CHAPTER X.

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.

BYRON.

GULF OF ARGOS-REPORTED LOSS OF THE FRIGATE-STORIED FEATURES OF THE ARGOLIC PLAIN-TRAIT IN WOMAN-TOMB OF AGAMEMNON-FORTRESS OF NAPOLI-LOVE OF THE MARVELLOUS-DISCOVERY OF EVE'S MONUMENT INSCRIPTION—ANTIQUARIAN RAPTURE.

BETWEEN the last sentence of my journal and the one I am now penning, the reader will allow a lapse of time and incident sufficient to bear us from the shore of Ilium to the gulf of Argos. What, in the order of our movements, could be more natural, and classically proper, than for us, after having walked over the arena of Agamemnon's valor and generalship, to visit his capital and his tomb? Yet it was not merely this beautiful harmony of events that brought us to Mycena.

We had rejoined our ship, recovered from all apprehensions of the plague, and, save myself, from the effects of our exposures on the Troad; had come down through the Arches to look after a few cruisers,

too freely floating under their own flag: but finding, among all the Cyclades, no corsairs to kill or capture, and having suffered in our lighter spars from the violence of a recent storm, we floated into this harbor, to effect the necessary repairs, and again break the monotony of a sea-life, by a survey of ruins.

the

way

The storm which we experienced terrified us much less than those whom we had left at home; for the first report of it which reached the United States by of Vienna and Paris, sunk us all in one engulfing grave! And it was several weeks before an authentic counter-statement relieved our friends from their deep consternation and grief. Whether this stunning report originated in malice, or a wicked spirit of trifling, has never been ascertained; but whatever may have been its source, no accredited disaster, of such a melancholy magnitude, ever had a less plausible foundation. And I can only say, if it was an act of wantonness, its author should be chained in a dungeon, where only the spider, that weaves its web on his walls, can be affected by his reckless, malevolent dispositions.

Our ship is now riding at anchor in the bay of Argos. This is a broad and brilliant sheet of water, partially defended from the action of the sea, a green and fertile plain extending widely beyond; while around the whole ascends a wild mountain range of forest-feathered steeps. The eye rests at first on the lake of Lerna, still breaking with its

bright face the rich continuity of the valley; it then follows up the exulting waters of the Erasinus, still bursting as of old from its caverned hill; then rises to the lofty and permanent cliffs, where the frequent bastion and fortress still frown in massive strength.

No language can convey the deep and subdued emotions of the spectator, as he gazes on these storied streams and monumental remains. They carry the mind steadily back through the dim and unrecorded disasters of three thousand years. They bear the feelings up the long stream of time midway to its fount. They present forms of magnificence and beauty that were themes of thrilling romance when the minstrels of Greece first swept the wild untutored lyre. They present themselves as memorials of generations whose graves swelled from the mold of the infant world; as memorials upon which an unheeded procession of centuries have chronicled their silent flight; as memorials above the reach of ruin, exempt from decay, immortal in death!

It is not so much the form and complexion of these objects, as the associations they awaken, the times and beings they bring forth, that interest and impress the spectator. The fount of Canathos gushes to the free air like other springs; but around its sweet margin the graceful Naiads once dwelt, and in its crystal depths the Queen of heaven was wont to renew her virgin parity.

The Lernean wave ripples or sleeps like the surface

of other lakes; but on its bank grew the demolishing weapon of Hercules, and along its reedy shore strayed the hydra which tested that hero's valor and strength. The citadel of Mycenae is like other gigantic remains of the heroic ages; but there Orestes and Electra hung in suspense and agony over the justice and severity of their parricidal purpose; and there still stand in marble sternness, as if perpetuating their fierce watch, the lions to which the eye of Agamemnon turned, as he departed to the Trojan war.

The Acropolis of Argos is like the materials found in many other monuments of antiquity; but in its deep shadow lay the cradle of primitive empires; around its unmoldered base wealth, wisdom, and power prevailed, beauty triumphed, and genius unfurled its seraph wing, when the wolf in wandering wildness howled over the seven hills of Rome.

Over these surviving relics, and the beings they call up, Homer, Sophocles, Eschylus, and Euripides have cast the kindling raptures of their verse, and have bound us to them by the powers of a fascination which time can only render the more thrilling and intense. The beings who smiled, wept, and worshipped among these triumphs of art and nature, share their immortality. They still live by the fount, the fane, and fortress, where they once gayly forgot the waste and weariness of human life; they still people the grove, move on the rushing stream, and shout from the shadowy cliff:

Their spirits wrap the dusky mountain,
Their memory sparkles o'er the fountain;
The meanest rill, the mightiest river,

Rolls mingling with their fame forever."

But the more curious reader will not, perhaps, be satisfied with this intimating outline of the antiquities which distinguish the Argolic plain. Yet the allusions in which I have unintentionally indulged, have touched upon so many of these objects, that it would require more than the graphic force of my pen to impart freshness and life to a minute delineation. I have committed the error of the painter, who indiscreetly presented to the lady whose beauty he was endeavoring to transfer to the canvas, his leading sketch, which fell so far short of the original, that the distrustful fair one turned away at once from the future promises of his pencil.

Woman is ever impatient of the careful and anxious advances through which perfection is attained. Her imagination mounts at once to the summit of excellence, while slowly ascending improvement labors up the steep alone. Her love and hatred reach suddenly their elevation; and will as quickly descend, unless sustained there by sympathy or opposition. Her affection, if unreciprocated, will ere long change its nature, or strangle itself: her anger, if unresisted, will soon weave its own shroud, and be itself chief mourner at the hearse. I should reluctantly vote to dispense with her kindly offices. And I some