Brave Thoughts Winged On Grecian Words Gained Their Natural Mastery
Over Terror; The Brigantine Held On Her Course, And Reached Smooth
Water At Last.
I landed at Limasol, the westernmost port of
Cyprus, leaving the vessel to sail for Larnaka, where she was to
remain for some days.
CHAPTER VII - CYPRUS
There was a Greek at Limasol who hoisted his flag as an English
vice-consul, and he insisted upon my accepting his hospitality.
With some difficulty, and chiefly by assuring him that I could not
delay my departure beyond an early hour in the afternoon, I induced
him to allow my dining with his family instead of banqueting all
alone with the representative of my sovereign in consular state and
dignity. The lady of the house, it seemed, had never sat at table
with an European. She was very shy about the matter, and tried
hard to get out of the scrape, but the husband, I fancy, reminded
her that she was theoretically an Englishwoman, by virtue of the
flag that waved over her roof, and that she was bound to show her
nationality by sitting at meat with me. Finding herself inexorably
condemned to bear with the dreaded gaze of European eyes, she tried
to save her innocent children from the hard fate awaiting herself,
but I obtained that all of them (and I think there were four or
five) should sit at the table. You will meet with abundance of
stately receptions and of generous hospitality, too, in the East,
but rarely, very rarely in those regions (or even, so far as I
know, in any part of southern Europe) does one gain an opportunity
of seeing the familiar and indoor life of the people.
This family party of the good consul's (or rather of mine, for I
originated the idea, though he furnished the materials) went off
very well. The mamma was shy at first, but she veiled the
awkwardness which she felt by affecting to scold her children, who
had all of them, I think, immortal names - names too which they owed
to tradition, and certainly not to any classical enthusiasm of
their parents. Every instant I was delighted by some such phrases
as these, "Themistocles, my love, don't fight." - "Alcibiades, can't
you sit still?" - "Socrates, put down the cup." - "Oh, fie! Aspasia,
don't. Oh! don't be naughty!" It is true that the names were
pronounced Socrahtie, Aspahsie - that is, according to accent, and
not according to quantity - but I suppose it is scarcely now to be
doubted that they were so sounded in ancient times.
To me it seems, that of all the lands I know (you will see in a
minute how I connect this piece of prose' with the isle of Cyprus),
there is none in which mere wealth, mere unaided wealth, is held
half so cheaply; none in which a poor devil of a millionaire,
without birth, or ability, occupies so humble a place as in
England. My Greek host and I were sitting together, I think, upon
the roof of the house (for that is the lounging-place in Eastern
climes), when the former assumed a serious air, and intimated a
wish to converse upon the subject of the British Constitution, with
which he assured me that he was thoroughly acquainted. He
presently, however, informed me that there was one anomalous
circumstance attended upon the practical working of our political
system which he had never been able to hear explained in a manner
satisfactory to himself. From the fact of his having found a
difficulty in his subject, I began to think that my host might
really know rather more of it than his announcement of a thorough
knowledge had led me to expect. I felt interested at being about
to hear from the lips of an intelligent Greek, quite remote from
the influence of European opinions, what might seem to him the most
astonishing and incomprehensible of all those results which have
followed from the action of our political institutions. The
anomaly, the only anomaly which had been detected by the vice-
consular wisdom, consisted in the fact that Rothschild (the late
money-monger) had never been the Prime Minister of England! I
gravely tried to throw some light upon the mysterious causes that
had kept the worthy Israelite out of the Cabinet, but I think I
could see that my explanation was not satisfactory. Go and argue
with the flies of summer that there is a power divine, yet greater
than the sun in the heavens, but never dare hope to convince the
people of the south that there is any other God than Gold.
My intended journey was to the site of the Paphian temple. I take
no antiquarian interest in ruins, and care little about them,
unless they are either striking in themselves, or else serve to
mark some spot on which my fancy loves to dwell. I knew that the
ruins of Paphos were scarcely, if at all, discernible, but there
was a will and a longing more imperious than mere curiosity that
drove me thither.
For this just then was my pagan soul's desire - that (not forfeiting
my inheritance for the life to come) it had yet been given me to
live through this world - to live a favoured mortal under the old
Olympian dispensation - to speak out my resolves to the listening
Jove, and hear him answer with approving thunder - to be blessed
with divine counsels from the lips of Pallas Athenie - to believe -
ay, only to believe - to believe for one rapturous moment that in
the gloomy depths of the grove, by the mountain's side, there were
some leafy pathway that crisped beneath the glowing sandal of
Aphrodetie - Aphrodetie, not coldly disdainful of even a mortal's
love! And this vain, heathenish longing of mine was father to the
thought of visiting the scene of the ancient worship.
The isle is beautiful. From the edge of the rich, flowery fields
on which I trod to the midway sides of the snowy Olympus, the
ground could only here and there show an abrupt crag, or a high
straggling ridge that up-shouldered itself from out of the
wilderness of myrtles, and of the thousand bright-leaved shrubs
that twined their arms together in lovesome tangles.
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