If papa and mamma (honour be to them!) had not followed the faith of their fathers, and thought proper to send away their only beloved son (afterwards to be celebrated15 under the name of Titmarsh) into ten years’ banishment16 of infernal misery17, tyranny, annoyance18; to give over the fresh feelings of the heart of the little Michael Angelo to the discipline of vulgar bullies19, who, in order to lead tender young children to the Temple of Learning (as they do in the spelling-books), drive them on with clenched20 fists and low abuse; if they fainted, revive them with a thump21, or assailed22 them with a curse; if they were miserable23, consoled them with a brutal24 jeer25 — if, I say, my dear parents, instead of giving me the inestimable benefit of a ten years’ classical education, had kept me at home with my dear thirteen sisters, it is probable I should have liked this country of Attica, in sight of the blue shores of which the present pathetic letter is written; but I was made so miserable in youth by a classical education, that all connected with it is disagreeable in my eyes; and I have the same recollection of Greek in youth that I have of castor-oil.
So in coming in sight of the promontory26 of Sunium, where the Greek Muse27, in an awful vision, came to me, and said in a patronising way, “Why, my dear” (she always, the old spinster, adopts this high and mighty28 tone)—“Why, my dear, are you not charmed to be in this famous neighbourhood, in this land of poets and heroes, of whose history your classical education ought to have made you a master? if it did not, you have wofully neglected your opportunities, and your dear parents have wasted their money in sending you to school.” I replied, “Madam, your company in youth was made so laboriously29 disagreeable to me, that I can’t at present reconcile myself to you in age. I read your poets, but it was in fear and trembling; and a cold sweat is but an ill accompaniment to poetry. I blundered through your histories; but history is so dull (saving your presence) of herself, that when the brutal dulness of a schoolmaster is superadded to her own slow conversation, the union becomes intolerable: hence I have not the slightest pleasure in renewing my acquaintance with a lady who has been the source of so much bodily and mental discomfort30 to me.” To make a long story short, I am anxious to apologise for a want of enthusiasm in the classical line, and to excuse an ignorance which is of the most undeniable sort.
This is an improper31 frame of mind for a person visiting the land of AEschylus and Euripides; add to which, we have been abominably32 overcharged at the inn: and what are the blue hills of Attica, the silver calm basin of Piraeus, the heathery heights of Pentelicus, and yonder rocks crowned by the Doric columns of the Parthenon, and the thin Ionic shafts33 of the Erechtheum, to a man who has had little rest, and is bitten all over by bugs35? Was Alcibiades bitten by bugs, I wonder; and did the brutes36 crawl over him as he lay in the rosy37 arms of Phryne? I wished all night for Socrates’s hammock or basket, as it is described in the “Clouds;” in which resting-place, no doubt, the abominable38 animals kept perforce clear of him.
A French man-of-war, lying in the silvery little harbour, sternly eyeing out of its stern portholes a saucy39 little English corvette beside, began playing sounding marches as a crowd of boats came paddling up to the steamer’s side to convey us travellers to shore. There were Russian schooners40 and Greek brigs lying in this little bay; dumpy little windmills whirling round on the sunburnt heights round about it; an improvised41 town of quays42 and marine43 taverns44 has sprung up on the shore; a host of jingling45 barouches, more miserable than any to be seen even in Germany, were collected at the landing-place; and the Greek drivers (how queer they looked in skull-caps, shabby jackets with profuse47 embroidery48 of worsted, and endless petticoats of dirty calico!) began, in a generous ardour for securing passengers, to abuse each other’s horses and carriages in the regular London fashion. Satire49 could certainly hardly caricature the vehicle in which we were made to journey to Athens; and it was only by thinking that, bad as they were, these coaches were much more comfortable contrivances than any Alcibiades or Cimon ever had, that we consoled ourselves along the road. It was flat for six miles along the plain to the city: and you see for the greater part of the way the purple mount on which the Acropolis rises, and the gleaming houses of the town spread beneath. Round this wide, yellow, barren plain — a stunted50 district of olive-trees is almost the only vegetation visible — there rises, as it were, a sort of chorus of the most beautiful mountains; the most elegant, gracious, and noble the eye ever looked on. These hills did not appear at all lofty or terrible, but superbly rich and aristocratic. The clouds were dancing round about them; you could see their rosy purple shadows sweeping51 round the clear serene52 summits of the hill. To call a hill aristocratic seems affected53 or absurd; but the difference between these hills and the others, is the difference between Newgate Prison and the Travellers’ Club, for instance: both are buildings; but the one stern, dark, and coarse; the other rich, elegant, and festive54. At least, so I thought. With such a stately palace as munificent55 Nature had built for these people, what could they be themselves but lordly, beautiful, brilliant, brave, and wise? We saw four Greeks on donkeys on the road (which is a dust-whirlwind where it is not a puddle); and other four were playing with a dirty pack of cards, at a barrack that English poets have christened the “Half-way House.” Does external nature and beauty influence the soul to good? You go about Warwickshire, and fancy that from merely being born and wandering in those sweet sunny plains and fresh woodlands Shakspeare must have drunk in a portion of that frank artless sense of beauty which lies about his works like a bloom or dew; but a Coventry ribbon-maker, or a slang Leamington squire5, are looking on those very same landscapes too, and what do they profit? You theorise about the influence which the climate and appearance of Attica must have had in ennobling those who were born there: yonder dirty, swindling, ragged56 blackguards, lolling over greasy57 cards three hours before noon, quarrelling and shrieking58, armed to the teeth and afraid to fight, are bred out of the same land which begot59 the philosophers and heroes. But the “Half-way House” is passed by this time, and behold60! we are in the capital of King Otho.
I swear solemnly that I would rather have two hundred a year in Fleet Street, than be King of the Greeks, with Basileus written before my name round their beggarly coin; with the bother of perpetual revolutions in my huge plaster-of-Paris palace, with no amusement but a drive in the afternoon over a wretched arid61 country, where roads are not made, with ambassadors (the deuce knows why, for what good can the English, or the French, or the Russian party get out of such a bankrupt alliance as this?) perpetually pulling and tugging62 at me, away from honest Germany, where there is beer and aesthetic63 conversation, and operas at a small cost. The shabbiness of this place actually beats Ireland, and that is a strong word. The palace of the Basileus is an enormous edifice64 of plaster, in a square containing six houses, three donkeys, no roads, no fountains (except in the picture of the inn); backwards65 it seems to look straight to the mountain — on one side is a beggarly garden — the King goes out to drive (revolutions permitting) at five — some four-and-twenty blackguards saunter up to the huge sandhill of a terrace, as His Majesty66 passes by in a gilt67 barouche and an absurd fancy dress; the gilt barouche goes plunging68 down the sandhills; the two dozen soldiers, who have been presenting arms, slouch off to their quarters; the vast barrack of a palace remains69 entirely70 white, ghastly, and lonely; and, save the braying71 of a donkey now and then (which long-eared minstrels are more active and sonorous72 in Athens than in any place I know), all is entirely silent round Basileus’s palace. How could people who knew Leopold fancy he would be so “jolly green” as to take such a berth73? It was only a gobemouche of a Bavarian that could ever have been induced to accept it.
I beseech74 you to believe that it was not the bill and the bugs at the inn which induced the writer hereof to speak so slightingly of the residence of Basileus. These evils are now cured and forgotten. This is written off the leaden flats and mounds75 which they call the Troad. It is stern justice alone which pronounces this excruciating sentence. It was a farce76 to make this place into a kingly capital; and I make no manner of doubt that King Otho, the very day he can get away unperceived, and get together the passage-money, will be off for dear old Deutschland, Fatherland, Beerland!
I have never seen a town in England which may be compared to this; for though Herne Bay is a ruin now, money was once spent upon it and houses built; here, beyond a few score of mansions77 comfortably laid out, the town is little better than a rickety agglomeration78 of larger and smaller huts, tricked out here and there with the most absurd cracked ornaments79 and cheap attempts at elegance81. But neatness is the elegance of poverty, and these people despise such a homely82 ornament80. I have got a map with squares, fountains, theatres, public gardens, and Places d’Othon marked out; but they only exist in the paper capital — the wretched tumble-down wooden one boasts of none.
One is obliged to come back to the old disagreeable comparison of Ireland. Athens may be about as wealthy a place as Carlow or Killarney — the streets swarm83 with idle crowds, the innumerable little lanes flow over with dirty little children, they are playing and puddling about in the dirt everywhere, with great big eyes, yellow faces, and the queerest little gowns and skull-caps. But in the outer man, the Greek has far the advantage of the Irishman: most of them are well and decently dressed (if five-and-twenty yards of petticoat may not be called decent, what may?), they swagger to and fro with huge knives in their girdles. Almost all the men are handsome, but live hard, it is said, in order to decorate their backs with those fine clothes of theirs. I have seen but two or three handsome women, and these had the great drawback which is common to the race — I mean, a sallow, greasy, coarse complexion84, at which it was not advisable to look too closely.
And on this score I think we English may pride ourselves on possessing an advantage (by WE, I mean the lovely ladies to whom this is addressed with the most respectful compliments) over the most classical country in the world. I don’t care for beauty which will only bear to be looked at from a distance, like a scene in a theatre. What is the most beautiful nose in the world, if it be covered with a skin of the texture85 and colour of coarse whitey-brown paper; and if Nature has made it as slippery and shining as though it had been anointed with pomatum? They may talk about beauty, but would you wear a flower that had been dipped in a grease-pot? No; give me a fresh, dewy, healthy rose out of Somersetshire; not one of those superb, tawdry, unwholesome exotics, which are only good to make poems about. Lord Byron wrote more cant86 of this sort than any poet I know of. Think of “the peasant girls with dark blue eyes” of the Rhine — the brown-faced, flat-nosed, thick-lipped, dirty wenches! Think of “filling high a cup of Samian wine;” small beer is nectar compared to it, and Byron himself always drank gin. That man never wrote from his heart. He got up rapture87 and enthusiasm with an eye to the public; but this is dangerous ground, even more dangerous than to look Athens full in the face, and say that your eyes are not dazzled by its beauty. The Great Public admires Greece and Byron: the public knows best. Murray’s “Guide-book” calls the latter “our native bard88.” Our native bard! Mon Dieu! HE Shakspeare’s, Milton’s, Keats’s, Scott’s native bard! Well, woe89 be to the man who denies the public gods!
The truth is, then, that Athens is a disappointment; and I am angry that it should be so. To a skilled antiquarian, or an enthusiastic Greek scholar, the feelings created by a sight of the place of course will be different; but you who would be inspired by it must undergo a long preparation of reading, and possess, too, a particular feeling; both of which, I suspect, are uncommon90 in our busy commercial newspaper-reading country. Men only say they are enthusiastic about the Greek and Roman authors and history, because it is considered proper and respectable. And we know how gentlemen in Baker91 Street have editions of the classics handsomely bound in the library, and how they use them. Of course they don’t retire to read the newspaper; it is to look over a favourite ode of Pindar, or to discuss an obscure passage in Athenaeus! Of course country magistrates92 and Members of Parliament are always studying Demosthenes and Cicero; we know it from their continual habit of quoting the Latin grammar in Parliament. But it is agreed that the classics are respectable; therefore we are to be enthusiastic about them. Also let us admit that Byron is to be held up as “our native bard.”
I am not so entire a heathen as to be insensible to the beauty of those relics93 of Greek art, of which men much more learned and enthusiastic have written such piles of descriptions. I thought I could recognise the towering beauty of the prodigious94 columns of the Temple of Jupiter; and admire the astonishing grace, severity, elegance, completeness of the Parthenon. The little Temple of Victory, with its fluted95 Corinthian shafts, blazed under the sun almost as fresh as it must have appeared to the eyes of its founders96; I saw nothing more charming and brilliant, more graceful97, festive, and aristocratic than this sumptuous98 little building. The Roman remains which lie in the town below look like the works of barbarians99 beside these perfect structures. They jar strangely on the eye, after it has been accustoming100 itself to perfect harmony and proportions. If, as the schoolmaster tells us, the Greek writing is as complete as the Greek art; if an ode of Pindar is as glittering and pure as the Temple of Victory; or a discourse101 of Plato as polished and calm as yonder mystical portico102 of the Erechtheum: what treasures of the senses and delights of the imagination have those lost to whom the Greek books are as good as sealed!
And yet one meets with very dull first-class men. Genius won’t transplant from one brain to another, or is ruined in the carriage, like fine Burgundy. Sir Robert Peel and Sir John Hobhouse are both good scholars; but their poetry in Parliament does not strike one as fine. Muzzle103, the schoolmaster, who is bullying104 poor trembling little boys, was a fine scholar when he was a sizar, and a ruffian then and ever since. Where is the great poet, since the days of Milton, who has improved the natural offshoots of his brain by grafting105 it from the Athenian tree?
I had a volume of Tennyson in my pocket, which somehow settled that question, and ended the querulous dispute between me and Conscience, under the shape of the neglected and irritated Greek muse, which had been going on ever since I had commenced my walk about Athens. The old spinster saw me wince106 at the idea of the author of Dora and Ulysses, and tried to follow up her advantage by farther hints of time lost, and precious opportunities thrown away. “You might have written poems like them,” said she; “or, no, not like them perhaps, but you might have done a neat prize poem, and pleased your papa and mamma. You might have translated Jack46 and Jill into Greek iambics, and been a credit to your college.” I turned testily107 away from her. “Madam,” says I, “because an eagle houses on a mountain, or soars to the sun, don’t you be angry with a sparrow that perches108 on a garret window, or twitters on a twig109. Leave me to myself: look, my beak110 is not aquiline111 by any means.”
And so, my dear friend, you who have been reading this last page in wonder, and who, instead of a description of Athens, have been accommodated with a lament112 on the part of the writer, that he was idle at school, and does not know Greek, excuse this momentary113 outbreak of egotistic despondency. To say truth, dear Jones, when one walks among the nests of the eagles, and sees the prodigious eggs they laid, a certain feeling of discomfiture114 must come over us smaller birds. You and I could not invent — it even stretches our minds painfully to try and comprehend part of the beauty of the Parthenon — ever so little of it — the beauty of a single column — a fragment of a broken shaft34 lying under the astonishing blue sky there, in the midst of that unrivalled landscape. There may be grander aspects of nature, but none more deliciously beautiful. The hills rise in perfect harmony, and fall in the most exquisite115 cadences116 — the sea seems brighter, the islands more purple, the clouds more light and rosy than elsewhere. As you look up through the open roof, you are almost oppressed by the serene depth of the blue overhead. Look even at the fragments of the marble, how soft and pure it is, glittering and white like fresh snow! “I was all beautiful,” it seems to say: “even the hidden parts of me were spotless, precious, and fair”— and so, musing117 over this wonderful scene, perhaps I get some feeble glimpse or idea of that ancient Greek spirit which peopled it with sublime118 races of heroes and gods; 1 and which I never could get out of a Greek book — no, not though Muzzle flung it at my head.
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1
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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regiments
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| （军队的）团( regiment的名词复数 )； 大量的人或物 | |
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hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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schooners
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| n.（有两个以上桅杆的）纵帆船( schooner的名词复数 ) | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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42
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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marine
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| adj.海的；海生的；航海的；海事的；n.水兵 | |
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taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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45
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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46
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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47
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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48
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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50
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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51
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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52
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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53
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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54
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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55
munificent
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| adj.慷慨的，大方的 | |
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56
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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58
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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59
begot
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 )；产生，引起 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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62
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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64
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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65
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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66
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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68
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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69
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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70
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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71
braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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72
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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73
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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74
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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75
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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76
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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77
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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agglomeration
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| n.结聚，一堆 | |
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79
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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81
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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83
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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84
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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86
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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87
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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88
bard
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| n.吟游诗人 | |
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89
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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93
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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97
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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99
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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100
accustoming
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| v.（使）习惯于( accustom的现在分词 ) | |
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101
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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102
portico
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| n.柱廊，门廊 | |
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103
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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104
bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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105
grafting
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| 嫁接法，移植法 | |
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106
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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107
testily
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| adv. 易怒地, 暴躁地 | |
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108
perches
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| 栖息处( perch的名词复数 )； 栖枝； 高处； 鲈鱼 | |
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109
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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110
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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111
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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112
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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113
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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114
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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115
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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116
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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117
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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118
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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