the shadow of great
Monte Maggiore. As we drove along by the sea, with
but a few low rocks and bushes between the road and the
coast, just before crossing the stream Icici, near the

239

Istria

village Ika, I caught sight of the beautiful blue spike,
the unattainable flower from the train, found and secured
at Olympia, and lost, before being named, by the ruthless
action of the steward on the Scylla. We sprang from the
carriage, and, gathering large bunches, took them home
to the villa in triumph, the Baron von R., who was dining
with my hostess that night, naming them as the Vitex
Agnus castus.

240

PULPIT IN THE CATHEDRAL OK GRADO (see /. 244)

VII
ITALY ONCE MORE

TRIESTE GRADO AQUILEJA VENICE

October $th. At 10 p.m. my train arrives at Trieste ;
C. B. and K. B. are on the platform. We find a grand
hotel, and everything up to date.

October 6th. Our boat to Grado is supposed to start
at 10 a.m., but, after rather hurrying our proceedings
and finding ourselves beside the little steamer on the quay,
we are told the departure is postponed till noon. There
is time to mount the hill to the old Cathedral. Originally
the building was separated, and formed two distinct
churches. In the thirteenth or fourteenth century these
two churches were converted into the side aisles of a large
Cathedral by the space between being covered in. The
apses of the two older buildings are lined with rare and
very fine mosaic work of the best period, recalling the
ceiling in the oldest part of San Ambrogio in Milan.

As we sit on the piazza, enjoying a second breakfast,
having another half-hour before our boat starts, great
herds of turkeys pass us by. They are driven like flocks
of sheep by men and women, holding long staves in their
hands to guide them, as did the little maidens wandering
in the gloaming among the olive-trees on the southern

241 31

Italy Once More

slopes of Hymettus that evening we travelled back from
Colonna to Athens. On our road to the boat we saw
beautiful white oxen doing the work of horses along the
quay. Trieste, though in many ways commercial and
modern, still retains a flavour of the past and many of
the old national customs of Austria.

We are on the quay at noon. To Grado, Aquileja
old patriarchal cities on the lagunes and northern coast
of the Adriatic and Venice we go to-day ; and at Venice,
two days hence, we shall bid farewell to the Adriatic.

Mr. Jackson writes : " The campanile of Aquileja and
the town of Grado may both be seen distinctly on a fine
day from the hill above Trieste, springing from the thin
dark line on the horizon that marks the delta of the Isonzo,
and the lagunes and islands by which it is fringed." The
history of these two patriarchal cities is given in Mr.
Jackson's book. His descriptions of the architecture still
in existence in Grado and Aquileja have decided us to
meet the railway from Trieste to Venice at Cervignano,
a few miles inland from Aquileja, taking the little local
steamer from Trieste to Grado, where we shall find
another of like sort in which to make the journey to
Aquileja.

Our little boat starts ; the sea is rough. No longer
sirocco, but tramontana blows. The waves are crisp and
restless, and our steamer is very small. In less than an
hour Grado comes almost alongside of us (not the Grado
we are in quest of, but the new bathing-place, with its
large fitablissement des Bains, which is annexed on to the
old town, and faces southwards), and yet we go on being
tossed about as if we were leaving it behind. Then we

242

The Deserted Grado

take a course backward between rows of stakes, painted
black and white, and, making a large semicircle, we reach
the curious little town on the sea, and land from a canal
which runs through the back of the town. The boat
which is to take us to Aquileja lies ready for us in this
canal, but does not start for an hour. Opposite our
boat is an inn, where we lunch.

We then wander into the streets of the deserted-looking
old town, hot with sunlight, in search of the Duomo.
The place can have altered but little since the time more
than twenty years ago when Mr. Jackson first explored
it. He writes : " What Grado now is, Venice once was,
and there was a time, difficult as it now is to realize it,
when Grado Veneta orce Istri&sque ecclesiarum caput et
mater was the superior and Venice the inferior place of
the two. The Duomo of Grado has not, I believe, been
described nor, so far as I know, had it been seen by
any English student of architecture at the time of my
first visit. It was therefore with the excitement of
explorers, not knowing what we should find to reward
our journey, that we at last stood before the patriarchal
basilica, after more wrong turns and mistakes than might
have been thought possible to make in so tiny a
city."*

* The history of Aquileja and Grado, recounted in Mr. Jack-
son's book, consists mainly of struggles between the Patriarchs
and Archbishops with each other and with the magnates on the
mainland, whence their inhabitants had originally fled. Aquileja
was founded by the Romans in 182 B.C., Grado not till the year
A.D. 570, when Paulinus, an Archbishop of Aquileja, fled across
the lagunes with his relics and treasures before the invasion of
the Lombards, and founded the New Aquileja (as it was called)
at Grado.

243

Italy Once More

In our search through these little streets, before
reaching the Duomo we found ourselves at the Church
of Santa Maria delle Grazie. The interior of this little
Byzantine edifice is delightfully unspoilt. One of the
capitals struck us as singularly beautiful. Fragments of
an ancient mosaic flooring abound ; but time presses we
cannot examine anything minutely and we have still
to find the Duomo. We reach it without much further
wandering. The exterior is unimposing, and does not
prepare us for the beautiful and unspoilt work inside.
" Externally the church is naught ; but, the threshold
once passed, the interior bursts on the view with sur-
prising effect. The wide nave, with closely-set ranks of
marble columns on either hand, carrying narrow, semi-
circular arches, and the apse, which bounds the view
eastward, proclaim the church a basilica of the same class
with the S. Apollinare Nuovo at Ravenna and the
Euphrasiana at Parenzo. Here, it is true, there are no
glittering mosaics on the walls, but this is compensated
by the surpassing splendour of the columns of bianco e nero
marble, and the beauty of the mosaic pavements which
cover the nave floor. Nor is there anything in either of
the other churches so surprising as the strange pulpit at
Grado, raised on lofty pillars, with rudely sculptured
emblems on its embowed sides, and surmounted by a
painted canopy or dome, so Oriental in its appearance
that it would not seem out of place in a Mohammedan
mosque. Beyond the apse, covered with Gothic fresco-
painting, and against the east wall still stands the
patriarchal throne, green with sea damp and leaning to
one side, as if bowing under the weight of its hoary

244

The Strange Loneliness of the Lagunes

antiquity. The first view of the interior of Parenzo is
perhaps more impressive than that of Grado, though the
latter church is considerably the larger of the two ; but
there is about the interior of the Gradensian basilica a
quaintness and strangeness in excellent keeping with its
remote and inaccessible situation, shut out by lagunes
and swamps from the ordinary haunts of mankind, a
home and nesting-place for the sea-fowl."*

History points to there having been a very early and
splendid church at Grado, and the one we see now was
either this ancient building renovated or rebuilt in the
sixth century. The pulpit, the patriarch's throne, in
which the carving is superb, and the mosaic pavement,
are hardly to be surpassed in interest by anything we
have seen of the kind during our journey.

We make our way back to the inn, and in a few minutes
start in the little steamer for Aquileja. This journey
is veritably a new and romantic experience. Through it
we realize visibly the origin of the history of Venice and all
the towns which had poised on the banks of the lagunes.
Wastes and wastes of shallow sea stretch for miles around
us, on which the sea-gulls descend and find a footing on
the sand an inch or two below the surface. Nothing
could be more hopelessly out of reach of their enemies
than the people who knew the deeper channels of these
waters, and fled through them to establish a home among
the lagunes, these channels ever changing with the
shifting of the sands, the waters floating here and there
with the eddies, blown by the varying winds. Dark
stakes that mark the twisted course of the canale which

* Jackson, vol. iii., p. 413.
245

Italy Once More

our 'boat has to take ; hovels, made apparently of turf
and rushes in which dwell fishermen and the natives
who keep the courses of the canals open ; these are the
only objects which strike a dark note in the widespread
waste the liquid silver of the floor of sea. The scene
produces totally different impressions to those inspired
by a visit from Venice to the now deserted Torcello and
Murano. The idea that we are sightseers fades com-
pletely in an absolute sense of remote loneliness.
Nothing has ever struck me as so solitary as the little
isolated brown huts, each on its heave of sand, only
just above the dead level of the miles and miles of wave-
less water. But, looking ahead from the prow of our
little ship, where we lie on the wooden roof of a cabin,
we see, rising straight out of the sea, a lofty campanile,
quite alone and deserted. The houses of the town have
been washed away, the waters have closed round it on
every side, but there it remains, steadfast and lofty,
away from all dwellings, in the midst of the wastes of
shallow sea. San Pietro in Orto is its name.

From the wider Canale delle Mer, we next see the
lofty campanile of the great basilica of Aquileja, and as
we pass into the narrow canal of Natisso, green banks
rise on either side, and we feel we have reached the main-
land. A few bushes partly hide a footpath on which
peasants in bright-coloured clothes are walking. From
the foliage of one of the bushes a bright, shining flash of
blue, like a brilliant enamelled jewel, is shot. On looking
hard into the leaves, we discover a kingfisher. Now
we are slackening speed, and pass under a bridge, and soon
are moored by the side of a quay. The other side of the

246

Two Vast Cities Obliterated

canale borders the Piazza, of Aquileja. Carriages are
waiting the passengers from our boat, and one of these
we engage for the afternoon, and driving over another
bridge, we cross the piazza, a mere village green, through
a lane to the great patriarchal church. This, then, is
the once great Aquila Nera, one of the most important
among the provincial Roman cities, and strongly fortified.
In 452 Attila destroyed this phase of its existence, but
what of the reign of the great patriarchs ? Nothing seems
to be left of any of its grandeur but the Cathedral.

" When we finally found ourselves in the modest piazza
of modern Aquileja, a village green with half a dozen
houses around it, there was little to help us to believe
that we were in the centre of the site of one of the proudest
of Roman cities, the favourite resort of emperors and
empresses, and the seat of a population that has been
estimated at more than half a million souls.

" By the village street, which was little more than a
country lane, we reached the great patriarchal church.
Fragments of antiquity lay on all sides, but not one
stone of Roman Aquileja is left standing on another.
Considering the massive construction of Roman buildings,
down even to the latest days of the empire, one asks in
amazement what can have become of the materials of
town walls, gates, temples, theatres, amphitheatres,
forums, and basilicas, to say nothing of the private
dwellings of the half million inhabitants of Aquileja at
the time of Attila's conquest. There is no large modern
town at hand which could have made a quarry of the
ruined city ; the revived Aquileja of the middle ages
was but a humble successor to the Aquileja of Augustus,

247

Italy Once More

and even of that minor city nothing is now to be seen.
Of the palace of the patriarch, with its great courtyard,
its arcaded loggias, extending 180 feet one way and
120 the other, and its portico which led up to the basilica,
nothing remains but two isolated columns built of small
masonry, whose purpose it is hard to conjecture, and the
rest has disappeared as utterly as the Roman buildings
out of whose ruins it was no doubt fabricated. Some
sculptured fragments we know were carried off to Venice
and Torcello, and Byzantine panel-work may still be seen
in St. Mark's, which, according to tradition, was saved
from the churches of Aquileja after their destruction
by ' the Scourge of God.' It may possibly have been
the case that Venice herself, not only politically, but
materially, rose out of the ruins of Aquileja and Altinum ;
there was no natural supply of building material at a
less distance, and the wrought stone of ancient buildings
formed, as we know, a tempting quarry for the builders
of the dark ages. However we may account for the
total disappearance of so huge a city, its disappearance
is complete, and we have now to look below ground for
evidence of the huge population that once lived here.
Of these there is no lack. Every year the plough turns
up such an abundance of coins, gems, buckles, clasps,
and ornaments of all kinds, that there would seem no
need for the counterfeits which are offered to the unwary
visitor."*

The Duomo is a very much larger and more important
looking structure than that of Grado. Its anterior is very
spacious and imposing. The nave has a waggon ceiling
* Jackson, vol. iii., p. 393.
248

Cathedral and Museum of Aquileja

of curious and effective construction, painted black,
white, and yellow. The arches supporting it are pointed
Gothic, springing from Corinthian capitals, and by far
the most striking feature is in the best style of early
Renaissance. " The grandest feature in the church is
undoubtedly the magnificent ascent to the choir by two
flights of side steps, right and left of a central rostrum,
or pulpit. Under this is a window, through which is
to be seen in the crypt the sarcophagus containing the
remains of the Saints Harmagoras and Fortunatian ;
and right and left of the stairs is a rich podium, forming
part of the front of the raised choir, and crowned by a
handsome balustrade. The whole is in the best style
of the early period of the Renaissance ; the central part
especially is the work of a master hand, and I know few
compositions of the kind purer in their detail or more
magnificent in conception."*

From theCathedral our carriage takes us to the Museum,
in which are large collections of glass and metal objects,
and fragments of sculpture. No time can be more ill-
spent in travelling than by a cursory view of a museum.
It creates no impression but a sense of aggravation that
the objects say nothing to you, however old, and, had
you time to study them, they might be full of interest.
We drive back to the piazza, and find an inn which
provides us with all the accessories for tea. The article
itself we take with us always in one of numerous items
of hand baggage ; English-like, we cling to the quality
of our tea. We sit drinking it outside the inn on the
green piazza.

* Jackson, vol. iii., p. 401.

249 32

Italy Once More

Remote to all appearance from our modern world,
Aquileja possesses no distinct suggestion, as does Grado,
of any particular ancient or medieval world, any special
period of civilization. Not only has the mark of the
Roman dynasty departed, but also all flavour of that
patriarchal administration in the early centuries, which
commanded that curious life on the lagunes, culminating
in the glory of Venice. Aquileja is not a great city in
decay and ruin, but a city whose former grandeur is
completely obliterated.

We start in our carriage for the station of Cervignano,
a drive of three or four miles, where we join the Trieste
line to Venice. From the road we see fragments of
Roman sculpture built into the houses, and portions of
two columns still standing erect. But the charm of the
drive lies in the signs we pass and meet of the great
function of the vintage. The colour of the vines is glorious
at this moment, and their growth is gracefully arranged
in festoons along the highroad. We meet a waggon
drawn by oxen, piled high with handsome peasants in
gay costume, mounted on vats of wine, the whole erection
festooned with the branches and tendrils of the vine.
It seems almost theatrical in its picturesquesness, and
strikes me as a living counterpart of a French crayon
drawing we were given to copy as children, and of Watts's
early picture of the same subject, but supposed to be
in Tuscany.

It is almost dark when we reach Cervignano. To be
at a railway station again feels as if things were indeed
nearing the close of our happy journey. I have not seen
a train since the one we left on reaching Patras from

250

Again in a Railway Train

Olympia. It is quite dark before the one arrives which
is to take us to Venice. The black monster crawls in
with a screech, the piccolo bagagli are hoisted up into a
carriage, and we find ourselves again in only too well-
known conditions. But at Venice, in a gondola, we have
a respite from them ; and at Venice the full moon again :
the full moon we saw a month ago pale primrose in the
rosy-tinted morning air the first rays of earliest dawn
outlining the pale ashen "Isles of Greece" the far-
away, ghostly Ithaca ; and, as we neared Patras, casting
strange, bright emerald green ribbons on the crests of
the waves as signals of her farewell. In a month only
have we seen all we have seen. Before bed, we must
also see the piazza moonshine on the piazza on
St. Mark's.

Wednesday, October jth. We have but one day to pay
our respects to all the best old friends we have at Venice :
first, early Mass in St. Mark's, with music from the organ
(as so many years ago I heard it morning after morning
in the warm June weather) ; then we wander round to the
Doge's palace and along the Schiavone, to meet the morn-
ing breeze from the sea beyond the Lido. Then comes
a hopeless search for " II Paradise," the beautiful, old
pointed Gothic arch, heading the narrowest of passages
over one of the small bridges. Has it been destroyed, or
have I forgotten how to find it ? I painted it carefully
years ago, and thought I could easily find it, but I cannot.
Then a wander to SS. Giovanni e Paolo, and to the
glorious bronze equestrian portrait of the General of the
Republic, Bartolommeo Colleoni, by Andrea Verrocchio,
Leonardo da Vinci's master, the beautiful pedestal made

251

Venice

and the whole cast by Leopardi,
rising in the midst of the piazza,
It takes some time to find ; but
there it is at last, quite match-
less in its nobility and dominant
strength. " I do not believe there
is a more glorious work of sculp-
ture existing in the world than
the equestrian statue of Bartol-
ommeo Colleoni," writes Ruskin.
For the quality known as " style "
in art, Watts thought there was
nothing to equal it. And facing
the piazza, on which it stands,

and adjoining the magnificent

Church of SS. Giovanni e Paolo,

is the beautiful facade of the

Scuola di San Marco, the work

of the Lombardi, Pietro and

Tullio, used as a hospital since

1815. Very characteristic figures,

of all classes, are passing in and

out of the doorways, guarded

by the lions so finely sculp-
tured, all entirely Venetian in

character. Our respects must

also be paid to the great

monuments above the burial

vaults of the Doges inside

the church just a passing call,

for there is no time to linger.

252

EQUESTRIAN STATUE OF
BARTOLOMMEO COLLEONI
BY ANDREA VERROCHIO
AT VENICE.

St. Mark's and the Grand Canal

Walking about Venice to-day, among these narrow
calle and over the many bridges, is a treat in itself. The
sun is bright, the air light and brisk, and the people look
alert, happy, and busy. There is a something lifted off
which adds to the physical enjoyment of every minute.

When one comes to think about it, of course, it is
absence of the friction of wheels. The wearying effect
of the grating noises of traffic in an ordinary town is
replaced by the soothing, swishing sound of the water in
the canals, as the gondolas pass gently through them.

There is a fine service going on about three o'clock
in St. Mark's, when we turn in to the gorgeous casket,
filled with the spoils of many early and beautiful Byzan-
tine churches. During our journeyings we have awaked
to the fact that the wonder and treasures of workman-
ship now in St. Mark's were invented for other basilicas,
which were spoiled, and, in some cases, wholly demolished
in order to enrich this glory of the Venetian dominions.
At Pola, a whole church was razed to the ground, and its
valuable materials shipped off to Venice. But with what
a splendid sense of decorative beauty and design has all
this alien matter been adapted to the main idea of the
building ! We visit the whole of the building conscien-
tiously, then take a gondola by the hour to enjoy the most
Venetian of all Venetian noble sights, the old palaces on
the Grand Canal. There they all are, the Ca'd'oro, their
queen, looking unchanged and as beautiful as ever.
But how long will the piles on which they are built stand
the pressure, the violent hits made against them by the
waves as steamers push with heedless and irreverent
doggedness through the canal ? As they pass us in our

253

Venice

gondola and in the two hours we spend on the Grand
Canal twenty-five steamers tear past we are tossed from
side to side, as if on a heavy sea. That force surely must
steadily be loosening and undermining the security of
the foundations of these glorious edifices. The old order
changeth, and the new bringeth destruction in its wake
to treasures which the future can and will never restore
to us.

The Carabinieri band plays after dinner in the piazza.,
and by the light of the moon, still looking round and
full (there seems to be again another three nights of full
moon in the South), we listen, among other items, to a
Symphony of Beethoven, drink our coffee, and gaze on
the fa9ade of St. Mark's a beautiful ending to our
supremely successful holiday. The few days to come
on foreign soil will hardly count. It will be travelling
as quickly as we can, allowing for the nights' rests.

Yes, it is well to say farewell to the Adriatic on the piazza.
of St. Mark's. All Dalmatia has been under the influ-
ence of the great Republic. Mr. Jackson concludes the
beautiful book which inspired our journey by the sen-
tence : " No European state since the days of the Romans
has more strongly stamped its individuality on its empire
than Venice ; she carried with her her arts, her peculiar
form of government, and her very dialect, wherever she
went ; her influence may still be traced wherever the
standard of St. Mark has been planted ; and if the defects
of her political system become apparent as one wanders
over her ancient dominion, one learns also to appreciate
her greatness."

To-night the piazza is crowded with strollers, all

254

Music Triumphant

apparently dwellers in Venice, probably belonging to the
shopkeeping class, who turn out in the evening to enjoy
the only exercise and fresh air they get in the whole
twenty-four hours. One party of foreigners only we see
besides our own, and these are Americans. The type of
the Venetians here assembled is by no means noble in
appearance. They are very unlike the typical gondolier
our Pietro, for instance, who served us for two summer
months and won our hearts years ago. With hardly an
exception they are undersized, pale, have little counten-
ance, expression, or structural comeliness in their faces.
When, however, the band of the Carabinieri begins to
play, they stop walking and crowd round the circle of
performers, listening intently. When the last notes of
Beethoven's Symphony are played, the whole piazza.
bursts out in enthusiastic applause. Ah ! assuredly
music is the art that is truly alive in our modern days ;
the great music that can wring out genuine applause from
the shopkeepers of Venice is an art in tune with the really
beautiful things we have seen in Dalmatia, and much
that remains in the St. Mark's we are gazing at.

Veiled in its grandeur, and lit only by the moon, the
disfigurement of four out of the five portals facing the
piazza by later mosaics (pictures by Titian put into
mosaic, for example) is hardly discernible, the contrast
between these and the ancient decoration of the fifth
portal so glaringly evident in the daytime. Some
centuries ago, the sense of sight in European nations
in most countries seems to have lost its instinct for that
enjoyment of perfect structure and decoration which
sprang from a spontaneous feeling of the same Tightness

255

Venice

in effect as is ever present in Nature's work. It grows
out of the eternal laws which create her beauty, and
which, in the artist, inspire the delight of patiently
working out inventions on her lines. That fifth portal,
now in view, the treasures at Ragusa, the pulpit at
Spalato, the porch at Trail, the Cathedral at Grado,
these were all worked out from that finer instinct for
loveliness, which, for the most part, the modern human
eye and brain have so completely lost, that not only
can we not invent such things, but we do not scruple to
destroy the treasures which are the results of that
instinct. Year after year, some fresh spoliation of the
Philistine robs the world of more beautiful things. A
fuss is made by the few ; but unless it can be proved that
commercial interests are injured by the spoliation, it
proceeds, and is soon forgotten, there being only a very
few that are really hurt by the desecration. The eye of the
great majority, suffering no pain in viewing ugliness, no
moral sense of indignation is aroused by the destruction
of the beauitful, save in a tiny and helpless minority.

But with music, in these our very modern days, it is a
very different matter. Sensibilities of the highest aesthetic
quality have apparently receded on to a more abstract
plane than that on which the visible arts can be recorded.
Music, of the best, that has in it the secret of touching
the finer chords in the depth of our human nature, is so
universal an influence that its power goes home to the
aesthetic sense and creates enthusiasm in crowds of every
class in every community,

The Carabinieri begin playing a Hungarian Rhapsody
by Lizst. Here, assuredly, is the special note in music,

256

iiiiii

in mm w m m

THE CA D'ORO ON THE GRAND CANAL, VENICE.
Compare with illustration of " The Sponza" at RagusA, facing p. 184.

IN A SIDE CANAL, VENICE.

The Curtain Drops

corresponding to the character of those sights and con-
ditions in art and Nature which have made Dalmatia so
profoundly interesting to us. With those wild phrases
of intoxicating sound ringing in the air ; with that
marvellous Byzantine treasure-mine, the great jewel of
Venice, before our eyes, its rich intricacies of precious
work rising grandly massed against the moonlit sky, we
must let fall the curtain on the wealth of beautiful im-
pressions with which our journeyings have enriched our
memory, and of which this diary is, I am afraid, but a
very feeble record.

257 I7

INDEX

ABBAZIA, 239

Abbotsbury, chapel at, 227
Acamantis, tribe of, 87
Achaia, mountains of, 113
Acropolis, the, 55, 65, 67, 73,

76, 99, 106, 107, no, 120
Adam, Robert, 192, 201
Adriatic, the, 20, 23
^Egina, Gulf of, 42, 103

Island of, 42
^Egion, 39, 40
^Eschylus, 43, 45, 46, 50, 130

mines mentioned by, 93
^Esculapius, 199
Akrata, 40
Albanian coast, 136
Alcamenes, 118
Alessi, Andrea di, 220
Alissa, s.s., 224, 225, 230
Alpheus, River, 115, 119, 121
Alps, 4, 9, n
Altinum, 248
Anchiasmos, 134
Ancona, 19
Antirrhion, Castro, 36
Apennines (Italian), 13
Aphrodite, Temple of, 62
Aquila Nera, see Aquileja
Aquileja, 236, 242, 243, 245,
246, 247, 248, 250

museum at, 249
Arbe, Island of, 220, 238
Argos, 105

Arnold, Matthew, 7, 8
Athena Nike, Temple of, 60, 68
Athena, Temple of, 95, 102
Athens, 35, 46-112

the Acropolis, 46, 47, 49,

Athens, Andronicus Cyrrhestes,

Arch of Hadrian, 49, 86
Beule Gate, 51, 60
early Christian churches

in, 81
Erechtheion, 46, 49, 54,

57 60
Gate of Athena Arche-

getis, 83

Kapnikarea Church, 81
Mayor's election at, 97,

in, 131

modern, 74-75, 76, 87
the National Museum, 108
Parthenon, 51, 53, 54, 56,

railway-station of, 47
Stoa of Hadrian, 84
Temple of Zeus Olympus,

86, 87

Theatre of Dionysos, 50
Tower of Winds, 82
Attila, 247
Augustus Caesar, 247
Avars, 208
Avlona, 137

Bay of, 139

Bagehot, Walter, 190
Barbarossa, Emperor Frederick,

Bari, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 210
Barletta, 20
Basle, 3, 5,

museum at, 4, 6
Bassi, Laura, 14
Beaconsfield, Lord, 104
Beethoven's Symphony, 255

258

Index

Bela IV., 213
Berlin, Treaty of, 139
Beute Gate, Athens, 68
Blanc, Mont, n
Boida, Mount, 32
Bologna, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17
Church of S. Domenico,

S. Stefano, 16, 17, 79
University, 14
women in, 14
Boulogne, i
Brankovic, the Servian poet,

149

Brindisi, 24, 25
British Museum, 52, 57, 102
Brucciani, 52

Bua, Island of, 215, 222, 223
Byron, Lord, 28, 30, 31, 89,

129

Byron's servant on Greece, 131
Byronic corsair, a, 95
Byzantine carving, 248

churches, 84, 128, 146, 205,
244. 253

Calamotta, 172

Camerlengo, Fort of, Trau, 216,

223
Campanula pyramidalis, 170,

193, 202

Canale dei sette Castelli, 213
Cannosa. 173, 176, 177, 178,

187, 188

Capuchins, convent of, 87
Cashel, Chapel of St. Cormac at,

227

Caste! Lucuranz, 214, 215
Castelnuovo, 140, 152, 214
Castel Vitturi, 214
Cattaro, 140-150, 155, 156, 161,

170, 211, 225, 226
Bo( che di, 139, 151, 152, 173
Church of San Luca, 146
of San Nicolo, 149
of San Trifone, 147
Caydan, the Tartar, 213
Cephalonia, 113, 124
Ceromicos, Cemetery of, 67
Cervignano, 242, 250
Cettigne, 143

Chalandri, 90

Charles V., Emperor, 140

Cherso, Island of, 238

Chicory, blue, 206

Chioggia boats, 239

Chlannutzi, Castle of, 114

Clissa, 206

Colleoni, Bartolommeo, 251, 252

Colonna, Cape, 89, 93

Constantine Porphyrogenitus,

213

Constantinople, 120, 176, 191
i Corfu, 26, 28, 122, 126, 129, 132

and the coast of Albania,
Lord Beaconsfield on, 27

one-gun battery of, 128
Corinth, 35, 41, 42, 105

Canal, 42

Gulf of, 36, 37, 39, 42, 77,

Isthmus of, 42

old, 40
Corot, i

Currant plantations, 35
Curzola, 188, 189

Dalmatian costume, 186

DaJmatico, Orsini, see Orsini

D'Andrea, Novella, 14

Degenfelt, Baron, 226

Delphi, 40

Delvino, 136

Diocletian, Emperor, 190, 191,

198, 199

the palace home of, 211
Dionysius, 203
Doimo, Bishop, 146
Dominis, Archbishop Marc An-
tonio de, 197

Donkeys laden with grapes, 77
D'Ostro, Punta, 139, 141, 153
Dulcigno, 139

Early Christian Churches, see

Byzantine churches
Edward VII., King, 175
Eleusinian mysteries, 46
Eleusis, 46, 61, 62
Eleuthereus, Dionysos, 50
Elgin, Lord, 52
Elis, mountains of, 114

259

Index

Elisabetta Sirani, 14
Elizabeth of Hungary, Queen,

232

Elton, Mr. Charles, 100
Epidauras, 174
Erineos, 38

Farlati, 223

the Jesuit, 197
Fiume, 237, 239

Gulf of, 237
Foggia, 20
French cooking, 3
Frog's Mouth, the, no
Fruit cultivation in Greece, 113

Gargagno, Monte, 20
Geoffrey II. of Ville-Hardouin,

114
Giadro, River, 204, 206, 207,

214

Gionchetto, 180
Gozze, Count, 155, 172, 174-

180, 184, 188

Grado, 241-245, 248, 250, 256
Grape harvest in Dalmatia, 202,

205
Gravosa, 172, 173, 179, 181,

187
Greece, atmosphere of, 27

isles of, 28
Greek art, 55, 56
landscapes, 89
national dress, 85, 91, 92,

95. 96
priests, 80
Guipana, 172
Guvina, Messer Andrea, 195

Hadrian, Emperor, 86
Hagios Vasilios, 36
Harmagoras, 249
Hauser, Professor, 235
Helen, Island of, 94
Herd's Hill, Langport, 190
Herseon, the, at OJympia, 120
Hermes of Praxiteles, 119-124
Herzegovina, 174
Hippodamia, 118
Holbein's drawings, 6
Hutton, Richard, 9

lakchos, 62
lambroni, Clotilda, 14
Ibrahim Pasha, 114
Icici, River, 239
Ika, 240
Istria, 238

Italian reposefulness, 25
Itea, Bay of, 40
Ithaca, 28, 113, 251

of Ulysses, 124, 125
Ivartko, Bang of Bosnia, 140

Jackals in Dalmatia, 179
Jeodo, Basin of, 140

Kaki Scala, Pass of, 43

KaJamaki, 42

Kamarae, 38

Kephisos, River, 61, 62

Keratea, 93, 96

Kipling, Rudyard, 8

Kladeos, River, 119, 120

Kick, 173
| Krivorie, 140
, Kronos, 120

| La Croma, Island of, 185
' Lagosta, 174, 188

Lampiri, 38

Larkspur, wild, 206

Laurion, 89, 90, 93, 96

Legkino, Point, 28

Leigh ton, Lord, 57, 92, 124,
130

Lentiscus, shrubs of, 24

Lepanto, 36

Leucadia, 73

Levantine, character of the,
132

Likon, 1 20

Linguetta, Point of, 137

Lisina, Lake of, 20

Lolbianu, 239

Lombard invasion, 243

Louvre, the, 119

Lucerne, 6

Lupus, statue of Hugh, 58

Lysicrates, monument of, 87

260

Macronisi, see Helen, Island of
Magpies, 124

Index

Malta, palace square at, 70
Manzolince, Signora, 14
Marcopoulo, 91, 93, 96, 97
Marlowe, Christopher, 38
Mars, Hill of, 55
Maupassant, Guy de, 137
Megara, 43, 45, 46
Meleda, 173, 174
Meleda, Canale di, 188

Island of, 188
Merton College, 227
Mezzo, 172

Michele, Pasquale di, 166
Michelozzi, Michelozzo, 164
Milan, 12

San Ambrogia, 241
Miljas, family of, 176
Missolonghi, 30, 113, 124
Monte Maggiore, 239
Monte Sergio, 157, 182
Montenegro, 174

Prince of, 144
Mount .fligaleos, 62, 63
Mount Areopagus, 67
Mount Hymettus, 86, 87, 89,

QO, 93, 95, 99, 126, 242
Mount Lycabettus, 47, 48, 99,

Mount Marian, 210, 213
Mount Mossor, 213
Mount Pentelicus, 89, 90, 98,

99, 108, 126
Murano, 246
Mycenae, 105
Myra in Lycia, 23
Mythenstocke, 9

Napoli, 105

Nero and Corinth Canal, 42

Nicol6 di Ragusa, 183

Nicolo Florentine, 220

Night journey by train in Italy,

19-21
Nureas, Castro, 36

CEnoraaus, 118
Oleander blossoms, 37
Olympia, 113, 114, 115, 116,

118, 122, 126, 239, 251
Olympic games, 121

Onofrio di La Cava, 158, 159,
164, 166, 167 170, 180, 181

Orebic, 189

Orsini Dalmatico, Giorgio, 157,
164

Orsini, Giorgio, 227, 228

Orsini, T. Giovanni, 220

Paeonius, 118

of Mende, 119

Panachaicon, Mount, 32

Parenzo, Euphrasiana at, 244

Paris, 2

Parthenon, the, 69, 99, 100,
102, 103, 106, in

Pater, Walter, 17, 79

Patras, 27, 29, 31, 32, 33, 35,
46, 112, 113, 114, 122,
250, 251
Gulf of, 125

Paulinus, Archbishop of Aqui-
leja, 243

Pausanias, 118

Peirps, River, 114

Peisistratos, 86

Peloponnesus, 36, 42

Pelops, 117

Pentelicus, quarries of Mount,
68

Perasto, 140, 141, 151

Periandro, Archbishop Lorenzo,
231

Pericles, 51, 75

Perigiati, 40

Pheidian treatment of sculp-
ture, 58-59, 102

Pheidias, 51, 52, 90, 117, 120,

130
statue of Athena by, 108

Phellon Mountains, 119

Philostratus, 86

Pietro Paolo, the Venetian,
227

Pilatus, Mount, 7

Piraeus, 103, 104, ni

Plato, 89

Pola, 237, 253

Pordenone ,185

Porphyrogenitus, 231

Porte Rose, 153

Poseidon, 95

261,

Index

Propylaea, the, 99
Pythyas, 100

Quaranero, CanaJe, 238

Radovic, 140

Ragusa, 177, 180, 198, 202,

212, 227, 256
Cathedral of, 184
Chiesa alle Dance, 186
earthquake at, 159, 184
Fort San Lorenzo, 156
Rector's palace, 164, 166,

167

San Salvatore at, 159
Torre Menze, 157

Ragusa Vecchia, 153, 155

Randazzo, 161

Raphael, cartoons of, 41

Ravenna, 192, 244

Reni, Guido, 14

Rhine, the, 5, 6,

Rhion, the, 36

Rhodes, Cecil, grave of, 58

Richard Cceur de Lion, 185

Risano, 140, 151

Riviera dei Castelli, 204

Rosa, Monte, u

Rosebery, Lord, 175

Rossi, Properyiade, 14

Ruskin, John, at Dulwich, 6

Sabbioncello, 172, 173, 174,

188, 189

Sacharitz, Mount, 46
St. Andrew in Muircross in

Fifeshire, 33
St. Andrews, 32
St. Biagio or St. Blaise, 186
St. Fortunatian, 249
St. Gothard Pass, 9
St. Lorenzo, Fortress of, 182
St. Mark's lion, 216
St. Nicholas, 22

St. Paul, 40, 41, 55, 56, 79, 188
Salamis, 44, 45, 46, 50

Bay of, 62

Island of, 42, 43
Salona, 174, 199, 201, 202, 203,
204, 205, 207, 208, 209,
214

Bay of, 213, 214

Sant' Apollinare Nuovo, 244
San Giorgio Point, 213
San Pietro in Or to, 246
San Stephano Point, 213
Santa Clanka, 225
! Santa Claus, see St. Nicholas
Santa Croce, Fort of, 140
Santa Maria della Scarpello,

Church of, 140
Santa Maura, Island of, 127,

129

, Santi Quaranta, 132, 134, 135
Saruna, Cape, 28
Scoron, Giant, 43
Scylla, s.s., 24, 26, 28, 32, 33,

240
Sebenico, 192, 224, 225, 227,

230

Selene, s.s., 127, 135, 138, 139,
140, 143, 151, 152, 166, 168,
184

Servia, 174
Shelley, P. B., 103
Sicily, 161

Sirani, Elisabetta, 14, 15
Slavery, early abolition of, in

Ragusa, 180

Snygros, M., of Athens, 116
Socrates, 51, 75
Somersetshire scenery, 9
Sophocles, 130

Spalato, 157, 190, 193, 194,
197, 198, 202, 203, 204,
211, 212, 223, 225, 226,
256

Cathedral of, 220
Diocletian's palace, 190,
J9 2 . I 93. J 96, 201, 203,
223

museum at, 208
Stague, 172
Stirvonik, 146
Sulorina, 173

Sunium, Temple of, 89, 96
Symonds, John Addington, 38,
54. 73, 75

Tanagra figures, 108
Taormina, 37, 71
Tartar invasions, 213
Termoli, 20

262

Index

Theocritus, 129

Theodoric, 192

Theognis, 45

Thermopylae and Delphi, Am-

phictyons at. 39
Theseion, 67
Theseus, 43

Temple of, 106
Ticino, 10, II
Titian, 171, 185
Torcello, 246, 248
Trau, 202, 212, 215, 216, 217,

219, 220, 222, 223, 226,

256
Cathedral at, 218, 219, 220,

221

Trebinje, 179, 181
Trieste, 241, 242
TrolJope, Anthony, 5, 7,
Turkish attack on Sebenico,

226
Turner, J. M. W., 238

Ulysses and Penelope, 124, 125

Valaresso, Archbishop Maffeo,

231
Val Daphni, 62, 63-65, 66

Byzantine church of, 60,
63, 64, 65, 76, 78

Veglia, 238
Velebic Alps, 230, 237
Venice, 228, 229, 231, 242, 243,
245, 246, 248, 250, 251,
256, 257
Ca* d'Oro, 253
St. Mark's, 251, 254
Verrocchio, Andrea, 251
Victory, statue of, at OJympia,

119

Vine-growing in Italy, 12
Virgil, 134, 135
Vitex Agnus castus, 240
Vosges Mountains, 4

Watts, G. F., 57, 58, 92, 117,

250, 252

" White horses " in England, 2
Wine - making in Dalmatia,

209
Wormwood Scrubs, London, 47

Xerxes, 43

Zante, Island of, 113, 124
Zara, 157, 192, 224, 227, 228,
230, 231, 232, 234, 235, 236,

237
Zeus, Temple of, 116

at Olympia, 120

THE END

BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDKOKO.

RNRE
305 De Neve Dnve p aa

CENTRAL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
University of California, San Diego

DATE DUE

APR 29 1981

MAY 07 1981

JUNU3 1981

MAY 1 8 1981

a 39

UCSD Libr.

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