40. CHAPTER XL.
THIS has been a stirring day. The Superintendent of the
railway put a train at our disposal, and did us the further kindness of
accompanying us to Ephesus and giving to us his watchful care. We
brought sixty scarcely perceptible donkeys in the freight cars, for we
had much ground to go over. We have seen some of the most
grotesque costumes, along the line of the railroad, that can be
imagined. I am glad that no possible combination of words could
describe them, for I might then be foolish enough to attempt it.
At ancient Ayassalook, in the midst of a forbidding desert, we
came upon long lines of ruined aqueducts, and other remnants of
architectural grandeur, that told us plainly enough we were nearing
what had been a metropolis, once. We left the train and mounted the
donkeys, along with our invited guests — pleasant young gentlemen
from the officers' list of an American man-of-war.
The little donkeys had saddles upon them which were made very
high in order that the rider's feet might not drag the ground. The
preventative did not work well in the cases of our tallest pilgrims,
however. There were no bridles — nothing but a single rope, tied to the
bit. It was purely ornamental, for the donkey cared nothing for it. If he
were drifting to starboard, you might put your helm down hard the
other way, if it were any satisfaction to you to do it, but he would
continue to drift to starboard all the same. There was only one process
which could be depended on, and it was to
get down and lift his rear around until his head pointed in the right
direction, or take him under your arm and carry him to a part of the
road which he could not get out of without climbing. The sun flamed
down as hot as a furnace, and neck-scarfs, veils and umbrellas seemed
hardly any protection; they served only to make the long procession
look more than ever fantastic — for be it known the ladies were all
riding astride because they could not stay on the shapeless saddles
sidewise, the men were perspiring and out of temper, their
feet were banging against the rocks, the donkeys were capering in
every direction but the right one and being belabored
with clubs for it, and every Dow and then a broad umbrella
would suddenly go down out of the cavalcade, announcing to
all that one more pilgrim had bitten the dust. It was a wilder
picture than those solitudes had seen for many a day. No
donkeys ever existed that were as hard to navigate as these, I
think, or that had so many vile, exasperating instincts. Occasionally
signally we grew so tired and breathless with fighting them that we had to
desist, — and immediately the donkey would come down to a deliberate walk.
This, with the fatigue, and the sun, would put a man asleep; and soon as
the man was asleep, the donkey would lie down. My donkey shall never see
his boyhood's home again. He has lain down once too often. We all stood in
the vast theatre of ancient Epllesus, — the stone-benched amphitheatre I
mean — and had our picture taken. We looked as proper there as we would
look any where, I suppose. We do not embellish the general desolation of a
desert much. We add what dignity we can to a stately ruin with our green
umbrellas and jackasses, but it is little. However, we mean well.
I wish to say a brief word of the aspect of Ephesus.
On a high, steep hill, toward the sea, is a gray ruin of ponderous
blocks of marble, wherein, tradition says, St. Paul was imprisoned
eighteen centuries ago. From these old walls you have the finest view of
the desolate scene where once stood Ephesus, the proudest city of ancient
times, and whose Temple of Diana was so noble in design, and so exquisite
of workmanship, that it ranked high in the list of the Seven Wonders of
the World.
Behind you is the sea; in front is a level green valley,
(a marsh, in fact,) extending far away among the mountains; to the right
of the front view is the old citadel of Ayassalook, on a high hill; the
ruined Mosque of the Sultan Selim stands near it in the plain, (this is
built over the grave of St. John,
and was formerly Christian Church ;) further toward you is the hill of
Pion, around whose front is clustered all that remains of the ruins of
Ephesus that still stand; divided from it by a narrow valley is the long,
rocky, rugged mountain of Coressus. The scene is a pretty one, and yet
desolate — for in that wide plain no man can live, and in it is no human
habitation. But for the crumbling arches and monstrous piers and broken
walls that rise from the foot of the hill of Pion, one could not believe
that in this place once stood a city whose renown is older than tradition
itself. It is incredible to reflect that things as familiar all over the
world to-day as household words, belong in the history and in the shadowy
legends of this silent, mournful solitude. We speak of Apollo and of
Diana — they were born here; of the metamorphosis of Syrinx into a reed — it
was done here; of the great god Pan — he dwelt in the caves of this hill of
Coressus; of the Amazons — this was their best prized home; of Bacchus
and Hercules both fought the warlike women here; of the Cyclops — they laid
the ponderous marble blocks of some of the ruins yonder; of Homer — this
was one of his many birthplaces; of Cirmon of Athens; of Alcibiades,
Lysander, Agesilaus — they visited here; so did Alexander the Great; so did
Hannibal and Antiochus, Scipio, Lucullus and Sylla; Brutus, Cassius,
Pompey, Cicero, and Augustus; Antony was a judge in this place, and left
his seat in the open court, while the advocates were speaking, to run
after Cleopatra, who passed the door; from this city these two sailed on
pleasure excursions, in galleys with silver oars and perfumed sails, and
with companies of beautiful girls to serve them, and actors and musicians
to amuse them; in days that seem almost modern, so remote are they from
the early history of this city, Paul the Apostle preached the new religion
here, and so did John, and here it is supposed the former was pitted
against wild beasts, for in 1 Corinthians, xv. 32 he says:
"If after the manner of men I have fought with beasts at Ephesus,"
&c.,
when many men still lived who had seen the Christ; here
Mary Magdalen died, and here the Virgin Mary ended her days with John,
albeit Rome has since judged it best to locate her grave elsewhere; six or
seven hundred years ago — almost yesterday, as it were — troops of mail-clad
Crusaders thronged the streets; and to come down to trifles, we speak of
meandering streams, and find a new interest in a common word when we
discover that the crooked river Meander, in yonder valley, gave it to our
dictionary. It makes me feel as old as these dreary hills to look down
upon these moss-hung ruins, this historic desolation. One may read the
Scriptures and believe, but he can not go and stand yonder in the ruined
theatre and in imagination people it again with the vanished multitudes
who mobbed Paul's comrades there and shouted, with one voice, "Great is
Diana of the Ephesians!" The idea of a shout in such a solitude as this
almost makes one shudder.
It was a wonderful city, this Ephesus. Go
where you will about these broad plains, you find the most exquisitely
sculptured marble fragments scattered thick among the dust and weeds; and
protruding from the ground, or lying prone upon it, are beautiful fluted
columns of porphyry and all precious
marbles; and at every step you find elegantly carved capitals and massive
bases, and polished tablets engraved with Greek inscriptions. It is a world
of precious relics, a wilderness of marred and mutilated gems. And yet what
are these things to the wonders that lie buried here under the ground ? At
Constantinople, at Pisa, in the cities of Spain, are great mosques and
cathedrals, whose grandest columns came from the temples and palaces of
Ephesus, and yet one has only to scratch the ground here to match them. We
shall never know what magnificence is, until this imperial city is laid bare
to the sun.
The finest piece of sculpture we have yet seen and the one that
impressed us most, (for we do not know much about art and can not easily
work up ourselves into ecstacies over it,) is one that lies in this old
theatre of Ephesus which St. Paul's riot has made so celebrated. It is
only the headless body of a man, clad in a coat of mail, with a Medusa
head upon the breast-plate, but we feel persuaded that such dignity and
such majesty were never thrown into a form of stone before.
What builders they were, these men of antiquity! The massive arches of
some of these ruins rest upon piers that are
fifteen feet square and built entirely of solid blocks of marble, some of
which are as large as a Saratoga trunk, and some the size of a
boarding-house sofa. They are not shells or shafts of stone filled inside
with rubbish, but the whole pier is a mass of solid masonry. Vast arches,
that may have been the gates of the city, are built in the same way. They
have braved the storms and sieges of three thousand years, and have been
shaken by many an earthquake, but still they stand. When they dig
alongside of them, they find ranges of ponderous masonry that are as
perfect in every detail as they were the day those old Cyclopian giants
finished them. An English Company is going to excavate Ephesus — and then!
And now am I reminded of —
THE LEGEND OF THE SEVEN SLEEPERS.
In the Mount of Pion, yonder, is the Cave of the Seven
Sleepers. Once upon a time, about fifteen hundred years ago, seven young
men lived near each other in Ephesus, who belonged to the despised sect of
the Christians. It came to pass that the good King Maximilianus, (I am
telling this story for nice little boys and girls,) it came to pass, I
say, that the good King Maximilianus fell to persecuting the Christians,
and as time rolled on he made it very warm for them. So the seven young
men said one to the other, let us get up and travel. And they got up and
traveled. They tarried not to bid their fathers and mothers good-bye, or
any friend they knew. They only took certain moneys which their parents
had, and garments that belonged unto their friends, whereby they might
remember them when far away; and they took also the dog Ketmehr, which was
the property of their neighbor Malchus, because the beast did run his head
into a noose which one of the young men was carrying carelessly, and they
had not time to release him; and they took also certain chickens that
seemed lonely in the neighboring coops, and likewise some bottles of
curious liquors that stood near the grocer's window; and then they
departed from the city. By-and-by they came to a marvelous cave in the
Hill of Pion and entered into it and feasted, and presently they hurried
on again. But they forgot the bottles of curious liquors, and left them
behind. They traveled in many lands, and had many strange adventures.
They were virtuous young men, and lost no opportunity that fell in their
way to make their livelihood. Their motto was in these words, namely,
"Procrastination is the thief of time." And so, whenever they did come
upon a man who was alone, they said, Behold, this person hath the
wherewithal — let us go through him. And they went through him. At the end
of five years they had waxed tired of travel and adventure, and longed to
revisit their old home again and hear the voices and see the faces that
were dear unto their youth. Therefore they went through such parties as
fell in their way where they sojourned at that time, and journeyed back
toward Ephesus again. For the good King Maximilianus was become converted
unto the new faith, and the Christians rejoiced because they were no
longer persecuted. One day as the sun went down, they came to the cave in
the Mount of Pion, and they said, each to his fellow, Let us sleep here,
and go and feast and make merry with our friends when the morning cometh.
And each of the seven lifted up his voice and said, It is a whiz. So they
went in, and lo, where they had put them, there lay the bottles of strange
liquors, and they judged that age had not impaired their excellence.
Wherein the wanderers were right, and the heads of the same were level.
So each of the young men drank six bottles, and behold they felt very
tired, then, and lay down and slept soundly.
When they awoke, one of them, Johannes — surnamed
Smithianus — said, We are naked. And it was so. Their raiment was all
gone, and the money which they had gotten from a stranger whom they
had proceeded through as they approached the city, was lying upon the
ground, corroded and rusted and defaced. Likewise the dog Ketmehr
was gone, and nothing save the brass that was upon his collar
remained. They wondered
much at these things. But they took the money, and they wrapped about
their bodies some leaves, and came up to the top of the hill. Then were
they perplexed. The wonderful temple of Diana was gone; many grand
edifices they had never seen before stood in the city; men in strange
garbs moved about the streets, and every thing was changed.
Johannes said, It hardly seems like Ephesus. Yet here is the great
gymnasium; here is the mighty theatre, wherein I have seen seventy
thousand men assembled; here is the Agora; there is the font where the
sainted John the Baptist immersed the converts; yonder is the prison of
the good St. Paul, where we all did use to go to touch the ancient chains
that bound him and be cured of our distempers; I see the tomb of the
disciple Luke, and afar off is the church wherein repose the ashes of the
holy John, where the Christians of Ephesus go twice a year to gather the
dust from the tomb, which is able to make bodies whole again that are
corrupted by disease, and cleanse the soul from sin; but see how the
wharves encroach upon the sea, and what multitudes of ships are anchored
in the bay; see, also, how the city hath stretched abroad, far over the
valley behind Pion, and even unto the walls of Ayassalook; and lo, all the
hills are white with palaces and ribbed with colonnades of marble. How
mighty is Ephesus become !
And wondering at what their eyes had
seen, they went down into the city and purchased garments and clothed
themselves. And when they would have passed on, the merchant bit the coins
which they had given him, with his teeth, and turned them about and looked
curiously upon them, and cast them upon his counter, and listened if they
rang; and then he said, These be bogus. And they said, Depart thou to
Hades, and went their way. When they were come to their houses, they
recognized them, albeit they seemed old and mean; and they rejoiced, and
were glad. They ran to the doors, and knocked, and strangers opened, and
looked inquiringly upon them. And they said, with great excitement, while
their hearts beat high, and the color in their faces came and went, Where
is my father? Where is my mother? Where are Dionysius and
Serapion, and Pericles, and Decius? And the strangers that opened
said, We know not these. The Seven said, How, you know them
not? How long have ye dwelt here, and whither are they gone that
dwelt here before ye ? And the strangers said, Ye play upon us with
a jest, young men; we and our fathers have sojourned under these
roofs these six generations; the names ye utter rot upon the tombs,
and they that bore them have run their brief race, have laughed and
sung, have borne the sorrows and the weariness that were allotted
them, and are at rest; for nine-score years the summers have come
and gone, and the autumn leaves have fallen, since the roses faded
out of their cheeks and they laid them to sleep with the dead.
Then the seven young men turned them away from their homes,
and the strangers shut the doors upon them. The wanderers marveled
greatly, and looked into the faces of all they met, as hoping to find
one that they knew; but all were strange, and passed them by and
spake no friendly word. They were sore distressed and sad. Presently
they spake unto a citizen and said, Who is King in Ephesus ? And the
citizen answered and said, Whence come ye that ye know not that
great Laertius reigns in Ephesus ? They looked one at the other,
greatly perplexed, and presently asked again, Where, then, is the
good King Maximilianus ? The citizen moved him apart, as one who
is afraid, and said, Verily these men be mad, and dream dreams, else
would they know that the King whereof they speak is dead above
two hundred years agone.
Then the scales fell from the eyes of the Seven, and one said,
Alas, that we drank of the curious liquors. They have made us weary,
and in dreamless sleep these two long centuries have we lain. Our
homes are desolate, our friends are dead. Behold, the jig is up — let us
die. And that same day went they forth and laid them down and died.
And in that self-same day, likewise, the Seven-up did cease in
Ephesus, for that the Seven that were up were down again, and
departed and dead withal. And the names that be upon their tombs,
even unto this time, are Johannes Smithianus, Trumps, Gift, High,
and
Low, Jack, and The Game. And with the sleepers lie also the bottles
wherein were once the curious liquors: and upon them is writ, in ancient
letters, such words as these — Dames of heathen gods of olden time,
perchance: Rumpunch, Jinsling, Egnog.
Such is the story of the Seven Sleepers, (with slight variations,) and
I know it is true, because I have seen the cave myself.
Really, so firm a faith had the ancients this legend, that as late as
eight or nine hundred years ago, learned travelers held it in
superstitious fear. Two of them record that they ventured into it, but ran
quickly out again, not daring to tarry lest they should fall asleep and
outlive their great grand-children a century or so. Even at this day the
ignorant denizens of the neighboring country prefer not to sleep in
it.