At eleven o’clock at night, when most of the ship’s company were abed, four of us stole softly ashore in a small boat, a clouded moon favoring the enterprise, and started two and two, and far apart, over a low hill, intending to go clear around the Piraeus, out of the range of its police.  Picking our way so stealthily over that rocky, nettle-grown eminence, made me feel a good deal as if I were on my way somewhere to steal something.  My immediate comrade and I talked in an undertone about quarantine laws and their penalties, but we found nothing cheering in the subject.  I was posted.  Only a few days before, I was talking with our captain, and he mentioned the case of a man who swam ashore from a quarantined ship somewhere, and got imprisoned six months for it; and when he was in Genoa a few years ago, a captain of a quarantined ship went in his boat to a departing ship, which was already outside of the harbor, and put a letter on board to be taken to his family, and the authorities imprisoned him three months for it, and then conducted him and his ship fairly to sea, and warned him never to show himself in that port again while he lived.  This kind of conversation did no good, further than to give a sort of dismal interest to our quarantine-breaking expedition, and so we dropped it.  We made the entire circuit of the town without seeing any body but one man, who stared at us curiously, but said nothing, and a dozen persons asleep on the ground before their doors, whom we walked among and never woke—­but we woke up dogs enough, in all conscience—­we always had one or two barking at our heels, and several times we had as many as ten and twelve at once.  They made such a preposterous din that persons aboard our ship said they could tell how we were progressing for a long time, and where we were, by the barking of the dogs.  The clouded moon still favored us.  When we had made the whole circuit, and were passing among the houses on the further side of the town, the moon came out splendidly, but we no longer feared the light.  As we approached a well, near a house, to get a drink, the owner merely glanced at us and went within.  He left the quiet, slumbering town at our mercy.  I record it here proudly, that we didn’t do any thing to it.

Seeing no road, we took a tall hill to the left of the distant Acropolis for a mark, and steered straight for it over all obstructions, and over a little rougher piece of country than exists any where else outside of the State of Nevada, perhaps.  Part of the way it was covered with small, loose stones—­we trod on six at a time, and they all rolled.  Another part of it was dry, loose, newly-ploughed ground.  Still another part of it was a long stretch of low grape-vines, which were tanglesome and troublesome, and which we took to be brambles.  The Attic Plain, barring the grape-vines, was a barren, desolate, unpoetical waste—­I wonder what it was in Greece’s Age of Glory, five hundred years before Christ?