How the Elgin Marbles Got to the British Museum

In removing to Britain the Elgin Marbles – an extensive collection of classical Greek marble sculptures from the Parthenon and other buildings of the Acropolis of Athens – between 1801 and 1812, Thomas Bruce, the 7th Earl of Elgin, set off a chain of events that left he and his family’s finances in ruins and his character publicly flogged. Worse still, Bruce inadvertently sparked a fierce international debate that continues to burn hot to this day, a debate that will probably never be resolved. We can safely assume he wished he’d never bothered.

Yet for all his errors, in some ways you have to take your hat off to Elgin – a British nobleman and diplomat with no shortage of intelligence, skill and energy. The feat he achieved in managing to move scores of huge statues, friezes and other objects many hundreds of miles across the sea in relatively good condition was logistically ambitious and impressive, while the diplomatic maneuvering he employed was crafty, if probably deceitful and definitely foolhardy.

Rich Pickings

In 1798, Elgin – a former army officer who had acted as special envoy of the British government in Austria, the Netherlands and Prussia – was appointed British ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, which despite suffering a period of stagnation, was at that time still a vast and imposing power. He held the post until 1803, carrying out his duties admirably by extending British influence in the region while war raged between the Ottomans and France.

At the same time, he got involved with some complex personal business. Elgin had a deep interest in antiquities – particularly in how they could influence modern artistic tastes – and he made several inquiries to British government officials back home as to whether they might be interested in casts and drawings by professional artists of the sculptures of the Parthenon in Athens (which at that time was occupied by the Ottomans). His requests were all rejected, so Elgin reached into his own pocket to employ a team of artists, overseen by the Neopolitan court painter Giovani Lusieri, to do the work anyway.

He claimed to have obtained a firman (a royal mandate or decree) from the Sultan in order to carry out this work – the authenticity of which has been hotly debated. The original document has never been located (even though many similar documents of the Ottoman court exist from the period) and only an Italian translation has ever been presented by way of evidence – a translation that many experts have written off as a fake. Either way, by hook or by crook, Elgin and his staff were able to gain free access to the Parthenon and other buildings of the Acropolis and begin a 12-year project to not only record its treasures but steadily pilfer many of them too, the cost of which would eventually leave a £74,240 dent in the British nobleman’s finances – the equivalent of about £2.4 million or $4 million in today’s money.

A Noble Deed?

We can’t say for sure why Elgin took such a devious and expensive interest in removing the treasures of the Acropolis in such abundance (over half of what remains today of the surviving sculptural decorations of the Parthenon are among the Elgin Marbles). Some claim that he was simply a collector looking to obtain showpieces for his personal collection, or a shameless profiteer in search of a handsome return when he sold the pieces on. In his defence, it has been said that he acted nobly to rescue the sculptures from the decaying Acropolis, an argument that is likely true, at least in part.

It’s easy to imagine Elgin’s team rolling imperially into pristine Athenian temples and chipping away at timeless treasures under the fuming gazes of hapless Greeks, but in reality the Acropolis was a mess at the turn of the 19th century, cared for by none. Part Ottoman fort, part shanty-town, it had been decimated by centuries of war and looting, and treated as no better than a quarry. Its decorations were being thieved on a regular basis. There is little doubt that if the Elgin Marbles had been left where they were, they would have been removed by other parties, heavily damaged or destroyed altogether. Elgin’s team’s techniques – which often involved hacking, slicing and sawing at the masonry of the Parthenon, as well as some of the sculptures themselves – were crude and irreparably damaged the building, but they at least ensured the removed treasures’ survival in some form.

After being liberated from the Acropolis, the precious items were loaded onto various boats (sadly after sometimes being broken down into small pieces) for a succession of sea crossings, most of which passed without event, except for in 1804 when the HMS Mentor sank in rough seas off the Greek island of Cythera, necessitating a costly two-year salvage operation. In total, some 253 cases of antiquities were transported from Athens to Britain, before the outbreak of the Greek War of Independence in 1821 put a final stop to Elgin’s light-fingeredness.

A “dishonest and rapacious vandal”?

The Elgin Marbles first years in Britain were hardly befitting of their epic splendour. After remaining in customs until 1806, they were placed by Elgin in a large shed in the grounds of a rented house on Park Lane in London, where they suffered immeasurably from damp, humid conditions. Later they were moved to the no more glamorous location of a coal shed in the yard of the Duke of Devonshire’s Burlington House. Even in such unspectacular surrounds they still caused a significant stir, as Elgin allowed viewings by selected visitors, such as the artist Benjamin Robert Haydon, who referred to them as “divine art,” which “lit my mind.”

Nonetheless, Elgin was desperate to sell the collection which had so heavily burdened his wallet, with the British public being his intended buyer. He offered them to the British government at a price of £60,000 in 1811, but the fee was rejected. Another price tag of £73,600 was turned down in 1815. Surprisingly, despite the general heavy-handed imperial spirit of the time, Elgin’s actions in hauling the Marbles from Athens to London had caused something of a scandal. Prominent figures such as the English poet Lord Byron called him “a dishonest and rapacious vandal” among other uncomplimentary things. A parliamentary committee was set up in 1816 to decided what would be a suitable price for the Marbles. It eventually settled on a sum of £35,000, less than half of Elgin’s expenditure, yet a figure he had no choice but to accept.

A Debt Paid?

The Elgin Marbles went straight onto public display in the British Museum in London, where they remain today. After Greek victory in the war of independence, and the rise of a new spirit of Greek nationalism, voices began to rise calling for the return of the sculptures, sparking a fierce argument about the legality of Elgin’s actions and the ownership of the collection by the British Museum. The debate still swings back and forth in the 21st century.

It’s an unfortunate legacy of what proved an unfortunate episode for Elgin. So heavily in debt were his estates that he had to spend the rest of his life on the continent, where he died in 1841. Even his son, James Bruce, the 8th Earl of Elgin, had to live most of his years abroad because of the encumbrance. Some might say that the nobleman suffered as he deserved for his actions. But whatever his motives, and to whoever the Marbles might belong, that such rich cultural treasures are around at all to be argued over today is surely an achievement worthy of some admiration.

Elgin Marbles picture (top) by Brian Ritchie; Parthenon picture (bottom) by Lluís Sala. All rights reserved.

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Malcolm Jack (follow me: e-mail or )

Last three pieces by this author:

10 Reasons Why Socrates is Still Relevant Today | Top 10 Ancient Greek Philosophers | Interview: Bettany Hughes on The Hemlock Cup and Bringing Ancient History Into the 21st Century

Malcolm Jack is a freelance arts and entertainment journalist based in Glasgow, Scotland. He graduated from the University of Edinburgh in 2004 with an MA Honours Degree in History.