.dt Greece and the Ægean Islands, by Philip Sanford Marden

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<l>GREECE</l>
AND
<l>THE ÆGEAN ISLANDS</l>
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.ca ACROPOLIS, SHOWING PROPYLÆA
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GREECE | <s>AND THE</s> | ÆGEAN ISLANDS

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<s>BY</s>

<l>PHILIP SANFORD MARDEN</l>
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<bl>London</bl>

ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO., <sc>Ltd.</sc>

<s>BOSTON AND NEW YORK</s>

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
1907
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COPYRIGHT 1907 BY PHILIP S. MARDEN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


<em>Published November 1907</em>
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PROLEGOMENA
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What follows makes no pretense whatever of
being a scientific work on Greece, from an
archæological or other standpoint. That it is written
at all is the resultant of several forces, chief among
which are the consciousness that no book hitherto
published, so far as I am aware, has covered quite the
same ground, and the feeling, based on the experience
of myself and others, that some such book ought
to be available.

By way of explanation and apology, I am forced to
admit, even to myself, that what I have written, especially
in the opening chapters, is liable to the occasional
charge that it has a guide-bookish sound, despite
an honest and persistent effort to avoid the same.
In the sincere desire to show how easy it really is to
visit Hellas, and in the ardent hope of making a few
of the rough places smooth for first visitors, I have
doubtless been needlessly prolix and explicit at the
outset, notably in dealing with a number of sordid details
and directions. Moreover, to deal in so small a
compass with so vast a subject as that of ancient and
modern Athens is a task fraught with many difficulties.
One certainly cannot in such a book as this ignore
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Athens utterly, despite the fact that so much has been
published hitherto about the city and its monuments
that no further description is at all necessary. My object
is not to make Athens more familiar, but rather
to describe other and more remote sites in Greece for
the information, and I hope also for the pleasure, of
past and future travelers. Athens, however, I could not
ignore; and while such brief treatment as is possible
here is necessarily superficial, it may help to awaken
an additional interest in that city where none existed
before.

Aside from the preliminary chapters and those dealing
with Athens itself, I hope to have been more successful.
I have, at any rate, been free in those other
places from the depressing feeling that I was engaged
on a work of supererogation, since this part of the
subject is by no means hackneyed even through treatment
by technical writers. Since the publication of
most of the better known books on Greek travel, a
great deal has been accomplished in the way of excavation,
and much that is interesting has been laid
bare, which has not been adequately described, even
in the technical works. In dealing with these additions
and in describing journeys to less familiar inland
sites, as well as cruises to sundry of the classic
islands of the Ægean, I hope this book will find its
real excuse for being.
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In adopting a system for spelling the names of Greek
cities, towns, and islands, I have been in something of
a quandary, owing to the possibilities presented by the
various customs of authors in this field, each one of
which has something to recommend it and something,
also, of disadvantage. If one spells Greek names in the
more common Anglicized fashion, especially in writing
for the average traveler, one certainly avoids the
appearance of affectation, and also avoids misleading
the reader by an unfamiliar form of an otherwise familiar
word. Hence, after much debate and rather against
my own personal preferences and usage in several
instances, I have adhered in the main to the forms of
name most familiar to American eyes and ears. In
cases of obscure or little known sites, where it is occasionally
more important to know the names as locally
pronounced, I have followed the Greek forms. This,
while doubtless not entirely logical, has seemed the
best way out of a rather perplexing situation, bound
to be unsatisfactory whichever way one attempts to
solve the problem.

In mercy to non-Hellenic readers, I have likewise
sought to exclude with a firm hand quotations from
the Greek language, and as far as reasonably possible
to avoid the use of Greek words or expressions when
English would answer every purpose.

If, in such places as have seemed to demand it, I
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have touched upon archæological matters, I hope not
to have led any reader far from the truth, although one
admittedly an amateur in such matters runs grave risk
in committing himself to paper where even the doctors
themselves so often disagree. I hope especially to have
escaped advancing mere personal opinions on moot
points, since dilettanti in such a case have little business
to own any opinions, and none at all to exploit
them to the untutored as if they had importance or
weight. Rather I have only the desire to arouse
others to a consciousness that it is as easy now to
view and enjoy the visible remnants of the glory that
was Greece, as it is to view those of the grandeur that
was Rome.

In the writing of these chapters an effort has been
made to set forth in non-technical terms only what
the writer himself has seen and observed among
these haunts of remote antiquity, with the idea of
confining the scope of this book to the needs of those
who, like himself, possess a veneration for the old
things, an amateur’s love for the classics, and a desire
to see and know that world which was born, lived,
and died before our own was even dreamed of as
existing. If by what is written herein others are led
to go and see for themselves, or are in any wise
assisted in making their acquaintance with Greece,
or, better still, are enabled the more readily to recall
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days spent in that most fascinating of all the bygone
nations, then this book, however unworthily dealing
with a great subject, will not have been written in
vain.

.rj
<sc>Philip Sanford Marden.</sc>

<s><sc>Lowell, Mass.</sc>, August, 1907.</s>
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TABLE OF CONTENTS


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    I.| TRAVELING IN GREECE                 |         #1:chap01#

   II.| CRETE                               |        #18:chap02#

  III.| THE ENTRANCE TO GREECE              |        #37:chap03#

   IV.| ATHENS; THE MODERN CITY             |        #50:chap04#

    V.| ANCIENT ATHENS: THE ACROPOLIS       |        #76:chap05#

   VI.| ANCIENT ATHENS: THE OTHER MONUMENTS |        #96:chap06#

  VII.| EXCURSIONS IN ATTICA                 |      #123:chap07#

 VIII.| DELPHI                              |       #146:chap08#

   IX.| MYCENÆ AND THE PLAIN OF ARGOS       |       #169:chap09#

    X.| NAUPLIA AND EPIDAURUS               |       #193:chap10#

   XI.| IN ARCADIA                          |       #211:chap11#

  XII.| ANDHRITSÆNA AND THE BASSÆ \
         TEMPLE                             |       #229:chap12#

 XIII.| OVER THE HILLS TO OLYMPIA           |       #247:chap13#

  XIV.| THE ISLES OF GREECE: DELOS          |       #272:chap14#

   XV.| SAMOS AND THE TEMPLE AT BRANCHIDÆ   |       #286:chap15#

  XVI.| COS AND CNIDOS                      |       #304:chap16#

 XVII.| RHODES                              |       #318:chap17#

XVIII.| THERA                               |       #334:chap18#

  XIX.| NIOS; PAROS; A MIDNIGHT MASS        |       #351:chap19#

   XX.| CORFU                               |       #368:chap20#

      | INDEX                               |       #381:index#
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
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                      |                          <s>PAGE</s>

ACROPOLIS, SHOWING PROPYLÆA  |       <al=l>#<em>Frontispiece</em>:i004#

MAP                          |                       #1:i019#

LANDING-PLACE AT CANEA        |                     #20:i041#—

THRONE OF MINOS AT CNOSSOS     |                    #34:i057#

STORE-ROOMS IN MINOAN PALACE, CNOSSOS  |            #36:i061#

OLD CHURCH IN TURKISH QUARTER, ATHENS   |           #60:i087#

TEMPLE OF NIKÉ APTEROS                   |          #80:i109#

THE PARTHENON, WEST PEDIMENT             |          #86:i117#

TEMPLE OF OLYMPIAN ZEUS                  |         #104:i137#

THE AREOPAGUS                            |         #108:i143#

THE THESEUM                              |         #112:i149#

TOMB AMPHORA, CERAMICUS                  |         #116:i155#

TOMB RELIEF, CERAMICUS                   |         #118:i159#

BRONZE EPHEBUS, NATIONAL MUSEUM, ATHENS   |        #120:i163#

THE TEMPLE AT SUNIUM                      |        #134:i179#

THE APPROACH TO ÆGINA                     |        #138:i185a#

THE TEMPLE AT ÆGINA                       |        #138:i185b#

PEASANT DANCERS AT MENIDI                 |        #142:i191#

THE PLAIN BELOW DELPHI                     |       #150:i201#

THE VALE OF DELPHI                         |       #156:i209#

CHARIOTEER, DELPHI                        |        #166:i221#

AGORA, MYCENÆ                             |        #180:i237#

WOMAN SPINNING ON ROAD TO EPIDAURUS       |        #198:i257#
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EPIDAURIAN SHEPHERDS                      |        #202:i263#

THEATRE AT EPIDAURUS                      |        #206:i269#

AN OUTPOST OF ARCADY                      |        #224:i289#

THE GORGE OF THE ALPHEIOS                 |        #226:i293#

ANDHRITSÆNA                               |        #230:i299#

AN ARBOREAL CAMPANILE. ANDHRITSÆNA        |        #234:i305#

THRESHING FLOOR AT BASSÆ                  |        #240:i313#

TEMPLE AT BASSÆ, FROM ABOVE               |        #244:i319a#

TEMPLE AT BASSÆ, FROM BELOW               |        #244:i319b#

HERÆUM. OLYMPIA                           |        #258:i335#

ENTRANCE TO THE STADIUM. OLYMPIA           |       #262:i341#

DELOS, SHOWING GROTTO                      |       #282:i363a#

GROTTO OF APOLLO, DELOS                    |       #282:i363b#

COLUMN BASES. SAMOS                        |       #296:i379a#

CARVED COLUMN-BASE. BRANCHIDÆ              |       #296:i379b#

TREE OF HIPPOCRATES. COS                   |       #306:i391#

CNIDOS, SHOWING THE TWO HARBORS            |       #314:i401#

SCULPTURED TRIREME IN ROCK AT LINDOS. <br>(From a Sketch by the Author) |       #327:i415#

ARCHED PORTAL OF ACROPOLIS. LINDOS         |       #328:i417#

SANTORIN                                   |       #336:i426#

LANDING-PLACE AT THERA                     |       #338:i429#

THERA                                      |       #342:i435#

A THERAN STREET                            |       #346:i441#

OLD COLUMNS IN CHURCH, PAROS               |       #362:i459#

“SHIP OF ULYSSES.” CORFU                   |       #374:i473#
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<l>GREECE

AND

THE ÆGEAN ISLANDS</l>
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SKETCH MAP
OF
GREECE
AND THE
ÆGEAN ISLANDS
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CHAPTER I. TRAVELING IN | GREECE

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The days in which a visit to Greece might
be set down as something quite unusual and
apart from the beaten track of European travel have
passed away, and happily so. The announcement of
one’s intention to visit Athens and its environs no
longer affords occasion for astonishment, as it did
when Greece was held to be almost the exclusive
stamping-ground of the more strenuous archæologists.
To be sure, those who have never experienced
the delights of Hellenic travel are still given
to wonderment at one’s expressed desire to revisit
the classic land; but even this must pass away in its
turn, since few voyage thither without awakening
that desire.

It is no longer an undertaking fraught with any
difficulty—much less with any danger—to visit the
main points of interest in the Hellenic kingdom;
and, what is more to the purpose in the estimation
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of many, it is no longer an enterprise beset with discomfort,
to any greater degree than is involved in
a journey through Italy. The result of the growing
consciousness of this fact has been a steadily increasing
volume of travel to this richest of classic lands—richest
not alone in its intangible memories, but richest
also in its visible monuments of a remote past,
presenting undying evidence of the genius of the
Greeks for expressing the beautiful in terms of marble
and stone. One may, of course, learn to appreciate
the beautiful in Greek thought without leaving home,
embodied as it is in the imposing literary remains to
be met with in traversing the ordinary college course.
But in order fully to know the beauty of the sculptures
and architecture, such as culminated in the age
of Pericles, one must visit Greece and see with his
own eyes what the hand of Time has spared, often
indeed in fragmentary form, but still occasionally
touched with even a new loveliness through the mellowing
processes of the ages.

To any thinking, reading man or woman of the
present day, the memories, legends, and history of
ancient Greece must present sufficient attraction. Few
of us stop to realize how much of our modern thought
and feeling was first given adequate expression by
the inhabitants of ancient Athens, or how much of
our own daily speech is directly traceable to their
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tongue. Modern politics may still learn much tact
of Pericles, and oratorical excellence of Æschines,
as modern philosophy has developed from Socrates,
Plato, and Aristotle. Is it not even true that a large
part of modern religious thought, the hope of glory
at least, if not the means of grace, finds its strongest
foreshadowing in the groping of the more enlightened
Athenians for a hope of immortality and life beyond
the grave? The transition of the crowning architectural
glory of the Acropolis at Athens from a temple
of the virgin (parthenos) Athena to a church of the
Virgin Mary was, after all, not so violent, when it is
remembered that the later paganism had softened
from its old system of corrupt personal deities to an
abstract embodiment of their chief attributes or qualities,
such as wisdom, healing, love, and war. Down
to this day the traces of the pagan, or let us say the
classic period, are easy to discern, mingled with the
modern Greek Christianity, often unconsciously, and
of course entirely devoid of any content of paganism,
but still unmistakably there. To this day festivals
once sacred to Asklepios still survive, in effect, though
observed on Christian holy days and under Christian
nomenclature, with no thought of reverence for the
Epidaurian god, but nevertheless preserving intact
the ancient central idea, which impelled the worshiper
to sleep in the sanctuary awaiting the healing
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visit of a vision. In every church in Greece to-day
one may see scores of little metal arms, legs, eyes, and
other bodily organs hung up as votive offerings on
the iconastasis, or altar screen, just as small anatomical
models were once laid by grateful patients on the
shrine of Asklepios at Cos. It is most striking and
impressive, this interweaving of relics of the old-time
paganism with the modern Greek religion, showing
as it does a well-marked line of descent from the
ancient beliefs without violent disruption or transition.
It has become a well-recognized fact that certain
modern churches often directly replace the ancient
temples of the spot in a sort of orderly system, even
if it be hard occasionally to explain. The successors
of the fanes of Athena are ordinarily churches of the
Virgin Mary, as was the case when the Parthenon
was used for Christian worship. In other sites the
worship of Poseidon gave way to churches sacred to
St. Nicholas. The old temples of Ares occasionally
flowered again, and not inappropriately, as churches
of the martial St. George. Dionysus lives once more
in churches named “St. Dionysius,” though no longer
possessing any suspicion of a Bacchic flavor. Most
striking of all is the almost appalling number of hills
and mountains in Greece named “St. Elias,” and
often bearing monasteries or churches of that designation.
There is hardly a site in all Greece from which
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it is not possible to see at least one “St. Elias,” and I
have been told that this is nothing more nor less than
the perpetuation of the ancient shrines of Helios (the
sun) under a Christian name, which, in the modern
Greek pronunciation, is of a sound almost exactly
similar to the ancient one. The substitution, therefore,
when Christianity came to its own, was not
an unnatural, nor indeed an entirely inappropriate,
one.

It all conspires to show that, while the modern
Greek is sincerely and devoutly a Christian, his transition
into his new faith from the religion of his remotest
ancestors has been accompanied by a very considerable
retention of old usages and old nomenclature,
and by the persistence of ineradicable traces of the
idealistic residuum that remained after the more gross
portions of the ancient mythology had refined away
and had left to the worshiper abstract godlike attributes,
rather than the gods and goddesses his forefathers
had created in man’s unworthy image. So,
while nobody can call in question the Christianity of
the modern Greek, his churches nevertheless often do
mingle a quaint perfume of the ancient and classic
days with the modern incense and odor of sanctity.
To my own mind, this obvious direct descent of many
a churchly custom or churchly name from the days of
the mythical Olympian theocracy is one of the most
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impressively interesting things about modern Hellas
and her people.

In a far less striking, but no less real way, we ourselves
are of course the direct inheritors of the classic
Greeks, legatees of their store of thought, literature,
and culture, and followers on the path the Greeks
first pioneered. They and not we have been the creators
in civilization, with all its varied fields of activity
from politics to art. Of our own mental race the
Greeks were the progenitors, and it is enough to recognize
this fact of intellectual descent and kinship
in order to view the Athenian Acropolis and the Hill
of Mars with much the same thrill that one to-day
feels, let us say, in coming from Kansas or California
to look upon Plymouth Rock, the old state house at
Philadelphia, or the fields of Lexington and Concord.

All this by way of introduction to the thought that
to visit Hellas is by no means a step aside, but rather
one further step back along the highway traversed
from east to west by the slow course of empire, and
therefore a step natural and proper to be taken by
every one who is interested in the history of civilized
man, the better to understand the present by viewing
it in the light of the past. The “philhellene,” as the
Greeks call their friend of to-day, needs no apologist,
and it is notable that the number of such philhellenes
is growing annually.
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Time was, of course, when the visit to Greece meant
so much labor, hardship, and expense that it was
made by few. To-day it is no longer so. One may now
visit the more interesting sites of the Greek peninsula
and even certain of the islands with perfect ease,
at no greater cost in money or effort than is entailed
by any other Mediterranean journey, and with the
added satisfaction that one sees not only inspiring
scenery, but hills and vales peopled with a thousand
ghostly memories running far back of the dawn of
history and losing themselves in pagan legend, in
the misty past when the fabled gods of high Olympus
strove, intrigued, loved, and ruled.

The natural result of a growing appreciation of the
attractions of Greece is an increase in travel thither,
which in its turn has begotten increasing excellence
of accommodation at those points where visitors most
do congregate. Railroads have been extended, hotels
have multiplied and improved, steamers are more
frequent and more comfortable. One need no longer
be deterred by any fear of hardship involved in such
a journey. Athens to-day offers hostelries of every
grade, as does Rome. The more famous towns likely
to be visited can show very creditable inns for the
wayfarer, which are comfortable enough, especially
to one inured to the hill towns of Italy or Sicily.
Railway coaches, while still much below the standard
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of the corridor cars of the more western nations, are
comfortable enough for journeys of moderate length,
and must inevitably improve from year to year as
the hotels have done already. As for safety of person
and property, that ceased to be a problem long ago.
Brigandage has been unknown in the Peloponnesus
for many a long year. Drunkenness is exceedingly
rare, and begging is infinitely more uncommon than
in most Italian provinces and cities. Time is certain
to remove the objection of the comparative isolation
of Greece still more than it has done at this writing,
no doubt. It is still true that Greece is, to all intents
and purposes, an island, despite its physical connection
with the mainland of Europe. The northern
mountains, with the wild and semi-barbaric inhabitants
thereamong, serve to insulate the kingdom
effectually on the mainland side, just as the ocean
insulates it on every other hand, so that one is really
more out of the world at Athens than in Palermo.
All arrival and departure is by sea; and even when
Athens shall be finally connected by rail with Constantinople
and the north, the bulk of communication
between Greece and the western world will still
be chiefly maritime, and still subject, as now, to the
delays and inconveniences that must always beset
an island kingdom. Daily steamers, an ideal not yet
attained, will be the one effective way to shorten the
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distance between Hellas and Europe proper—not to
mention America.

It may be added that one need not be deterred
from a tour in Greece by a lack of knowledge of the
tongue, any more than one need allow an unfamiliarity
with Italian to debar him from the pleasures
of Italy. The essential and striking difference in the
case is the distinctive form of the Greek letters, which
naturally tends to confuse the unaccustomed visitor
rather more than do Italian words, written in our
own familiar alphabet. Still, even one quite unfamiliar
with the Hellenic text may visit the country
with comparatively little inconvenience from his ignorance,
if content to follow the frequented routes, since
in these days perfect English is spoken at all large
hotels, and French at large and small alike. Indeed,
the prevalence of French among all classes is likely
to surprise one at first. The Greeks are excellent
linguists, and many a man or woman of humble station
will be found to possess a fair working knowledge
of the Gallic tongue. It is entirely probable that
in a few more years the effect of the present strong
tendency toward emigration to America will reflect
even more than it does now a general knowledge of
English among the poorer people. I have frequently
met with men in obscure inland towns who spoke
English well, and once or twice discovered that they
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learned it in my own city, which has drawn heavily
on the population of the Peloponnesus within recent
years.

If the traveler is fortunate enough to have studied
ancient Greek in his school and college days, and—what
is more rare—retains enough of it to enable
him to recognize a few of the once familiar words, he
will naturally find a considerable advantage therein.
It is often stated that Greek has changed less since
Agamemnon’s time than English has altered since
the days of Chaucer; and while this generalization
may not be strictly true, it is very near the fact, so
that it is still possible for any student well versed in
the ancient Greek to read a modern Athenian newspaper
with considerable ease. The pronunciation,
however, is vastly different from the systems taught
in England and in America, so that even a good
classical student requires long practice to deliver his
Greek trippingly on the tongue in such wise that the
modern Athenian can understand it. Grammatically
speaking, Greek is to-day vastly simpler than it was
in the days of Plato. It has been shorn of many of
those fine distinctions that were, and are, such terrors
to the American schoolboy. But the appearance
of the letters and words, with their breathings and
accents, is quite unchanged, and many of the ancient
words are perfectly good in modern Greek with their
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old meanings unimpaired. When one has mastered
the modern pronunciation, even to a very moderate
degree, one is sure to find that the once despised
“dead language” is not a dead language at all, but
one in daily use by a nation of people who may claim
with truth that they speak a speech as old as Agamemnon
and far more homogeneous in its descent
than modern Italian as it comes from the Latin.

It cannot be disguised, however, that it is very
desirable at least to know the Greek alphabet, even
if one does not speak or read the language, since
this little knowledge will often serve to give one a
clue to the names of streets or railroad stations.
Aside from that, the few words the habitual traveler
always picks up will serve as well in Greece as anywhere.
One should know, of course, the colloquial
forms of asking “how much?” and for saying “It
is too dear.” These are the primal necessities of
European travel, always and everywhere. With these
alone as equipment, one may go almost anywhere
on earth. In addition to these rudimentary essentials,
the ever-versatile Bædeker supplies, I believe, phrases
of a simple kind, devised for every possible contingency,
remote or otherwise, which might beset the
traveler—omitting, curiously enough, the highly useful
expression for hot water, which the traveler will
speedily discover is “zestò nerò.” Among the conveniences,
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though not essential, might be included a
smattering of knowledge of the Greek numerals to
be used in bargaining with merchants and cab-drivers.
But since the Greek merchant, for reasons which
will later appear, is never without his pad and pencil,
and since the written figures are the same as our
own, the custom is to conduct bargains with Europeans
generally by written symbols. The inevitable
haggling over prices in the small shops requires little
more than the sign manual, plus a determination to
seem indifferent at all hazards. The Greek merchant,
like every other, regards the voyager from foreign
parts as legitimate prey, and long experience has led
him to expect his price to be questioned. Hence
nothing would surprise a small dealer more than to
be taken at his initial figure, and the process of arriving
at some middle ground remotely resembling
reasonableness is often a complicated but perfectly
good-humored affair.

The cab-drivers present rather more difficulty.
They seldom speak French and they carry no writing
pads. The result is a frequent misunderstanding as
to both price and destination, while in the settlement
of all differences at the close of the “course” both
cabby and his fare are evidently at a mutual linguistic
disadvantage. The trouble over the destination
is twofold, as a rule. Part of the time the cabman
.bn 033.png
.pn +1
is “green” and not well acquainted with the city;
and part of the time he is wholly unable to recognize,
in the name pronounced to him, any suggestion
of a street he may know perfectly well when
pronounced with the proper accent. The element of
accent is highly important in speaking Greek; for
unless the stress is properly laid, a word will often
elude entirely the comprehension of the native, although
every syllable be otherwise correctly sounded.
The names of the Greek streets are all in the genitive
case, which makes the matter still worse. It is of
small avail to say “Hermes Street” to a driver. He
must have the Greek for “Street of Hermes” in order
to get the idea clearly in mind. It is not safe to generalize,
but I incline to rate the Greeks as rather slower
than Italians at grasping a foreigner’s meaning, despite
their cleverness and quickness at acquiring other
languages themselves. However, this is getting considerably
ahead of our narrative and in danger of
losing sight of the main point, which is that Greece
is easy enough to visit and enjoy, even if one is ignorant
of the language. For those who feel safer to
know a trifle of it, there is ample time on the steamer
voyage toward the Grecian goal to acquire all that
ordinary necessities demand.

Let it be said, in passing from these general and
preliminary remarks to a more detailed discussion of
.bn 034.png
.pn +1
Hellenic travel, that the modern Greek has lost none
of his ancient prototype’s reverence for the guest as
a person having the highest claims upon him and
none of the ancient regard for the sacred name of
hospitality. Whatever may be said of the modern
Greek character, it cannot be called in question as
lacking in cordiality and kindness to the stranger.
The most unselfish entertainer in the world is the
Greek, who conceives the idea that he may be able to
add to your happiness by his courtesy, and this is true
in the country as well as in the city. The native met
on the highway has always a salutation for you. If
it is the season for harvesting grapes, you are welcome
to taste and see that they are good. He will
welcome you to his house and set before you the
best it affords, the sweet “sumadha” or almond
milk, the rich preserved quince, the glass of pungent
“mastika,” or perhaps a bit of smoke-cured ham
from the earthen jar which is kept for just such occasions
as this. If he sets out to entertain, nothing is
done by halves. The Greek bearing gifts need cause
no fear to-day, unless it be a fear of superabundant
hospitality such as admits of no repayment. He will
drive a hard bargain with you in business, no doubt.
Occasionally an unscrupulous native will commit a
petty theft, as in any other country where only man
is vile. But once appear to him in the guise of friendship
.bn 035.png
.pn +1
and he will prove himself the most obliging
creature in the world. He may not be as well aware
of the general history of his remote ancestors as you
are yourself, but what he does know about his vicinity
he will relate to you with pride and explicitness.
Curiously enough, the Greek in ordinary station is
likely to think you wish to see modern rather than
ancient things. He cannot understand why you go
every evening to the Acropolis and muse on the steps
of the Parthenon while you omit to visit the villas
of Kephissià or Tatoïs. He would rather show you
a tawdry pseudo-Byzantine church than a ruined
temple. But the cordial spirit is there, and everybody
who ever visited Greece has had occasion to know
it and admire it.

There remains necessary a word as to the choice
of routes to Greece. As in the case of Venice, one
may enter by either the front or the back door, so to
speak; and probably, as in the case of Venice, more
actually elect to enter by the rear. The two gateways
of Hellas are the Piræus at the eastern front, and
Patras at the back. Either may be selected as the
point for beginning a land journey in the kingdom,
and each has certain advantages. In any event the
visitor should enter by one portal and leave by the
other, and the direction may safely be left to be decided
by the convenience and aims of each particular
.bn 036.png
.pn +1
visitor’s case. Taking Naples as the natural starting-point
of American travelers, two routes lie open.
One is the railroad to Brindisi, traversing the mountainous
Italian interior to the Adriatic coast, where
on stated days very comfortable steamers ply between
Brindisi and Patras, touching at Corfù. The
other route is from Naples to the Piræus by sea on
either French or Italian steamers, the latter lines
being slower and enabling stops in Sicily and in
Crete. To those fortunately possessed of ample time
and willing to see something of Magna Graecia as
well as of Greece proper, the slower route is decidedly
to be recommended.

For the purposes of this book let us choose to enter
Greece by her imposing main portal of the Piræus,
setting at naught several considerations which incline
us to believe that, on the whole, the advantage
lies rather with the contrary choice. Whatever else
may be said in favor of either selection, it remains
true that in any case one immediately encounters
mythology and legend in the shape of the wily
Ulysses, and is thus at once <lang=fr><em>en rapport</em></lang> with Grecian
things. The steamers from Naples must sail through
the Strait of Messina, between Scylla and Charybdis,
once the terror of those mariners who had the experiences
of Homer’s wandering hero before their eyes;
while not far below Charybdis and just off the Sicilian
.bn 037.png
.pn +1
shore they still show the wondering traveler a
number of small rocks, rising abruptly from the
ocean, as the very stones that Polyphemus hurled
in his blind rage after the fleeing Odysseus, but
fortunately without doing him any harm. If, on the
contrary, we sail from Brindisi to Patras, we must
pass Corfù, which as all the world knows was the
island on which Odysseus was cast from his ship and
where, after he had refreshed himself with sleep, he
was awakened by the laughter of Nausicaa and her
maids as they played at ball after the washing was
done. Whichever way we go, we soon find that we
have run into a land older than those with which we
have been familiar, whose legends greet us even at
this distance over miles of tossing waves. Let those
who are content to voyage with us through the pages
that follow, be content to reserve Corfù for the homeward
journey, and to assume that our prow is headed
now toward Crete, through a tossing sea such as led
the ancients to exclaim, “The Cretan sea is wide!”
The shadowy mountains on the left are the lofty
southern prongs of the Grecian peninsula. Ahead,
and not yet visible above the horizon, is the sharp,
razor-like edge of Crete, and the dawn should find
us in harbor at Canea.
.bn 038.png
.pb
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap02
CHAPTER II. CRETE

.il fn=i_038.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
The island of Crete, lying like a long, narrow
bar across the mouth of the Ægean Sea, presents
a mountainous and rugged appearance to one
approaching from any side. Possessing an extreme
length of about one hundred and sixty miles, it is
nowhere more than thirty-five miles in width, and in
places much less than that. A lofty backbone of
mountain runs through it from end to end. In all its
coast-line few decent harbors are to be found, and
that of the thriving city of Canea, near the northwestern
end of the island, is no exception. In ancient
times the fortifications and moles that were built to
protect the ports had in view the small sailing vessels
of light draught which were then common, and today
it is necessary for steamers of any size to anchor
in the practically open roadsteads outside the harbor
proper. Needless to say, landing in small boats from
a vessel stationed at this considerable distance outside
the breakwater is a matter largely dependent
.bn 039.png
.pn +1
on the wind and weather, not only at Canea, with
which we are at present concerned, but at Candia, of
which we shall speak later. In a north wind, such as
frequently blows for days together, a landing on the
northern coast is often quite impossible, and steamers
have been known to lie for days off the island
waiting a chance to approach and discharge. This
contretemps, however, is less to be feared at Canea
because of the proximity of the excellent though
isolated Suda Bay, which is landlocked and deep,
affording quiet water in any weather, but presenting
the drawback that it is about four miles from the city
of Canea, devoid of docks and surrounded by flat
marshes. Nevertheless, steamers finding the weather
too rough off the port do proceed thither on occasion
and transact their business there, though with some
difficulty. The resort to Suda, however, is seldom
made save in exceedingly rough weather, for the
stout shore boats of the Cretans are capable of braving
very considerable waves and landing passengers
and freight before the city itself in a fairly stiff northwest
gale, as our own experience in several Cretan
landings has proven abundantly. It is not a trip to
be recommended to the timorous, however, when the
sea is high; for although it is probably not as dangerous
as it looks, the row across the open water
between steamer and harbor is certainly rather terrifying
.bn 040.png
.pn +1
in appearance, as the boats rise and fall, now
in sight of each other on the crest of the waves,
now disappearing for what seem interminable intervals
in the valleys of water between what look like
mountains of wave tossing angrily on all sides. The
boatmen are skillful and comparatively few seas are
shipped, but even so it is a passage likely to be
dampening to the ardor in more ways than one. On
a calm day, when the wind is light or offshore, there
is naturally no trouble, and the boatmen have never
seemed to me rapacious or insolent, but quite ready
to abide by the very reasonable tariff charge for the
round trip. In bad weather, as is not unnatural, it often
happens that the men request a gratuity over and
above the established franc-and-a-half rate, on the
plea that the trip has been "<lang=it>molto cattivo</lang>" and the
labor consequently out of all proportion to the tariff
charge—which is true. It is no light task for three
or four stout natives to row a heavy boat containing
eight people over such a sea as often is to be found
running off Canea, fighting for every foot of advance,
and easing off now and then to put the boat head up
to an unusually menacing comber.

.il id=i041 fn=i_041.jpg w=372px ew=80%
.ca LANDING-PLACE AT CANEA

The landing at Canea, if the weather permits landing
at all, is on a long curving stone quay, lined
with picturesque buildings, including a mosque with
its minaret, the latter testifying to the considerable
.bn 041.png
.bn 042.png
.bn 043.png
.pn +1
residuum of Turkish and Mohammedan population
that remains in this polyglot island, despite its present
Greek rule under the oversight of the Christian
powers of Europe. The houses along the quay are
mostly a grayish white, with the light green shutters
one learns to associate with similar towns everywhere
in the Ægean. Behind the town at no very great
distance may be seen rising lofty and forbidding
mountains, snowcapped down to early May; but a
brief ride out from the city to Suda Bay will serve to
reveal some fertile and open valleys such as save
Crete from being a barren and utterly uninviting
land. The ordinary stop of an Italian steamer at this
port is something like six or eight hours, which is
amply sufficient to give a very good idea of Canea
and its immediate neighborhood. The time is enough
for a walk through the tortuous and narrow highways
and byways of the city—walks in which one
is attended by a crowd of small boys from the start,
and indeed by large boys as well, all most persistently
offering their most unnecessary guidance in
the hope of receiving “backsheesh,” which truly Oriental
word is to be heard at every turn, and affords
one more enduring local monument to the former
rule of the unspeakable Turk. These lads apparently
speak a smattering of every known language, and
are as quick and alert as the New York or Naples
.bn 044.png
.pn +1
gamin. Incidentally, I wonder if every other visitor
to Canea is afflicted with "Mustapha"? On our last
landing there we were told, as we went over the side
of the steamer to brave the tempestuous journey
ashore in the boat which bobbed below, to be sure
to look for “Mustapha.” The captain always recommended
Mustapha, he said, and no Americano that
ever enlisted the services of Mustapha as guide, philosopher,
and friend for four Canean hours had ever
regretted it. So we began diligent inquiry of the
boatman if he knew this Mustapha. Yes, he did—and
who better? Was he not Mustapha himself, in
his own proper person? Inwardly congratulating
ourselves at finding the indispensable with such remarkable
promptitude, we soon gained the harbor,
and the subsequent landing at the quay was assisted
in by at least forty hardy Caneans, including one
bullet-headed Nubian, seven shades darker than
a particularly black ace of clubs, who exhibited a
mouthful of ivory and proclaimed himself, unsolicited,
as the true and only Mustapha,—a declaration
that caused an instant and spontaneous howl of derision
from sundry other bystanders, who promptly
filed their claims to that Oriental name and all the
excellences that it implied. Apparently Mustapha’s
other name was Legion. Search for him was abandoned
on the spot, and I would advise any subsequent
.bn 045.png
.pn +1
traveler to do the same. Search is quite
unnecessary. Wherever two or three Caneans are
gathered together, there is Mustapha in the midst of
them,—and perhaps two or three of him.

It is by no means easy to get rid of the Canean
urchins who follow you away from the landing-place
and into the quaint and narrow streets of the town.
By deploying your landing party, which is generally
sufficiently numerous for the purpose, in blocks of
three or four, the convoy of youth may be split into
detachments and destroyed in detail. It may be an
inexpensive and rather entertaining luxury to permit
the brightest lad of the lot to go along, although,
as has been intimated, guidance is about the last
thing needed in Canea. The streets are very narrow,
very crooked, and not over clean, and are lined with
houses having those projecting basketwork windows
overhead, such as are common enough in every
Turkish or semi-Turkish city. Many of the women
go heavily veiled, sometimes showing the upper face
and sometimes not even that, giving an additional
Oriental touch to the street scenes. This veiling is in
part a survival of Turkish usages, and in part is due
to the dust and glare. It is a practice to be met with
in many other Ægean islands as well as in Crete.
It is this perpetual recurrence of Mohammedan
touches that prevents Canea from seeming typically
.bn 046.png
.pn +1
Greek, despite its nominal allegiance. To all outward
seeming it is Turkish still, and mosques and minarets
rise above its roofs in more than one spot as
one surveys it from the harbor or from the hills. The
streets with their narrow alleys and overshadowing
archways are tempting indeed to the camera, and it
may as well be said once and for all that it is a grave
mistake to visit Greece and the adjacent lands without
that harmless instrument of retrospective pleasure.

As for sights, Canea must be confessed to offer
none that are of the traditional kind, “double-starred
in Bædeker.” There is no museum there, and no
ruins. The hills are too far away to permit an ascent
for a view. The palace of the Greek royal commissioner,
Prince George, offers slight attraction to the
visitor compared with the scenes of the streets and
squares in the town itself, the coffee-houses, and
above all the curious shops. Canea is no mean place
for the curio hunter with an eye to handsome, though
barbaric, blankets, saddle-bags, and the like. The
bizarre effect of the scene is increased by the manifold
racial characteristics of face, figure, and dress
that one may observe there; men and women
quaintly garbed in the peasant dress of half a dozen
different nations. In a corner, sheltered from the heat
or from the wind, as the case may be, sit knots of
weazen old men, cloaks wrapped about their shoulders,
.bn 047.png
.pn +1
either drinking their muddy coffee or plying
some trifling trade while they gossip,—doubtless
about the changed times. From a neighboring coffeehouse
there will be heard to trickle a wild and barbaric
melody tortured out of a long-suffering fiddle
that cannot, by any stretch of euphemism, be called
a violin; or men may be seen dancing in a sedate
and solemn circle, arms spread on each other’s shoulders
in the Greek fashion, to the minor cadences of
the plaintive “bouzouki,” or Greek guitar. There are
shops of every kind, retailing chiefly queer woolen
bags, or shoes of soft, white skins, or sweetmeats of
the Greek and Turkish fashion. Here it is possible
for the first time to become acquainted with the celebrated
“loukoumi” of Syra, a soft paste made of
gums, rosewater, and flavoring extracts, with an addition
of chopped nuts, each block of the candy rolled
in soft sugar. It is much esteemed by the Greeks,
who are notorious lovers of sweetmeats, and it is
imitated and grossly libeled in America under the
alias of “Turkish Delight.”

From Canea a very good road leads out over a
gently rolling country to Suda Bay. Little is to be
seen there, however, save a very lovely prospect of
hill and vale, and a few warships of various nations
lying at anchor, representing the four or five jealous
powers who maintain a constant watch over the
.bn 048.png
.pn +1
destinies of this troublous isle. The cosmopolitan
character of these naval visitants is abundantly testified
to by the signs that one may see along the highroad
near Suda, ringing all possible linguistic changes
on legends that indicate facilities for the entertainment
of Jack ashore, and capable of being summed
up in the single phrase, “Army and Navy Bar.” The
Greeks were ever a hospitable race.

The road to Suda, however, is far from being lined
by nothing more lovely than these decrepit wine
shops for the audacious tar. The three or four miles
of its length lie through fertile fields devoted to olive
orchards and to the cultivation of grain, and one
would look far for a more picturesque sight than
the Cretan farmer driving his jocund team afield—a
team of large oxen attached to a primitive plow—or
wielding his cumbersome hoe in turning up the
sod under his own vine and olive trees. It is a pleasing
and pastoral spectacle. The ride out to Suda is
easily made while the steamer waits, in a very comfortable
carriage procurable in the public square for
a moderate sum. It may be as well to remark, however,
that carriages in Greece are not, as a rule,
anywhere nearly as cheap as in Italy.

It is a long jump from Canea to Candia, the second
city of the island, situated many miles farther to
the east along this northern shore. But it easily surpasses
.bn 049.png
.pn +1
Canea in classic interest, being the site of the
traditional ruler of Crete in the most ancient times,—King
Minos,—of whom we shall have much to
say. Candia, as we shall call it, although its local
name is Megalokastron, is not touched by any of
the steamers en route from the west to Athens, but
must be visited in connection with a cruise among
the islands of the Ægean. From the sea it resembles
Canea in nature as well as in name. It shows the
same harbor fortifications of Venetian build, and
bears the same lion of St. Mark. It possesses the
same lack of harborage for vessels other than small
sailing craft. Its water front is lined with white houses
with green blinds, and slender white minarets stand
loftily above the roofs. Its streets and squares are
much like Canea’s, too, although they are rather
broader and more modern in appearance; while the
crowds of people in the streets present a similar array
of racial types to that already referred to in describing
the former city. More handsome men are to be
seen, splendid specimens of humanity clad in the
blue baggy trousers and jackets of Turkish cut, and
wearing the fez. Candia is well walled by a very
thick and lofty fortification erected in Venetian times,
and lies at the opening of a broad valley stretching
across the island to the south, and by its topography
and central situation was the natural theatre of activity
.bn 050.png
.pn +1
in the distant period with which we are about
to make our first acquaintance. Even without leaving
the city one may get some idea of the vast antiquity
of some of its relics by a visit to the museum located
in an old Venetian palace in the heart of the town,
where are to be seen the finds of various excavators
who have labored in the island. Most of these belong
to a very remote past, antedating vastly the Mycenæan
period, which used to seem so old, with its traditions
of Agamemnon and the sack of Troy. Here
we encounter relics of monarchs who lived before
Troy was made famous, and the English excavator,
Evans, who has exhumed the palace of Minos not
far outside the city gates, has classified the articles
displayed as of the “Minoan” period. It would be
idle in this place to attempt any detailed explanation
of the subdivisions of “early,” “middle,” and “late
Minoan” which have been appended to the manifold
relics to be seen in the museum collection, or to give
any detailed description of them. It must suffice to
say that the period represented is so early that any
attempt to affix dates must be conjectural, and that
we may safely take it in general terms as a period so
far preceding the dawn of recorded history that it
was largely legendary even in the time of the classic
Greeks, who already regarded Minos himself as a
demi-god and sort of immortal judge in the realm
.bn 051.png
.pn +1
of the shades. The museum, with its hundreds of
quaint old vases, rudely ornamented in geometric
patterns, its fantastic and faded mural paintings, its
sarcophagi, its implements of toil, and all the manifold
testimony to a civilization so remote that it is
overwhelming to the mind, will serve to hold the
visitor long. Nor is it to be forgotten that among
these relics from Cnossos, Phæstos, and Gortyn, are
many contributed by the industry and energy of the
American investigator, Mrs. Hawes (<lang=fr><em>née</em></lang> Boyd), whose
work in Crete has been of great value and archæological
interest.

Having whetted one’s appetite for the remotely
antique by browsing through this collection of treasures,
one is ready enough to make the journey out
to Cnossos, the site of the ancient palace, only four
miles away. There is a good road, and it is possible
to walk if desired, although it is about as hot and
uninteresting a walk as can well be imagined. It is
easier and better to ride, although the Cretan drivers
in general, and the Candian ones in particular, enjoy
the reputation of being about the most rapacious in
the civilized world. On the way out to the palace at
Cnossos, the road winds through a rolling country,
and crosses repeatedly an old paved Turkish road,
which must have been much less agreeable than
the present one to traverse. On the right, far away to
.bn 052.png
.pn +1
the southwest, rises the peak which is supposed to be
the birthplace of Zeus, the slopes of Mt. Ida. Crete
is the land most sacred to Zeus of all the lands of the
ancient world. Here his mother bore him, having fled
thither to escape the wrath of her husband, the god
Cronos, who had formed the unbecoming habit of
swallowing his progeny as soon as they were born.
Having been duly delivered of the child Zeus, his
mother, Rhæa, wrapped up a stone in some cloth
and presented it to Cronos, who swallowed it, persuaded
that he had once more ridded the world of
the son it was predicted should oust him from his
godlike dignities and power. But Rhæa concealed
the real Zeus in a cave on Ida, and when he came to
maturity he made war on Cronos and deprived him
of his dominion. Hence Zeus, whose worship in Crete
soon spread to other islands and mainland, was held
in highest esteem in the isle of his birth, and his cult
had for its symbol the double-headed axe, which we
find on so many of the relics of the Candia museum
and on the walls of the ancient palaces, like that we
are on the way to visit at Cnossos.

It is necessary to remark that there were two characters
named Minos in the ancient mythology. The
original of the name was the child of Zeus and
Europa, and he ruled over Crete, where Saturn is
supposed to have governed before him, proving a
.bn 053.png
.pn +1
wise law-giver for the people. The other Minos was
a grandson of the first, child of Lycastos and Ida.
This Minos later grew up and married Pasiphaë,
whose unnatural passion begot the Minotaur, or savage
bull with the body of a man and an appetite for
human flesh. To house this monster Minos was compelled
to build the celebrated labyrinth, and he fed
the bull with condemned criminals, who were sent
into the mazes of the labyrinth never to return. Still
later, taking offense at the Athenians because in
their Panathenaic games they had killed his own
son, Minos sent an expedition against them, defeated
them, and thereafter levied an annual tribute of seven
boys and seven girls upon the inhabitants, who were
taken to Crete and fed to the Minotaur. This cruel
exaction continued until Theseus came to Crete and,
with the aid of the thread furnished him by Ariadne,
tracked his way into the labyrinth, slaughtered the
monster and returned alive to the light of day. Of
course such a network of myths, if it does nothing
else, argues the great antiquity of the Minoan period,
to which the ruins around Candia are supposed to
belong, and they naturally lead us to an inquiry
whether any labyrinth was ever found or supposed
to be found in the vicinity. I believe there actually
is an extensive artificial cave in the mountains south
of Cnossos, doubtless an ancient subterranean quarry,
.bn 054.png
.pn +1
which is called “the labyrinth” to-day, though it
doubtless never sheltered the Minotaur. It is sufficiently
large to have served once as the abode of
several hundred persons during times of revolution,
they living there in comparative comfort save for the
lack of light; and it is interesting to know that they
employed Ariadne’s device of the thread to keep
them in touch with the passage out of their self-imposed
prison when the political atmosphere cleared
and it was safe to venture forth into the light of day.
It seems rather more probable that the myth or legend
of the labyrinth of Minos had its origin in the labyrinthine
character of the king’s own palace, as it is
now shown to have been a perfect maze of corridors
and rooms, through which it is possible to wander
at will, since the excavators have laid them open
after the lapse of many centuries. A glance at the
plans of the Cnossos palace in the guide-books, or a
survey of them from the top of Mr. Evans’s rather
garish and incongruous but highly useful tower on
the spot, will serve to show a network of passageways
and apartments that might easily have given
rise to the tale of the impenetrable man-trap which
Theseus alone had the wit to evade.

The ruins lie at the east of the high road, in a deep
valley. Their excavation has been very complete and
satisfactory, and while some restorations have been
.bn 055.png
.pn +1
attempted here and there, chiefly because of absolute
necessity to preserve portions of the structure, they
are not such restorations as to jar on one, but exhibit
a fidelity to tradition that saves them from the common
fate of such efforts. Little or no retouching was
necessary in the case of the stupendous flights of
steps that were found leading up to the door of this
prehistoric royal residence, and which are the first of
the many sights the visitor of to-day may see. It is
in the so-called “throne room of Minos” that the
restoring hand is first met. Here it has been found
necessary to provide a roof, that damage by weather
be avoided; and to-day the throne room is a dusky
spot, rather below the general level of the place. Its
chief treasure is the throne itself, a stone chair, carved
in rather rudimentary ornamentation, and about the
size of an ordinary chair. The roof is supported by
the curious, top-heavy-looking stone pillars, that are
known to have prevailed not only in the Minoan but
in the Mycenæan period; monoliths noticeably larger
at the top than at the bottom, reversing the usual
form of stone pillar with which later ages have made
us more familiar. This quite illogical inversion of
what we now regard as the proper form has been
accounted for in theory, by assuming that it was the
natural successor of the sharpened wooden stake.
When the ancients adopted stone supports for their
.bn 056.png
.pn +1
roofs, they simply took over the forms they had been
familiar with in the former use of wood, and the result
was a stone pillar that copied the earlier wooden one
in shape. Time, of course, served to show that the
natural way of building demanded the reversal of this
custom; but in the Mycenæan age it had not been
discovered, for there are evidences that similar pillars
existed in buildings of that period, and the representation
of a pillar that stands between the two lions
on Mycenæ’s famous gate has this inverted form.

.il id=i057 fn=i_057.jpg w=500px ew=90%
.ca THRONE OF MINOS AT CNOSSOS

Many hours may be spent in detailed examination
of this colossal ruin, testifying to what must have
been in its day an enormous and impressive palace.
One cannot go far in traversing it without noticing
the traces still evident enough of the fire that obviously
destroyed it many hundred, if not several
thousand, years before Christ. Along the western side
have been discovered long corridors, from which
scores of long and narrow rooms were to be entered.
These, in the published plans, serve to give to the
ruin a large share of its labyrinthine character. It
seems to be agreed now that these were the store-rooms
of the palace, and in them may still be seen
the huge earthen jars which once served to contain
the palace supplies. Long rows of them stand in
the ancient hallways and in the narrow cells that
lead off them, each jar large enough to hold a fair-sized
.bn 057.png
.bn 058.png
.bn 059.png
.pn +1
man, and in number sufficient to have accommodated
Ali Baba and the immortal forty thieves.
In the centre of the palace little remains; but in the
southeastern corner, where the land begins to slope
abruptly to the valley below, there are to be seen
several stories of the ancient building. Here one
comes upon the rooms marked with the so-called
“distaff” pattern, supposed to indicate that they were
the women’s quarters. The restorer has been busy
here, but not offensively so. Much of the ancient
wall is intact, and in one place is a bath-room with
a very diminutive bath-tub still in place. Along the
eastern side is also shown the oil press, where olives
were once made to yield their coveted juices, and
from the press proper a stone gutter conducted the
fluid down to the point where jars were placed to
receive it. This discovery of oil presses in ancient
buildings, by the way, has served in more than one
case to arouse speculation as to the antiquity of oil
lamps, such as were once supposed to belong only to
a much later epoch. Whether in the Minoan days
they had such lamps or not, it is known that they had
at least an oil press and a good one. In the side of
the hill below the main palace of Minos has been unearthed
a smaller structure, which they now call the
“villa,” and in which several terraces have been uncovered
rather similar to the larger building above.
.bn 060.png
.pn +1
Here is another throne room, cunningly contrived to
be lighted by a long shaft of light from above falling
on the seat of justice itself, while the rest of the room
is in obscurity.

It may be that it requires a stretch of the imagination
to compare the palace of Cnossos with Troy,
but nevertheless there are one or two features that
seem not unlike the discoveries made by Dr. Schliemann
on that famous site. Notably so, it seems to
me, are the traces of the final fire, which are to be seen
at Cnossos as at Troy, and the huge jars, which maybe
compared with the receptacles the Trojan excavators
unearthed, and found still to contain dried peas and
other things that the Trojans left behind when they
fled from their sacked and burning city. Few are
privileged to visit the site of Priam’s city, which is
hard indeed to reach; but it is easy enough to make
the excursion to Candia and visit the palace of old
King Minos, which is amply worth the trouble, besides
giving a glimpse of a civilization that is possibly
vastly older than even that of Troy and Mycenæ.
For those who reverence the great antiquities, Candia
and its pre-classic suburb are distinctly worth visiting,
and are unique among the sights of the ancient
Hellenic and pre-Hellenic world.
.bn 061.png
.il id=i061 fn=i_061.jpg w=500px ew=90%
.ca STORE-ROOMS IN MINOAN PALACE, CNOSSOS
.bn 062.png
.bn 063.png
.pb
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap03
CHAPTER III. THE ENTRANCE | TO GREECE
.il fn=i_063.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
Leaving Crete behind, the steamer turns her
prow northward into the Ægean toward Greece
proper, and in the early morning, if all goes smoothly,
will be found well inside the promontory of Sunium,
approaching the Piræus. One ought most infallibly
to be early on deck, for the rugged, rocky shores of
the Peloponnesus are close at hand on the left, indented
here and there by deep inlets or gulfs, and
looking as most travelers seem to think “Greece
ought to look.” If it is clear, a few islands may be
seen on the right, though none of the celebrated ones
are near enough to be seen with any satisfaction.
Sunium itself is so far away to the eastward that it
is impossible at this distance to obtain any idea of
the ancient ruin that still crowns its summit.

Although to enter Greece by way of the Piræus is
actually to enter the front door of the kingdom, nevertheless,
as has been hinted heretofore, one may vote
.bn 064.png
.pn +1
on the whole that it is better to make this the point
of departure instead of that of initiation. Leaving
Greece as most of us do with a poignant sense of
regret, it is not unfitting that we depart with the benediction
of the old Acropolis of Athens, crowned with
its famous ruins, which are to be seen even when far
at sea, glowing in the afternoon sun, and furnishing
an ideal last view of this land of golden memories.
Simply because it makes such an ideal last view,
leaving the crowning “glory that was Greece” last
in the mind’s eye, one may well regard this point as
the best one for leaving, whatever may be said for
it as a place of beginning an acquaintance with
Hellas. It must be confessed that to one approaching
for the first time, save in the clearest weather,
the view of the Acropolis from the sea is likely to
be somewhat disappointing, because the locating of
it in the landscape is not an easy matter. Under a
cloudy sky—and there are occasionally such skies
even in sunny Greece—it is not at all easy to pick
out the Acropolis, lying low in the foreground and
flanked by such superior heights as Lycabettus and
Pentelicus. Hence it is that the voyager, returning
home from a stay in Athens, enjoys the seaward view
of the receding site far more than the approaching
newcomer; and it must be added that, however one
may reverence the Acropolis from his reading, it can
.bn 065.png
.pn +1
never mean so much to him as it will after a few days
of personal acquaintance, when he has learned to
know its every stone. What slight disappointment
one may feel on first beholding the ancient rock of
Athena from the ocean, is, after all, only momentary
and due solely to the distance. It is certain to be removed
later when closer acquaintance shows it to be
the stupendous rock it really is, standing alone, and
seen to better advantage than when the hills that wall
the Attic plain overshadow it in the perspective.

As the steamer approaches, the loftier heights of
Hymettus, Pentelicus, Parnes, Ægina, and Salamis
intrude themselves and will not be denied, framing
between them the valley in which Athens lies, obscured
for the time being by the tall chimneys and
the forest of masts that herald the presence of the
Piræus in the immediate foreground. That city is as
of yore the seaport of Athens, and is a thriving city
in itself, although from its proximity to the famous
capital it loses individual prestige, and seems rather
like a dependence of the main city than a separate
and important town, rivaling Athens herself in size,
if not in history.

Perhaps the most trying experience to the newcomer
is this landing at the Piræus and the labor
involved in getting ashore and up to Athens; but,
after all, it is trying only in the sense that it is a matter
.bn 066.png
.pn +1
for much bargaining, in which the unfamiliar visitor
is at an obvious disadvantage. As in all Greek
ports, the landing is to be accomplished only by small
boats, which are manned by watermen having no
connection at all with the steamship companies. It
would seem to be the reasonable duty of a steamer
line to provide facilities for setting its passengers
ashore, and in time this may be done; but it is an
unfortunate fact that it is not done now, and the passenger
is left to bargain for himself with the crowd of
small craft that surrounds the vessel as she is slowly
and painfully berthed. The harbor itself is seen to
be a very excellent and sheltered one, protected by
two long breakwaters, which admit of hardly more
than a single large vessel at a time between their
narrow jaws. Within, it opens out into a broad expanse
of smooth water, lined throughout its periphery
by a low stone quay. While the steamer is being
warped to her position, always with the stern toward
the shore, a fleet of small boats, most of them flying
the flags of hotels in Athens or of the several tourist
agencies, eagerly swarm around and await the lowering
of the landing stairs, meantime gesticulating violently
to attract the attention of passengers on deck.
Little that is definite, however, can be done until the
gangway is lowered and the boatmen’s representatives
have swarmed on the deck itself. There is time
.bn 067.png
.pn +1
and to spare, so that the voyager has no occasion to
hurry, but may possess his soul in patience and seek
to make the most advantageous terms possible with
the lowest bidder. The boatmen, be well assured, know
English enough to negotiate the bargain.

Despite the apparent competition, which ought by
all the laws of economics to be the life of trade, it
will doubtless be found quite impossible to make
any arrangement for landing and getting up to the
city for a sum much under twelve francs. That is the
published tariff of the hotels which send out boats,
and if one is certain of his stopping-place in Athens
he will doubtless do well to close immediately with
the boatman displaying the insignia of that particular
hostelry. But it is entirely probable that any
regular habitué would say that the hotel tariff is
grossly out of proportion to the actual cost, since the
boatman’s fee should be not more than a franc and
the ride to Athens not more than six. As for the
tourist agencies, they may be depended upon to ask
more than the hotel runners do, and the only limit
is the visitor’s credulity and ignorance of the place.
Whatever bargain is made, the incoming passenger
will, if wise, see to it that it is understood to cover
everything, including the supposititious “landing
tax” that is so often foisted upon the customer after
landing in Athens as an “extra.” These are doubtless
.bn 068.png
.pn +1
sordid details, but necessary ones, and matters which
it may prove profitable to understand before venturing
in. Having dismissed them as such, we may turn with
more enjoyment to the prospect now presenting itself.

Piræus, as all the world knows, is the port of Athens
now as in classic times. Topographically it has three
good harbors, the Piræus proper, Zea, and Munychia—the
latter name also applying to the rocky promontory
which juts out and separates the harbor from the
Saronic Gulf. It was on the Munychia peninsula that
Themistocles in 493 <sc>B.C.</sc> erected a town, and it was
Themistocles, also, who conceived and carried out
the scheme for the celebrated “long walls” which ran
from the port up to Athens, and made the city practically
impregnable by making it quite independent
of the rest of Attica, so long as the Athenian supremacy
by sea remained unquestioned. Thus it came to
pass that, during the Peloponnesian War, when all the
rest of the Attic plain had fallen into the hands of
the Lacedæmonians, Athens herself remained practically
undisturbed, thanks not only to the long walls
and ships, but also to the fortifications of Cimon
and Pericles. The Athenian navy, however, was
finally overwhelmed in the battle of Ægospotamoi in
404 <sc>B.C.</sc>, and the port fell a prey to the enemy, who
demolished the long walls, to the music of the flute.

Ten years later, when Athens had somewhat recovered
.bn 069.png
.pn +1
from the first defeat, Conon rebuilt the walls,
and Athens, with Piræus, for a space enjoyed a return
of her ancient greatness and prosperity. The
Roman under Sulla came in 86 <sc>B.C.</sc>, and practically
put an end to the famous capital, which became an
inconsiderable village, and so remained down to the
Grecian risorgimento. The present city of Piræus, and
the city of Athens also, practically date from 1836,
though the old names had been revived the year previous.
Up to that time the spot had for years passed
under the unclassic name of Porto Leone.

Inasmuch as the fame of Athens and her empire
rested on the navy as its foundation, and inasmuch
as the navy made its home in the waters of the Piræus
and Munychia, the locality has its glorious memories
to share with the still more glorious traditions
of the neighboring Salamis, where the Persians of
Xerxes were put to such utter rout. It was from this
harbor that the splendid, but ill-fated, Sicilian expedition
set out, with flags flying, pæans sounding, and
libations pouring. And it was to the Piræus that a
lone survivor of that sorry campaign returned to relate
the incredible news to the village barber.

The harbor of the Piræus is generally full of shipping
of all sorts, including steamers of every size
and nationality, as well as high-sided schooners that
recall the Homeric epithet of the “hollow ships.”
.bn 070.png
.pn +1
Some are en route to or from Constantinople, Alexandria,
Naples, the ports of the Adriatic, the Orient,—everywhere.
The Greek coastwise vessels often bear
their names printed in large white letters amidships,
familiar names looking decidedly odd in the
Greek characters. All are busily loading or discharging,
for the Piræus is, as ever, a busy port. Under
the sterns of several such ships the shore boat passes,
its occupants ducking repeatedly under the sagging
stern cables, until in a brief time all are set ashore
at the custom-house. That institution, however, need
give the visitor little apprehension. The examination
of reasonable luggage is seldom or never oppressive
or fraught with inconvenience, doubtless because the
visitor is duly recognized by the government as a
being whose presence is bound to be of profit, and
who should not, therefore, be wantonly discouraged
at the very threshold of the kingdom. Little is insisted
on save a declaration that the baggage contains
no tobacco or cigarettes. The porters as a rule
are more tolerant of copper tips than the present
rapidly spoiling race of Italian <lang=it><em>facchini</em></lang>.

The sensible way to proceed to Athens is by carriage,
taking the Phalerum road. The electric tram,
which is a very commodious third-rail system resembling
the subway trains of Boston or New York, is
all very well if one is free from impedimenta. But for
.bn 071.png
.pn +1
the ordinary voyager, with several valises or trunks,
the carriage is not only best but probably the most
economical in the end. The carriages are comfortable,
and capable of carrying four persons with reasonable
baggage.

Little of interest will be found in driving out of the
Piræus, which is a frankly commercial place, devoid
of architectural or enduring classical recommendations.
The long walls that once connected the port
with Athens have disappeared almost beyond recall,
although the sites are known. Nor is the beach of New
Phalerum (pronounced Fál-eron) much more attractive
than the Piræus itself. It reminds one strongly
of suburban beach places at home, lined as it is with
cheap cottages, coffee-houses, restaurants, bicycle
shops, and here and there a more pretentious residence,
while at least one big and garish hotel is to
be seen. The sea, varying from a light green to a
deep Mediterranean blue, laps gently along the side
of the highway toward the open ocean, while ahead,
up the straight boulevard, appears the Acropolis of
Athens, now seen for the first time in its proper light
as one of the most magnificent ruins of the earth.
The road thither is good but uncomfortably new.
When its long lines of pepper trees, now in their
infancy, shall have attained their growth, it will be a
highway lined with shade and affording a prospect
.bn 072.png
.pn +1
of much beauty. In its present state, however, which
is destined to endure for some years to come, it is a
long, straight, and rather dreary boulevard, relieved
only by the glorious prospect of the crowning ruin of
Athens something like four miles away, but towering
alone and grand, and no longer dwarfed by the
surrounding gray hills. Still this route seems to me
infinitely better, even to-day, than the older road
from Piræus, which approaches Athens from the western
side without going near the sea, but which is
not without its charms, nevertheless, and certainly
does give the one who takes it a splendid view of
the imposing western front of the Acropolis and its
array of temples, across a plain green with waving
grasses.

Approaching the city from the Phalerum side
serves to give a very striking impression of the inaccessibility
of the Acropolis, showing its precipitous
southern face, crowned by the ruined Parthenon,
whose ancient pillars, weathered to a golden brown,
stand gleaming in the sun against the deep and brilliant
blue of the Greek sky. Those who have pictured
the temple as glistening white will be vastly surprised,
no doubt, on seeing its actual color; for the iron and
other metals present in the Pentelic marble, of which
it was built, have removed almost entirely the white
or creamy tints, and have given in their place a rich
.bn 073.png
.pn +1
mottled appearance, due to the ripe old age of this
shrine.

Aside from the ever present prospect of the Acropolis
and its promise of interest in store, the road to
Athens is devoid of much to attract attention. The
long, gray ridge of Hymettus, which runs along just
east of the road, of course is a famous mountain by
reason of its well-known brand of honey, if for no
other reason. Halfway up the gradual incline to the
city there is a small and rather unattractive church,
said to be a votive offering made by the king in thankfulness
at escaping the bullets of two would-be assassins
at this point. On the left, and still far ahead, rises
the hill, crowned by the ruined but still conspicuous
monument of Philopappus. Situated on a commanding
eminence south of the Acropolis, this monument
is a dominant feature of almost every view of Athens;
but it is entirely out of proportion to the importance
of the man whose vague memory it recalls.

Passing the eastern and most lofty end of the Acropolis,
the carriage at last turns into the outskirts of
the city proper and traverses a broad and pleasant
avenue, its wide sidewalks shaded by graceful and
luxuriant pepper trees, while the prosperous looking
houses give an attractive first impression of residential
Athens. The modern is curiously intermingled
with the ancient; for on the right, in the fields which
.bn 074.png
.pn +1
border the highway, are to be seen the few remaining
colossal columns of the rather florid temple of Olympian
Zeus and the fragmentary arch of Hadrian, the
Roman emperor in whose reign that temple was at
last completed. It is peculiarly fitting to enter Athens
between these ruins on the one hand and the Acropolis
on the other, for they are so characteristic of
the great chief attraction of the place,—its immortal
past.

The city proper now opens out before, and as the
carriage enters the great principal square of Athens,
the “Syntagma,” or Place de la Constitution, handsome
streets may be seen radiating from it in all
directions, giving a general impression of cleanly
whiteness, while the square itself, spreading a wide
open space before the huge and rather barnlike royal
palace, is filled with humanity passing to and fro, or
seated at small tables in the open air, partaking of
the coffee so dear to the heart of the Greek; and
carriages dash here and there, warning pedestrians
only by the driver’s repeated growl of “empros, empros!”
([Greek: empro/s]), which is exactly equivalent to the golf-player’s
“fore!” And here in the crowded square we
may leave the traveler for the present, doubtless not
far from his hotel,—for hotels are all about,—with
only the parting word of advice that he shall early
seek repose, in the certitude that there will be some
.bn 075.png
.pn +1
little noise. For the Athenians are almost as noisy
and nocturnal creatures as the Palermitans or Neapolitans,
and the nights will be filled with music and
many other sounds of revelry. To be sure, there are
no paved streets and no clanging trolley cars; but
the passing throngs will make up for any lack in
that regard, even until a late hour of the night.
.bn 076.png
.pb
.pn +1
.h2 id=chap04
CHAPTER IV. ATHENS; THE | MODERN CITY

.il fn=i_076.jpg w=400px ew=80%

.sp 2
Athens lies in a long and narrow plain between
two rocky mountain ridges that run down
from the north. The plain to-day is neither interesting
nor particularly fertile, although it is still tilled with
some success. Once when it was better watered by
the Cephissus and Ilissus rivers, whose courses are
still visible though in the main dry and rocky, it was
doubtless better able to support the local population;
but to-day it is rather a bare and unattractive intervale
between mountains quite as bare—gray, rocky
heights, covered with little vegetation save the sparse
gorse and thyme. At that point in the plain where a
lofty, isolated, and nearly oblong rock, with precipitous
sides, invited the foundation of a citadel, Athens
sprang into being. And there she stands to-day, having
pivoted around the hoary Acropolis crag for
centuries, first south, then west, then north, until
the latter has become the final abiding place of the
.bn 077.png
.pn +1
modern town, while the older sites to the southward
and westward lie almost deserted save for the activities
of the archæologists and students, who have
found them rich and interesting ground for exploration.
Always, however, the Acropolis was the fulcrum
or focus, and it was on this unique rock that Poseidon
and Athena waged their immortal contest for the
possession of the Attic plain. Tradition says that
Poseidon smote with his trident and a salt spring
gushed forth from the cleft rock, thus proving his
power; but that the judgment of the gods was in
favor of Athena, who made to spring up from the
ground an olive tree. Wherefore the land was allotted
to her, and from her the city took its name. Under
the northern side of the towering rock and around to
the east of it runs the thriving city of to-day, thence
spreading off for perhaps two miles to the northward
along the plain, first closely congested, then widening
into more open modernized streets, and finally dwindling
into scattered suburbs out in the countryside.

The growth of Athens has left its marks of progress
in well-defined strata. The narrow, squalid,
slummy streets of the quarter nearest the Acropolis
belong to the older or Turkish period of the city’s
renascent life. Beyond these one meets newer and
broader highways, lined in many cases with neat modern
shops, called into life by the city’s remarkable
.bn 078.png
.pn +1
growth of the past two decades, which have raised
Athens from the rank of a dirty village to a clean and
attractive metropolis—in the better sense of that
much abused word. Still farther away are seen the
natural products of the overflow of a thriving modern
town—suburbs clustering around isolated mills or
wine-presses. The present population is not far from
a hundred thousand persons, so that Athens to-day
is not an inconsiderable place. The population is
chiefly the native Greek, modified no doubt by long
submission to Turkish rule and mingled with a good
deal of Turkish blood, but still preserving the language,
names, and traditions that bespeak a glorious
past. Despite the persistence of such names as Aristeides,
Miltiades, Themistocles, Socrates, and the like
among the modern Athenians, it would no doubt
be rashly unreasonable to expect to find in a population
that was to all intents and purposes so long
enslaved by Turkey very much that savors of the
traditional Greek character as it stood in the days of
Pericles. But there have not been wanting eminent
scholars, who have insisted that our exalted ideas
of the ancient Greeks are really derived from a comparatively
few exceptional and shining examples,
and that the ancient population may have resembled
the present citizens more than we are prone to think,
in traits and general ability.
.bn 079.png
.pn +1

On his native heath the modern Greek openly
charges his own race with a lack of industry and love
of idling too much in the coffee-houses, although it
is an indictment which has never struck me as just,
and one which, if coming from a foreigner, would
doubtless be resented. It is true that the coffeehouses
are seldom deserted, and the possession of an
extra drachma or two is generally enough to tempt
one to abandon his employ for the seclusion that the
<em>kaffeneion</em> grants, there to sip slowly until the cups
of syrupy coffee which the money will buy are gone.
Nevertheless, one should be slow to say that the race
is indolent by nature, especially in view of its climatic
surroundings; for there are too many thousand
thrifty and hard-working Hellenes in Greece and in
America as well to refute any such accusation. The
one vast trouble, no doubt, is the lack of any spur to
industrial ambition at home, or of any very attractive
or remunerative employment compared with the opportunities
offered by the cities of the newer world.
The strong set of the tide of emigration to American
shores has tended largely to depopulate Greece; but
it is not unlikely that the return of the natives, which
is by no means uncommon, will in time work large
benefit to Hellas herself, and the attraction of her sons
to foreign lands thus prove a blessing rather than, as
was once supposed, a curse.
.bn 080.png
.pn +1

This, however, is rather aside from any consideration
of the modern city of Athens. Let it be said at the
outset that one may go freely anywhere in the city
and be quite unmolested either by malicious or mendicant
persons. It is not improbable, of course, that
the increasing inundation of Athens by foreign visitors
will tend somewhat to increase the tendency to
begging, as it has elsewhere; but it is due the Greek
race to say that it is infinitely less lazy and infinitely
less inclined to proletarianism, or to seeking to live
without work, than the Italian. Small children, as in
all countries, will be found occasionally begging a
penny, especially if they have gone out of their way
to render a fancied service, by ostentatiously opening
a gate that already stood ajar. But there are few of
the lame, halt, and blind, such as infest Naples and
many smaller Mediterranean cities, seeking to extort
money from sheer pity of unsightliness. Here and
there in Athens one may indeed see a cripple patiently
awaiting alms, but generally in a quiet and unobtrusive
way. Neither is the visitor bothered by the importunities
of carriage drivers, although the carriages
are numerous enough and anxious for fares—a contrast
that is welcome indeed to one newly come from
Italy and fresh from the tireless pursuit of warring
Neapolitan cabbies. The offset to this welcome peace
is the fact that carriage fares in Athens are undoubtedly
.bn 081.png
.pn +1
high compared with the astonishingly low charges
produced in Naples by active and incessant competition
of the vetturini. The sole dangers of Athenian
streets are those incident to the fast driving of
carriages over the unpaved roadways; for the pedestrian
has his own way to make and his own safety to
guard, as is largely true in Paris, and it is incumbent
on him to stop, look, and listen before venturing into
the highway.

The street venders of laces, sponges, flowers, and
postal cards are perhaps the nearest to an importunate
class, though they generally await invitation to the
attack, and their efforts are invariably good-humored.
The region of the “Syntagma” square is generally
full of them, lining the curb and laden with their
wares. Men will be seen with long strips of fascinating
island lace over their shoulders, baskets on baskets
of flowers, heaps of curiously shaped, marvelously
attractive sponges, fresh and white from the near-by
ocean, or packets of well-executed postal cards picturing
the city’s classic remains, all offered for sale to
whomsoever will exhibit the faintest trace of interest.
Needless to say, the initial prices asked are inevitably
excessive and yield to treatment with surprising
revelations of latitude.

Athens is a clean city. Its streets, while unpaved,
are still fairly hard. Its buildings are in the main of
.bn 082.png
.pn +1
stone, covered with a stucco finish and given a white
color, or a tint of buff or light blue. The prevailing
tone is white, and in the glare of the brilliant sun it is
often rather trying to the eyes. To relieve the whiteness
there is always the feathery green of the pepper
trees, and the contrast of the clambering vines and
flowers that in their season go far to make the city so
attractive. Most notable of all the contrasts in color is
unquestionably the rich purple of the bougainvillea
blooms splashed in great masses against the immaculate
walls and porticoes of the more pretentious
houses. The gardens are numerous and run riot with
roses, iris, and hundreds of other fragrant and lovely
blossoms. The sidewalks are broad and smooth. It is
an easy town in which to stroll about, for the distances
are not great and the street scenes are interesting
and frequently unusual to a high degree, while vistas
are constantly opening to give momentary views of
the towering Acropolis. It is not a hilly city, but rather
built on rolling ground, the prevailing slope of which
is toward the west, gently down from the pointed Lycabettus
to the ancient course of the Cephissus, along
which once spread the famous grove of Academe.
The lack of a sufficient water supply is unfortunate,
for one misses the gushing of fountains which makes
Rome so delightful, and the restricted volume available
for domestic uses is sometimes far from pleasant.
.bn 083.png
.pn +1

The Athenians had a prodigious mine to draw
upon for the naming of their streets, in the magnificent
stretch of their history and in the fabulous wealth
of mythology. And it is a fact worth remarking that
the mythological gods and heroes appear to have
decidedly the better of the famous mortals in the
selection of street names to do them honor. For example,
Pericles, the greatest Athenian in many ways,
is recalled by the name of a decidedly poor thoroughfare—hardly
more than an alley; while Pheidias,
Pindar, Homer, Solon, and a score of others fare but
little better. On the contrary, the great gods of high
Olympus, Hermes, Athena, Æolus, and others, give
their names to the finest, broadest, most magnificent
streets of this city that likes to call herself a little
Paris. The result of it all is a curious mental state,
for by the time one gets out of Athens and into the
highlands of Delphi or of the Peloponnesus, where
every peak and vale is the scene of some godlike
encounter or amour, one is more than half ready to
accept those ancient deities as actually having lived
and done the things that legend ascribes to them.
They become fully as real to the mind as William
Tell or Pocahontas. The same illusion is helped on
by the classic names affected for the engines of the
Piræus-Athens-Peloponnesus Railroad, and by the
time one has ridden for a day behind the “Hermes”
.bn 084.png
.pn +1
or the “Hephaistos,” one is quite ready to expect to
see Proteus rising from the sea, or hear old Triton
blow his wreathed horn.

It is at first a trifle perplexing to one not versed in
the Greek language to find the streets all labeled in
the genitive case, such as [Greek: o(do\s E(rmou~] (othòs Ermoù),
“street of Hermes.” This soon becomes a matter of
course, however. The main shopping district is confined
to the greater highways of Hermes, Æolus, and
Athena, and to Stadium Street—the latter so called
because its length is about one kilometre, which is
the modern “stadion,” instead of the lesser classic
length of approximately six hundred feet. The name
therefore has no reference to the magnificent athletic
field of the city, in which the so-called modern
“Olympic” games are occasionally held, and which
in itself is a fine sight to see, as it lies in its natural
amphitheatre east of the city, and brilliant in its
newly built surfaces of purest marble. Stadium
Street is perhaps the most modern and up-to-date
street in Athens, lined with handsome stores, hotels,
and cafés, thronged day and night, and perhaps even
more gay and Parisian-looking by night, with its
many lights and teeming life.

Athens at this writing has no system of trolley
cars, but sticks obstinately to an old-fashioned and
quite inadequate horse-railway, the several lines radiating
.bn 085.png
.pn +1
from the Omonoia Square—pronounced much
like "Ammonia"—which, being interpreted, means
the same as Place de la Concorde. To master the
intricacies of this tramway system requires a considerable
acquaintance with Athens, but it is vastly less
involved a problem than the omnibuses of London
and Paris, and naturally so because of the smaller
size of the town. Odd little carriages plying between
stated points eke out the local transportation service,
while the third-rail, semi-underground line to
the Piræus and the antiquated steam tram to New
Phalerum give a suburban service that is not to be
despised. In a very few years no doubt the trolley
will invade Athens, for it already has a foothold in
Greece at the thriving port of Patras; and when it
does, one may whirl incongruously about the classic
regions of the Acropolis as one now whirls about the
Forum at Rome.

The admirable Bædeker warns visitors to Hellas
against assuming too hastily that Greece is a tropical
land, merely because it is a southern Mediterranean
country, and our own experiences have proved that
even in April Athens can be as cold as in mid-winter,
with snow capping Hymettus itself. But for the
greater part of the year Athens is warm, and as in
most southern cities business is practically at a standstill
between the noon hour and two o'clock in the
.bn 086.png
.pn +1
afternoon. In the summer months, which in Athens
means the interval between May and late fall, this
cessation is a practical necessity, owing to the heat
and the glare of the noontide sun on the white streets
and buildings. But the comparative compactness of
the city makes it entirely possible to walk almost
anywhere, even on a warm day, for the coolness of
shade as compared with the heat of the sun is always
noticeable. Thus the visitor who has plenty of time
for his stay in the city is practically independent of
cars and carriages. For those who find time pressing
and who must cover the sites, or, as Bædeker sometimes
says, “overtake” the points of interest in short
order, the ingenious device once employed by a
friend similarly situated may not come amiss. Having
limited facilities of speech in the native tongue,
and being practically without other means of communication
with the cabman, this resourceful traveler
supplied himself with a full set of picture post-cards
dealing with the more celebrated features of Athens,
and by dint of showing these one after another to
his Jehu, he managed to “do” Athens in half a day—if
one could call it that. He was not the only one
to see the ancient capital in such short order, but it
remains true that any such cavalier disposition of so
famous a place is unfortunate and wholly inadequate.
Athens is no place for the hasty “tripper,” for not
.bn 087.png
.pn +1
.bn 088.png
.bn 089.png
only are the ancient monuments worthy of long and
thoughtful contemplation, but the modern city itself
is abundantly worthy of intimate acquaintance.

.il id=i087 fn=i_087.jpg w=600px ew=100%
.ca OLD CHURCH IN TURKISH QUARTER, ATHENS

It has been spoken of as a noisy city, and it is
especially so after nightfall, when the streets are
thronged with people until a late hour and the coffee-houses
and open-air restaurants are in full swing.
Long after the ordinary person has gone to bed,
passing Athenians will be heard shouting or singing
in merry bands of from three to a dozen, especially if
it be election time. The Athenian takes his politics
as he takes his coffee—in deliberate sips, making a
little go a long way. The general election period
usually extends over something like two weeks, during
which time the blank walls of the city blossom
with the portraits of candidates and the night is made
vocal with the rallying cries of the free-born. “Rallying”
carriages are employed much as our own
practical politicians employ them, to convey the decrepit
or the reluctant able-bodied voters to the polls,
with the difference that the Athenian rallying conveyance
is generally decorated with partisan banners
and not infrequently bears on its box, beside the
driver, a musical outfit consisting of a drum and
penny whistle, with which imposing panoply the
proud voter progresses grandly through the streets
to the ballot box, attended by a shouting throng.
.bn 090.png
.pn +1
Torchlight processions, which make up in noise for
their lack of numbers, are common every night during
the election. The Athenian, when he does make
up his mind to shout for any aspirant, shouts with his
whole being, and with a vigor that recalls the days of
Stentor. Noisy enough at all times, Athens is more
so than ever in days of political excitement or on
high festivals—notably on the night before Easter,
when the joy over the resurrection of the Lord is
manifested in a whole-hearted outpouring of the
spirit, finding vent in explosives, rockets, and other
pyrotechnics. Religious anniversaries, such as the
birthday of a saint, or the Nativity, or the final triumph
of Jesus, are treated by the Greek with the
same pomp and circumstance that we accord to the
Fourth of July; and, indeed, the same is true of all
Mediterranean countries. I have never experienced a
night before Easter in Athens, but I have been told
that this, one of the most sacred of the festivals of the
Orthodox Church, is the one occasion when it is at all
dangerous or disagreeable to be abroad in the streets
of the capital, and it is so only because of the exuberant
and genuine joy that the native feels in the
thought of his salvation, the idea of which seems annually
to be a perfectly new and hitherto unexpected
one.

By day the chief tumult is from the ordinary press
.bn 091.png
.pn +1
of traffic, with the unintelligible street-cries of itinerant
peddlers offering fish, eggs, and divers vegetables,
not to mention fire-wood. Nor should one omit
the newsboys, for the Athenian has abandoned not a
whit of his traditional eagerness to see or to hear
some new thing, and has settled upon the daily paper
as the best vehicle for purveying to that taste. Athens
boasts perhaps half a dozen journals, fairly good
though somewhat given to exaggeration, and it is a
poor citizen indeed who does not read two or three
of them as he drinks his coffee. Early morn and late
evening are filled with the cries of the paper boys
ringing clear and distinct over the general hubbub,
and of all the street sounds their calls are by far the
easiest to understand.

Most fascinating of all to the foreign visitor must
always be the narrower and less ornate streets of the
old quarter, leading off Hermes and Æolus streets,
and paramount in attractiveness the little narrow
lane of the red shoes, which is a perfect bazaar. It is
a mere alley, lined from end to end with small open
booths, or shops, and devoted almost exclusively to
the sale of shoes, mostly of red leather and provided
with red pompons, though soft, white leather boots
are also to be had, and to the dealing in embroidered
bags, coats, pouches, belts, and the like. The stock in
trade of each is very similar to that of every neighbor,
.bn 092.png
.pn +1
and the effect of the <lang=fr><em>tout ensemble</em></lang> is highly curious
and striking. To venture there once is to insure frequent
visits, and one is absolutely certain sooner or
later to buy. The wares seem rather Turkish than
Greek in character. Of course, patience and tact are
needful to enable one to avoid outrageous extortion.
Nothing would surprise a shoe-lane dealer more, in
all probability, than to find a foreigner willing and
ready to accept his initial price as final. Chaffering is
the order of the day, and after a sufficient amount of
advancing and retreating, the intending purchaser is
sure to succumb and return laden with souvenirs,
from the inexpensive little embroidered bags to the
coats heavy with gold lace, which are the festal gear
of the peasant girls. The latter garments are mostly
second-hand, and generally show the blemishes due
to actual use. They are sleeveless over-garments
made of heavy felt but gay with red and green cloth,
on which, as a border, gold braid and tracery have
been lavished without stint until they are splendid
to see. Needless to say, they are the most expensive
things in shoe lane. The process of bargaining
between one who speaks no English and one who
speaks no Greek is naturally largely a matter of
dumb show, although the ever-ready pad and pencil
figure in it. Madame looks inquiringly up from a
handsome Greek coat, and is told by the pad that the
.bn 093.png
.pn +1
price is 50 drachmas. Her face falls; she says as
plainly as words could say it that she is very sorry,
but it is out of the question. She turns and approaches
the door. “Madame! madame!” She turns back,
and the pad, bearing the legend 45, is shoved toward
her. Again the retreat, and once more the summons
to return and see a new and still lower price. Eventually
the blank paper is passed to “madame,” and
she writes thereon a price of her own—inevitably too
low. Finally, however, the product of the extremes
produces the Aristotelian golden mean, and the title
passes. Indeed, it sometimes happens that the merchant
will inform you of an outrageous price and
add with shameless haste, “What will you give?”
Experience will soon teach the purchaser that the
easiest way to secure reasonable prices is to make a
lump sum for several articles at a single sale.

Shoe lane, for all its narrowness and business, is far
from squalid, and is remarkably clean and sweet. In
this it differs from the market district farther along,
where vegetables, lambs, pigs, chickens, and other
viands are offered for sale. The sight is interesting,
but its olfactory appeal is stronger than the ocular.
One need not venture there, however, to see the
wayside cook at his work of roasting a whole sheep
on the curb. Even the business streets up-town often
show this spectacle. The stove is a mere sheet-iron
.bn 094.png
.pn +1
chest without a cover, and containing a slow fire of
charcoal. Over this on an iron spit, which is thrust
through the lamb from end to end, the roast is
slowly turning, legs, ribs, head, eyes, and all, the
motive power being a little boy. From this primitive
establishment cooked meat may be bought, as in the
days of Socrates, either to be taken home, or to be
eaten in some corner by the Athenian quick-lunch
devotee. Farther along in the old quarter, not far
from the Monastiri Station of the Piræus Line, is the
street of the coppersmiths, heralded from afar by
the noise of its hammers. By all the rules of appropriateness
this should be the street of Hephaistos. In
the gathering dusk, especially, this is an interesting
place to wander through, for the forge fires in the
dark little shops gleam brightly in the increasing
darkness, while the busy hammers ply far into the
evening. It is the tinkers’ chorus and the armorer’s
song rolled into one. Here one buys the coffee-mills
and the coffee-pots used in concocting the Turkish
coffee peculiar to the East, and any visitor who learns
to like coffee thus made will do well to secure both
utensils, since the process is simple and the drink can
easily be made at home. The coffee-pots themselves
are little brass or copper dippers, of varying sizes;
and the mills are cylinders of brass with arrangements
for pulverizing the coffee beans to a fine powder.
.bn 095.png
.pn +1
This powder, in the proportion of about a teaspoonful
to a cup, is put into the dipper with an equal quantity
of sugar. Boiling water is added, and the mixture set
on the fire until it “boils up.” This is repeated three
times before pouring off into cups, the coffee being
vigorously stirred or beaten to a froth between the
several boilings. At the end it is a thick and syrup-like
liquid, astonishingly devoid of the insomnia-producing
qualities commonly attributed to coffee by
the makers of American “substitutes.” In any event
the long-handled copper pots and the mills for grinding
are quaint and interesting to possess. At the
coffee-houses the practice is generally to bring the
coffee on in its little individual pot, to be poured out
by the patron himself. It is always accompanied by
a huge glass of rather dubious drinking water and
often by a bit of loukoumi, which the Greek esteems
as furnishing a thirst, or by a handful of salty pistachio
nuts, equally efficacious for the same purpose.
The consumption of coffee by the Greek nation is
stupendous. Possibly it is harmful, too. But in any
event it cheers without inebriating, and a drunken
Greek is a rare sight indeed.

Walking homeward in the dusk of evening after a
sunset on the Acropolis, one is sure to pass many out-of-door
stoves set close to the entrances of humbler
houses and stuffed with light wood which is blazing
.bn 096.png
.pn +1
cheerily in preparation of the evening meal, the glow
and the aromatic wood-smoke adding to the charm
of the scene. Small shops, in the windows of which
stand fresh-made bowls of giaourti (ya-oór-ti), are also
to be seen, calling attention to that favorite Athenian
delicacy, very popular as a dessert and not unlikely
to please the palate of those not to the manner born.
The giaourti is a sort of “junket,” or thick curd of
goat’s milk, possessing a sour or acid taste. It is best
eaten with an equal quantity of sugar, which renders
the taste far from disagreeable. As for the other
common foods of the natives, doubtless the lamb
comes nearest to being the chief national dish, while
chickens and eggs are every-day features of many a
table. Unless one is far from the congested haunts
of men, the food problem is not a serious one. That
a visitor would find it rather hard to live long on the
ordinary native cookery, however, is no doubt true;
but fortunately there is little need to make the experiment.
One other native dish deserves mention, in
passing, and that is the “pilaffi,” or “pilaff,” which
is rice covered with a rich meat gravy, and which
almost any foreigner will appreciate as a palatable
article of food.

Of the ruins and museums of Athens, it is necessary
to speak in detail in another chapter. Of the modern
city and its many oddities, it is enough to deal here.
.bn 097.png
.pn +1
Rambles through the town in any direction are sure to
prove delightful, not only in the older quarter which
we have been considering, but through the more pretentious
modern streets as well, with their excellent
shops, their pseudo-classic architecture, and their
constant glimpses of gardens or of distant ruined
temples. Occasionally the classic style of building rises
to something really fine, as in the case of the university
buildings, the polytechnic school, or the national
museum itself. The local churches are by no means
beautiful, however. Indeed the ordinary Greek church
makes no pretension to outward attractiveness, such
as the cathedrals and minor churches of the Roman
faith possess. Perhaps the most striking of the
Athenian houses of worship is the little brown structure
which has been allowed to remain in the midst
of Hermes Street, recalling the situation of St. Clement
Danes, or St. Mary le Strand in London. It is a squat
Byzantine edifice, not beautiful, but evidently old,
and a familiar sight of the city. Within, the Greek
churches are quite different in arrangement from the
Roman. At the entrance to the altar space there is
always a high screen, pierced by a door leading to
the altar itself, and used only by the officiating priest.
The altar screen, or “iconastasis,” is richly adorned
as a rule with embossed work, and the “icons,” or
holy pictures, are generally painted faces set in raised
.bn 098.png
.pn +1
silver-gilt frames, which supply the figure and robes
of the saints, only the facial features being in pigment.
Images are not allowed in the Orthodox worship, but
the relief employed to embellish the faces in the icons
goes far to simulate imagery.

The residential architecture of the city finds its
best exemplification in the splendid marble mansions
of the princes of the royal house, which are really
fine, and which are surrounded by attractive grounds
and gardens. The palace of the king is far less attractive,
being a huge and barn-like structure in the
centre of the city, relieved from utter barrenness only
by a very good classic portico. But nothing could
be lovelier than the deep dells of the palace gardens,
which form a magnificent park well deserving
the classic name of a [Greek: para/deisos], with its jungle of
flowers, shrubs, and magnificent trees—the latter a
welcome sight in treeless Attica.

One cannot pass from the subject of modern Athens
without mentioning the soldiery, for the soldiers are
everywhere, in all degrees of rank and magnificence
of dress, from the humble private to the glittering
and altogether gorgeous generalissimo. The uniforms
are of a variety that would put to blush the
variegated equipment of the famous Ancient and
Honorable Artillery Company of Boston. These
manifold uniforms have their proper signification,
.bn 099.png
.pn +1
however, and they are undeniably handsome. If the
Greek soldiers could only fight as well as they look,
what could restrain the modern Athenian empire?
The army clothes are admirably designed with an eye
to fit and color, and the men carry themselves with
admirable military hauteur. Most picturesque of all
are the king’s body-guard, with their magnificent
physique and national dress. They are big, erect fellows,
clad in the short fustanella skirts of the ancient
régime, the tight-fitting leggings, the pomponed
shoes, the dark over-jacket, and the fez. These are the
only troops that wear the old-time garb of the Greek.
But the dress is a familiar sight in the outside country
districts, often worn by well-to-do peasants, and still
regarded as the national dress despite the general
prevalence of ordinary European clothes.

It remains to speak briefly of the national money,
for that is a subject the visitor cannot avoid. The
drachma, which corresponds to the franc, is a peculiar
thing. If one means the metal drachma, of silver, it
is simple enough. It circulates at par with the franc.
But the paper drachma varies in value from day to
day at the behest of private speculation, and is almost
never at par. I have experienced variations of it from
a value of fourteen cents to eighteen. In small transactions,
when the paper drachma is high, the difference
is negligible. When it is low in value, or in
.bn 100.png
.pn +1
large amounts, it is highly appreciable. The fluctuation
of this money is the reason for the pads and
pencils in the shops, for it is only by constant multiplication
or division that the merchant is able to
translate prices from francs into drachmas or <lang=la><em>vice
versa</em></lang>, as occasion requires. Naturally when the
drachma is worth only fourteen cents, the unsuspecting
visitor is liable to pay more than he should, if
assuming that a franc and a drachma are synonymous
terms. In such a case a paper bill requires a
considerable addition of copper lepta to make it
equal the metal drachma or the French franc. The
difference in value from day to day may be learned
from the newspapers. Most bargains are made in
francs, and the French money, both gold and silver,
is freely used. Nevertheless, the local paper money is
very useful, and it merely requires a little care in the
use. Particularly is it desirable to know the status of
the drachma in securing cash on a letter of credit or
on a traveler’s cheque, in order that one may obtain
the proper amount and not content himself with an
inferior sum in paper; for although the principal
banks may be relied upon as a rule to be honest,
individual clerks may not be proof against the temptation
to impose upon the ignorant and pocket the
difference. I would advise the use of the Ionian Bank
as far as possible, rather than the tourist agencies, for
.bn 101.png
.pn +1
the latter often extort money quite without warrant,
on the plea of needful stamps or fees for “accommodation,”
that the bank does not require. Little trouble
will be found to exist in the way of false coin—far
less than in Italy. The one difficulty is to follow the
paper drachma up and down, and not be mulcted to
a greater or less extent in the exchange of silver for
paper. The copper coins, which are either the five or
ten lepta pieces, occasion no trouble, being like the
Italian centesimi or English pence and ha' pennies.

One not uncommon sight to be met with in Athenian
streets is the funeral procession—a sight which
is liable at first to give the unaccustomed witness
a serious shock, because of the custom of carrying the
dead uncoffined through the city. The coffin and its
cover are borne at the head of the procession, as
a rule, while the body of the deceased, in an open
hearse, rides joltingly along in the middle of the cortège.
To those not used to this method of honoring
the dead, the exposure of the face to the sight of
every passer-by must seem incongruous and revolting.
But it is the custom of the place, and the passing
of a funeral causes no apparent concern to those who
calmly view the passing corpse from the chairs where
they sip their coffee, or idly finger their strings of
beads. The beads which are to be seen in the hand
of nearly every native have no religious significance,
.bn 102.png
.pn +1
as might be thought at first sight, but are simply one
of the innocuous things that the Hellene finds for idle
hands to do. They are large beads, of various colors,
though the strings are generally uniform in themselves,
and their sole function is to furnish something
to toy with while talking, or while doing nothing in
particular. There is a sufficiency of loose string to
give some play to the beads, and they become a
familiar sight.

Royalty in Greece is decidedly democratic in its
attitude. King George and his sons are frequently
to be seen riding about town, much like ordinary
citizens. Quite characteristic was an encounter of recent
date, in which an American gentleman accosted
one whom he found walking in the palace gardens
with the inquiry as to what hour would be the best
for seeing the royal children. The question elicited
mutual interest and the two conversed for some time,
the American asking with much curiosity for particulars
of the household, with which his interlocutor
professed to be acquainted. “What of the queen?”
he inquired. "She’s exceedingly well beloved," was
the reply. “She is a woman of high character and
fills her high station admirably.” “And the king?”
"Oh, the king! I regret to say that he is no good.
He has done nothing for the country. He tries to
give no offense—but as a king the less said of him
.bn 103.png
.pn +1
the better!" Needless to say, this oracle was the
king himself. Nobody else would have passed so
harsh a judgment. King George I has been reigning
since 1863, when the present government, with the
sponsorship of the Christian powers, was inaugurated.
He came from Denmark, being a son of the late King
Christian, who furnished so many thrones of Europe
with acceptable rulers and queens from his numerous
and excellent family, so that the king is not himself a
Greek at all. The years of successful rule have proved
him highly acceptable to the Athenians and their
countrymen, who have seen their land regain a large
measure of its prosperity and their chief city grow to
considerable proportions under the new order. The
kingly office is hereditary, the crown prince reaching
his majority at eighteen years.

Prince Constantine, the heir to the throne, lives on
the street behind the palace gardens, and has a family
of handsome children. Prince George is commissioner
in charge of Crete. The royal family has
embraced the faith of the Greek Orthodox Church.
.bn 104.png
.pb
.pn +1
.h2 id=chap05
CHAPTER V. ANCIENT ATHENS: | THE ACROPOLIS

.il fn=i_104.jpg w=400px ew=80%

.sp 2
The visible remains of the ancient city of Athens,
as distinguished from the city of to-day, lie
mainly to the south and west of the Acropolis, where
are to be seen many distinct traces of the classic
town, close around the base of the great rock and the
Hill of Mars. How far the ancient city had extended
around to the eastward can only be conjectured by
the layman, for there exist almost no remains in that
direction save the choragic monument of Lysicrates
and the ruins of the temple of Olympian Zeus; while
on the northern side of the Acropolis, although it is
known that there once lay the agora, or market place,
little is left but some porticoes of a late, if not of
Roman, date. Not being bent on exact archæology,
however, it is not for us here to speculate much over
the probable sites of the ancient metes and bounds,
the location of the fountain of nine spouts called
“Enneacrunus,” nor the famous spring of Callirrhoë,
.bn 105.png
.pn +1
which furnish fertile ground for dissent among those
skilled in the art. What must now concern us most
is the mass of visible ruins, which provide the chief
charm of the city to every visitor, and most of all to
those possessed of the desirable historic or classical
“background” to make the ruins the more interesting.

Despite her many inglorious vicissitudes, Athens
has been so fortunate as to retain many of her ancient
structures in such shape that even to-day a very good
idea is to be had of their magnificence in the golden
age of Hellenic empire. The Greek habit of building
temples and fanes in high places, apart from the
dwellings of men, has contributed very naturally to
the preservation of much that might otherwise have
been lost. The chief attractions of the classic city
were set on high, and the degenerate modern town
that succeeded the ancient capital did not entirely
swallow them up, as was so largely the case at Rome.
To be sure, the Turks did invade the sacred precincts
of the Acropolis with their mosques and their munitions
of war, and the latter ruined the Parthenon
beyond hope of restoration when Morosini’s lamentable
advisers caused the Venetian bomb to be fired
at that noble edifice. Local vandalism and the greed
of lime burners have doubtless destroyed much. But
the whole course of these depredations has failed to
.bn 106.png
.pn +1
remove the crowning treasures of Athens, and the
Acropolis temples are still the inspiration and the
despair of architects. In passing, then, to a more detailed
and perhaps superfluous consideration of the
monuments surviving from the ancient city, it may
be remarked that the visitor will find more of the
classic remains to reward and delight him than is
the case at Rome, rich as that eternal city is.

The Acropolis is naturally the great focus of interest,
not only for what remains <lang=la><em>in situ</em></lang> on its top, but
because of many remnants of buildings that cluster
about its base. The rock itself, if it were stripped of
every building and devoid of every memory, would
still be commanding and imposing, alone by sheer
force of its height and steepness. As it is, with its
beetling sides made the more precipitous by the artifices
of Cimon and ancient engineers, whose walls
reveal the use of marble column drums built into the
fortifications themselves, it is doubly impressive for
mere inaccessibility. Something like a hundred feet
below its top it ceases to be so sheer, and spreads out
into a more gradual slope, on the southern expanses
of which were built the city’s theatres and a precinct
sacred to Asklepios. Only on the west, however,
was the crag at all approachable, and on that side
to-day is the only practicable entrance to the sacred
precincts.
.bn 107.png
.pn +1

A more magnificent approach it would be hard to
conceive. One must exempt from praise the so-called
“Beulé” gate at the very entrance, at the foot of the
grand staircase, for it is a mere late patchwork of
marble from other ancient monuments, and is in every
way unworthy of comparison with the majestic Propylæa
at the top. It takes its name from the French
explorer who unearthed it. As for its claim to interest,
it must found that, if at all, on the identification of the
stones which now compose it with the more ancient
monument of some choragic victor. Looking up the
steep incline to the Propylæa, or fore gate of the
Acropolis, the Parthenon is completely hid. Nothing
is visible from this point but the walls and columns
of the magnificent gateway itself, designed to be a
worthy prelude to the architectural glory of the main
temple of the goddess. The architect certainly succeeded
admirably in achieving the desired result.
He did not at all dwarf or belittle his chief creation
above, yet he gave it a most admirable setting. Even
to-day, with so much of the colonnade of the Propylæa
in ruins, it is a splendid and satisfying approach,
not only when seen from a distance, but at
close range. Not alone is it beautiful in and of itself,
but it commands from its platform a grand view of
the Attic plain below, of the bay of Salamis gleaming
in the sun beyond, of the long cape running down to
.bn 108.png
.pn +1
Sunium, and of the distant mountains of the Argolid,
rolling like billows in the southwest far across the
gulf and beyond Ægina. To pause for a moment on
gaining this threshold of the Acropolis and gaze upon
this imposing panorama of plain, mountain, and sea,
is an admirable introduction to Greece.

.il id=i109 fn=i_109.jpg w=600px ew=95%
.ca TEMPLE OF NIKÉ APTEROS

On either side of the stairway by which one climbs
to the Propylæa are buttresses of rock, on one of
which stands an object worthy of long contemplation.
At the right, on a platform leveled from the solid
rock, stands the tiny temple of Niké Apteros (the
Wingless Victory), “restored” it is true, but nevertheless
one of the most perfect little buildings imaginable.
At one time entirely removed to make room for a
Turkish watch-tower, it has been re-created by careful
hands out of its original marbles; and it stands
to-day, as it stood of old, on its narrow parapet beside
the grand stairway of Athena. The process of rebuilding
has not, indeed, been able to give the unbroken
lines of the old temple. The stones are chipped at
the corners here and there, and there are places
where entirely new blocks have been required. But
in the main everything, even to the delicately carved
frieze around its top, is in place; and for once at least
the oft-berated “restorer” of ancient buildings has
triumphed and has silenced all his critics. The remnants
of the incomparable carved balustrade, which
.bn 109.png
.pn +1
.bn 110.png
.bn 111.png
once served as a railing for the parapet, are to be
seen in the small museum of the Acropolis, revealing
the extreme grace which the Greek sculptors had
achieved in the modeling of exquisite figures in high
relief. The slab, particularly, which has come to be
known as “Niké binding her sandal” seems to be
the favorite of all, though the others, even in their
headless and armless state, are scarcely less lovely.

As for the isolated pedestal on the other side of
the stairway, known as the “pedestal of Agrippa,” it
is not only devoid of any statue to give it continued
excuse for being, but it is in such a state of decrepitude
as to cause the uncomfortable thought that it is
about to fall, and seems an object rather for removal
than for perpetuation, although it serves to balance
the effect produced by the Niké bastion.

Standing on the Niké platform, the visitor finds the
noble columns of the Propylæa towering above him
close at hand. These Doric pillars give one for the
first time an adequate idea of the perfection to which
the column was carried by Ictinus and the builders
and architects of his time; for although each pillar is
built up drum upon drum, it is still true in many cases
that the joints between them are almost invisible, so
perfect are they, despite the lapse of ages and the
ravages of war, not to mention the frequent earthquake
shocks to which the whole region has been
.bn 112.png
.pn +1
subjected. Age has been kind also to the Pentelic
marble, softening its original whiteness to a golden
brown without destroying its exquisite satin texture.
Nothing more charming can well be imagined than
the contrast of the blue Athenian sky with these stately
old columns, as one looks outward or inward through
their majestic rows.

The rock rises sharply as one passes within the precinct
of the Acropolis, and the surface of it appears
to have been grooved to give a more secure footing
to pedestrians. Stony as is the place, it still affords
soil enough to support a growth of grasses and struggling
bits of greenery to cradle the many fallen drums.
But one has eyes only for the Parthenon, the western
front of which now appears for the first time in its
full effect. From its western end, the havoc wrought
in its midst being concealed, the Parthenon appears
almost perfect. The pedimental sculptures, it is true,
are gone save for a fragment or two, having been
carried off to England. But the massive Doric columns
still stand in an unbroken double row before
one; the walls of the cella appear to be intact; the
pediment rises almost unbroken above; frieze, triglyphs,
and metopes remain in sufficient degree to
give an idea of the ancient magnificence of the shrine—and
all conspire to compel instant and unstinted
admiration. Speculation as to the ethics of the removal
.bn 113.png
.pn +1
of the Parthenon sculptures by Lord Elgin
has become an academic matter, and therefore one
quite beyond our present purpose. Doubtless to-day
no such removal would be countenanced for a moment.
It is no longer possible to say, as former critics
have said, that the local regard for the treasures of
the place is so slight as to endanger their safety. The
present custodianship of the priceless relics of antiquity
in Athens is admirably careful and satisfactory.
If, therefore, Greece had only come into her
own a century or so earlier than she did, the famous
sculptures of the miraculous birth of Athena, springing
full grown from the head of Zeus, and the colossal
representation of the strife between Athena and Poseidon
for possession of the Attic land, might still adorn
as of yore the eastern and western gables of the great
temple; or if not that, might still be seen in the very
excellent museum at the other end of the city. It is
enough for us to know, however, that they are not in
Athens but in London, and that there is no probability
they will ever return to Greek soil; and to know,
also, that had they not been removed as they were,
they might never have been preserved at all. That
is the one comfortable state of mind in which to view
the vacant pediments of the Parthenon. To work up
a Byronic frenzy over what cannot be helped, and
may, after all, be for the best, is of no benefit.
.bn 114.png
.pn +1

Writers on Athens have often called attention to
the curved stylobate of the Parthenon—a feature
which is by no means confined to this temple, but
which is to be noticed in almost every considerable
ruin of the sort. The base of the building curves sufficiently
to make the device visible, rising from either
end to the centre of the sides; and the curious may
easily prove it by placing a hat at one extremity and
trying to see it from the other, sighting along the
line of the basic stones. The curve was necessary to
cure an optical defect, for a straight or level base
would have produced the illusion of a decided sagging
Similarly it has long been recognized that the
columns must swell at the middle drums, lest they
appear to the eye to be concaved. In fact, as Professor
Gardner has pointed out, there is actually hardly a
really straight line in the Parthenon—yet the effect
is of absolute straightness everywhere.

Obviously this curvature of the base, slight though
it was, imposed some engineering problems of no inconsiderable
nature when it came to setting the column
drums; for the columns must stand erect, and
the bottom sections must be so devised as to meet
the configuration of the convex stylobate. The corner
columns, being set on a base that curved in both
directions, must have been more difficult still to deal
with. But the problem was solved successfully, and
.bn 115.png
.pn +1
the result of this cunningly contrived structure was a
temple that comes as near architectural perfection as
earthly artisans are ever likely to attain. The columns
were set up in an unfluted state, the fluting being
added after the pillar was complete. Each drum is said
to have been rotated upon its lower fellow until the
joint became so exact as to be to all intents and purposes
indistinguishable. In the centre of the fallen
drums will be seen always a square hole, used to
contain a peg of wood designed to hold the finished
sections immovable, and in many cases this wooden
plug has been found intact. All along the sides of the
Parthenon, lying on the ground as they fell, are to
be seen the fallen drums that once composed the columns
of the sides, but which were blown out of position
by the bomb from the Venetian fleet of Admiral
Morosini. They lie like fallen heaps of dominoes or
children’s building blocks, and the entire centre of
the temple is a gaping void. Here and there an
attempt has been made to reconstruct the fallen columns
from the original portions, but the result is by
no means reassuring and seems not to justify the
further prosecution of the task. Better a ruined Parthenon
than an obvious patchwork. The few restored
columns are quite devoid of that homogeneity that
marks the extant originals, and their joints are painfully
felt, being chipped and uneven, where the old
.bn 116.png
.pn +1
are all but imperceptible; so that the whole effect is
of insecurity and lack of perfection entirely out of
harmony with the Parthenon itself. Opinions, however,
differ. Some still do advocate the rebuilding of
the temple rather than leave the drums, seemingly so
perfect still, lying as they now are amid the grasses
of the Acropolis. It is one of those questions of taste
on which debate is traditionally idle and purposeless.

.il id=i117 fn=i_117.jpg w=600px ew=95%
.ca THE PARTHENON, WEST PEDIMENT

For those who must demand restorations other than
those constructed by the mind’s eye, there are models
and drawings enough extant, and some are to be seen
in the Acropolis Museum. Most interesting of the
attempts are doubtless the speculations as to the
pedimental sculptures, the remains of which are in
the British Museum, but which are so fragmentary
and so ill placed in their new home that much of the
original grouping is matter for conjecture. With the
aid of drawings made by a visitor long years ago,
before Lord Elgin had thought of tearing them down,
the two great pediments have been ingeniously reconstructed
in miniature, showing a multitude of figures
attending on the birth of the city’s tutelary goddess,
as she sprang full armed from the head of Zeus assisted
by the blow of Hephaistos’s hammer, or the
concourse of deities that umpired the contest between
Athena and Poseidon for the land. The Acropolis
Museum has only casts of the Elgin marbles, but
.bn 117.png
.pn +1
.bn 118.png
.bn 119.png
there is still to be seen a good proportion of the original
frieze. It would be out of place in any such work
as this to be drawn into anything like a detailed account
of these famous sculptures, the subjects of a
vast volume of available literature already and sources
of a considerable volume also of controversial writing
involving conflicts of the highest authority. It
must therefore suffice to refer the reader interested in
the detailed story of the Parthenon, its external adornment,
its huge gold-and-ivory statue within, and the
great Panathenaic festival which its frieze portrayed,
to any one of those learned authors who have written
of all these things so copiously and clearly—doubtless
none more so than Dr. Ernest Gardner in his
admirably lucid and readable “Ancient Athens,” or in
his “Handbook of Greek Sculpture,” without which
no one should visit the museum in that city.

One must remember that the Parthenon and the
other features of the Acropolis are monuments of
the age of Pericles, and not of an earlier day. The
Persians who invaded Greece in 480 <sc>B.C.</sc> succeeded
in obtaining possession of Athens and of the whole
Attic plain, the inhabitants fleeing to the island of
Salamis. The hordes of barbarians brought in by
Xerxes were opposed by a very few of the citizens,
some of whom erected a stockade around the Acropolis,
thinking that thereby they satisfied the oracle
.bn 120.png
.pn +1
which had promised the city salvation through the
impregnability of its “Wooden Walls.” The Persians
massed their forces on Mars Hill, just west of the
larger rock, and a hot fight took place, the invaders
attempting to fire the stockade by means of arrows
carrying burning tow, while the besieged made use
of round stones with considerable effect. Eventually
the enemy discovered an unsuspected means of access
to the citadel and took it by storm, after which
they burned its temples and left it a sorry ruin. The
rest of the Athenians with the allied navy at Salamis
repulsed the Persian fleet, and Xerxes, disgusted,
withdrew,—despite the fact that it would seem to
have been quite possible for him to pursue his successes
on land. It left Athens a waste, but on that
waste grew up a city that for architectural beauty has
never, in all probability, been surpassed. The reaction
from the horrors of war gave us the Parthenon,
the Propylæa, and the Erechtheum, all dating, perhaps,
from the fifth century before Christ.

The Erechtheum, while properly entitled to the
epithet “elegant” as a building, seems decidedly less
a favorite than the Parthenon. It is extremely beautiful,
no doubt, in a delicate and elaborate way, and
its ornamentation is certainly of a high order. Unlike
the Parthenon, it is not surrounded by a colonnade,
but possesses pillars only in its several porticoes. The
.bn 121.png
.pn +1
columns are not Doric, but Ionic. As for its general
plan, it is so complicated and devoted to so many
obscure purposes that the lay visitor doubtless will
find it an extremely difficult place to understand.
There appear to have been at least three precincts
involved in it, and the name it bears is the ancient
one, given it because in part it was a temple of
Erechtheus. That deity was of the demi-god type.
He was an ancient Attic hero, who had received apotheosis
and become highly esteemed, doubtless because
in part he had instituted the worship of Athena
in the city and had devised the celebrated Panathenaic
festival. Tradition says that he was brought up by
Athena herself, and that she intrusted him as a babe,
secreted in a chest, to the daughters of Cecrops to
guard. They were enjoined not to open the chest,
but being overcome with curiosity they disobeyed,
and discovered the babe entwined with serpents—whereat,
terrified beyond measure, they rushed to the
steeper part of the Acropolis and threw themselves
down from the rock. Therein they were not alone, for
it is also related that the father of Theseus had also
thrown himself down from this eminence in despair,
because he beheld his son’s ship returning from Crete
with black sails, imagining therefrom that the Minotaur
had triumphed over his heroic son, when the
reverse was the fact.
.bn 122.png
.pn +1

The complicated character of the Erechtheum is
further emphasized by the fact that a portion of it was
supposed to shelter the gash made by Poseidon with
his trident when he was contending with Athena for
the land, as well as the olive tree that Athena caused
to grow out of the rock. The two relics were naturally
held in veneration, and it was the story that in
the cleft made by the trident there was a salt spring,
or “sea” as Herodotus calls it, which gave forth to
the ear a murmuring like that of the ocean. The cleft
is still there. The olive tree, unfortunately, has disappeared.
It was there when the Persian horde came to
Athens, however, if we may believe Herodotus; and
tradition says that after the invaders had burned the
Acropolis over, the tree-stump immediately put forth
a shoot which was in length a cubit, as a sign that
the deity had not abandoned the city. It had been
the custom of the place to deposit a cake of honey
at stated intervals in the temple door for the food of
the sacred serpents; and when, on the arrival of the
Persians, this cake remained untouched, the inhabitants
were convinced that even the god had left the
Acropolis and that naught remained but ruin. The renewed
and miraculous life of the olive tree dispelled
this error. The Erechtheum in part overlaps the
oldest precinct sacred to Athena, where stood an
earlier temple supposed to have contained the sacred
.bn 123.png
.pn +1
image of the goddess, made of wood, which came
down from heaven. For exact and detailed descriptions
of the Erechtheum and its uses, the reader must
once again turn to the archæologists. As for its external
features, the most famous of all is unquestionably
the caryatid portico, in which the roof is
borne up by a row of graceful, but undeniably sturdy,
marble maidens. The use of the caryatid, always unnatural,
is here rather successful on the whole, for the
beholder derives no sensation that the maidens are
restive under the weight imposed on them. They are
entirely free from any indictment of grotesqueness.
Nevertheless, it is questionable whether the portico is
altogether pleasing. One of the figures is, as is well
known, a reproduction of the one Lord Elgin carried
away to the British Museum, but the remainder of
the six are the original members.

The Acropolis Museum serves to house a great
many interesting fragments found on the spot, including
a host of archaic representations of Athena,
still bearing ample traces of the paint which the
Greeks used so lavishly on their marble statues.
This use of pigment might seem to have been a
very doubtful exhibition of taste, as judged by modern
standards, not only in its application to statues,
but in the decoration of marble temples as well. It is
hard for us to-day, accustomed to pure white marble
.bn 124.png
.pn +1
sculpture, to imagine any added beauty from painting
the hair, eyes, and garments of a statue; or to
conceive how the polychromy so commonly made
use of in bedecking such masterpieces as the Parthenon
could have been anything but a blemish.
Nevertheless, the fact that the Greeks did it, and that
they were in all else so consummately tasteful, makes
it entirely probable that their finished statues and
edifices thus adorned were perfectly congruous—especially
under that brilliant sky and surrounded
by so many brilliant costumes. From the surviving
multitude of statues of Athena, it is evident that the
Greeks conceived her as a woman of majestic mien,
rather almond-eyed, and possessed of abundant braids
of the ruddy hair later vouchsafed to Queen Elizabeth.
The more rudimentary figure of the “Typhon,”
also preserved in this museum, which was doubtless
a pedimental sculpture from some earlier acropolitan
temple, bears abundant traces of paint on its body
and on the beards of its triple head. It is too grotesque
to furnish much of an idea of the use of paint
on such statues as the great masters later produced.
The remnants of the Parthenon frieze give little or
no trace of any of the blue background, such as was
commonly laid on to bring out the figures carved
on such ornaments, nor are there any traces remaining
of polychrome decoration on the Parthenon itself.
.bn 125.png
.pn +1

The Acropolis, of course, has not escaped the
common fate of all similar celebrated places—that of
being “done” now and then by parties of tourists in
absurdly hasty fashion, that to the lover of the spot
seems little less than sacrilege. It is no infrequent
sight to see a body of men and women numbering
from a dozen to over a hundred, in the keeping of
a voluble courier, scampering up the steps of the
Propylæa, over the summit, through the two temples,
in and out of the museum, and down again, amply
satisfied with having spent a half hour or even less
among those immortal ruins, and prepared to tell
about it for the rest of their days. It is a pity, as it
always is, to see a wonder of the world so cavalierly
treated. Still, one hesitates to say that rather than do
this, one should never visit the Acropolis of Athens.
It is better to have looked for a moment than never
to have looked at all. The Acropolis is no place to
hurry through. Rather is it a spot to visit again and
again, chiefly toward sunset, not merely to wander
through the ruins, or to rest on the steps of the Parthenon
musing over the remote past to which this
place belongs, but also to see the sun sink to the
west as Plato and Socrates must often have seen it
sink from this very place, behind the rugged sky-line
of the Argolid, which never changes, lengthening the
purple shadows of the hills on the peaceful plain and
.bn 126.png
.pn +1
touching the golden-brown of the temples with that
afterglow which, once seen, can never be forgotten.

The gates of the Acropolis are closed at sunset
by the guards, and lingering visitors are insistently
herded into groups and driven downward to the gate
like sheep by the little band of blue-coated custodians.
Still, they are not hard-hearted, and if a belated
visitor finds the outer gates locked a trifle before
sunset, as often happens with the idea of preventing
needless ascent, a plea for “pende lepta” (five minutes)
is likely to be honored even without a petty
bribe. But at last every one must go, and the holy
hill of Athena is left untenanted for one more of its
endless round of nights. A visit to the Acropolis by
moonlight is traditionally worth while, and the needful
permission is not difficult to obtain once the municipal
office dealing with such things is located. The
Parthenon on a clear, moonlit night must be indescribably
lovely, even in its lamentable ruin.

Other sights of Athens, ancient and modern, are
interesting, and many are magnificent. But the Acropolis
is unquestionably the best that Athens has to
show, and the Parthenon is incomparably the best
of the Acropolis. It is the first and the last spot to
seek in visiting Athena’s famous city, and the last
glimpse the departing voyager—very likely with a
not unmanly tear—catches from his ship as it sails
.bn 127.png
.pn +1
out into the blue Ægean is of this hoary temple
reposing in calm and serene indifference to mankind
on its rocky height. It has seen the worship
of Athena Parthenos give way to the reverence of
another Virgin—a holier ideal of Wisdom set up in
its own precincts, and worshiped there on the very
spot where once the youth of Athens did honor to
the pagan goddess. Gods and religions have risen
and departed, despots have come and gone; but the
Parthenon has stood unchanging, the unrivaled embodiment
of architectural beauty to-day, as it was
when Ictinus, Mnesicles, Pheidias, and those who
were with them created it out of their combined
and colossal genius, under the wise ordainment of
Pericles.
.bn 128.png
.pb
.pn +1

.h2 id=chap06
CHAPTER VI. ANCIENT ATHENS: | THE OTHER MONUMENTS

.il fn=i_128.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
There are two favorite ways whereby those
leaving the Acropolis are wont to descend to
the modern city. One lies around to the right as you
leave the gates, passing between the Acropolis and
Mars Hill to the north side of the former, where
steps will be found leading down to the old quarter and
thence past Shoe Lane to Hermes Street and home.
The other passes to the south of the Acropolis along
its southerly slopes, finally emerging through an iron
gate at the eastern end, whence a street leads directly
homeward, rather cleaner and sweeter than the other
route but hardly as picturesque. Since, however, this
way leads to some of the other notable remains of
classic Athens, for the present let us take it.

Immediately on leaving the avenue in front of
the gates of the Acropolis, one finds a path leading
eastward directly behind and above the Odeon of
Herodes Atticus, which is made conspicuous in the
.bn 129.png
.pn +1
landscape by the lofty stone arches remaining at its
front. These arches are blackened and bear every
ear-mark of the later Roman epoch. Moreover they
strike the beholder as rather unstable, as if some day
they might fall unless removed. But their loss would
be a pity, nevertheless, for they certainly present a
striking and agreeable feature to the sight despite
their lack of harmony with the received ideas of pure
Greek architecture. It hardly repays one to descend
to the pit of this commodious theatre, or rather concert
hall, since one gets a very accurate idea of it
from above looking down into its orchestra over the
tiers of grass-grown seats. For more detailed inspection
of ancient theatrical structures, the Dionysiac
theatre farther along our path is decidedly more
worth while, besides being much more ancient and
more interesting by association.

On the way thereto are passed several remnants of
a long “stoa,” or portico, called that of Eumenes,
curiously intermingled with brick relics of the Turkish
times, and the non-archæological visitor will hardly
care to concern himself long with either. But he will
doubtless be interested to turn aside from the path
and clamber up to the base of the steeper rock to
inspect the damp and dripping cave where once
was an important shrine of Asklepios, with the usual
“sacred spring” still flowing, and still surrounded
.bn 130.png
.pn +1
with remains of the customary porticoes, in which the
faithful in need of healing once reposed themselves
by night, awaiting the cure which the vision of the
god might be hoped to bestow. The cave is now a
Catholic shrine, with a picture of its particular saint
and an oil lamp burning before it. It is dank and dismal,
and for one to remain there long would doubtless
necessitate the services of Asklepios himself, or
of some skillful modern disciple of his healing art—of
which, by the way, Athens can boast not a few.
The Greek seems to take naturally to the practice
of medicine, and some of the physicians, even in
remote country districts, are said to possess unusual
talent.

Not far below the shrine lies the theatre of Dionysus,
scooped out of the hillside as are most Greek
theatres, with a paved, semi-circular “orchestra,” or
dancing place, at its foot. Much of the original seating
capacity is concealed by the overgrowth of grass,
so that one is likely greatly to underestimate its
former size. Once the seats rose far up toward the
precinct of Asklepios, and the path that to-day traverses
the slope passes through what was once the
upper portion of the amphitheatre. It is only in the
lower portions that the stones still remain in a fair
state of preservation and serve to show us the manner
of theatre that the Athenians knew—the same in
.bn 131.png
.pn +1
which the earlier generations saw for the first time
the tragedies of that famous trio of playwrights,
Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. This theatre
has undergone manifold changes since its first construction,
as one will discover from his archæological
books. It is idle for us here to seek to recall the successive
alterations which changed the present theatre
from that which the ancients actually saw, or to point
out the traces of each transformation that now remain,
to show that the “orchestra” was once a complete
circle and lay much farther back. It will, however,
be found interesting enough to clamber down over
the tiers of seats to the bottom and inspect at leisure
the carved chairs once allotted to various dignitaries,
and bearing to this day the names of the officers who
used them. Particularly fine is the chief seat of all,
the carved chair of the high priest of Dionysus, in
the very centre of the row, with its bas-relief of fighting
cocks on the chair-arms still plainly to be seen.
It is well to remember, however, that most of what
the visitor sees is of a rather recent period as compared
with other Athenian monuments, for it is stated
that very little of the present visible theatre is of
earlier date than the third century <sc>B.C.</sc>, while much
is of even a more recent time and is the work of the
Romans. This is true, especially, of the conspicuous
carved screen that runs along behind the orchestra
.bn 132.png
.pn +1
space, and which may have supported the stage—if
there was a stage at all. The paved orchestra will
also strike one as unusual, contrasting with the greensward
to be seen in other similar structures, such as
the theatre at Epidaurus.

The vexed question of the use of any elevated stage
in Greek theatres so divides the skilled archæologists
into warring camps even to-day that it ill becomes
an amateur in the field to advance any opinion at all,
one way or the other, upon the subject. There are
eminent authorities who maintain that the use of a
raised stage in such a theatre was utterly unknown
by the ancients, and that any such development can
only have come in comparatively modern times, under
Roman auspices. Others insist, and with equal
positiveness, that some sort of a stage was used by
the more ancient Greeks. The arguments pro and
con have waxed warm for several years, without convincing
either side of its error. It is safe to say that
American students generally incline to the view that
there was no such raised stage, agreeing with the
Germans, while English scholars appear generally to
believe that the stage did exist and was used. As just
remarked, the views of mere laymen in such a case
are of small account, and I shall spare the reader
my own, saying only that in the few reproductions of
Greek plays that I myself have seen, there has been
.bn 133.png
.pn +1
no confusion whatever produced by having the principal
actors present in the “orchestra” space with
the chorus—and this, too, without the aid of the
distinguishing cothurnos, or sandal, to give to the
principals any added height. From this it seems to
me not unreasonable to contend that, if a stage did
exist, it was hardly called into being by any pressing
necessity to avoid confusion, as some have argued;
while, on the contrary, it does seem as if the separation
of the chief actors to the higher level would
often mar the general effect. Such a play as the
“Agamemnon” of Æschylus would, it seems to me,
lose much by the employment of an elevated platform
for those actors not of the chorus. In fact, there
was no more need of any such difference in level, to
separate chorus from principal, in ancient times than
there is to-day. The ancients did, however, seek to
differentiate the principals from the chorus players,
by adding a cubit unto their stature, so to speak, for
they devised thick-soled sandals that raised them
above the ordinary height. Besides this they employed
masks, and occasionally even mechanism for
aerial acting, and also subterranean passages.

Whatever we may each conclude as to the existence
or non-existence of an elevated stage at the
time of Pericles, we shall all agree, no doubt, that our
modern stagecraft takes its nomenclature direct from
.bn 134.png
.pn +1
the Greek. The “orchestra,” which in the old Greek
meant the circle in which the dancing and acting took
place, we have taken over as a word referring to the
floor space filled with the best seats, and by a still
less justifiable stretch of the meaning we have come
to apply it to the musicians themselves. Our modern
“scene” is simply the old Greek word [Greek: skênê/] (skèné),
meaning a “tent,” which the ancient actors used as
a dressing-room. The marble or stone wall, of varying
height, and pierced by doors for the entrance
and exit of actors, was called by the Greeks the “proskenion,”
or structure before the skèné, serving to
conceal the portions behind the scenes and add background
to the action. The word is obviously the
same as our modern “proscenium,” though the meaning
to-day is entirely different. In ancient times the
proskenion, instead of being the arch framing the
foreground of a “scene,” was the background, or
more like our modern “drop” scene. Being of permanent
character and made of stone, it generally
represented a palace, with three entrances, and often
with a colonnade. At either side of the proskenion
were broad roads leading into the orchestra space,
called the “parodoi,” by means of which the chorus
entered and departed on occasion, and through
which chariots might be driven. Thus, for instance, in
the “Agamemnon,” that hero and Cassandra drove
.bn 135.png
.pn +1
through one of the parodoi into the orchestra, chariots
and all—a much more effective entrance than
would have been possible had they been forced to
climb aloft to a stage by means of the ladder represented
on some of the vases as used for the purpose.
The side from which the actor entered often possessed
significance, as indicating whether he came from the
country or from the sea. As for disagreeable scenes,
such as the murders which form the motif of the
Oresteian trilogy, it may not be out of place to remark
that they were almost never represented on the
stage in sight of the orchestra or spectators, but were
supposed always to take place indoors, the audience
being apprized of events by groans and by the explanations
of the chorus. The ordinary theatrical performance
was in the nature of a religious ceremony,
the altar of the god being in the centre of the orchestra
space, and served by the priest before the
play began. And in leaving the subject, one may add
that many Greek plays required sequels, so that they
often came in groups of three, each separate from
the other, but bearing a relation to each other not
unlike our several acts of a single piece. So much
for Greek theatres in general, and the theatre of
Dionysus in particular.

Leaving it by the iron gate above and plunging
into a labyrinthine mass of houses just outside, one
.bn 136.png
.pn +1
will speedily come upon an interesting monument
called the “choragic monument of Lysicrates.” This
is the only remaining representative of a series of
pedestals erected by victors in musical or dancing
fêtes to support tripods celebrating their victories.
This one, which is exceedingly graceful, has managed
to survive and is a thing of beauty still, despite
several fires and vicissitudes of which it bears traces.
The street is still called the “Street of the Tripods.”

.il id=i137 fn=i_137.jpg w=441px ew=80%
.ca TEMPLE OF OLYMPIAN ZEUS

A few steps farther, and one emerges from the narrower
lanes into the broader avenues of the city, and
is confronted at once by the arch of Hadrian, which
stands in an open field across the boulevard of Amalia.
It is frankly and outspokenly Roman, of course, and
does not flatter the Latin taste as compared with the
Greek. It need delay nobody long, however, for the
tall remaining columns of the temple of Olympian
Zeus are just before, and are commanding enough
to inspire attention at once. To those who prefer the
stern simplicity of the Doric order of columns, the
Corinthian capitals will not appeal. But the few huge,
weathered pillars, despite the absence of roof or of
much of the entablature, are grand in their own
peculiar way, and the vast size of the temple as it
originally stood may serve to show the reverence in
which the father of the gods was held in the city of
his great daughter, Athena. The more florid Corinthian
.bn 137.png
.pn +1
.bn 138.png
.bn 139.png
capital seems to have appealed to the Roman
taste, and it is to be remembered that this great
temple, although begun by Greeks, was completed
in the time of Hadrian and after the dawn of the
Christian era: so that if it disappoints one in comparison
with the more classic structures of the Acropolis,
it may be set down to the decadent Hellenistic
taste rather than to a flaw in the old Hellenic. As
for the Corinthian order of capital, it is supposed to
have been devised by a Corinthian sculptor from a
basket of fruit and flowers which he saw one day
on a wall, perhaps as a funeral tribute. The idea inspired
him to devise a conventionalized flower basket
with the acanthus leaf as the main feature, and to
apply the same to the ornamentation of the tops of
marble columns, such as these.

On the northern side of the Acropolis, down among
the buildings and alleys of the so-called “Turkish”
quarter, there exist several fragmentary monuments,
which may be passed over with little more than a
word. The most complete and at the same time the
most interesting of these relics is unquestionably the
“Tower of the Winds,” an octagonal building not
unlike a windmill in shape and general size, but devoted
originally to the uses of town clock and weather
bureau. On its cornices, just below the top, are
carved eight panels facing the different points of the
.bn 140.png
.pn +1
compass, the figures in high relief representing the several
winds. The appropriate general characteristics
of each wind are brought out by the sculpture—here
an old man of sour visage brings snow and storms;
another, of more kindly mien, brings gentle rain;
others bring flowers and ripening fruits. A weather-vane
once surmounted the structure. Near by, scattered
among the houses, are bits of old porticoes,
sometimes areas of broken columns, and at others
quite perfect specimens still bearing their pedimental
stones, testifying to the former presence of ancient
market places, or public meeting places, in large part
belonging to the later, or Roman, period. It was in
this general vicinity that the original agora, or market
place, stood, no doubt. In some of the porticoes were
often to be found teachers of one sort or another, and
in one “stoa” of this kind, we are told, taught those
philosophers who, from the location of their school,
came to be called "stoics"—giving us an adjective
which to-day has lost every vestige of its derivative
significance. Nothing remains of the other famous
structures that are supposed to have been located in
this vicinity, or at least nothing has been unearthed as
yet, although possibly if some of the congested and
rather mean houses of the quarter could be removed,
some vestiges of this important section of the classic
city might be recovered. Nothing remains of the
.bn 141.png
.pn +1
ancient “agora,” or market place, in which St. Paul
said he saw the altar with this inscription, “To the
unknown god.” But the Areopagus, or Mars Hill,
where Paul is supposed to have stood when he made
his noble speech to the men of Athens, is still left
and well repays frequent visitation. Its ancient fame
as the place where the god Ares, or Mars, was tried
for his life, and as the place of deliberation over the
gravest Athenian affairs, has been augmented by the
celebrity it derived from the apostle’s eloquent argument,
in which he commented on the activity of
the Athenian mind and its fondness for theology, a
characteristic rather inadequately brought out by the
Bible’s rendering, “too superstitious.” The Areopagus
to-day is a barren rock devoid of vegetation or of any
trace of building, although rough-hewn steps here
and there and a rude leveling of the top are visible.
Of the great events that have passed on this rocky
knoll not a trace remains. With reference to the
Acropolis towering above and close at hand, Mars
Hill seems small, but the ascent of it from the plain
is long and steep enough. It is apparently no more
than an outlying spur of the main rock of the Acropolis,
from which it is separated by a slight depression;
but it shares with the holy hill of Athena a celebrity
which makes it the object of every thoughtful visitor’s
attention. From its top one may obtain almost the
.bn 142.png
.pn +1
best view of the afterglow of sunset on the temples
and the Propylæa of the Acropolis, after the custodians
of the latter have driven all visitors below; and
sitting there as the light fades one may lose himself
readily in a reverie in which the mighty ones of old,
from Ares himself down to the mortal sages of later
days, pass in grand review, only to fade away from
the mind and leave the eloquent apostle of the newer
religion saying to the citizens gathered around him,
“Whom, therefore, ye ignorantly worship, Him declare
I unto you.” Let us, if we will, believe that it
was “in the midst of Mars Hill” that Paul preached his
sonorous sermon, despite a tendency among scholars
to suggest that he probably stood somewhere
else, “close by or near to” rather than “in the midst
of” the spot. If we paid undue heed to these iconoclastic
theories of scientists, what would become of
all our cherished legends? The traveler in Greece
loses half the charm of the place if he cannot become
as a little child and believe a good many things to be
true enough that perhaps can hardly stand the severe
test of archæology. And why should he not do this?

.il id=i143 fn=i_143.jpg w=600px ew=95%
.ca THE AREOPAGUS

Peopled with ghostly memories also is the long,
low ridge of rocky ground to the westward, across
the broad avenue that leads from the plain up to
the Acropolis, still bearing its ancient name of the
“Pnyx.” In the valley between lie evidences of a
.bn 143.png
.pn +1
.bn 144.png
.bn 145.png
bygone civilization, the crowded foundations of ancient
houses, perhaps of the poorer class, huddled
together along ancient streets, the lines of which are
faintly discernible among the ruins, while here and
there are traces of old watercourses and drains, with
deep wells and cisterns yawning up at the beholder.
Thus much of the older town has been recovered,
lying as it does in the open and beyond the reach of
the present line of dwellings. Above this mass of ruin
the hill rises to the ancient assembling place of the
enfranchised citizens—the “Bema,” or rostrum, from
which speeches on public topics were made to the
assembled multitude. The Bema is still in place,
backed by a wall of huge “Cyclopean” masonry.
Curiously enough the ground slopes downward from
the Bema to-day, instead of upward as a good amphitheatre
for auditors should do, giving the impression
that the eloquence of the Athenian orators must literally
have gone over the heads of their audiences.
That this was anciently the case appears to be denied,
however, and we are told that formerly the topography
was quite the reverse of modern conditions,
made so artificially with the aid of retaining walls,
now largely destroyed. Until this is understood, the
Bema and its neighborhood form one of the hardest
things in Athens to reconstruct in memory. It is from
the rocky platform of this old rostrum that one gets
.bn 146.png
.pn +1
the ideal view of the Acropolis, bringing out the perfect
subordination of the Propylæa to the Parthenon,
and giving even to-day a very fair idea of the
appearance of the Acropolis and its temples as the
ancients saw them. Fortunate, indeed, is one who
may see these in the afternoon light standing out
sharply against a background of opaque cloud, yet
themselves colored by the glow of the declining sun.
Of all the magnificent ruins in Greece, this is the finest
and best,—the Acropolis from the Bema, or from any
point along the ridge of the Pnyx.

Of course that temple which is called, though
possibly erroneously, the Theseum, is one of the best
preserved of all extant Greek temples of ancient date,
and is one of the most conspicuous sights of Athens,
after the Acropolis and the temples thereon. And yet,
despite that fact, it somehow fails to arouse anything
like the same enthusiasm in the average visitor.
Just why this is so it may be rash to attempt to say,
but I suspect it is chiefly because the Theseum is,
after all, a rather colorless and uninspiring thing by
comparison with the Parthenon, lacking in individuality,
although doubtless one would look long before
finding real flaws in its architecture or proportions.
It simply suffers because its neighbors are so much
grander. If it stood quite alone as the temple at
Segesta stands, or as stand the magnificent ruins at
.bn 147.png
.pn +1
Pæstum, it would be a different matter. As it is, with
the Parthenon looking down from the Acropolis not
far away, the Theseum loses immeasurably in the
effect that a specimen of ancient architecture so obviously
perfect ought, in all justice, to command. It
seems entirely probable that the failure of this smaller
temple to inspire and lay hold on Athenian visitors is
due to the overshadowing effect of its greater neighbors,
which it feebly resembles in form without at all
equaling their beauty, and in part also, perhaps, to
the uncertainty about its name. That it was really a
temple of Theseus, an early king of Athens, seems
no longer to be believed by any, although no very
satisfactory substitute seems to be generally accepted.
It will remain the Theseum for many years to come,
no doubt, if not for all time. Theseus certainly deserved
some such memorial as this, and it is not
amiss to believe that the bones of the hero were
actually deposited here by Cimon when he brought
them back from Scyros. The services of Theseus to
the city were great. If we may, in childlike trust, accept
the testimony of legend, Theseus was the son
of King Ægeus and Æthra, but was brought up
in the supposition that he was a son of Poseidon,
in the far city of Tr[oe]zen. When he grew up, however,
he was given a sword and shield and sent to
Athens, where his father, Ægeus, was king. Escaping
.bn 148.png
.pn +1
poisoning by Medea, he appeared at the Athenian
court, was recognized by his armor, and was designated
by Ægeus as his rightful successor. He performed
various heroic exploits, freed Athens of her
horrid tribute of seven boys and seven girls paid to
the Cretan Minotaur, came back triumphant to Athens
only to find that Ægeus, mistaking the significance
of his sails, which were black, had committed suicide
by hurling himself in his grief from the Acropolis;
and thereupon, Theseus became king. He united the
Attic cities in one state, instituted the democracy
and generously abdicated a large share of the kingly
power, devised good laws, and was ever after held in
high esteem by the city—although he died in exile
at Scyros, to which place he withdrew because of a
temporary coolness of his people toward him. Cimon
brought back his bones, however, in 469 <sc>B.C.</sc>, and
Theseus became a demi-god in the popular imagination.
The Theseum owes its splendid preservation
to the fact that it was used, as many other temples
were, as a Christian church, sacred to St. George of
Cappadocia.

.il id=i149 fn=i_149.jpg w=600px ew=95%
.ca THE THESEUM

Infinitely more pregnant with definite interest is
the precinct of the Ceramicus, near the Dipylon, or
double gate, of the city, which gave egress to the
Eleusis road on the western side of the town, the remains
of which are easily to be seen to-day. The
.bn 149.png
.pn +1
.bn 150.png
.bn 151.png
excavations at this point have recently been pushed
with thoroughness and some very interesting fragments
have come to light, buried for all these centuries
in the “Themistoclean wall” of the city. It will
be recalled that the Spartans, being jealous of the
growing power of Athens, protested against the rebuilding
of the walls. Themistocles, who was not only
a crafty soul but in high favor at Athens at the time,
undertook to go to Sparta and hold the citizens of
that town at bay until the walls should be of sufficient
height for defense. Accordingly he journeyed down
to Sparta and pleaded the non-arrival of his ambassadorial
colleagues as an excuse for delaying the opening
of negotiations on the subject of the wall. Days
passed and still the colleagues did not come, much
to the ostensible anxiety and disgust of Themistocles,
who still asserted they must soon arrive. Meantime
every man, woman, and child in Athens was working
night and day to build those walls, heaping up
outworks for the city from every conceivable material,
sparing nothing, not even the gravestones of the
Ceramicus district, in their feverish anxiety to get the
walls high enough to risk an attack. The Roman consul
worked no more assiduously at hewing down the
famous bridge, nor did Horatius labor more arduously
at his task, than did Themistocles in diplomatic duel
with the men of Sparta. At last the news leaked out—but
.bn 152.png
.pn +1
it was too late. The walls were high enough
at last, and all further pretense of a delayed embassy
was dropped. The diplomacy of the wily Themistocles
had triumphed—and by no means for the first time.
Out of this so-called Themistoclean wall there have
recently been taken some of the grave “stelae,” or
flat slabs sculptured in low relief, from the places
where the harassed Athenians cast them in such
haste more than four centuries before Christ. They
are battered and broken, but the figures on them are
still easily visible, and while by no means sculpturally
remarkable the relics possess an undoubted historical
interest.

The tombs of the Ceramicus district, which form
an important part of the sculptural remains of Athenian
art, are still numerous enough just outside the
Dipylon Gate, although many examples have been
housed in the National Museum for greater protection
against weather and vandals. Of those that fortunately
remain <lang=la><em>in situ</em></lang> along what was the beginning
of the Sacred Way to Eleusis, there are enough to
give a very fair idea of the appearance of this ancient
necropolis, while the entire collection of tombstones
affords one of the most interesting and complete
exhibits to be seen in Athens. The excellence of the
work calls attention to the high general level of skill
achieved by the artisans of the time, for it is hardly
.bn 153.png
.pn +1
to be assumed that these memorials of the dead were
any more often the work of the first Athenian artists
of that day than is the case among our own people
at present.

The whole question of the Greek tomb sculpture
is a tempting one, and a considerable volume of literature
already exists with regard to it. The artistic
excellence of the stelae in their highest estate, the
quaintness of the earlier efforts, the ultimate regulation
of the size and style by statute to discourage
extravagance, the frequent utilization of an older
stone for second-hand uses, and a score of other
interesting facts, might well furnish forth an entire
chapter. As it is, we shall be obliged here briefly
to pass over the salient points and consider without
much pretense of detail the chief forms of tomb
adornment that the present age has to show, preserved
from the day when all good Athenians dying
were buried outside the gates on the Eleusinian way.
Not only carved on the stelae themselves, but also
placed on top of them, are to be seen reliefs or reproductions
of long-necked amphorae, or two-handled
vases, in great numbers. These are now known to
have had their significance as referring to the unmarried
state of the deceased. They are nothing more
nor less than reproductions of the vases the Greek
maidens used to carry to the spring Callirrhoë for
.bn 154.png
.pn +1
water for the nuptial bath, and the use of them in the
tomb sculpture, on the graves of those who died unmarried,
is stated to have grown out of the idea that
“those who died unwed had Hades for their bridegroom.”
These vases come the nearest to resembling
modern grave memorials of any displayed at Athens,
perhaps. The rest of the gravestones are entirely
different both in appearance and in idea from anything
we are accustomed to-day to use in our cemeteries,
and it is likely to be universally agreed that
they far eclipse our modern devices in beauty. The
modern graveyard contents itself in the main with
having its graves marked with an eye to statistics,
rather than artistic effect, save in the cases of the very
rich, who may invoke the aid of eminent sculptors to
adorn their burial plots. In Athens this seems not
to have been so. There is very little in the way of
inscription on the stones, save for the name. The
majority are single panels containing bas-reliefs,
which may or may not be portraits of the departed.

.il id=i155 fn=i_155.jpg w=387px ew=60%
.ca TOMB AMPHORA, CERAMICUS

The usual type of tomb relief of this sort seems
to be a group of figures, sometimes two, sometimes
three or four, apparently representing a leave-taking,
or frequently the figure of a person performing some
characteristic act of life. Of the latter the well-known
tomb of Hegeso, representing a woman attended by
her maid fingering trinkets in a jewel casket, is as
.bn 155.png
.bn 156.png
.bn 157.png
.pn +1
good a type as any, and it has the added merit of
standing in its original place in the street of the tombs.
Others of this kind are numerous enough in the
museum. The aversion to the representation of death
itself among the ancient Greeks is well understood,
and many have argued from it that these tomb reliefs
indicate an intention to recall the deceased as he
or she was in life, without suggestion of mourning.
Nevertheless, the obvious attitudes of sorrowful parting
visible in many of the tomb stelae seem to me to
do violence to this theory in its full strength. Among
those which seem most indicative of this is a very
well-executed one showing three figures,—an old
man, a youth, and a little lad. The old man stands
looking intently, but with a far-away gaze, at a
splendidly built but thoughtful-visaged young man
before him, while the lad behind is doubled up in a
posture plainly indicating extreme grief, with his face
apparently bathed in tears. The calm face of the
youth, the grave and silent grief of the paternal-looking
man, and the unbridled emotion of the boy,
all speak of a parting fraught with intense sorrow. It
might be any parting—but is it not more reasonable
to assume that it means the parting which involves
no return?

The more archaic gravestones are best typified by
the not unfamiliar sculpture, in low relief, of a warrior
.bn 158.png
.pn +1
leaning on a spear, or by the well-known little
figure of Athena, similarly poised, mourning beside
what appears to be a gravestone of a hero. It was
one of the former type that we saw exhumed from
the Themistoclean wall, with the warrior’s figure and
portions of the spear still easily discernible.

.il id=i159 fn=i_159.jpg w=450px ew=75%
.ca TOMB RELIEF, CERAMICUS

It remains to speak, though very briefly and without
much detail, of the National Museum itself, which
is one of the chief glories of Athens, and which divides
with the Acropolis the abiding interest and attention
of every visitor. It is in many ways incomparable
among the great museums of the world, although
others can show more beautiful and more famous
Greek statues. The British Museum has the Elgin
marbles from the Parthenon, which one would to-day
greatly prefer to see restored to Athens; the Vatican
holds many priceless and beautiful examples of the
highest Greek sculptural art; Munich has the interesting
pedimental figures from the temple at Ægina;
Naples and Paris have collections not to be despised;
but nowhere may one find under a single roof so
wide a range of Greek sculpture, from the earliest
strivings after form and expression to the highest
ultimate success, as in the Athenian National Museum,
with its priceless treasures in marble and in bronze.
The wealth of statues, large and small, quaintly primitive
or commandingly lovely, in all degrees of relief
.bn 159.png
.pn +1
.bn 160.png
.bn 161.png
and in the round, is stupendous. And while it may
be heresy to pass over the best of the marbles for
anything else, it is still a fact that many will turn from
all the other treasures of the place to the “bronze
boy” as we will call him for lack of a better name.
This figure of a youth, of more than life size and
poised lightly as if about to step from his pedestal,
with one hand extended, and seemingly ready to
speak, is far less well known than he deserves to be,
chiefly because it is but a few years since the sponge
divers found him in the bed of the ocean and brought
him back to the light of day. At present nobody presumes
to say whether this splendid figure represents
any particular hero. He might be Perseus, or Paris,
or even Hermes. His hand bears evidence of having
at one time clasped some object, whether the head
of Medusa, the apple, or the caduceus, it is impossible
to say. But the absence of winged sandals appears
to dismiss the chance that he was Hermes, and
the other identifications are so vague as to leave it
perhaps best to refer to him only as an “ephebus,”
or youth. The bronze has turned to a dark green,
and such restorations as had to be made are quite
invisible, so that to all outward seeming the statue
is as perfect as when it was first cast. The eyes, inlaid
with consummate skill to simulate real eyes, surpass
in lifelike effect those of the celebrated bronze
.bn 162.png
.pn +1
charioteer at Delphi. That a more detailed description
of this figure is given here is not so much that
it surpasses the other statues of the museum, but
because it is so recent in its discovery that almost
nothing has been printed about it for general circulation.

.il id=i163 fn=i_163.jpg w=382px ew=70%
.ca
<s><em>National Museum, Athens</em></s>
BRONZE EPHEBUS
.ca-

It would be almost endless and entirely profitless
to attempt any detailed consideration of the multitude
of objects of this general sculptural nature which the
museum contains, and volumes have been written
about them all, from the largest and noblest of the
marbles to the smallest of the island gems. It may
not be out of place, however, to make brief mention
of the spoils of Mycenæ which are housed here, and
which reproductions have made generally familiar,
because later we shall have occasion to visit Mycenæ
itself and to discuss in more detail that once proud
but now deserted city, the capital which Agamemnon
made so famous. In a large room set apart for the
purpose are to be seen the treasures that were taken
from the six tombs, supposed to be royal graves, that
were unearthed in the midst of the Mycenæan agora,
including a host of gold ornaments, cups, rosettes,
chains, death masks, weapons, and human bones.
Whether Dr. Schliemann, as he so fondly hoped and
claimed, really laid bare the burial place of the conqueror
of Troy, or whether what he found was something
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.pn +1
.bn 164.png
.bn 165.png
far less momentous, the fact remains that he
did exhume the bodies of a number of personages
buried in the very spot where legend said the famous
heroes and heroines were buried, together with such
an array of golden gear that it seems safe to assert
that these were at any rate the tombs of royalty. If
one can divest his mind of the suspicions raised
by the ever-cautious archæologist and can persuade
himself that he sees perhaps the skeleton and sword
of the leader of the Argive host that went to recapture
Helen, this Mycenæan room is of literally
overwhelming interest. Case after case ranged about
the room reveals the cunningly wrought ornaments
that gave to Mycenæ the well-deserved Homeric
epithet “rich-in-gold.” From the grotesque death
masks of thin gold leaf to the heavily embossed
Vaphio cups, everything bears testimony to the high
perfection of the goldsmith’s art in the pre-Homeric
age. Of all this multitude of treasures, the chief objects
are unquestionably the embossed daggers and
the large golden cups, notably the two that bear the
exceedingly well-executed golden bulls, and the so-called
“Nestor” cup, which, with its rather angular
shape and its double handle, reproduces exactly the
cup that Homer describes as belonging to that wise
and reverend counselor.

As has been hinted, the scientific archæologists,
.bn 166.png
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less swept away by Homeric enthusiasm than was
Schliemann, have proved skeptical as to the identification
of the tombs which Schliemann so confidently
proclaimed at first discovery. The unearthing of a
sixth tomb, where the original excavator had looked
for only five, is supposed to have done violence to
the Agamemnonian theory. But what harm can it do
if we pass out of the Mycenæan room with a secret,
though perhaps an ignorant, belief that we have looked
upon the remains and accoutrements of one who was
an epic hero, the victim of a murderous queen, the
avenger of a brother’s honor, and the conqueror of a
famous city? It is simply one more of those cases in
which one gains immeasurably in pleasure if he can
dismiss scientific questionings from his mind and pass
through the scene unskeptical of the heroes of the
mighty past, if not of the very gods of high Olympus
themselves. It may be wrong; to a scientific investigator
such guileless trust is doubtless laughable.
But on our own heads be it if therein we err!
.bn 167.png
.pb
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.h2 id=chap07
CHAPTER VII. EXCURSIONS IN | ATTICA

.il fn=i_167.jpg w=400px ew=75%
.sp 2
As the admirable Baedeker well says, the stay
in Athens is undoubtedly the finest part of a
visit to Greece, and it is so not merely because of the
many attractions and delights of the city itself, but
because also of the numerous short trips aside which
can be made in a day’s time, without involving a
night’s absence. Such little journeys include the
ascent of Pentelicus, whose massive peak rises only
a few miles away, revealing even from afar the great
gash made in his side by the ancients in quest of
marble for their buildings and statues; the ride out
to the battlefield of Marathon; the incomparable drive
to Eleusis; the jaunt by rail or sea to Sunium; and
last, but by no means least, the sail over to Ægina.
Marathon has no ruins to show. Aside from the interest
attaching to that famous battleground as a site,
there is nothing to call one thither, if we except the
tumulus, or mound, which marks the exact spot of
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the conflict which was so important to the history of
western Europe. Neither Marathon nor Thermopylæ
can offer much to-day but memories. But Sunium,
Ægina, and Eleusis possess ruins decidedly worth a
visit in addition to much scenic loveliness, and the
last-named is a spot so interwoven with the highest
and best in Greek tradition that it offers a peculiar
charm.

It is perfectly possible to journey to Eleusis by train,
but to elect that method of approach is to miss one
of the finest carriage rides to be had in the vicinity of
Athens. The road leads out of the city through its
unpretentious western quarter, by the “street of the
tombs” to the vale of the Cephissus, where it follows
the line of the old “sacred way” to Eleusis, over
which, on the stated festivals, the procession of torch-bearing
initiates wended its way by night to the
shrine of Demeter. From the river—which to-day is
a mere sandy channel most of the year—the smooth,
hard highway rises gradually from the Attic plain to
the mountain wall of Parnes, making straight for a
narrow defile still known as the Pass of Daphne.
This pass affords direct communication between the
Attic and Thriasian plains, and save for the loftier
valley farther north, through which the Peloponnesian
railroad runs, is the only break in the mountain barrier.
Eleusis and Attica were always so near—and
.bn 169.png
.pn +1
yet so far apart. When the Spartans invaded the
region, Athens felt no alarm from their proximity
until they had actually entered her own plain, so
remote seemed the valley about Eleusis, despite its
scant ten miles of distance, simply because it was so
completely out of sight. As the carriage ascends the
gentle rise to the pass, the plain of Attica stretches
out behind, affording an open vista from the Piræus
to the northern mountains, a green and pleasant vale
despite its dearth of trees, while the city of Athens
dominates the scene and promises a fine spectacle by
sunset as one shall return from the pass at evening,
facing the commanding Acropolis aglow in the after-light.

A halt of a few moments at the top of the pass
gives an opportunity to alight and visit an old church
just beside the road. It was once adjoined by some
monastic cloisters, now in ruins. Unlike most of the
Greek churches, this one possesses a quaint charm
from without, and within displays some very curious
old mosaics in the ceiling. On either side of its doorway
stand two sentinel cypresses, their sombre green
contrasting admirably with the dull brown tones of
the building, while across the close, in a gnarled old
tree, are hung the bells of the church. The use of
the neighboring tree as a campanile is by no means
uncommon in Greece, and a pretty custom it is. The
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.pn +1
groves were God’s first temples; and if they are no
longer so, it is yet true in Greece at least that the
trees still bear the chimes that call the devout to
prayer. Inside the building, in addition to the quaint
Byzantine decorations, one may find something of
interest in the curious votive offerings, before referred
to as common in Greek churches, suspended
on the altar screen. Thanks for the recovered use of
arms, eyes, legs, and the like seem to be expressed
by hanging in the church a small white-metal model
of the afflicted organ which has been so happily
restored. I believe I have called attention to this
practice as a direct survival of the old custom of
the worshipers of Asklepios, which finds a further
amplification in many churches farther west,—in
Sicily, for example,—where pictures of accidents are
often found hung in churches by those who have been
delivered from bodily peril and who are desirous to
commemorate the fact. In the church in Daphne Pass
we found for the first time instances of the votive offering
of coins, as well as of anatomical models. The
significance of this I do not pretend to know, but by
analogy one might assume that the worshiper was
returning thanks for relief from depleted finances.
The coins we saw in this church were of different
denominations, all of silver, and representing several
different national currency systems.
.bn 171.png
.pn +1

Behind the church on either side rise the pine-clad
slopes of the Parnes range, displaying a most
attractive grove of fragrant trees, through the midst
of which Daphne’s road permits us to pass. And
in a brief time the way descends toward the bay of
Salamis, shining in the sun, directly at one’s feet,
while the lofty and extensive island of that immortal
name appears behind it. So narrow are the straits
that for a long time Salamis seems almost like a part
of the mainland, while the included bay appears more
like a large and placid lake than an arm of a tideless
sea. The carriage road skirts the wide curve of the
bay for several level miles, the village of Eleusis—now
called Levsina—being always visible at the far
extremity of the bay and marked from afar by prosaic
modern factory chimneys. It lies low in the landscape,
which is a pastoral one. The highway winds along
past a score of level farms, and at least two curious
salt lakes are to be seen, lying close to the road and
said to be tenanted by sea fish, although supplied
apparently from inland sources. They are higher in
level than the bay, and there is a strong outflow from
them to the sea waters beyond. Nevertheless, they
are said to be salt and to support salt-water life.

Eleusis as a town is not attractive. The sole claim
on the visitor is found in the memories of the place
and in the ruined temples, which are in the heart of
.bn 172.png
.pn +1
the village itself. The secret of the mysteries, despite
its wide dissemination among the Athenians and
others, has been well kept—so well that almost
nothing is known of the ceremony and less of its
teaching. In a general way there is known only the
fact that it had to do with the worship of Demeter,
the goddess of the harvest, and that the mysteries
concerned in some way the legend of the rape of
Kora (Proserpine) by Hades (Pluto). There are hints
as to certain priests, sacred vessels, symbols and rites,
some of which appear not to have been devoid of
grossness—but nothing definite is known, and probably
nothing definite ever will be. The general tone of
the mysteries seems to have been high, for no less an
authority than Cicero, who was initiated into the cult
in the later and decadent days of the Greek nation,
regarded the teachings embodied in the Eleusinian
rites as the highest product of the Athenian culture,
and averred that they “enabled one to live more
happily on earth and to die with a fairer hope.” It
was, of course, unlawful for anybody to reveal the
secrets; and although the initiation was apparently
open to any one who should seek it, so that the number
of devotees was large during a long succession
of years, the secret was faithfully kept by reason of
the great reverence in which the mysteries were held.
That some of the features verged on wanton license
.bn 173.png
.pn +1
has been alleged, and it may have been this that
inspired the wild and brilliant young Alcibiades to
burlesque the ceremony, to the scandal of pious
Athenians and to his own ultimate undoing. For it
was a trial on this charge that recalled Alcibiades
from Sicily and led to his disgrace.

The approach to the vast main temple is unusual,
in that it is by an inclined plane rather than by steps.
Even to-day the ruts of chariot wheels are to be
distinguished in this approaching pavement. The
temple itself was also most unusual, for instead of a
narrow cella sufficient only for the colossal image of
the deity, there was a vast nave, and room for a large
concourse of worshipers. On the side next the hillock
against which the temple was built there is a
long, low flight of hewn steps, possibly used for seats,
while the many column bases seem to argue either a
second story or a balcony as well as a spacious roof.
Much of the original building is distinguishable, despite
the fact that the Romans added a great deal;
for the Latin race seems to have found the rites to
its liking, so that it took care to preserve and beautify
the place after its own ideas of beauty. If the surviving
medallion of some Roman emperor which is to
be seen near the entrance of the Propylæa is a fair
sample, however, one may doubt with reason the
effectiveness of the later additions to the buildings on
.bn 174.png
.pn +1
the spot. The Roman Propylæa was built by Appius
Claudius Pulcher, but if the medallion portrait is his
own, one must conclude that the “Pulcher” was gross
flattery.

The ruins are extensive, but mainly flat, so that
their interest as ruins is almost purely archæological.
The ordinary visitor will find the chief charm in the
memories of the place. Of course there is a museum
on the spot, as in every Greek site. It contains a
large number of fragments from the temples and
Propylæa, bits of statuary and bas-relief having chiefly
to do with Demeter and her attendant goddesses.
By far the most interesting and most perfect of the
Eleusinian reliefs, however, is in the national museum
at Athens—a large slab representing Demeter and
Proserpine bestowing the gift of seed corn on the
youth Triptolemus, who is credited with the invention
of the plow. For some reason, doubtless because of
the hospitality of his family to her, Triptolemus won
the lasting favor of Demeter, who not only gave him
corn but instructed him in the art of tilling the stubborn
glebe. It seems entirely probable that Triptolemus
and Kora shared in the mystic rites at Eleusis.
As for the dying with a “fairer hope” spoken of by
Cicero as inculcated by the ceremonies of the cult,
one may conjecture that it sprang from some early
pagan interpretation of the principle later enunciated
.bn 175.png
.pn +1
in the Scriptural “Except a grain of wheat fall into the
ground and die.”

Eleusis itself lies on a low knoll in the midst of the
Thriasian plain, which in early spring presents a most
attractive appearance of fertility on every side, appropriately
enough to the traditions of the spot. From
the top of the hillock behind the great temple and
the museum, one obtains a good view of the vale
northward and of the sacred way winding off toward
Corinth by way of Megara. Where the plain stops
and the mountain wall approaches once again close
to the sea, this road grows decidedly picturesque,
recalling in a mild way the celebrated Amalfi drive
as it rises and falls on the face of the cliff. Nor should
one pass from the subject of Eleusis without mentioning
the numerous little kids that frisk over the ruins,
attended by anxious mother-goats, all far from unfriendly.
Kids are common enough sights in Greece,
and to lovers of pets they are always irresistible; but
nowhere are they more so than at Eleusis, where they
add their mite of attractiveness to the scene. The
grown-up goat is far from pretty, but by some curious
dispensation of nature the ugliest of animals seem
to have the most attractive young, and the frisking
lambs and kids of Greece furnish striking examples
of it.

The ride back to the city must be begun in season
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.pn +1
to get the sunset light on the west front of the Acropolis,
which is especially effective from the Eleusis
road all the way from Daphne’s Pass to the city
proper. As for Salamis, which is always in sight until
the pass is crossed, it is enough to say that, like
Marathon, it is a place of memories only. The bay
that one sees from the Eleusis road is not the one in
which the great naval battle was fought. That lies
on the other side, toward the open gulf, and is best
seen from the sea. Few care to make a special excursion
to the island itself, which is rocky and barren,
and after all the chief interest is in its immediate
waters. The account of the battle in Herodotus is
decidedly worth reading on the spot, and to this day
they will show you a rocky promontory supposed to
have been the point where Xerxes had his throne
placed so that he might watch the fight which resulted
so disastrously to his ships. The battle, by the way,
was another monument to the wiles of Themistocles,
who recognized in the bulwarks of the ships the
“wooden walls” which the oracle said would save
Athens, and who, when he found the commanders
weakening, secretly sent word to the Persians urging
them to close in and fight. This was done; and
the navy being reduced to the necessity of conflict
acquitted itself nobly.

Of the other local excursions, that to Marathon is
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.pn +1
easily made in a day by carriage. There is little to
see there, save a plain, lined on the one hand by the
mountains which look on Marathon, and on the other
by the sea, largely girt with marshes. The lion which
once crowned the tumulus is gone, nobody knows
whither. It is much, however, from a purely sentimental
point of view, to have stood upon the site itself,
the scene of one of the world’s famous battles.
Some grudging critics, including the erudite Mahaffy,
incline to believe that Marathon was a rather small
affair, judged by purely military standards—a conflict
of one undisciplined host with an even less disciplined
one, in an age when battles ordinarily were
won by an endurance of nerve in the face of a
hand-to-hand charge rather than by actual carnage.
These maintain that the chief celebrity of Marathon
rests not on its military glories, but on the fame which
the Athenians, a literary race, gave it in song and
story. But even these have to admit that Marathon
meant much to history, and that the psychological
effect of it was enormous, as showing that the Persians
were by no means invincible, so that ten years
later Salamis put the finishing blow to Persian attempts
on the west. For those who do not care to make the
long ride to the field itself, it is quite possible to
obtain a view of the plain from the summit of Pentelicus,
something like fifteen miles away, although
.bn 178.png
.pn +1
this does not reveal the mound marking the actual
site.

That mountain’s chief celebrity is, of course, to be
found in the great marble quarries from which came
the stone for the Acropolis temples, and it is these
rather than the view of Marathon that draw climbers
to the famous height. The ancient quarries lie far
up on the side of the slope, and the marks of the old
chisels are still plainly to be discerned. The difficulties
of getting out perfect stone in the ancient days
seem to have been enormous; but that they were
surmounted is obvious from the fact that the great
blocks used in building the Parthenon and Propylæa
were handled with comparative speed, as shown
by the relatively few years occupied in erecting them.
It seems probable that the stone was slid down the
mountain side in chutes to the point where it was
feasible to begin carting it. Inherent but invisible
defects naturally occurred, and these the ancients
managed to detect by sounding with a mallet. Samples
of these imperfect blocks are to be seen lying
where they fell when the builders rejected them, not
only on the road by the quarries but on the Acropolis
itself.

.il id=i179 fn=i_179.jpg w=419px ew=80%
.ca THE TEMPLE AT SUNIUM

Sunium, the famous promontory at the extremity
of the Attic peninsula, may be reached by a train
on the road that serves the ancient silver mines of
.bn 179.png
.pn +1
.bn 180.png
.bn 181.png
Laurium, but as the trains are slow and infrequent
it is better, if one can, to go down by sea. Our own
visit was so made, the vessel landing us accommodatingly
at the foot of the promontory on which a
few columns of the ancient temple are still standing.
The columns that remain are decidedly whiter than
those on the Acropolis, and the general effect is
highly satisfying to one’s preconceived ideas of Greek
ruins. Dispute is rife as to the particular deity to
whom this shrine was anciently consecrated, and the
rivalry lies between those traditional antagonists,
Athena and Poseidon, each of whom advances plausible
claims. How the case can be decided without
another contest between the two, like that supposed
to have taken place on the Acropolis itself and depicted
by Pheidias, is not clear. For who shall decide
when doctors of archæology disagree?

The chief architectural peculiarity of the Sunium
temple is the arrangement of its frontal columns "in
antis,"—that is to say, included between two projecting
ends of the side walls. And, in addition, one
regrets to say that the ruin is peculiar in affording
evidences of modern vandalism more common in our
own country than in Hellas, namely, the scratching
of signatures on the surface of the stone. All sorts of
names have been scrawled there,—English, French,
Italian, American, Greek,—and most famous of all,
.bn 182.png
.pn +1
no doubt, the unblushing signature of no less a personage
than Byron himself! Perhaps, however, it is
not really his. There may be isolated instances of
this low form of vandalism elsewhere, but I do not
recall any that can compare with the volume of defacing
scrawls to be seen at Sunium.

Lovelier far than Sunium is the situation of the
temple in Ægina, occupying a commanding height
in that large and lofty island on the other side of the
gulf, opposite the Piræus and perhaps six or seven
miles distant from that port. The journey to it is
necessarily by sea, and it has become a frequent
objective point for steamer excursions landing near
the temple itself rather than at the distant town. In
the absence of a steamer, it is possible to charter
native boats for a small cost and with a fair breeze
make the run across the bay in a comparatively brief
time. From the cove where parties are generally
landed the temple cannot be seen, as the slopes are
covered with trees and the shrine itself is distant
some twenty minutes on foot. Donkeys can be had,
as usual, but they save labor rather than time, and the
walk, being through a grove of fragrant pines, is far
from arduous or fatiguing. The odor of the pines is
most agreeable, the more so because after one has sojourned
for a brief time in comparatively treeless Attica
one is the more ready to welcome a scent of the
.bn 183.png
.pn +1
forest. The pungency of the grove is due, however,
less to the pine needles and cones than to the tapping,
or rather “blazing,” of the trunks for their resin. Under
nearly every tree will be found stone troughs, into
which the native juice of the tree oozes with painful
slowness. The resin, of course, is for the native wines,
which the Greek much prefers flavored with that ingredient.
The drinking of resinated wine is an acquired
taste, so far as foreigners are concerned. Some solemnly
aver that they like it,—and even prefer it to
the unresinated kind; but the average man not to the
manner born declares it to be only less palatable than
medicine. The Greeks maintain that the resin adds to
the healthfulness of the wines, and to get the gum they
have ruined countless pine groves by this tapping
process so evident in the Ægina woods, for the gashes
cut in the trees have the effect of stunting the growth.

After a steady ascent of a mile or so, the temple
comes suddenly into view, framed in a foreground of
green boughs, which add immensely to the effectiveness
of the picture, and which make one regret the
passing of the Greek forests in other places. Once
upon a time the ordinary temple must have gained
greatly by reason of its contrast with the foliage of
the surrounding trees; but to-day only those at Ægina
and at Bassæ present this feature to the beholder. This
Ægina temple is variously attributed to Athena and
.bn 184.png
.pn +1
to Zeus Panhellenius, so that, as at Sunium, there is
a chance for doubt. The chief peculiarity seems to be
that the entrance door, which is as usual in the eastern
side, is not exactly in the centre of the cella. The columns
are still standing to a large extent, but the pedimental
sculptures have been removed to Munich, so
that the spot is robbed, as the Acropolis is, of a portion
of its charm. It is a pity, because the Æginetan
pedimental figures were most interesting, furnishing
a very good idea of the Æginetan style of sculpture
of an early date. The figures which survive, to the
number of seventeen, in a very fair state of preservation,
represent warriors in various active postures, and
several draped female figures, including a large statue
of Athena. Those who have never seen these at Munich
are doubtless familiar with the reproductions in
plaster which are common in all first-class museums
boasting collections of Greek masterpieces.

.il id=i185a fn=i_185a.jpg w=500px ew=90%
.ca THE APPROACH TO ÆGINA

.il id=i185b fn=i_185b.jpg w=500px ew=90%
.ca THE TEMPLE AT ÆGINA

The island of Ægina, which is large and mountainous,
forms a conspicuous feature of the gulf in which
it lies. It is close to the Peloponnesian shore, and from
the temple a magnificent view is outspread in every
direction, not only over the mountains of the Argolid
but northward toward Corinth,—and on a clear day it
is said that even the summit of Parnassus can be descried.
Directly opposite lies Athens, with which city
the island long maintained a successful rivalry. The
.bn 185.png
.pn +1
.bn 186.png
.bn 187.png
chief celebrity of the spot was achieved under its independent
existence, about the seventh century <sc>B.C.</sc>,
and before Athens subjugated it. It was then tenanted
by colonists from Epidaurus, who had the commercial
instinct, and who made Ægina a most prosperous
place. The name is said to be derived from the nymph
Ægina, who was brought to the island by Zeus. The
hardy Æginetan sailors were an important factor in
the battle of Salamis, to which they contributed not
only men but sacred images; and they were not entirely
expelled from their land by the Athenian domination
until 431 <sc>B.C.</sc> Thereafter the prominence of
the city dwindled and has never returned.

It remains to describe an excursion which we made
to the north of Athens one day shortly after Easter, to
witness some peasant dances. These particular festivities
were held at Menidi, and were rather less extensive
than the annual Easter dances at Megara, but
still of the same general type; and as they constitute
a regular spring feature of Attic life, well worth seeing
if one is at Athens at the Easter season, it is not out
of place to describe them here. Either Megara or
Menidi may be reached easily by train, and Menidi
is not a hard carriage ride, being only six miles or so
north of Athens, in the midst of the plain. It may
be that these dances are direct descendants of ancient
rites, like so many of the features of the present
.bn 188.png
.pn +1
Orthodox church; but whatever their significance and
history, they certainly present the best opportunity to
see the peasantry of the district in their richest gala
array, which is something almost too gorgeous to
describe.

The drive out to the village over the old north road
was dusty and hot, and we were haunted by a fear
that the dances might be postponed, as occasionally
happens. These doubts were removed, however, when
Menidi at last hove in sight as we drove over an undulation
of the plain and came suddenly upon the village
in holiday dress, flags waving, peasant girls and
swains in gala garb, and streets lined with booths for
the vending of sweetmeats, Syrian peanuts, pistachio
nuts, loukoumi, and what the New England merchant
would call “notions.” Indeed, it was all very
suggestive of the New England county fair, save for
the gorgeousness of the costumes. The streets were
thronged and everybody was in a high good-humor.
What it was all about we never knew. Conflicting
reports were gleaned from the natives, some to the
effect that it was, and some that it was not, essentially
a churchly affair; but all agreed apparently that
it had no connection with the Easter feast, although
it was celebrated something like five days thereafter.
Others mentioned a spring as having something to
do with it,—suggesting a possible pagan origin.
.bn 189.png
.pn +1
This view gained color from the energy with which
lusty youths were manipulating the town pump in
the village square, causing it to squirt a copious
stream to a considerable distance,—a performance
in which the bystanders took an unflagging and
unbounded delight. That the celebration was not devoid
of its religious significance was evident from
the open church close by thronged with devout people
coming and going, each obtaining a thin yellow
taper to light and place in the huge many-branched
candelabrum. The number of these soon became so
great that the priests removed the older ones and
threw them in a heap below, to make room for fresh-lighted
candles. Those who deposited coins in the
baptismal font near the door were rewarded with a
sprinkling of water by the attendant priest, who constantly
dipped a rose in the font and shook it over
those who sought this particular form of benison.

Outside, the square was thronged with merrymakers,
some dancing in the solemn Greek fashion,
in a circle with arms extended on each others’ shoulders,
moving slowly around and around to the monotonous
wail of a clarionet. Others were seated under
awnings sipping coffee, and to such a resort we were
courteously escorted by the local captain of the gendarmerie,
whose acquaintance we had made in Athens
and who proved the soul of hospitality. Here we sat
.bn 190.png
.pn +1
and drank the delicious thick coffee, accompanied by
the inevitable huge beaker of water drawn from the
rocky slopes of Parnes, and watched the dancers and
the passing crowds. The dress of the men was seldom
conspicuous. Many wore European clothes like our
own, although here and there might be seen one in
the national costume of full white skirts and close-fitting
leggings, leather wallet, and zouave jacket.
But the women were visions of incomparable magnificence.
Their robes were in the main of white, but
the skirts were decked with the richest of woolen
embroideries, heavy and thick, extending for several
inches upward from the lower hem, in a profusion of
rich reds, blues, and browns. Aprons similarly adorned
were worn above. Most impressive of all, however,
were the sleeveless overgarments or coats, such as
we had seen and bickered over in Shoe Lane,—coats
of white stuff, bordered with a deep red facing
and overlaid with intricate tracery in gold lace and
gold braid. These were infinitely finer than any we had
seen in the Athens shops, and they made the scene
gay indeed with a barbaric splendor. To add to the
gorgeousness of the display, the girls wore flat caps,
bordered with gold lace and coins, giving the effect of
crowns, flowing veils which did not conceal the face
but fell over the shoulders, and on their breasts many
displayed a store of gold and silver coins arranged as
.bn 191.png
.pn +1
.bn 192.png
.bn 193.png
bangles—their dowries, it was explained. Most of
these young women were betrothed, it developed,
and custom dictated this parade of the marriage portion,
which is no small part of the Greek wedding
arrangement. The cuffs of the full white sleeves were
embroidered like the aprons and skirt bottoms, and
the whole effect was such as to be impossible of adequate
description.

.il id=i191 fn=i_191.jpg w=425px ew=75%
.ca PEASANT DANCERS AT MENIDI

One comely damsel, whose friends clamored us to
photograph her, scampered nimbly into her courtyard,
only to be dragged forth bodily by a proud
young swain, who announced himself her betrothed
and who insisted that she pose for the picture, willy-nilly,—which
she did, joining amiably in the general
hilarity, and exacting a promise of a print when the
picture should be finished. The ice once broken, the
entire peasant population became seized with a desire
to be photographed, and it was only the beginning
of the great dance that dissolved the clamoring
throng.

The dance was held on a broad level space, just
east of the town, about which a crowd had already
gathered. We were escorted thither and duly presented
to the demarch, or mayor, who bestowed upon
us the freedom of the city and the hospitality of his
own home if we required it. He was a handsome man,
dressed in a black cut-away coat and other garments
.bn 194.png
.pn +1
of a decidedly civilized nature, which seemed curiously
incongruous in those surroundings, as indeed
did his own face, which was pronouncedly Hibernian
and won for him the sobriquet of "O'Sullivan" on
the spot. His stay with us was brief, for the dance was
to begin, and nothing would do but the mayor should
lead the first two rounds. This he did with much
grace, though we were told that he did not relish the
task, and only did it because if he balked the votes
at the next election would go to some other aspirant.
The dance was simple enough, being a mere solemn
circling around of a long procession of those gorgeous
maidens, numbering perhaps a hundred or
more, hand in hand and keeping time to the music
of a quaint band composed of drum, clarionet, and
a sort of penny whistle. The demarch danced best
of all, and after two stately rounds of the green inclosure
left the circle and watched the show at his
leisure, his face beaming with the sweet consciousness
of political security and duty faithfully performed.

How long the dance went on we never knew. The
evening was to be marked by a display of fireworks,
the frames for which were already in evidence and
betokened a magnificence in keeping with the costumes
of the celebrants. For ourselves, satiated with
the display, we returned to our carriage laden with
.bn 195.png
.pn +1
flowers, pistachio nuts, and strings of beads bestowed
by the abundant local hospitality, and bowled home
across the plain in time to be rewarded with a fine
sunset glow on the Parthenon as a fitting close for a
most unusual and enjoyable day.
.bn 196.png
.pb
.pn +1


.sp 4
.h2 id=chap08
CHAPTER VIII. DELPHI

.il fn=i_196.jpg w=300px ew=60%
.sp 2
The pilgrimage to Delphi, which used to be
fraught with considerable hardship and inconvenience,
is happily so no longer. It is still true that
the Greek steamers plying between the Piræus and
Itea, the port nearest the ancient oracular shrine, leave
much to be desired and are by no means to be depended
upon to keep to their schedules; but aside from this
minor difficulty there is nothing to hinder the ordinary
visitor from making the journey, which is far and away
the best of all ordinary short rambles in Greece, not
only because of the great celebrity of the site itself, but
because of the imposing scenic attractions Delphi has
to show. The old-time drawback, the lack of decent
accommodation at Delphi itself, or to be more exact,
at the modern village of Kastri, has been removed by
the presence of two inns, of rather limited capacity, it
is true, but still affording very tolerable lodging. Indeed,
hearsay reported the newer of these tiny hostelries
.bn 197.png
.pn +1
to be one of the best in Greece outside of Athens,
while the other quaint resort, owned and operated by
the amiable Vasili Paraskevas, one of the “local characters”
of the place, has long been esteemed by Hellenic
visitors. Vasili, in appearance almost as formidable as
the ancient Polyphemus, but in all else as gentle as the
sucking dove, has felt the force of competition, and his
advertisements easily rival those of the Hotel Cecil.
As a matter of fact, the establishment is delightfully
primitive, seemingly hanging precariously to the very
edge of the deep ravine that lies just under lofty Delphi,
boasting several small rooms and even the promise of
a bath-tub, although Vasili was forced to admit that
his advertisement in that respect was purely prospective
and indicative of intention rather than actuality.

The truly adventurous may still approach Delphi
over the ancient road by land from the eastward, doubtless
the same highway that was taken by old King
Laios when he was slain on his way to the oracle, all
unwitting of the kinship, by his own son [OE]dipus,—possibly
because of a dispute as to which should yield
the road. For the old road was a narrow one, with
deep ruts, suitable for a single chariot, but productive
of frequent broils when two such haughty spirits met
on the way. To come to Delphi over this road and
to depart by sea is doubtless the ideal plan. That we
elected not to take the land voyage was due to the
.bn 198.png
.pn +1
early spring season, with its snows on the shoulder of
Parnassus, around which the path winds. For those
less hindered by the season, it is said that the journey
overland from Livadià to Delphi, passing through
the tiny hamlet of Arákhova and possibly spending
a night in the open air on Parnassus, is well worth
the trouble, and justifies the expense of a courier and
horses, both of which are necessary.

The way which we chose, besides being infinitely
easier, is far from being devoid of its interesting features.
We set sail in the early afternoon from the Piræus,
passing over a glassy sea by Psyttalea, and the
famous waters in front of Salamis, to Corinth, where
the canal proved sufficiently wide to let our little craft
steam through to the gulf beyond. It was in the gathering
dusk that we entered this unusual channel, but
still it was light enough to see the entire length of the
canal, along the deep sides of which electric lamps
glimmered few and faint as a rather ineffectual illuminant
of the tow-path on either hand. The walls towered
above, something like two hundred feet in spots, and
never very low, making this four-mile ribbon of water
between the narrow seas a gloomy cavern indeed. It
was wide enough for only one craft of the size of our
own, therein resembling the land highway to Delphi;
but fortunately, owing to the system of semaphore
signals, no [OE]dipus disputed the road with us, and we
.bn 199.png
.pn +1
shot swiftly through the channel, between its towering
walls of rock, under the spidery railroad bridge that
spans it near the Corinth end, and out into the gulf
beyond. It is rather a nice job of steering, this passage
of the canal. Everybody was ordered off the bow, three
men stood nervously at the wheel, and the jack staff
was kept centred on the bright line that distantly
marked the opening between the precipitous sides of
the cleft, a line of light that gradually widened, revealing
another sea and a different land as we drew near
and looked out of our straight and narrow path of
water into the Corinthian Gulf beyond. The magnificence
of the prospect would be hard indeed to exaggerate.
On either side of the narrow gulf rose billowy
mountains, the northern line of summits dominated by
the snowy dome of Parnassus, the southern by Cyllene,
likewise covered with white. They were ghostly in
the darkness, which the moon relieved only a little,
shining fitfully from an overcast sky. The Corinthian
Gulf is fine enough from the railway which skirts it
all the way to Patras, but it is finer far from the sea,
whence one sees both sides at once in all the glory of
their steep gray mountains. Happily the night was
calm, and the gulf, which can be as bad as the English
Channel at its worst, was smooth for once as we swung
away from the little harbor of modern Corinth and laid
our course for the capes off Itea, something like forty
.bn 200.png
.pn +1
miles away. And thus we went to rest, the steamer
plowing steadily on through the night with Parnassus
towering on the starboard quarter.

A vigorous blowing of the whistle roused the ship’s
company at dawn. The vessel was at anchor off Itea,
a starveling village not at all praised by those who
have been forced to sample its meagre accommodations
for a night. Fortunately it is no longer necessary
to rely on these, for one may drive to Delphi in a few
hours, and on a moonlight night the ride, while chilly,
is said to be most delightful. Arriving as we did at
early dawn, we were deprived of this experience, and
set out from the village at once on landing to cover the
nine miles to Kastri, some riding in carriages or spring
carts,—locally called "sustas,"—some on mules,
and others proceeding on foot. From afar we could
already see the village, perched high on the side of the
foothills of Parnassus, which rise abruptly some three
miles away across a level plain. The plain proved to
be delightful. Walled in on either hand by rocky cliffs,
its whole bottom was filled with olive trees, through
which vast grove the road wound leisurely along.
Brooks babbled by through the grass of the great
orchard, and the green of the herbage was spangled
with innumerable anemones and other wild-flowers in
a profusion of color. Far behind us in the background
towered the Peloponnesian mountains, and before rose
.bn 201.png
.pn +1
.bn 202.png
.bn 203.png
the forbidding cliffs that shut in Delphi. Above the
distant Kastri, there was always the lofty summit of
Parnassus, somewhat dwarfed by proximity and therefore
a trifle disappointing to one whose preconceived
notions of that classic mountain demanded splendid
isolation, but still impressive.

.il id=i201 fn=i_201.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca THE PLAIN BELOW DELPHI

Naturally on this long, level plain the carriages soon
passed us, and disappeared in the hills ahead, while
the footpath left the highway and plunged off boldly
into the olive grove in the general direction of Delphi.
When it attained the base of the sharp ascent of the
mountain-side, it went straight up, leaving the road to
find its more gradual way by zigzags and détours,—windings
so long that it soon developed that the carriages
which so long ago had distanced us were in turn
displaced and were later seen toiling up the steep behind
us! The prospect rearward was increasingly lovely
as we climbed and looked down upon the plain. It
resembled nothing so much as a sea of verdure, the
olive trees pouring into it from the uplands like a
river, and filling it from bank to bank. No wonder
this plain was deemed a ground worth fighting for by
the ancients.

Despite the fact that the snows of Parnassus were
apparently so near, the climb was warm. The rocky
hillside gave back the heat of the April sun, although
it was cloudy, and progress became necessarily slow,
.bn 204.png
.pn +1
in part because of the warmth and in larger part because
of the increasing splendor of the view. The path
bore always easterly into a narrow gorge between two
massive mountains, a gorge that narrowed and narrowed
as the climb proceeded. Before very long we
passed through a wayside hamlet that lies halfway up
the road, exchanged greetings with the inhabitants,
who proved a friendly people anxious to set us right
on the way to Delphi, and speedily emerged from the
nest of buildings on the path again, with Kastri always
ahead and above, and seemingly as distant as ever. It
was Palm Sunday, we discovered, and the populace of
the tiny village all bore sprigs of greenery, which they
pressed upon us and which later turned out to be more
political than religious in their significance, since it was
not only the day of the Lord’s triumphal entry but the
closing day of the general elections as well.

Admiration for the green and fertile valley far behind
now gave place to awe at the grim gorges before
and the beetling cliffs towering overhead, up through
which, like dark chimney flues, ran deep clefts in the
rock, gloomy and mysterious, and doubtless potent in
producing awe in the ancient mind by thus adding
to the impressiveness of god-haunted Delphi. On the
left the mountain rose abruptly and loftily to the
blue; on the right the cliff descended sharply from
the path to the dark depths of the ravine, while close
.bn 205.png
.pn +1
on its other side rose again a neighboring mountain
that inclosed this ever-narrowing gulch.

At last after a three-hour scramble over the rocks
we attained Kastri, and found it a poor town lined
with hovels, but, like Mount Zion, beautiful for situation.
A brawling brook, fed by a spring above, dashed
across the single street and lost itself in the depths of
the ravine below. On either hand towered the steep
sides of the surrounding cliffs, while before us the valley
wound around a shoulder of the mountain and
seemingly closed completely. Kastri did not always
occupy this site, but once stood farther along around
the mountain’s sharp corner, directly over the ancient
shrine itself; and it was necessary for the French excavators
who laid bare the ancient sites to have the
village moved bodily by force and arms before any
work could be done,—a task that was accomplished
with no little difficulty, but which, when completed,
enabled the exploration of what was once the most
famous of all Pagan religious shrines. Curiously
enough the restoration of the temples at Delphi fell
to the hands of the French, the descendants of those
very Gauls who, centuries before, had laid waste the
shrines and treasuries of Loxias. We stopped long
enough at Vasili’s to sample some "mastika,"—a
native liqueur resembling anisette, very refreshing on
a warm day,—and then walked on to the ruins which
.bn 206.png
.pn +1
lie some few minutes’ walk farther around the shoulder
of the mountain.

Nothing could well be more impressive than the
prospect that opened out as we came down to the
famous site itself. No outlet of the great vale was to
be seen from this point, for the gorge winds about
among the crags which rise high above and drop far
below to the base of the rocky glen. Human habitation
there is none. Kastri was now out of sight behind.
On the roadside and in the more gradual slopes of the
ravine below one might find olive trees, and here and
there a plane. Beyond, through the mysterious windings
of the defile runs the road to Arakhova. It was
on this spot that Apollo had his most famous shrine,
the abode of his accredited priestesses gifted with prophecy;
and no fitter habitation for the oracle could
have been found by the worshipers of old time than
this gloomy mountain glen where nature conspires
with herself to overawe mankind by her grandeur.

The legend has it that Apollo, born as all the world
knows in far-off Delos, transferred his chief seat to
Delphi just after his feat of slaying the Python. He is
said to have followed that exploit by leaping into the
sea, where he assumed the form of a huge dolphin
(delphis), and in this guise he directed the course of
a passing Cretan ship to the landing place at Itea, or
Crissa. There, suddenly resuming his proper shape of
.bn 207.png
.pn +1
a beautiful youth he led the wondering crew of the
vessel up from the shore to the present site of Delphi,
proclaimed himself the god, and persuaded the sailors
to remain there, build a temple and become his priests,
calling the spot “Delphi.” Tradition also asks us to
believe that there then existed on the spot a cavern,
from which issued vapors having a peculiar effect on
the human mind, producing in those who breathed
them a stupor in which the victim raved, uttering
words which were supposed to be prophetic. Over this
cave, if it existed, the temple was erected; and therein
the priestess, seated on a tripod where she might inhale
the vapors, gave out her answers to suppliants,
which answers the corps of priests later rendered into
hexameter verses having the semblance of sense, but
generally so ambiguous as to admit of more than one
interpretation. All sorts of tales are told of the effect
of the mephitic gas on the pythoness—how she would
writhe in uncontrollable fury, how her hair would rise
on her head as she poured forth her unintelligible gibberish,
and so forth; stories well calculated to impress
a credulous race “much given to religion” as St. Paul
so sagely observed. If there ever was any such cavern
at all, it has disappeared, possibly filled with the débris
of the ruins or closed by earthquake. Perhaps there
never was any cave at all. In any event the wonders
of the Delphic oracle were undoubtedly explicable,
.bn 208.png
.pn +1
as such phenomena nearly always are, by perfectly
natural facts. It has been pointed out that the corps
of priests, visited continually as they were by people
from all parts of the ancient world, were probably the
best informed set of men on earth, and the sum total
of their knowledge thus gleaned so far surpassed that
of the ordinary mortal and so far exceeded the average
comprehension that what was perfectly natural was
easily made to appear miraculous. To the already awed
suppliant, predisposed to belief and impressed by the
wonderful natural surroundings of the place, it was
not hard to pass off this world-wide information as inspired
truth. Nor was it a long step from this, especially
for clever men such as the priests seem to have been,
to begin forecasting future events by basing shrewd
guesses on data already in hand—these guesses being
received with full faith by the worshiper as god-given
prophecy. As an added safeguard the priests often
handed down their predictions in ambiguous form, as,
for example, in the famous answer sent to Cr[oe]sus,
when he asked if he should venture an expedition
against Cyrus—“If Cr[oe]sus shall attack Cyrus, he
will destroy a great empire.” Such answers were of
course agreeable to the suppliant, for they admitted
of flattering interpretation; and it was only after trial
that Cr[oe]sus discovered that the “great empire” he
was fated to destroy was his own. At other times the
.bn 209.png
.pn +1
.bn 210.png
.bn 211.png
guesses, not in ambiguous form, went sadly astray—as
in the case where the Pythian, after balancing probabilities
and doubtless assuming that the gods were
always on the side of the heaviest battalions, advised
the Athenians not to hope to conquer the invading
Persians. This erroneous estimate was the natural one
for informed persons to make,—and it is highly probable
that it was influenced in part by presents from
the Persian king, for such corruption of the oracle was
by no means unknown. In fact it led to the ultimate
discrediting of the oracle, and it was not long before
the shrine ceased to be revered as a fountain of good
advice. Nevertheless for many hundred years it was
held in unparalleled veneration by the whole ancient
world. Pilgrims came and went. Cities and states
maintained rich treasuries there, on which was founded
a considerable banking system. Games in honor of
Pythian Apollo were celebrated in the stadium which
is still to be seen high up on the mountain-side above
the extensive ruins of the sacred precinct. Temple
after temple arose about the great main shrine of the
god. Even distant Cnidus erected a treasury, and
victorious powers set up trophy after trophy there for
battles won by land or sea—the politeness of the
time preventing the mention of any Hellenic victim
by name.

.il id=i209 fn=i_209.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca THE VALE OF DELPHI

All these remains have been patiently uncovered
.bn 212.png
.pn +1
and laboriously identified and labeled, with the assistance
of the voluminous writings of that patron saint
of travelers, Pausanias. The work was done under the
direction of the erudite French school, and the visitor
of to-day, provided with the plan in his guide-book
and aided by the numerous guide-posts erected on
the spot, will find his way about with much ease. One
of the buildings, the “treasury of the Athenians,” a
small structure about the size of the Niké Apteros
temple, is being “restored” by the excavators, but
with rather doubtful success. Aside from this one instance,
the ruins are mainly reconstructible only in the
imagination from the visible ground-plans and from
the fragments lying all about. In the museum close by,
however, some fractional restorations indoors serve
to give a very excellent idea of the appearance of at
least two of the ancient buildings.

Space and the intended scope of this narrative alike
forbid anything like a detailed discussion of the numerous
ruins that line the zigzag course of the old
“sacred way.” The visitor, thanks to the ability of
the French school, is left in no doubt as to the identity
of the buildings, and the wayfaring man, though no
archæologist, need not err. One may remark in passing,
however, the curious polygonal wall of curved
stones still standing along a portion of the way and
still bearing the remnant of a colonnade, with an inscription
.bn 213.png
.pn +1
indicating that once a trophy was set up here
by the Athenians,—possibly the beaks of conquered
ships. Of course the centre and soul of the whole precinct
was the great temple of Apollo, now absolutely
flat in ruins, but once a grand edifice indeed. The
Alcmæonidæ, who had the contract for building it,
surprised and delighted everybody by building better
than the terms of their agreement demanded, providing
marble ends for the temple and pedimental adornment
as well, when the letter of the contract would
have been satisfied with native stone. Thus shrewdly
did a family that was in temporary disfavor at Athens
win its way back to esteem!

However easy it may be to explain with some
plausibility the ordinary feats of the oracle at Delphi
as accomplished by purely natural means, there was
an occasional <lang=fr><em>tour de force</em></lang> that even to-day would
pass for miraculous—supposing that there be any
truth in the stories as originally told. The most
notable instance was one in which Cr[oe]sus figured.
That wealthy monarch was extremely partial to oracles,
and generally consulted them before any considerable
undertaking. On the occasion in question
he contemplated an expedition against Cyrus—the
same which he eventually undertook because of the
enigmatic answer before referred to—and made extraordinary
preparations to see that the advice given
.bn 214.png
.pn +1
him was trustworthy. For Cr[oe]sus, with all his credulity,
was inclined to be canny, and proposed to test
the powers of the more famous oracular shrines by
a little experiment. So he sent different persons, according
to Herodotus, to the various oracles in
Greece and even in Libya, "some to Phocis, some to
Dodona, others to Amphiaraus and Trophonius, and
others to Branchidæ of Milesia, and still others to
Ammon in Libya. He sent them in different ways,
desiring to make trial of what the oracle knew, in
order that, if they should be found to know the truth,
he might send a second time to inquire whether he
should venture to make war on the Persians. He laid
upon them the following orders: That, computing the
days from the time of their departure from Sardis,
they should consult the oracles on the hundredth
day by asking what Cr[oe]sus, the son of Alyattes, was
then doing. They were to bring back the answer in
writing. Now what the answers were that were given
by the other oracles is mentioned by none; but no
sooner had the Lydian ambassadors entered the
temple at Delphi and asked the question than the
Pythian spoke thus, in hexameter verse: 'I know
the number of the sands and the measure of the sea;
I understand the dumb and hear him that does not
speak; the savor of the hard-shelled tortoise boiled
in brass with the flesh of lambs strikes on my senses;
.bn 215.png
.pn +1
brass is laid beneath it and brass is put over it.' Now
of all the answers opened by Cr[oe]sus none pleased him
but only this. And when he had heard the answer from
Delphi he adored it and approved it, and was convinced
that the pythoness of Delphi was a real oracle
because she alone had interpreted what he had done.
For when he sent out his messengers to the several
oracles, watching for the appointed day, he had recourse
to the following contrivance, having thought
of what it was impossible to discover or guess at. He
cut up a tortoise and a lamb and boiled them himself
together in a brazen caldron, and laid over it a
cover of brass."[1]

.fn 1
Herodotus, Book I, sections 46-48.
.fn-

.fm rend=t lz=t

Thus, on one occasion, the oracle is supposed to
have performed a feat of what we should now set
down as telepathy, and which, if it really happened,
would be explicable in no other way. It sufficed to
establish Delphi as a shrine to be revered, in the mind
of Cr[oe]sus, and to propitiate the god he sent magnificent
gifts. And as these may serve to give some
idea of the vast riches of the spot in bygone ages, it
may be well to relate here what Cr[oe]sus is supposed
to have sent. Herodotus relates that he made a prodigious
sacrifice, in the flames of which he melted
down an incredible amount of gold and silver. "Out
of the metal thus melted down he cast half-bricks, of
.bn 216.png
.pn +1
which the longest was six palms in length, the shortest
three; and in thickness, each was one palm.
Their number was one hundred and seventeen. Four
of these, of pure gold, weighed each two talents
and a half. The other bricks, of pale gold, weighed
two talents each. He made also the figure of a lion,
of fine gold, weighing ten talents. This lion, when
the temple at Delphi was burned down, fell from its
pedestal of half-bricks, for it was placed upon them.
It now lies in the treasury of the Corinthians, weighing
only six talents and a half,—for three talents and
a half were melted from it in the fire. Cr[oe]sus, having
finished these things, sent them to Delphi, and
with them the following: two large bowls, one of gold
and one of silver. The golden one was placed on the
right as one enters the temple, and that of silver
on the left; but they were removed when the temple
was burning, and the gold bowl was set in the
treasury of the Clazomenæ; while the silver one,
which contains six hundred amphorae, lies in a corner
of the Propylæa, and is used for mixing wine on
the Theophanian festival. The Delians said it was the
work of Theodorus the Samian, which was probably
true, for it was no common work. He sent also four
casks of silver, which also stand in the Corinthian
treasury; and he dedicated two lustral vases, one
of gold and the other of silver. The Spartans claim
.bn 217.png
.pn +1
that the golden one was their offering, for it bears an
inscription, ‘From the Lacedæmonians;’ but this
is wrong, for Cr[oe]sus gave it. He sent many other
offerings, among them some round silver covers, and
also a golden statue of a woman, three cubits high,
which the Delphians say is the image of Cr[oe]sus’s
baking-woman. And to all these things he added
the necklaces and girdles of his wife."[2]

Such is the account given by Herodotus of the
gifts bestowed by the king regarded as the richest of
all the ancient monarchs. In return for his gifts he
got the answer that “if Cr[oe]sus shall make war on
the Persians he will destroy a mighty empire.” Cr[oe]sus
was so delighted at this that he sent more gifts,
“giving to each of the inhabitants of Delphi two
staters of gold.” A further question as to how long
he was destined to rule elicited the response, “When
a mule shall become king of the Medes, then, tender-footed
Lydian, flee over the pebbly Hermus; nor delay,
nor blush to be a coward.” There is even less of
apparent enigma about that statement; yet nevertheless
Cr[oe]sus lived to see the day when a man,
whom he deemed a “mule,” did become ruler of the
Medes, and he likewise saw his own mighty empire
destroyed. The case of Cr[oe]sus is typical in many
ways of the attitude of the ancients toward the oracle,—their
.bn 218.png
.pn +1
belief in it as inspired, and their frequent
attempts to predispose it to favor by gifts of great
magnificence. Not everybody could give such offerings
as Cr[oe]sus, to be sure. But the presents piled
up in the buildings of the sacred precinct must have
been of enormous value, and the contemplation of
them somewhat overpowering. By the way, recent
estimates have been published showing that the
wealth of Cr[oe]sus, measured by our modern standards,
would total only about $11,000,000.

.fn 2
Herodotus, Book I, sections 50-51.
.fn-

.fm rend=t lz=t

Doubtless the awe felt for the spot sufficed in the
main to protect the treasures from theft. When
Xerxes came into Greece and approached the shrine,
the inhabitants proposed that the valuables be buried
in the earth. Ph[oe]bus, speaking through the priestess,
forbade this, however, saying that “he was able
to protect his own.” And, in fact, he proved to be so,
for the approaching host were awed by the sight
of the sacred arms of the god, moved apparently
by superhuman means from their armory within the
temple to the steps outside. And moreover while
the invaders were approaching along the vale below,
where the temple of Athena Pronoia still stands, a
storm broke, and two great crags were dashed from
the overhanging cliffs above, killing some and demoralizing
the rest. A war shout was heard from the
temple of Athena, and the Delians, taking heart at
.bn 219.png
.pn +1
these prodigies, swept down from the hills and destroyed
many of the fleeing Medes.

The most successful attempt to prejudice and corrupt
the oracle seems to have been that of the Alcmæonidæ,
who have been referred to as the builders
of the great temple after its destruction by fire. They
had been driven out of Athens by the Pisistratidæ,
and during their exile they contracted with the Amphictyons
to rebuild the great shrine of Apollo. That
they imported Parian marble for the front of the edifice
when the contract would have been amply satisfied
with Poros stone seems to have been less a disinterested
act than an effort to win the favor of the
god. The Athenians long maintained that the builders
still further persuaded the oracle by gifts of
money to urge upon the Spartans the liberation of
Athens from the tyrants; and in the end the Pisistratidæ
were driven out, in obedience to this mandate,
while the Alcmæonidæ came back in triumph,
as had been their design from the first.

It was rather a relief at last to turn from the bewildering
array of ruins to the museum itself. It is not
large, but it contains some wonderfully interesting
things, and chief of all, no doubt, the bronze figure of
the charioteer. I cannot bring myself to believe that
he surpasses the bronze “ephebus” at Athens, whom
he instantly recalls both from the material and from
.bn 220.png
.pn +1
the treatment of the eyes; but he is wonderful, nevertheless,
as he stands slightly leaning backward as one
might in the act of driving, the remnants of a rein still
visible in one hand. His self-possession and rather
aristocratic mien have often been remarked, and a
careful examination will reveal what is doubtless the
most curious thing about the whole statue—namely,
the little fringe of eye-lashes, which those who cast the
image allowed to protrude around the inlaid eye-ball.
They might easily be overlooked by a casual observer,
but their effect is to add a subtle something that gives
the unusual naturalness to the eyes. One other statue,
a marble replica of an original bronze by Lysippus,
deserves a word of comment also, because it is held by
good authorities to be a better example of the school
of Lysippus than the far better known “Apoxyomenos”
in the Braccio Nuovo at Rome. Each of the figures
is the work of a pupil of Lysippus, but the claim
is made that the copy of a youth at Delphi was doubtless
made by a pupil working under the master’s own
supervision, while the Apoxyomenos was carved after
Lysippus had died. From this it is natural enough to
infer that the Delphi example is a more faithful reproduction
than the Vatican’s familiar figure. In this
museum also is a carved stone which is known as the
“omphalos,” because of its having marked the supposed
navel of the earth. The legend is that Zeus
.bn 221.png
.pn +1
.bn 222.png
.bn 223.png
once let fly two eagles from opposite sides of the world,
bidding them fly toward one another with equal wing.
They met at Delphi, which therefore shares this form
of celebrity with Dodona in Epirus.

.il id=i221 fn=i_221.jpg w=398px ew=60%
.ca CHARIOTEER—DELPHI

Of course we visited the Castalian spring, which
still gushes forth from a cleft in the rock, as it did in
the days when suppliants came thither first of all to
purify themselves. After a long journey one is not
loath to rest beside this ancient fount after washing
and drinking deep of its unfailing supply, for the water
is good and the chance to drink fresh water in Greece
is rare enough to be embraced wherever met. The
cleft from which the spring emerges is truly wonderful.
It is narrow and dark enough for a colossal chimney,
running far back into the bowels of the mountain
heights behind. An old stone trough hewn out of the
side of the cliff was once filled by this spring, but the
flow has now been diverted and it runs off in a babbling
stream over the pebbles. Not the least inspiring
thing at Delphi is to stand here and reflect, as one enjoys
the Castalian water, how many of the great in bygone
ages stood on this very spot and listened to the
same murmur of this brook which goes on forever.

Hard by the spring, under two great plane trees that
we fondly believed were direct descendants of those
planted on the spot by Agamemnon, we sat down to
lunch, a stone khan across the way affording shelter
.bn 224.png
.pn +1
and fire for our coffee. And in the afternoon we rambled
among the ruins below on the grassy slopes of
the lower glen, where are to be seen a ruined gymnasium,
a temple of Athena Pronoia, and a fascinating
circular “tholos,” all of which, though sadly shattered,
still present much beauty of detail. If the site were
devoid of every ruined temple it would still be well
worth a visit, not merely from the importance it once
enjoyed as Apollo’s chief sanctuary, but also for the
grandeur and impressiveness of its setting, so typical
of Greece at her best. Fortunate indeed are those
who may tarry here awhile, now that local lodging
has been robbed of its ancient hardships. To-day,
as in the days of the priests, Delphi is in touch with
the uttermost parts of the earth by means of the telegraph,
the incongruous wires of which accompany
the climber all the way from Itea, so that details of
arrival, departure, or stay may be arranged readily
enough from afar. Long sojourn, however, was not
to be our portion, and we were forced to depart,
though with reluctant steps, down along the rough
side of the mountain, through the vast and silent olive
groves, back into the world of men, to sordid Itea
and our ship.
.bn 225.png
.pb
.pn +1


.h2 id=chap09
CHAPTER IX. MYCENÆ AND THE | PLAIN OF ARGOS

.il fn=i_225.jpg w=400px ew=80%

.sp 2
We journeyed down to Mycenæ from Athens
by train. The moment the railroad leaves
Corinth it branches southward into the Peloponnesus
and into a country which, for legendary interest,
has few equals in the world. Old Corinth herself, mother
of colonies, might claim a preëminent interest
from the purely historical point of view, but she must
forever subordinate herself to the half-mythical charm
that surrounds ruined and desolate Mycenæ, the famous
capital of Atreus and his two celebrated sons,
Menelaus and Agamemnon. As for Corinth herself,
the ancient site has lately been explored under the
auspices of the American school at Athens, and these
excavations, with the steep climb to the isolated and
lofty Acrocorinth, furnish the attractions of the place
to-day. The train runs fairly close to the mountain,
so that even from the car window the fortifications
on its top may be distinguished; but evidently they
.bn 226.png
.pn +1
are Venetian battlements rather than old Greek remains
that are thus visible. As a purely natural phenomenon
the Acrocorinth is immensely impressive,
resembling not a little the Messenian Acropolis at
Ithome. It is a precipitous rock, high enough to deserve
the name of a mountain, and sufficiently isolated
to be a conspicuous feature of the landscape for
miles as you approach Corinth from the sea or from
Athens by train. Circumstances have never permitted
us to ascend it, but the view from the summit over
the tumbling surface of the mountainous Peloponnesus
is said to be indescribably fine, giving the same
effect as that produced by a relief map, while the
prospect northward across the Gulf of Corinth is of
course no less magnificent.

Fate ordained that we should stick to the line of
the railway and proceed directly to the site of Mycenæ,
in which interest had been whetted by the remarkable
display of Mycenæan relics in the museum
at Athens, as well as by the consciousness that we
were about to visit the home of the conqueror of Troy
and of his murderous queen. The train did some
steep climbing as it rounded the shoulder of the
Acrocorinth, and for two hours or so it was a steady
up-grade, winding around long valleys in spacious
curves, the old road from Sparta generally visible
below. At every station the mail car threw off bundles
.bn 227.png
.pn +1
of newspapers, which the crowds gathered on
the platform instantly snatched and purchased with
avidity. The love of news is by no means confined to
Athenians, but has spread to their countrymen; and
every morning the same scene is enacted at every
railroad station in Hellas on the arrival of the Athens
train. At every stop the air was vocal with demands
for this or that morning daily, and each, having secured
the journal of his choice, retired precipitately
to the shade of a near-by tree, while those who could
not read gathered near and heard the news of the
world retailed by the more learned, at second-hand.
The peasant costumes were most interesting, for we
were now in the country of the shepherds, far from
the madding crowd and dressed for work. The dress
of each was substantially the same,—a heavy capote
of wool, if it was at all chilly, the tight drawers gartered
below the knee, the heavy leather wallet on the
front of the belt, the curious tufted shoes whose pompons
at the toe, if large denoted newly bought gear,
or if sheared small meant that the footwear was old.
For the custom is to cut down these odd bits of
adornment as they become frayed, a process that is
repeated until the tuft is entirely removed, when it is
time to buy new shoes.

The landscape was most striking now. The plains
were small and separated from one another by walls of
.bn 228.png
.pn +1
rugged hills, whose barriers were not to be despised
in days when communication was primitive and slow,
and which bore an important part in keeping the several
ancient states so long apart, instead of allowing
them permanently to unite. The neighboring peaks
began to be increasingly redolent of mythology,
chiefly relating to various heroic exploits of Herakles.
Indeed the train stopped at Nemea itself, and the site
of the struggle with the Nemean lion was indicated
to us from afar, while a distant summit was said to be
near the lake where were slain the Stymphalian birds.
Shortly beyond the grade began to drop sharply, until,
rushing through a pass of incredible narrowness,—the
site of a bloody modern battle between the
Greek patriots and the Turks,—the train dashed out
into the broad plain of Argos, once famous as the
breeder of horses. The narrow and rather sterile valleys
hemmed in by bare hills of gray rock gave place
to this immense level tract of sandy soil leading down
to the sea, which gleamed in the distance under the
noonday sun. On either side of the broad expanse of
plain towered the mountain wall, always gray and
bare of trees, though in the old days it was doubtless
well wooded. With the departure of trees came the
drouth, and to-day the rivers of the Argolid are mere
sandy channels, devoid of water save in the season
of the melting mountain snows.
.bn 229.png
.pn +1

The train halted at Phychtia, the station for Mycenæ,
and there we found waiting a respectable carriage
that had seen better days in some city, but
which was now relegated to the task of conveying
the curious to various points in the Argolic plain.
It was there in response to the inevitable telegraph,
which we had the forethought to employ. Otherwise
we should have had to go over to the site of Mycenæ
on foot, a task which the heat of the day rather
than the distance would have made arduous. Mycenæ
to-day is absolutely deserted and desolate, lying perhaps
two miles eastward from the railway, on the
spurs of two imposing mountain peaks. Toward this
point the road rises steadily, and before long we had
passed through a starveling village of peasant huts
and came suddenly upon a two-story structure bearing
the portentous sign, “Grand Hotel of Helen and
Menelaus!” To outward view it was in keeping with
the rest of the hamlet, which was chiefly remarkable
for its children and dogs. It proved, on closer inspection,
to be a queer little inn, boasting a few sleeping
rooms in its upper story, to be reached only by
an outside stairway. On the ground floor—which
was a ground floor in the most literal sense of that
overworked expression—was a broad room, used
partly as a dining-room and partly as a store and
office. The actual eating-place was separated from
.bn 230.png
.pn +1
the remainder of the apartment by a grill-work of
laths, or pickets, with a wicket gate, through which
not only the guests and the proprietor, but sundry
dogs, chickens, and cats passed from the main hall
to the table. This, being the only available hotel in
the region, and bearing so resounding and sonorous
a title, proved irresistible. Lunch, consisting of very
excellent broiled chickens, and sundry modest concomitants,
was promptly served by a tall slip of a
girl, the daughter of the house, and probably named
Helen, too. During the meal various hens, perhaps
the ancestors of our <lang=fr><em>pièces de résistance</em></lang>, clucked contentedly
in and out, and a mournful hound sneaked
repeatedly through the gate, only to be as repeatedly
thrust into the outer darkness of the office by the
cook and waitress. In former times, before the “Grand
Hotel of Helen and Menelaus” sprang into being,
it was necessary to carry one’s food and eat it under
the shadow of the famous Lion Gate on the site of
the old town itself—a place replete with thrills.
Nevertheless it seems well that the vicinity now has
a place of public entertainment, and doubly well that
it has been so sonorously named.

It may not have been more than half a mile farther
to the ruins, but it was up hill and very warm work
reaching them. On either side of the high road, where
presumably once lay the real every-day city of Mycenæ,
.bn 231.png
.pn +1
there was little in the way of remains to be seen,
save for the remarkable avenue leading to the subterranean
tomb, or treasury, of which it will be best
to speak somewhat later. The slopes were covered
with grass, and here and there a trace of very old
“Cyclopean” masonry was all that remained to bear
witness to the previous existence of a city wall, or
possibly an ancient highway with a primitive arch-bridge
spanning a gully. Back over the plain the view
was expansive. The several strongholds of Agamemnon’s
kingdom were all in sight,—Mycenæ, Nauplia,
Argos, and Tiryns,—at the corners of the great plain,
which one might ride all around in a day; so that
from his chief stronghold on the height at Mycenæ
Agamemnon might well claim to be monarch of all he
surveyed. Behind the valley, the twin peaks at whose
base the stronghold lay rose abruptly, bearing no trace
of the forests of oak that once covered them; and on
a rocky foothill stood the acropolis of the city, admirably
fitted by nature for defense. It was on this high
ground that the ruins were found, and the visitor is
informed that this was the citadel rather than the
main town—the place to which the beleaguered inhabitants
might flock for safety in time of war, and
in which Atreus and his line had their palace. It was
here that Dr. Schliemann conducted his remarkable
researches, of which we shall have much to say. It is
.bn 232.png
.pn +1
a remarkable fact that the events of the past twenty
years or so have given a most astonishing insight into
the dimness of the so-called “heroic” age—the age
that long after was sung by Homer—so that it is
actually possible now to say that we know more of
the daily life and conditions of the time of Troy’s
besiegers than we do of the time of Homer himself,
and more about the heroes than about those who sang
their exploits. Knowledge of the more remote periods
seems to vary directly with the distance. The dark
ages, as has been sagely remarked, were too dark
altogether to admit men to read the story told by the
ancient monuments such as survived at Mycenæ, and
it is only lately that light has increased sufficiently
to enable them to be understood with such clearness
that the dead past has suddenly seemed to live
again. From the remains at Mycenæ the savants
have unearthed the houses, walls, palaces, reservoirs,
ornaments, weapons, and daily utensils of the pre-Homeric
age. Bones and other relics cast aside in
rubbish heaps give an idea of the daily food of the
people. The tombs have revealed how they were
buried at death, and have yielded a wealth of gold
ornaments showing a marvelous skill in working
metals.

This upper city of Mycenæ was built on a rock, which
we soon discovered to be separated from the rest of
.bn 233.png
.pn +1
the mountain by ravines, leaving the sides very steep
and smooth, so that on nearly every hand the place
was inaccessible. The gorges toward the mountains
were natural moats, and wide enough to prevent
assault or even the effective hurling of missiles from
above into the citadel. The stronghold, however, was
vastly strengthened by artificial construction and
proved to be walled entirely about, the fortress being
especially strong on the more exposed portions, and
most especially at the main gate, where the enormous
blocks of stone and the tremendous thickness of the
wall were most in evidence. The road winds up the last
steep ascent until it becomes a mere narrow driveway,
scarcely wide enough for more than a single chariot,
and right ahead appears suddenly the famed Lion
Gate, flanked on one hand by a formidable wall facing
the side of the native rock, and on the other by a projecting
bastion of almost incredible thickness. The
stones are of remarkable size, hewn to a sort of rough
regularity by the Cyclopean builders, and the wonder
is that, in so rude and primitive an age, men were able
to handle such great blocks with such skill. No wonder
the tale gained currency that it was the work of
the Cyclopes, imported from abroad—and indeed
the tale is not without its abiding plausibility, since
there are evidences enough in scattered Ph[oe]nician
sites elsewhere to warrant the assumption that the
.bn 234.png
.pn +1
builders of these numerous fortresses in Argolis did
come from over seas.

Of all the ruins at Mycenæ the “gate of the lions”
is unquestionably the most impressive. It spans the
end of the long and narrow vestibule between the walls
of rock, its jambs made of huge upright stones that
even to-day show the slots cut for hinges and the deep
holes into which were shot the ancient bolts. Over the
top is another massive single stone, forming the lintel.
It is a peculiarity of the Cyclopean doorways at Mycenæ
that the weight on the centre of the lintel is
almost invariably lightened by leaving a triangular
aperture in the stonework above, and in the main gate
the immense blocks of the wall were so disposed as to
leave such an opening. Even the massive lintel of this
broad gate would probably have failed to support the
pressure of the walls had not some such expedient
been devised. As it is, the light stone slab that was
used to fill the triangular opening is still in place, and
it is what gives the name to the gateway, from the
rudely sculptured lions that grace it. These two lions,
minus their heads, are sitting facing each other—“heraldically
opposed,” as the phrase is—each with
his fore feet resting on the base of an altar bearing a
sculptured column, which marks the centre of the slab.
The column is represented as larger at the top than
at the base, a peculiarity of the stone columns of the
.bn 235.png
.pn +1
Mycenæan age, and recalling the fact that the first
stone pillars were faithful copies of the sharpened
stakes that had been used as supports in a still earlier
day. The missing heads of the lions were doubtless
of metal,—bronze, perhaps,—and were placed so as
to seem to be gazing down the road. They are gone,
nobody knows whither. It used to be stated that this
quaint bas-relief was the “oldest sculpture in Europe,”
but this is another of the comfortable delusions that
modern science has destroyed. Nobody, however, can
deny that the Gate of the Lions is vastly impressive, or
that it is so old that we may, without serious error,
feel that we are looking on something that Agamemnon
himself perhaps saw over his shoulder as he set
out for Troy. Just inside the gate we found a narrow
opening in the stones, leading to a sort of subterranean
chamber, presumably for the sentry. The impression
produced by the gate and its massive flanking walls
is that of absolute impregnability, and it was easy
enough to fancy the Argive javelin-men thronging the
bastion above and pouring death and destruction
down upon the exposed right hands of the invaders
jammed tight in the constricted vestibule below.

Inside the gate, the old market-place opens out, and
it was here that were discovered the tombs from which
came the numerous relics seen at Athens. The market
place is still encircled by a curious elliptical structure,
.bn 236.png
.pn +1
which is in effect a double ring of flat stones, with slabs
laid flat across the top, forming what looks like a sort
of oval bench all around the inclosure. We were asked
to believe that these actually were seats to be occupied
by the old men and councilors of the city; but if that
is the truth, there were indeed giants in the land in
those times. Other authorities conjecture that it was
a retaining wall for a sort of mound heaped up over
the graves within—an hypothesis which it seems
almost as hard to adopt. Whatever the purpose of
this remarkable circle of stone slabs, it is hardly to
be doubted that it did once inclose an “agora,” and
it was within this space that Schliemann sunk his
shafts and brought up so much that was wonderful
from the tombs below. Tombs in so central a spot,
and filled with such a plethora of gold, certainly might
well be deemed to have been the last resting-place of
royalty, and it is agreeable to believe that they were
sovereigns of the Agamemnonian line, if the “prince
of men” himself be not one of them. It is the fashion to
aver that Schliemann was too ready to jump at conclusions
prompted by his own fond hopes and preconceived
ideas, and to make little of his claim that
he had unearthed the grave of the famous warrior
who overcame Priam’s city; and perhaps this is
justified. But one cannot forget that the old legend
insisted that Atreus, Agamemnon, Cassandra, Electra,
.bn 237.png
.pn +1
.bn 238.png
.bn 239.png
Eurymedon, and several others were buried in the
market place of Mycenæ,—which was doubtless what
prompted the excavation at this point; excavations
which moreover proved to be so prolific of royal reward.

.il id=i237 fn=i_237.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca AGORA—MYCENÆ

On the heights above, where it was far too steep for
chariots to follow, there is a pathway direct to the
royal palace itself, which it will doubtless do no harm
to call Agamemnon’s. Of course it is practically flat
to-day, with little more than traces of the foundation,
save for a bit of pavement here and there, or a fragment
of wall on which possibly one may detect a
faint surviving touch of fresco. All around the citadel
below are traces of other habitations, so congested
as to preclude any application of Homer’s epithet,
“Mycenæ of the broad streets,” to this particular
section of the city. All around the summit ran the
wall, even at points where it would seem no wall was
necessary. As we explored the site the guide kept
gathering handfuls of herbage that grew all about,
and speedily led us to a curious Cyclopean “arch,”
made by allowing two sloping stones to fall toward
each other at the top of an approaching row of wall-blocks,
which it developed was the entrance to a
subterranean gallery that led down to the reservoir
of the fort. It was a dark and tortuous place, and its
descent to the bowels of the hill was quite abrupt, so
.bn 240.png
.pn +1
that we did not venture very far, but allowed the
guide to creep gingerly down until he was far below;
whereupon he set fire to the grasses he had been
accumulating and lighted up this interior gallery for
us. The walls of this passageway had been polished
smooth for centuries by passing goats which had
rubbed against the stone, and it gleamed and glittered
in the firelight, revealing a long tunnel leading
downward and out of sight to a cavern far below,
where was once stored the water supply conveyed
thither from a spring north of the citadel. Stones
cast down the tunnel reverberated for a long distance
along its slippery floor, and at last apparently came
against a final obstacle with a crash. Then came the
upward rush of smoke from the impromptu torch,
and we were forced hastily to scramble out into the
open air. We returned later, however, for a passing
shower swept down from the mountains and threatened
a drenching, which rendered the shelter of the
ancient aqueduct welcome indeed. It was soon over,
however, and afforded us a chance to sit on the topmost
rock of the acropolis, looking down over what
was once the most important of the Greek kingdoms,
from the mountains on the north and west down to
the sea—a pleasing sight, which was cut short only
by the reflection that we had still to visit the so-called
“treasury of Atreus” beside the road below.
.bn 241.png
.pn +1

This is one more of the odd structures of the place
over which controversy has raged long and fiercely,
the problem being whether or not it was a tomb. There
are a number of these underground chambers near
by, but the most celebrated one just mentioned is the
common type and is completely excavated so that it
is easily to be explored. The approach is by a long
cut in the hillside, walled on both sides with well-hewn
stone, the avenue terminating only when a sufficient
depth had been reached to excavate a lofty subterranean
chamber. A tall and narrow door stands at
the end of this curious lane, placed against the hill, its
lintel made of a noticeably massive flat stone, with
the inevitable triangular opening over it; but in this
case the block which presumably once closed it is
gone, and nobody knows whether it, like its mate
at the main gateway, bore sculptured lions or not.
Within, the tomb is shaped like an old-fashioned straw
beehive, lined throughout with stone, which bears
marks indicating that it in turn was once faced
with bronze plates. It is a huge place, in which the
voice echoes strangely, and it is lighted only from the
door and its triangular opening above. Just off the
northern side is a smaller chamber, where light is only
to be had by lighting some more of the dry grasses
gathered without. Those who adhere to the idea that
this was a tomb maintain that the real sepulchre was
.bn 242.png
.pn +1
in the smaller adjoining chamber. Respectable authority
exists, however, for saying that these chambers
were not tombs at all, but treasuries, and a vast
amount of controversial literature exists on the subject,
over which one may pore at his leisure if he desires.
If it was a tomb, it is obvious from the other burial-place
discovered on the acropolis above that there
must have been at least two different styles of burial,—and
the tombs above appear to have contained
people of consequence, such as might be expected to
have as honorable and imposing sepulchres as there
were. No bones were found in the “treasury of
Atreus,” and plenty of bones were found elsewhere, a
fact which might seem significant and indeed conclusive
if it were not known that bones had been found
in beehive tombs like this elsewhere in Greece, notably
near Menidi, where six skeletons were discovered in
a similar structure. Of course it might be true that
the bodies found on the heights at Mycenæ and taken
to Athens belonged to an entirely different epoch from
those that were buried in the beehive tombs, and that
the beehive tombs might easily have been looted long
before the existence of any such booty as the marketplace
graves yielded had even been suspected. The
layman is therefore left to suit himself, whether he will
call this underground chamber a tomb or a treasury,
and devote his time to admiring the ingenuity with
.bn 243.png
.pn +1
which the stone lining of the place was built, each tier
of stone slightly projecting above its lower fellow so
as at last to converge at the top in a point. The perfection
of this subterranean treasure-house seems no
less remarkable than the ease with which the ancient
builders managed large masses of rock.

As for the history of Mycenæ, its greatest celebrity
is unquestionably that which it achieved in the time
of the Atreidai, when it was the home of the kings of
Argos. It is supposable that in the palace on the height
Clytæmnestra spent the ten years of her lord’s absence
at Troy, and that therein she murdered him on his return.
The poets have woven a great web of song and
story about the place, largely imaginative and legendary,
to be sure. But the revelations of the later excavations
have revealed that the poets came exceedingly
close to fact in their descriptions of material things.
The benches before the doors, the weapons and shields
of heroes, the cups,—such as Nestor used, for example,—all
these find their counterparts in the recently discovered
actualities and give the more color to the
events that the ancient writers describe. That Mycenæ
was practically abandoned soon after her great
eminence doubtless accounts for the wealth of relics
that the excavators found, and her low estate during
the centuries of neglect curiously but not unnaturally
insured her return to celebrity, with a vast volume
.bn 244.png
.pn +1
of most interesting testimony to her former greatness
quite unimpaired.

From Mycenæ down to the Argive Heræum, the
ancient temple of Hera which was once the chief
shrine of this region, is something like two miles;
but as it was over a rough ground, and as time failed
us, it was found necessary to eliminate this, which to a
strenuous archæologist might doubtless prove highly
interesting as an excursion, and more especially so
to Americans, since it was a site explored by the
American school. It lies off on the hills that border
the plain of Argos on the east, on the direct line
between Mycenæ and Nauplia. Our own road led
us back to Phychtia again and down the centre of
the plain over a very good carriage road, passing
through broad fields of waving grain, in the midst
of which, breast deep, stood occasional horses contentedly
munching without restraint. Almost the only
buildings were isolated stone windmills, some still
in use and others dismantled. At last the road
plunged down a bank and into the sandy bed of
what was doubtless at some time of year a river,—but
at this season, and probably most of the year as
well, a mere broad flat expanse of sand as destitute of
water as the most arid part of Sahara. The railroad,
which had borne us friendly company for a few miles,
was provided with an iron bridge, spanning this
.bn 245.png
.pn +1
broad desert with as much gravity as if it were a
raging torrent, which doubtless it sometimes is. Just
beyond we rattled into Argos.

Argos is a rather large place, but decidedly unattractive
save for its many little gardens. Nearly every
house had them, and from our high seats in the respectable
but superannuated depot carriage we were
able to look into the depths of many such, to marvel
at their riot of roses and greenery. As for the houses,
they were little and not over-clean. The populace,
however, was exceeding friendly, sitting <lang=fr><em>en masse</em></lang>
along the highway, the young women blithely saluting
and the children bombarding us with nosegays
in the hope of leptà. Over Argos towers a steep hill,
known as a “larisa” or acropolis, from the top of
which we could imagine a wonderful view over the
whole kingdom of the Argives and over the mountains
as well, not to mention the Gulf of Nauplia; but
as time was speeding on toward the dusk and we
were still far from Nauplia, we had to be content
with the imagination alone, and with the news that
a little monastery about halfway up the hillside had
been set on fire on the Easter Sunday previous by
too enthusiastic celebrants, who had been over-free
with the inevitable rockets and Roman candles. Also
we had to give short shrift to the vast theatre, hewn
out of the solid rock at the foot of the larisa, and said
.bn 246.png
.pn +1
to be one of the largest in Greece. It was sadly grass-grown,
however, and infinitely less attractive than
the smallest at Athens, not to mention the splendid
playhouse at Epidaurus, which we promised ourselves
for the morrow. So we were not reluctant to
swing away from old Argos, with her shouting villagers
and high-walled gardens, and to skirt the
harbor, now close at hand along the dusty Nauplia
road. Across the dancing waters lay Nauplia herself,
a white patch at the foot of a prodigious cliff far
around the bay. By the roadside the country seaward
was marshy, while inland rolled the great plain back
to the gray hills which showed the northern bounds
of the old kingdom, and the lofty rock of Mycenæ
from which the sons of Atreus had looked down over
their broad acres.

It was not long before we were aware that “well-walled”
Tiryns was at hand and that we were not to
close a day already well marked by memories of Cyclopean
masonry without adding thereto the most stupendous
of all, the memory of the great stones piled
up in prehistoric ages at this ancient palace whose
size impressed even that hardened sight-seer Pausanias.
Tiryns proved to be a highly interesting place;
in general appearance much like Mycenæ, but in detail
sufficiently different to keep us exclaiming. It lies
on what is little more than an isolated hillock beside
.bn 247.png
.pn +1
the highroad, and there is nothing imposing about its
height or length. It is a long, low rock, devoid of any
building save for the solid retaining walls that may go
back to the days of Herakles himself.

Whoever built the fortress at Tiryns had seen fit to
make the front door face the plain rather than the
sea; so that it was necessary to leave the road and go
around to the north side of the rock, where a gradual
incline afforded an easy approach to a sort of ramp,
or terrace, defended by walls of the most astonishing
Cyclopean construction. It has been stated that
these great and rudely squared blocks of native rock,
taken from the quarries in the hills northward, were
once bonded together with a rude clay mortar, which
has since entirely disappeared. How such enormous
blocks were quarried in those primitive days, or how
they were handled, is a good deal of a mystery. But
it is claimed that swelled wedges of wet wood were
used to separate the stones from their native bed.

As a ruin, Tiryns is rather difficult to reconstruct in
the imagination from the visible remains. The inclined
ramp and the gateway, remains of which are still
standing, are interesting, but chiefly from the remarkable
size of the stones employed in their construction.
Within, the old palace is in a state of complete and
comprehensive ruin. The lines of the former palace
walls may, however, be seen on the rocky floor, with
.bn 248.png
.pn +1
here and there a trace of an ancient column which has
left its mark on the foundation rock. The outer and
inner courts, megaron, men’s and women’s apartments,
and even the remnants of a “bathroom” are
to be made out, the last-named bearing testimony to
the fact that even in the remote Mycenæan age the disposition
of waste water was carefully looked to—perhaps
more carefully than was the case with the later
Greeks. The Tirynthian feature which eclipses everything
else for interest, however, is the arrangement of
covered galleries of stone on two sides of the palace,
from which at intervals radiate side chambers supposed
to have been used for storage. To-day they recall
rather more the casements of our own old-fashioned
forts. In these galleries the rude foreshadowings
of the arch principle are even more clearly to be seen
than in the underground conduit at Mycenæ which
leads to the sunken reservoir. The sides of the corridor
are vertical for only a short distance, and speedily
begin to slope inward, meeting in an acute angle
overhead. The side chambers are of a similar construction.
Nowhere does it appear that the “Cyclopes,”
if we may call them such, recognized the
principle of the keystone, although they seem to have
come very close to it by accident here and there, and
notably so in the case of the little postern gate which
is to be seen on the side of the citadel toward the
.bn 249.png
.pn +1
modern highroad. As for the galleries, at the present
day they are polished to a glassy smoothness within
by the rubbing of sheltering flocks of sheep and goats.
And they are interesting, not only because of the
massive stones used in building them, but because
the similarity of these corridors and storage chambers
to the arrangements found near old Carthage and
other Ph[oe]nician sites may well argue a common paternity
of architecture, and thus give color to the tale
that the ancient kings of Argos secured artisans of
marvelous skill and strength from abroad. The immense
size of the roughly hewn rocks easily enough
begot the tradition that these alien builders were men
of gigantic stature, called “Cyclopes” from the name
of their king, Cyclops, and supposed to be a race of
Thracian giants; quite distinct, of course, from the
other mythological Cyclopes who served Hephaistos,
or the Sicilian ones who made life a burden for Odysseus
on his wanderings. It seems to be a plausible
opinion now widely held that the foreign masons who
erected the Cyclopean walls in the Argolid were not
from Thrace, but from the southern shores of the
Ægean—perhaps from Lycia. And it is interesting
to know that there are examples of the same sort of
stone work, bearing a similar name, to be found as
far away as Peru.

A somewhat lower hillock just west of the main
.bn 250.png
.pn +1
acropolis—if it deserves that name—is shown as
once being the servants’ quarters. And we descended,
as is the common practice, from the main ruin to
the road, by a rude stone stairway at what was formerly
the back of the castle, to the narrow postern, the
stones of which form an almost perfect, but doubtless
quite accidental, archway; and thence to our carriage,
which speedily whirled us away to Nauplia. The road
thither lay around a placid bay, sweeping in a broad
curve through a landscape which was happily marked
by some very creditable trees. Nauplia herself made
a pleasant picture to the approaching eye, lying on
her well-protected harbor at the base of an imposing
cliff, on the top of which the frowning battlements of
an old Venetian fortress proclaimed the presence of
the modern state prison of Greece. The evening sun
brought out the whiteness of the city against the forbidding
rock behind, while far away westward across
the land-locked bay the evening light touched with a
rosy glow the snowy summit of Cyllene, and brought
out the rugged skyline of the less lofty Peloponnesian
mountains. And it was these that lay before us as our
carriage rattled out of a narrow street and upon the
broad esplanade of the quay at the doors of our hotel.
.bn 251.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=chap10
CHAPTER X. NAUPLIA AND | EPIDAURUS

.il fn=i_251.jpg w=400px ew=80%

.sp 2
We were awakened in the morning by an unaccustomed
sound,—a subdued, rapid, rhythmic
cadence coming up from the esplanade below, accompanied
by the monotonous undertone of a voice saying
something in time with the shuffle of marching
feet, the whole punctuated now and then by a word
of command and less frequently by the unmistakable
clang of arms. The soldiers from the fortress were
having their morning drill. The words of command
sounded strangely natural, although presumably in
Greek, doubtless because military men the world over
fall into the habit of uttering “commands of execution”
in a sort of unintelligible grunt. The counting
of “fours” sounded natural, too, despite the more
marked Hellenism of the numbers. So far from being
a disturbance, the muffled tread of the troops was
rather soporific, which is fortunate, because I have
been in Nauplia on several occasions, and this early
.bn 252.png
.pn +1
drill appears to be the regular thing under the windows
of the <lang=fr>Hôtel des Étrangers</lang>.

The fine open space along the water front makes
a tempting parade-ground, and at other hours an
attractive place for general assemblage, especially at
evening, when the people of Nauplia are to be seen
lounging along the wharves or drinking their coffee
in the shade under the white line of buildings. The
quay curves for a long distance around the bay, and
alongside it are moored many of those curious hollow
schooners that do the coastwise carrying in Greece.
Nauplia appears still to be something of a port, although
infinitely smaller and less busy than either the
Piræus or Patras. Her name, of course, is redolent
of the sea. The beauty of her situation has often
reminded visitors of Naples, but it is only a faint
resemblance to the Italian city. In size she is little
indeed. Scenically, however, her prospects are magnificent,
with their inclusion of a panorama of distant
and imposing peaks towering far away across the inner
bay, so admirably sheltered from the outer seas
by the massive promontory, on the inner shelf of
which the city stands. The town is forced to be narrow
because of the little space between the water and
the great cliff rising precipitously behind. There is
room for little more than three parallel streets, and in
consequence Nauplia is forced to make up in length
.bn 253.png
.pn +1
what she lacks in breadth, and strings along eastward
in a dwindling line of buildings to the point where
the marshy shore curves around toward Tiryns, or
loses herself in the barren country that lies in the gray
valleys that lead inland to Epidaurus.

From the windows of the hotel the most conspicuous
object in the middle distance was a picturesque
islet in the midst of the bay, almost entirely covered
by a yellow fort of diminutive size and Venetian appearance—the
home of an interesting functionary,
though a gruesome one; to wit, the national executioner.
For Nauplia at the present day is above all
else the Sing-Sing of Hellas,—the site of the national
prison, where are confined the principal criminals of
the kingdom, and more especially those who are under
sentence of death. The medieval fortifications on the
summit behind the town have been converted to the
base uses of a jail, and are locally known as the Palamide.
We did not make the ascent to the prison,
although it cannot be a hard climb, but contented
ourselves with purchasing the small wares that are
vended by street dealers in the lower town,—strings
of “conversation beads,” odd knives, and such like
things, which you are assured were made by “brigands”
confined in the prison above. Somehow a string
of beads made by a Greek “brigand” seems a possession
to be coveted.
.bn 254.png
.pn +1

“M. de Nauplia,” if that is the proper way of referring
to the headsman, is a criminal himself. He is
generally, and probably always, one who has been
convicted of murder, but who has accepted the post
of executioner as the price of escaping the extreme
penalty of the law. It is no small price to pay, for
while it saves the neck of the victim it means virtual
exile during the term of the service, and aversion of
all good people forever. We were told that the executioner
at the time was a man who had indulged in a
perfect carnival of homicide—so much so that in almost
any other country he would have been deemed
violently and irreclaimably insane and would have
escaped death by confinement in an asylum. But not
so he. Instead he was sentenced to a richly deserved
beheading by the guillotine, and the penalty was only
commuted by his agreement to assume the unwelcome
task of dispatching others of his kind—an
office carrying with it virtual solitary imprisonment
for a term variously stated as from five to eight years,
and coupled with lasting odium. For all those years
he must live on the executioner’s island, unattended
save by the corporal’s guard of soldiers from the fort,
which guard is changed every day or two, lest the
men be contaminated or corrupted into conniving at
the prisoner’s escape. Others told us that the term
of his sanguinary employ was as long as twenty-five
.bn 255.png
.pn +1
years, but this was far greater than the average story
set as his limit. On liberation, it is said to be the
ordinary practice for these unhappy men to go abroad
and seek spots where their condition is unknown. On
days when death sentences are to be executed the
headsman is conveyed with solemn military pomp to
the Palamide prison above the city, and there in the
prison yard the guillotine is found set up and waiting
for the hand that releases its death-dealing knife.
Whether or not the executioner is paid a stated pittance
in any event, or whether, as we were told by
some, he was paid so much “per head,” we never
found out. Meantime the executioner’s island undeniably
proves one of the features of Nauplia, quaint
to see, and shrouded with a sort of awesome mystery.

The narrow streets of Nauplia furnished diversion
for a short time. They proved to be fairly clean, and
the morning hours revealed a picturesque array of
barbaric colored blankets and rugs hung out of the
upper balconies to air. In one street a dense throng
about an open door drew attention to the morning
session of the municipal court. The men roaming the
streets were mainly in European dress, although here
and there a peasant from the suburbs displayed his
quaint capote and pomponed shoes. It was one of
these native-garbed gentry who approached us with
a grin and stated in excellent English, that sorted
.bn 256.png
.pn +1
strangely with his Hellenic clothes, that he was once
employed in an electric light plant in Cincinnati. Did
he like it? Oh, yes! In fact, he was quite ready to go
back there, where pay was better than in Nauplia.
And with an expressive shrug and comprehensive
gesture that took in the whole broad sweep of the
ancient kingdom of the Atreidai, he added, “Argos is
broke; no good!” One other such deserves mention,
perhaps; one who broke in on a reverential
reverie one day, as we were contemplating a Greek
dance in a classic neighborhood, with some English
that savored of the Bowery brand, informing us that
he had been in America and had traveled all over
that land of plenty in the peregrinations of Barnum’s
circus, adding as a most convincing passport to our
friendship, "I was wit' old man Barnum w'en he
died." Greeks who speak English are plentiful in the
Peloponnesus, and even those who make no other
pretensions to knowledge of the tongue are proud of
being able to say “all right” in response to labored
efforts at pidgin Greek.

.il id=i257 fn=i_257.jpg w=451px ew=80%
.ca WOMAN SPINNING ON THE ROAD TO EPIDAURUS

It did not take long to exhaust the interest of the
city of Nauplia itself, including a survey of the massive
walls that survive from the Middle Ages. And it
was fortunate, too, because we had planned to spend
the day at Epidaurus, which lies eighteen miles or
so away, and was to be reached only by a long and
.bn 257.png
.bn 258.png
.bn 259.png
.pn +1
arduous ride in a carriage—the same highly respectable
old landau in which we had ridden the length of
Agamemnon’s kingdom the day before. Owing to
the grade and the considerable solidity of our party
a third horse was in some miraculous way attached
by ropes to the carriage, the lunch was loaded in the
hood forward, and we rattled away through the narrow
streets toward the open country east of the town—a
country that we soon discovered to be made up
of narrow valleys winding among gray and treeless
hills, whose height increased steadily as the highway
wound along. It was a good highway—the distances
being marked in “stadia,” as the Greek classically
terms his kilometres, and the stadium posts constantly
reminding us that this was an “Odos Ethniké,” or
national road. But we missed sadly the large trees
that are to be seen in the close neighborhood of the
city as we jogged out on the dusty road in the heat
of the increasing April day.

The grade, while not steep, was mainly upward
through the long valleys, making the journey a matter
of more than three hours under the most favorable
of conditions; and the general sameness of the scenery
made it a rather monotonous drive. Of human habitation
there was almost none, for although here and
there one might find a vineyard, the greater part of
the adjacent land is little more than rocky pasture. It
.bn 260.png
.pn +1
soon developed, however, that the modern Greek
shepherd is not afraid to play his pipes at noonday
through any fear of exciting the wrath or jealousy of
Pan, as was once the case; for from the mountain-sides
and from under the scanty shade of isolated
olive trees we kept hearing the plaintive wailing of
the pipes, faint and far away, where some tender of
the flocks was beguiling the time in music. This distant
piping is indescribable. The tone is hardly to be
called shrill, for it is so only in the sense that its pitch
is high like the ordinary human whistling; in quality
it is a soft note, apparently following no particular
tune but wavering up and down, and generally ending
in a minor wail that soon grows pleasant to hear.
Besides, it recalls the idyls of Theocritus, and the pastorals
and bucolics take on a new meaning to anybody
who has heard the music of the shepherd lads
of Greece. Nothing would do but we must buy pipes
and learn to play upon them; so a zealous inquiry
was instituted among the wayfaring men we met, with
a view to securing the same. It was not on this day,
however, but on the next that we finally succeeded
in buying what certainly looked like pipes, but which
turned out to be delusions and snares so far as music
was concerned. They were straight wooden tubes, in
which holes had been burned out at regular intervals
to form “stops” for varying the tone. No reed
.bn 261.png
.pn +1
was inserted in them, and if they were to be played
upon at all it must be by reason of a most accomplished
“lip.” We derived considerable amusement
from them, however, by attempting to reproduce on
them the mellifluous whistling of the natives; but
the nearest approach to awakening any sound at all
which any of our party achieved was so lugubriously
melancholy that he was solemnly enjoined and commanded
never to try it again, on pain of being turned
over to “M. de Nauplia” as the only fitting punishment.
Later we found that the flute-like notes that
we heard floating down over the vales from invisible
shepherds came from a very different sort of wind
instrument—a reed pipe of bamboo not unlike the
American boy’s willow whistle, with six or seven
stops bored out of the tube.

The wayfarers were decidedly the most interesting
sights on the Epidaurus road. Several stadia out of
Nauplia a stalwart man came striding down a hill
from his flocks and took the road to town. He was
dressed in the peasant garb, and across his shoulders
he bore a yoke, from either end of which depended
large yellow sacks containing freshly made cheese,
the moisture draining through the meshes of the cloth
as he walked along to market. These cheeses we had
met with in the little markets at Athens and found
not unpleasant, once one grows accustomed to the
.bn 262.png
.pn +1
goat’s milk flavor and the “freshness;” although it
is probable that a taste for Greek cheese, like that for
the resinated wine, is an acquired one.

Groups of shepherds were encountered now and
then, especially at the few points along the way where
buildings and shade were to be found. They were all
picturesque in their country dress, but more especially
the women, who spin flax as they walk and who probably
ply a trade as old as Hellenic civilization itself
in about the same general way that their most remote
ancestors plied it. These little knots of peasants readily
enough posed for the camera, and were contented
with a penny apiece for drink-money. Not the least
curious feature of these peasant herdsmen was the
type of crook carried—not the large, curved crook
that the ordinary preconceived ideal pictures, but
straight sticks with a queer little narrow quirk in the
end, with which the shepherd catches the agile and
elusive goat or lamb by the hind leg and thus holds
it until he is able to seize the animal in some more
suitable part. These herdsmen proved hospitable
folk, ready enough with offers of milk fresh from the
herd, which is esteemed a delicacy by them, whatever
it might have seemed to our uneducated palates.

.il id=i263 fn=i_263.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca EPIDAURIAN SHEPHERDS

Perhaps halfway out to Epidaurus one passes another
remnant of the most remote time—a lofty
fortification on a deserted hill. It is of polygonal
.bn 263.png
.bn 264.png
.bn 265.png
.pn +1
masonry—that is, of angular stones fitted together
without mortar, instead of being squared after the
manner of the Cyclopes. Hard by, spanning a ravine
which has been worn by centuries of winter torrents,
there was a Cyclopean bridge, made of huge rocks
so arranged as to form an enduring arch, and on this
once ran no doubt the great highway from Epidaurus
to the plain of Argos.

It was long after the noontide hour when the gray
theatre of Epidaurus, a mere splash of stone in the
distant side of a green hill, came in sight, lying a mile
or so away across a level field, in which lay scattered
the remnants of what was once the most celebrated
hospital in the world. For Epidaurus boasted herself
to be the birthplace of Æsculapius,—or, as we are on
Greek soil, Asklepios,—and held his memory in deep
reverence forever after by erecting on the site a vast
establishment such as to-day we might call a “sanitarium.”
After the heat and dust of the ride it was
pleasant to stretch out in the shade of the scanty local
trees, on the fragrant grass of the rising ground near
the theatre, and look back down the long valley, with
its distant blue mountains framed in a vista of massive
gray hills. The nearer ones were impressive in
their height, but absolutely denuded of vegetation,
like the hills around Attica; and it was these mountains
that formed the sole scenery for the background
.bn 266.png
.pn +1
of plays produced in the great theatre close by. The
theatre, of course, is the great and central attraction
at Epidaurus to-day, for it is in splendid preservation
while all else is a confusing mass of flat ruins.
No ancient theatre is better preserved, or can surpass
this one for general grace of lines or perfection of
acoustic properties. Many were doubtless larger, but
among all the old Greek theatres Epidaurus best preserves
to the modern eye the playhouse of the ancients,
circular orchestra and all. The acoustics anybody
may test easily enough. We disposed ourselves
over the theatre in various positions, high and low,
along the half-a-hundred tiers of seats, and listened
to an oration dealing with the points of interest in the
theatre’s construction delivered in a very ordinary
tone, from the centre of the orchestra, but audible in
the remotest tier.

The circle of the orchestra is not paved, as had
been the case with the theatres seen at Athens, but is
a green lawn, in the centre of which a stone dot reveals
the site of the ancient altar. It was stated that
the circle is not actually as perfect as it looks, being
shorter in one set of radii by something like two feet.
But to all appearance it is absolutely round, and is
easily the most beautiful type of the circular orchestra
in existence to-day, if indeed it is not the only perfect
one. The immense amphitheatre surrounding it was
.bn 267.png
.pn +1
evidently largely a natural one, which a little artificial
stonework easily made complete; and it is so perfect
to-day that a very little labor would make it entirely
possible to give a play there now before a vast audience.
Some such plan was actually talked of a few
years ago, but abandoned,—no doubt, because of the
apparent difficulty of getting any very considerable
company of auditors to the spot, or of housing them
while there. It would be necessary, also, to rebuild
the proskenion, the foundations of which are still to
be seen behind the orchestra, and one may tremble
to think of what might happen in the process should
the advocates of the stage theory and their opponents
fail to agree better than they have hitherto done.

From the inspection of the theatre and the enjoyment
of the view across the plain to the rugged hills
our dragoman called us to lunch, which was spread
in a little rustic pergola below. He had thoughtfully
provided fresh mullets, caught that morning off the
Nauplia quay, and had cooked them in the little house
occupied by the local <lang=fr><em>custode</em></lang>. Hunger, however, was
far less a matter of concern than thirst. We had been
warned not to drink of the waters of the sacred well
of Asklepios in the field below, and as there was no
spring vouched for with that certitude that had attended
the waters of Castalia, we were thrown back,
as usual, on the bottled product of the island of Andros—a
.bn 268.png
.pn +1
water which is not only intrinsically pure
and excellent, but well worth the price of admission
from the quaint English on its label. In rendering
their panegyric on the springs of Andros into the
English tongue, the translators have declared that it
“is the equal of its superior mineral waters of Europe.”

The sacred well of the god, however, proved later
in the day that it had not lost all its virtues even under
the assaults of the modern germ theory; for while
we were wandering through the maze of ruins in the
strong heat of the early afternoon one of our company
was decidedly inconvenienced by an ordinary "nose-bleed"—which
prompt applications of the water,
drawn up in an incongruous tin pail, instantly stopped.
And thus did we add what is probably the latest cure,
and the only one for some centuries, worked by the
once celebrated institution patronized by the native
divinity. It is related that the god was born on the
hillside just east of the meadow, but this story is sadly
in conflict with other traditions. It seems that Asklepios
was not originally a divinity, but a mere human,
as he seems to be in the Homeric poems. His
deification came later, as not infrequently happened
in ancient times, and with it came a network of
legends ascribing a godlike paternity to him and assigning
no less a sire than Apollo. Indeed, it is stated
.bn 269.png
.bn 270.png
.bn 271.png
.pn +1
by some authorities that the worship of Asklepios did
not originate in Epidaurus at all, but in Thessaly; and
that the cult was a transplanted one in its chief site
in the Peloponnesus, brought there by Thessalian
adventurers.

.il id=i269 fn=i_269.jpg w=464px ew=85%
.ca THEATRE AT EPIDAURUS

All over the meadow below the great theatre are
scattered the remains of the ancient establishment.
The ceremony of healing at Epidaurus seems to have
been in large part a faith-cure arrangement, although
not entirely so; for there is reason to believe that, as
at Delphi, there was more or less natural common
sense employed in the miracle-working, and that the
priests of the healing art actually acquired not a little
primitive skill in medicine. It was a skill, however,
which was attended by more or less mummery and
circumstance, useful for impressing the mind of the
patient; but this is not even to-day entirely absent
from the practice of medicine with its “placebos” and
“therapeutic suggestion” elements. The custom of
sending the patient to rest in a loggia with others,
where he might expect a nocturnal visitation of the
god himself, has been referred to in these pages before,
and survives even to-day in the island of Tenos at the
eve of the Annunciation. The tales of marvelous cures
at Epidaurus were doubtless as common and as well
authenticated as the similar modern stories at Lourdes
and Ste. Anne de Beaupré.
.bn 272.png
.pn +1

In addition to the actual apartments devoted to the
sleeping patients, which were but a small part of the
sanitarium’s equipment, there was the inevitable great
temple of the god himself,—a large gymnasium suggestive
of the faith the doctors placed in bodily exercise
as a remedy, and a large building said to be
the first example of a hospital ward, beside numerous
incidental buildings devoted to lodgment. Satirical
commentators have called attention to the presence
of shrines to the honor of Aphrodite and Dionysus as
bearing enduring witness to the part that devotion to
those divinities seems to have been thought to bear
in afflicting the human race. The presence of the
magnificent theatre and the existence of a commodious
stadium testify that life at Epidaurus was not
without its diversions to relieve the tedium of the medical
treatment. And in its day it must have been a
large and beautiful agglomeration of buildings. To-day
it is as much of a maze as the ruins at Delphi or
at Olympia. The non-archæological visitor will probably
find his greatest interest in the theatre and in
the curious circular "tholos"—a remarkable building,
the purpose of which is not clear, made of a number
of concentric rings of stone which once bore colonnades.
It stands in the midst of the great precinct,
and in its ruined state it resembles nothing so much
as the once celebrated “pigs-in-clover” puzzle. In the
.bn 273.png
.pn +1
little museum on the knoll above, a very successful
attempt has been made to give an idea of this beautiful
temple by a partial restoration. Being indoors, it
can give no idea either of the diameter or height of
the original; but the inclusion of fragments of architrave
and columns serve to convey an impression of
the general beauty of the structure, as we had seen to
be the case with similar fractional restorations at Delphi.
The extensive ruins in the precinct itself do not
lend themselves to non-technical description. They
are almost entirely flat, and the ground plans serve
to identify most of the buildings, without giving any
very good idea of their appearance when complete.
Pavements still remain intact in some of the rooms,
and altar bases and exedral seats lie all about in apparent
confusion. Nevertheless the discoveries have
been plotted and identified with practical completeness,
and it is easy enough with the aid of the plans
to pass through the precinct and get a very good idea
of the manifold buildings which once went to make
up what must have been a populous and attractive
resort for the sick. Whatever may be thought of the
religious aspects of the worship of Asklepios, it is
evident that the regimen prescribed by the cult
at Epidaurus, with its regard for pure mountain air
and healthful bodily exercise, not to mention welcome
diversion and amusement for the mind, was furthered
.bn 274.png
.pn +1
by ample facilities in the way of equipment of this
world-famous hospital.

When we were there the Greek School of Archæology
was engaged in digging near the great temple
of the god, the foundations of which have now been
completely explored to a considerable depth, and it
was interesting to see the primitive way in which the
excavation was being carried on. Men with curiously
shaped picks and shovels were loosening the earth
and tossing it into baskets of wicker stuff, which in
turn were borne on the heads of women to a distance
and there dumped. It was slow work, and apparently
nothing very exciting was discovered. Certainly nothing
was unearthed while we were watching this
laborious toil.
.bn 275.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=chap11
CHAPTER XI. IN ARCADIA

.il fn=i_275.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
With the benison of the landlord, who promised
to send our luncheon over to the station “in
a little boy,” we departed from Nauplia on a train
toward noontime, headed for the interior of the Peloponnesus
by way of Arcadia. The journey that we
had mapped out for ourselves was somewhat off the
beaten path, and it is not improbable that it always
will be so, at least for those travelers who insist on
railway lines and hotels as conditions precedent to an
inland voyage, and who prefer to avoid the primitive
towns and the small comforts of peasants’ houses.
Indeed our own feelings verged on the apprehensive
at the time, although when it was all over we wondered
not a little at the fact. Our plan was to leave
the line of the railway, which now entirely encircles
the Peloponnesus, at a point about midway in the
eastern side, and to strike boldly across the middle
of the Peloponnesus to the western coast at Olympia,
visiting on the way the towns of Megalopolis and
.bn 276.png
.pn +1
Andhritsæna, and the temple at Bassæ. This meant
a long day’s ride in a carriage and two days of horseback
riding over mountain trails; and as none of us,
including the two ladies, was accustomed to equestrian
exercises, the apprehensions that attended our
departure from the Nauplia station were perhaps not
unnatural.

It had been necessary to secure the services of a
dragoman for the trip, as none of us spoke more than
Greek enough to get eggs and such common necessaries
of life, and we knew absolutely nothing of the
country into the heart of which we were about to
venture. The dragoman on such a trip takes entire
charge of you. Your one duty is to provide the costs.
He attends to everything else—wires ahead for carriages,
secures horses, guides, and muleteers, provides
all the food, hotel accommodation, tips, railway tickets,
and even afternoon tea. This comprehensive service
is to be secured at the stated sum of ten dollars
a day per person, and in our case it included
not only the above things, but beds and bedding and
our own private and especial cook. To those accustomed
to traveling in luxury, ten dollars a day does
not seem a high traveling average. To those like ourselves
accustomed to seeing the world on a daily expenditure
of something like half that sum, it is likely
to seem at first a trifle extravagant. However, let it be
.bn 277.png
.pn +1
added with all becoming haste, it is the only way to
see the interior of Greece with any comfort at all, and
the comfort which it does enable is easily worth the
cost that it entails.

From the moment we left Nauplia we were devoid
of any care whatever. We placed ourselves unreservedly
in the keeping of an accomplished young Athenian
bearing the name of Spyros Apostolis, who came
to us well recommended by those we had known in
the city, and who contracted to furnish us with every
reasonable comfort and transportation as hereinbefore
set forth, and also to supply all the mythology,
archæology, geography, history, and so forth that we
should happen to require. For Spyros, as we learned
to call him, was versed not only in various languages,
including a very excellent brand of English, but
boasted not a little technical archæological lore and
a command of ancient history that came in very aptly
in traversing famous ground. It came to pass in a
very few days that we regarded Spyros in the light
of an old friend, and appealed to him as the supreme
arbiter of every conceivable question, from that of
proper wearing apparel to the name of a distant peak.

It was in the comfortable knowledge that for the
next few days we had absolutely no bargaining to do
and that for the present Spyros, who was somewhere
in the train, had first-class tickets for our transportation,
.bn 278.png
.pn +1
that we settled back on the cushions and watched
the receding landscape and the diminishing bulk of
the Nauplia cliffs. The train religiously stopped at the
station of Tiryns—think of a station provided for a
deserted acropolis!—and then jogged comfortably
along to Argos, where we were to change cars. It
was here that we bought our shepherd pipes; and we
were practicing assiduously on them with no result
save that of convulsing the gathered populace on the
platform, when an urchin of the village spied a puff
of steam up the line and set all agog by the classic
exclamation, “[Greek: e)/rchetai],” equivalent to the New England
lad’s "she’s comin'!"

The comfort of being handed into that train by
Spyros and seeing our baggage set in after us without
a qualm over the proper fee for the <lang=it><em>facchini</em></lang> can
only be realized by those who have experienced it.
And, by the way, the baggage was reduced to the
minimum for the journey, consisting of a suit case
apiece. Our party was composed of those who habitually
“travel light,” even on the regular lines of traffic;
but for the occasion we had curtailed even our usual
amount of impedimenta by sending two of our grips
around to the other end of our route by the northern
rail. Nobody would care to essay this cross-country
jaunt with needless luggage, where every extra tends
to multiply the number of pack mules.
.bn 279.png
.pn +1

The train, which was fresh from Athens and bound
for the southern port of Kalamata, soon turned aside
from the Ægean coast and began a laborious ascent
along the sides of deep valleys, the line making immense
horseshoes as it picked its way along, with
frequent rocky cuts but never a tunnel. I do not
recall that we passed through a single tunnel in all
Greece. The views from the windows, which were
frequently superb as the train panted slowly and
painfully up the long grades, nevertheless were of
the traditional rocky character—all rugged hills
devoid of greenery, barren valleys where no water
was, often suggesting nothing so much as the rocky
heights of Colorado. It tended to make the contrast
the sharper when the train, attaining the heights at
last, shot through a pass which led us out of the
barren rocks and into the heart of the broad plain
of Arcady. It was the real Arcadia of the poets
and painters, utterly different from the gray country
which we had been sojourning in and had come to
regard as typical of all Greece. It was the Arcadia of
our dreams—a broad, peaceful, fertile plain, green
and smiling, peopled with pastoral folk, tillers of the
fields, shepherds, and doubtless poets, pipers, and
nymphs. There is grandeur and beauty in the rugged
hills and narrow valleys of the north, but it would be
wrong to assume that Greece is simply that and nothing
.bn 280.png
.pn +1
more. At least a portion of Arcadia is exactly
what the poets sing. The hills retreated suddenly to
the remote distance and left the railway running along
a level plain dotted with farms. Water ran rejoicing
through. Trees waved on the banks of the brooks.
Far off to the south the rugged bulk of Taÿgetos
marked from afar the site of Sparta, the long ridge
of the mountain still covered with a field of gleaming
snow.

Arcadia boasts two of these large, oval plains, the
one dominated by Tripolis and the other by Megalopolis.
Into the first-mentioned the train trundled
early in the afternoon and came to a halt amid a shouting
crowd of carriage drivers clamoring for passengers
to alight and make the drive down to Sparta.
The road is said to be an excellent one, and that
we had not planned to lengthen our journey to that
point, and thence westward by the Langada Pass to
the country which we later saw, has always been one
of the regrets which mark our Hellenic memories.
Sparta has made little appeal to the modern visitor
through any surviving remains of her ancient greatness,
and has fallen into exactly the state that Thucydides
predicted for her. For he sagely remarked,
in comparing the city with Athens, that future ages
were certain to underestimate Sparta’s size and
power because of the paucity of enduring monuments,
.bn 281.png
.pn +1
whereas the buildings at Athens would be
likely to inspire the beholder with the idea that she
was greater than she really was. That is exactly true
to-day, although the enterprising British school has
lately undertaken the task of exploring the site of the
ancient Lacedæmonian city and has already uncovered
remains that are interesting archæologically,
whatever may be true of their comparison with Athenian
monuments for beauty. In any event, Sparta,
with her stern discipline, rude ideals, and martial
rather than intellectual virtues, can never hope to
appeal to modern civilization as Athens has done,
although her ultimate overwhelming of the Athenian
state entitles her to historical interest. Sparta lies
hard by the mountain Taÿgetos, and to this day they
show you a ravine on the mountain-side where it is
claimed the deformed and weakly Spartan children
were cast, to remove them from among a race which
prized bodily vigor above every other consideration.
It is a pity that Sparta, which played so vast a part
in early history, should have left so little to recall her
material existence. If she was not elegant or cultured,
she was strong; and her ultimate triumph went to
prove that the land where wealth accumulates and
men decay has a less sure grip on life than the ruder,
sterner nations.

So it was that we passed Sparta by on the other
.bn 282.png
.pn +1
side and journeyed on from the smiling plain of Tripolis
to the equally smiling one of Megalopolis, entering
thoroughly into the spirit of Arcadia and vainly
seeking the while to bring from those shepherd pipes
melody fit to voice the joy of the occasion. It was
apparent now that we had crossed the main watershed
of Hellas, for the train was on a downward
grade and the brakes shrieked and squealed shrilly
as we ground into a tiny junction where stood the
little branch-line train for Megalopolis. And in the
cool of the afternoon we found ourselves in that misnamed
town, in the very heart of Arcadia, the late
afternoon light falling obliquely from the westering
sun as it sank behind an imposing row of serrated
mountains, far away.

To one even remotely acquainted with Greek roots,
the name Megalopolis must signify a large city. As
a matter of fact, it once was so. It was erected deliberately
with the intention of making a large city,
founded by three neighboring states, as a make-weight
against the increasing power of the Lacedæmonians;
but, like most places built on mere fiat, it
dwindled away, until to-day it is a village that might
more appropriately be called Mikropolis—if, indeed,
it is entitled to be called a “polis” of any sort. The
railway station, as usual, lay far outside the village,
and in the station yard the one carriage of the town
.bn 283.png
.pn +1
was awaiting us. Into it we were thrust; Spyros
mounted beside the driver, a swarthy native; and
with a rattle that recalled the famous Deadwood
coach we whirled out of the inclosure and off to the
town. The village itself proved to be but a sorry
hole, to put it in the mildest form. It was made up
of a fringe of buildings around a vacant common,
level as a floor and sparsely carpeted with grass and
weeds. As we passed house after house without turning
in, hope grew, along with thankfulness, that we
had at least escaped spending the night in any hovel
hitherto seen. Nevertheless we did eventually stop
before a dingy abode, and were directed to alight and
enter there. Under a dark stone archway and over a
muddy floor of stone pavement we picked our gingerly
way, emerging in a sort of inner court, which
Spyros pointed out was a "direct survival of the
hypæthral megaron of the ancient Mycenæan house"—a
glorified ancestry indeed for a dirty area around
which were grouped the apartments of the family pig,
cow, and sundry other household appurtenances and
attachés. It was an unpromising prelude for a night’s
lodging, but it made surprise all the greater when we
emerged, by means of a flight of rickety stairs, on a
little balcony above, and beheld adjoining it the apartments
destined for our use. They had been swept
and garnished, and the floors had been scrubbed
.bn 284.png
.pn +1
until they shone. The collapsible iron beds had been
erected and the bedding spread upon them, while
near by stood the dinner table already laid for the
evening meal; and presiding over it all stood the
cook, to whose energy all these preparations were
due, smiling genially through a forest of mustache,
and duly presented to us as “Stathi.”

In the twilight we whetted our appetites for dinner
by a brisk walk out of the village, perhaps half a mile
away, to the site of the few and meagre ruins that
Megalopolis has to show. Our progress thither was
attended with pomp and pageantry furnished by the
rabble of small boys and girls whose presence was at
first undesirable enough, but who later proved useful
as directing us to the lane that led to the ruins and
as guards in stoning off sundry sheep dogs that disputed
the way with us. The usual disbursement of
leptá ensued, and we were left to inspect the remains
of ancient greatness in peace. Those remains were
few and grass-grown. They included little more than
a theatre, once one of the greatest in Greece, with the
structures behind the orchestra still largely visible,
and a few foundations of buildings behind these, on
the bank of a winding river. Aside from these the
old Megalopolis is no more.

That night we sat down to a dinner such as few
hotels in Athens could have bettered. The candlesticks
.bn 285.png
.pn +1
on the table were of polished silver, which bore
the monogram of the ancestors of Spyros. Our tablecloth
and napkins were embroidered. Our dishes
were all of a pattern, and we afterwards discovered
that every piece of our household equipment, from
soup plates to the humblest “crockery” of the family
supply, bore the same tasteful decoration. Many a
time we have laughed at the incongruity between
our surroundings and the culinary panorama that
Stathi conjured up from his primitive kitchen outside
and served with such elegance. It was a masterpiece
of the chef’s art, six courses following each
other in rapid succession, all produced in the narrow
oven where a charcoal fire blazed in answer to the
energetic fanning of a corn broom. Soup gave place
to macaroni; macaroni to lamb chops and green
peas; chickens followed, flanked by beans and new
potatoes from the gardens of the neighborhood; German
pancakes wound up the repast; and coffee was
served in an adjoining coffee-house afterward—the
whole accompanied by copious draughts of the water
of Andros, which cheers without inebriating, and
beakers of the red wine of Solon, which I suspect
is capable of doing both. A very modern-looking oil
lamp helped furnish heat as well as light, for we were
high above the sea and the night was chilly. Even to
this remote district the product of the Rockefeller industry
.bn 286.png
.pn +1
has penetrated, and no sight is more common
than the characteristic square oil cans, with a wooden
bar across the centre for carrying, which the peasants
use for water buckets when the original oil is exhausted.
They are useful, of course—more so than
the old-fashioned earthen amphorae. But they are
not as picturesque.

My companion, whom it will be convenient to call
the Professor, and I adjourned to the coffee-house
below for our after-dinner smoke, and demanded coffee
in our best modern Greek, only to evoke the hearty
response, “Sure,” from our host. It seemed he had
lived in New York, where he maintained an oyster
bar; and, like all who have ever tasted the joys of
Bowery life, he could not be happy anywhere else,
but yearned to hear the latest news from that land of
his heart’s desire. We tarried long over our cups,
and had to force payment on him. Thence we retired
through the low-browed arch that led to our abode,
barred and locked it with ponderous fastenings that
might have graced the Lion Gate itself, and lay down
to repose on our collapsible beds, which happily did
not collapse until Spyros and Stathi prepared them
for the next day’s ride. This they did while we breakfasted.
The morning meal came into the bedrooms
bodily on a table propelled by our faithful servitors,
the food having been prepared outside; and as we
.bn 287.png
.pn +1
ate, the chamber work progressed merrily at our table
side, so that in short order we were ready for the road.
The carriage for the journey stood without the main
gate, manned by a dangerous-looking but actually
affable native, and behind it lay a spring cart of two
wheels, wherein were disposed our beds, cooking
utensils, and other impedimenta. The word of command
was given, and the caravan set out blithely for
the western mountains, bowed out of town by the
beaming face of the man who had kept an oyster bar.

The road had an easy time of it for many a level
mile. It ran through a fertile plain, watered by
the sources of the famous Alpheios River, which we
skirted for hours, the hills steadily converging upon
us until at last they formed a narrow gorge through
which the river forced its way, brawling over rocks,
to the Elian plains beyond. Beside the way was an
old and dismantled winepress, which we alighted
long enough to visit. Disused as it was, it was easy
to imagine the barefooted maidens of the neighborhood
treading out the juices of the grapes in the
upper loft, the liquid flowing down through the loose
flooring into the vats beneath. It is the poetic way of
preparing wine; but having seen one night of peasant
life already, we were forced to admit that modern
methods of extracting the juice seem rather to be
preferred.
.bn 288.png
.pn +1

Just ahead lay the gateway of Arcadia, guarded
by a conspicuous conical hill set in the midst of the
narrowing plain between two mountain chains and
bearing aloft a red-roofed town named Karytæna.
Time was too brief and the sun too hot to permit us
to ascend thereto, but even from the highway below it
proved an immensely attractive place, recalling the
famous hill towns of Italy. Behind it lay the broadening
plain of Megalopolis and before the narrow
ravine of the Alpheios, walled in by two mighty hills.
Karytæna seems like an inland Gibraltar, and must
in the old days have been an almost impregnable
defense of the Arcadian country on its western side,
set as it is in the very centre of a constricted pass.
But for some reason, possibly because the enemies
of Greece came chiefly from the east, it seems not
to have figured prominently as a fortress in history.
Below the town the road wound down to the river’s
edge and crossed the stream on a quaint six-arched
bridge, against one pier of which some thankful persons
had erected a shrine of Our Lady. And beyond
the road began a steady ascent. We had left the
plain for good, it appeared. Before us lay the deep
and tortuous defile through which the river flows to
the western seas, the roar of its rushing waters growing
fainter and fainter below as the panting horses
clambered upward with their burdens, until at last
.bn 289.png
.bn 290.png
.bn 291.png
.pn +1
only a confused murmuring of the river was heard
mingling with the rustle of the wind through the
leaves of the wayside trees. The road was not provided
with parapets save in a few unusually dangerous
corners, and the thought of a plunge down that
steep incline to the river so far below was not at all
pleasant. Fortunately on only one occasion did we
meet another wagon, and on that one occasion our
party incontinently dismounted and watched the careful
passage of the two with mingled feelings. It was
accomplished safely and easily enough, but we felt
much more comfortable to be on the ground and see
the wheels graze the edge of the unprotected outside
rim of the highway.

.il id=i289 fn=i_289.jpg w=467px ew=75%
.ca AN OUTPOST OF ARCADY

Every now and then a cross ravine demanded an
abrupt descent of the road from its airy height, and
down we would go to the bottom of a narrow valley,
the driver unconcernedly cracking his whip, the bells
of our steeds jangling merrily, and our party hanging
on and trying hard to enjoy the view in a nervous
and apprehensive way, although increasingly mindful
of the exposed right-hand edge of the shelf. It
bothered Stathi, the cook, not at all. He was riding
behind on the baggage cart which followed steadily
after, and at the steepest of the descent he was swaying
from side to side on the narrow seat, his cigarette
hanging neglected from his lips—sound asleep.
.bn 292.png
.pn +1

These occasional ravines appeared to be due to
centuries of water action, and their banks, which were
well covered with woods, were marked here and there
by tiny threads of cascades which sang pleasantly
down the cliffs from above, crossed the road, and disappeared
into the wooded depths of the river valley
below. Bædeker had mentioned a huge plane tree
and a gushing spring of water as a desirable place
to lunch, but we looked for them in vain. Instead we
took our midday meal beside a stone khan lying
deserted by the roadside, in which on the open hearth
Stathi kindled a fire and produced another of his
culinary miracles, which we ate in the open air by
the road, under a plane tree that was anything but
gigantic. We have never quite forgiven Bædeker that
“gushing spring.” When one has lived for a month
or more on bottled waters, the expectation of drinking
at nature’s fount is not lightly to be regarded.

.il id=i293 fn=i_293.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca THE GORGE OF THE ALPHEIOS

The remainder of the ride was a steady climb to
Andhritsæna, varied by few descents, although this
is hardly to be deemed a drawback. The knowledge
that one has two thousand feet to climb before the
goal is reached does not conduce to welcome of a
sudden loss of all the height one has by an hour’s hard
climb attained. The tedium of the hours of riding was
easily broken by descending to walk, the better thus
to enjoy the view which slowly opened out to the
.bn 293.png
.bn 294.png
.bn 295.png
.pn +1
westward. We were in the midst of the mountains of
the Peloponnesus now, and they billowed all around.
It was a deserted country. Distant sheep bells and
occasional pipes testified that there was life somewhere
near, but the only person we met was a woman
who came down from a hill to ask the driver to get
a doctor for her sick son when he should reach
Andhritsæna. At last, well toward evening, the drivers
pointed to a narrow cut in the top of the hill which
we were slowly ascending by long sweeping turns of
road and announced the top of the pass. And the
view that greeted us as we entered the defile was one
not easy to forget. Through the narrow passage in
the summit lay a new and different country, and in
the midst of it, nestling against the mountain-side, lay
Andhritsæna, red roofed and white walled, and punctuated
here and there by pointed cypress trees. Below
the town, the hills swept sharply away to the valleys
beneath, filled with green trees, while above the rocks
of the mountain-side rose steeply toward the evening
sky. In the western distance we saw for the first
time Erymanthus and his gigantic neighbors, the
mountains that hem in the plain about Olympia,
the taller ones snow-clad and capped with evening
clouds. We straightened in our seats. Stathi came
out of his doze. The whips cracked and we dashed
into the town with the smartness of gait and poise
.bn 296.png
.pn +1
that seem to be demanded by every arrival of coach
and four from Greece to Seattle. And thus they
deposited us in the main square of Andhritsæna,
under a huge plane tree, whose branches swept over
the entire village street, and whose trunk lost itself in
the buildings at its side. The carriage labored away.
The dragoman and his faithful attendant sought our
lodging house to set it in order. And in the meantime
we stretched our cramped limbs in a walk
around the town, attended as usual by the entire idle
population of youths and maidens, to see the village
from end to end before the sun went down.

I should, perhaps, add the remark that in my
spelling of “Andhritsæna” I have done conscious
violence to the word as it stands on the map—the
added “h” representing a possibly needless attempt
to give the local pronunciation of the name. It is
accented on the second syllable.
.bn 297.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=chap12
CHAPTER XII. ANDHRITSÆNA AND | THE BASSÆ TEMPLE

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.sp 2
We found the village of Andhritsæna fascinating
in the extreme, from within as well as from
without. It was obviously afflicted with a degree of
poverty, and suffers, like most Peloponnesian towns,
from a steady drain on its population by the emigration
to America. Naturally it was squalid, as Megalopolis
had been, but in a way that did not mar the
natural beauty of its situation, and, if anything, increased
its internal picturesqueness. This we had
abundant opportunity to observe during our initial
ramble through the place, starting from the gigantic
plane tree which forms a sort of nucleus of the entire
village, and which shelters with its spreading branches
the chief centre of local activity,—the region immediately
adjacent to the town pump. It was not exactly
a pump, however. The term is merely conventional,
and one must understand by it a stone fountain, fed
by a spring, the water gushing out by means of two
.bn 298.png
.pn +1
spouts, whither an almost continuous stream of townsfolk
came with the inevitable tin oil-cans to obtain
water for domestic uses.

The main, and practically the only, street of the
town led westward from the plane, winding along
through the village in an amiable and casual way. It
was lined close on either side by the houses, which
were generally two stories in height, and provided
with latticed balconies above to make up for the
necessary lack of piazzas below. Close to the great
central tree these balconies seemed almost like the
arboreal habitation made dear to the childish heart
by the immortal Swiss Family Robinson; and in these
elevated stations the families of Andhritsæna were
disporting themselves after the burden and heat of
the day, gossiping affably to and fro across the street,
or in some cases reading.

.il id=i299 fn=i_299.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca ANDHRITSÆNA

We found it as impossible to disperse our body
guard of boys and girls as had been the case the
evening before at Megalopolis. Foreign visitors in
Andhritsæna are few enough to be objects of universal
but not unkindly curiosity to young and old;
and the young, being unfettered by the insistent demands
of coffee-drinking, promptly insisted on attending
our pilgrimage <lang=fr><em>en masse</em></lang>. It was cool, for the
sun was low and the mountain air had begun to take
on the chill of evening. We clambered up to a lofty
.bn 299.png
.bn 300.png
.bn 301.png
.pn +1
knoll over the town and looked down over its slanting
tiles to the wooded valley beneath, the evening
smoke of the chimneys rising straight up in thin,
curling wisps, while from the neighboring hills came
the faint clatter of the herd bells and occasionally the
soft note of some boy’s piping. Far away to the north
we could see the snowy dome of Erymanthus, rising
out of a tumbling mass of blue mountains, while between
lay the opening and level plain of the Alpheios,
widening from its narrows to form the broad meadows
of Elis on the western coasts of the Peloponnesus.
Here and there the house of some local magnate,
more prosperous than the rest, boasted a small yard
and garden, adorned with the sombre straightness of
cypresses. Behind the town rose the rocky heights
of the neighboring hills, long gorges running deep
among them. Whichever way the eye turned, there
was charm. The body guard of infantry retired to a
respectful distance and stood watching us, finger bashfully
to mouth in silent wonderment. Mothers with
babies came out of near-by hovels to inspect us, and
enjoyed us as much as we enjoyed the prospect that
opened before.

From the aspect of the houses of the town we had
adjudged it prudent to allow Spyros and Stathi a
decent interval for the preparation of our abode before
descending to the main street again and seeking
.bn 302.png
.pn +1
out the house. Apparently the exact location of it
was known by the entire population by this time,
for, as we descended, willing natives pointed the way
by gesticulations, indicating a narrow and not entirely
prepossessing alley leading down from the
central thoroughfare by some rather slimy steps, to
a sort of second street, and thence to another alley,
if anything less prepossessing than the first, where a
formidable wooden gateway gave entrance to a court.
Here the merry villagers bade adieu and retired to
their coffee again. Once within, the prospect brightened.
It was, of course, the fore-court of a peasant’s
house, for hotels are entirely lacking in Andhritsæna.
It was paved with stone flagging, and above the
courtyard rose a substantial veranda on which stood
the host—a bearded man, gorgeous in native dress,
the voluminous skirt of which was immaculate in its
yards and yards of fustanella. From tasseled fez to
pomponed shoes he was a fine type of peasant, contrasting
with his wife, who wore unnoticeable clothes
of European kind. She was a pleasant-faced little
body, and evidently neat, which was more than all.
And she ushered us into the house to the rooms
where Spyros and the cook were busily engaged in
making up the beds, discreetly powdering the mattresses,
and setting things generally to rights. The
embroidered bed linen which had given us such delight
.bn 303.png
.pn +1
by its contrast with the surroundings at Megalopolis
at once caught the eye of the peasant woman,
and she promptly borrowed a pillow-case to learn the
stitch with which it was adorned. As for the rooms,
they were scrubbed to a whiteness.

Just outside, overlooking the narrow by-way
through which we had entered, was the inevitable
balcony, whence the view off to the northern mountains
was uninterrupted; and while supper was preparing
we wrapped ourselves in sweaters and shawls and
stood in mute admiration of the prospect—the deep
valley below, the half-guessed plain beyond, and the
rugged line of peaks silhouetted against the golden
afterglow of the sunset. From this view our attention
was distracted only by the sudden clamor of a church
bell close at hand, which a priest was insistently ringing
for vespers. The bell was hung, as so often happens,
in a tree beside the church; and to prevent the
unauthorized sounding of it by the neighborhood
urchins the wise priest had caused the bell-rope to
be shortened so that the end of it hung far up among
the branches, and was only to be reached for the purposes
of the church by a long iron poker, which the
holy man had produced from somewhere within his
sanctuary and which he was wielding vigorously to
attract the attention of the devout. It may have been
a sort of Greek angelus, designed to mark the hour
.bn 304.png
.pn +1
of general sunset prayer; for nobody appeared in response
to its summons, and after clanging away for
what seemed to him a sufficient interval the priest
unshipped the poker and retired with it to the inner
recesses of the church, to be seen no more. The
nipping and eager evening air likewise drove us to
shelter, and the heat of the lamp and candles was
welcome as lessening, though ever so slightly, the
cold which the night had brought. It was further
temporarily forgotten in the discussion of the smiling
Stathi’s soups and chickens and flagons of
Solon.

.il id=i305 fn=i_305.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca AN ARBOREAL CAMPANILE. ANDHRITSÆNA

The professor and I stumbled out in the darkness
of the yard after the evening meal in search of a
coffee-house, for the better enjoyment of our postprandial
cigarettes, but we got no farther than the
outer court before deciding to return for a lantern.
Andhritsæna turned out to be not only chilly, but intensely
dark o' nights. Its serpentine by-ways were
devoid of a single ray of light, and even the main
street, when we had found it, was relieved from utter
gloom only by the lamps which glimmered few and
faint in wayside shops that had not yet felt the force
of the early-closing movement. The few wayfarers
that we met as we groped our way along by the ineffectual
fire of a square lantern, wherein a diminutive
candle furnished the illuminant, likewise carried
.bn 305.png
.bn 306.png
.bn 307.png
.pn +1
similar lights, and looked terrible enough hooded in
their capotes. Diogenes-like, we sought an honest
man,—and speedily discovered him in the proprietor
of a tiny “kaffeneion,” who welcomed us to his tables
and set before us cups of thick coffee, fervently disclaiming
the while his intention to accept remuneration
therefor. Indeed this generosity bade fair to be
its own reward, for it apparently became known in a
surprisingly short time that the foreign visitors were
taking refreshment in that particular inn, with the
result that patronage became brisk. The patrons,
however, apparently cared less for their coffee than
for the chance to study the newcomers in their midst
at close range, and after we had basked for a sufficient
time in the affable curiosity of the assembled
multitude we stumbled off again through the night
to our abode, the lantern casting gigantic and awful
shadows on the wayside walls the while.

Now the chief reason for our visiting this quaint
and out-of-the-way hamlet was its contiguity to the
mountain on the flat top of which stands the ancient
Bassæ temple. The correct designation, I believe, is
really the “temple at Bassæ,” but to-day it stands
isolated and alone, with no considerable habitation
nearer than Andhritsæna, whatever was the case when
it was erected. The evidence tended to show that
Bassæ might be reached with about the same ease
.bn 308.png
.pn +1
on foot as on horseback, or at least in about the
same time; but as we were entirely without experience
in riding, it was voted best that we begin our training
by securing steeds for this minor side trip, in
order to have some slight preparation for the twelve
hours in the saddle promised us for the day following—a
portentous promise that had cast a sort of indefinite
shadow of apprehension over our inmost souls
since leaving Nauplia. It was a wise choice, too, because
it revealed to us among other things the difficulty
of Greek mountain trails and the almost absolute
sure-footedness of the mountain horse.

We were in the saddle promptly at nine, and in
Indian file we set out through the village street, filled
with the tremors natural to those who find themselves
for the first time in their lives seated on horseback.
But these tremors were as nothing to what beset us
almost immediately on leaving the town and striking
into the narrow ravine that led up into the hills behind
it. It developed that while the prevailing tendency of
the road was upward, this did not by any means preclude
several incidental dips, remarkable alike for
their appalling steepness and terrifying rockiness,
for which their comparative brevity only partially
atoned. The sensation of looking down from the
back of even a small horse into a gully as steep as a
sharp pitch roof, down which the trail is nothing but
.bn 309.png
.pn +1
the path of a dried-up torrent filled with boulders,
loose stones, smooth ledges, sand, and gravel, is anything
but reassuring. It was with silent misgivings
and occasional squeals of alarm that our party encountered
the first of these descents. We had not yet
learned to trust our mounts, and we did not know that
the well-trained mountain horse is a good deal more
likely to stumble on a level road than on one of those
perilous downward pitches. From the lofty perches on
top of the clumsy Greek saddles piled high with rugs,
it seemed a terrifying distance to the ground; and
the thought of a header into the rocky depth along
the side of which the path skirted or down into which
it plunged was not lightly to be shaken off. It was
much better going up grade, although even here we
found ourselves smitten with pity for the little beasts
that scrambled with so much agility up cruel steeps of
rock, bearing such appreciable burdens of well-nourished
Americans on their backs. Spyros did his best to
reassure us. He was riding ahead and throwing what
were intended as comforting remarks over his shoulder
to Mrs. Professor, who rode next in line. And as
he was not aware of the exact make-up of the party’s
mounts, he finally volunteered the opinion that horses
were a good deal safer than mules for such a trip, because
mules stumbled so. Whereupon Mrs. Professor,
who was riding on a particularly wayward and mountainous
.bn 310.png
.pn +1
mule, emitted a shriek of alarm and descended
with amazing alacrity to the ground, vowing that
walking to Bassæ was amply good enough for her.
Nevertheless the mule, although he did stumble a
little now and then, managed to stay with us all the
way to Olympia, and no mishap occurred.

The saddles lend themselves to riding either
astride or sidesaddle, and the ordinary man we met
seemed to prefer the latter mode. The saddle frame
is something the shape of a sawhorse, and after it
is set on the back of the beast it is piled high with
blankets, rugs, and the like, making a lofty but fairly
comfortable seat. For the ladies the guides had
devised little wooden swings suspended by rope to
serve as stirrups for the repose of their soles. The
arrangement was announced to be comfortable
enough, although it was necessary for the riders to
hold on fore and aft to the saddle with both hands,
while a muleteer went ahead and led the beasts. In
some of the steeper places the maintenance of a seat
under these conditions required no little skill. As for
the men, there were no special muleteers. We were
supposed to know how to ride, and in a short time
we had discovered how to guide the horses with the
single rein provided, either by pulling it, or by pressing
it across the horse’s neck. To stop the modern
Greek horse you whistle. That is to say, you whistle
.bn 311.png
.pn +1
if you can muster a whistle at all, which is sometimes
difficult when a panic seizes you and your
mouth becomes dry and intractable. In the main
our progress was so moderate that no more skill was
needed to ride or guide the steeds than would be
required on a handcar. Only on rare occasions, when
some of the beasts got off the track or fell behind,
was any real acquaintance with Greek horsemanship
required. This happened to all of us in turn before
we got home again, and in each case the muleteers
came to our aid in due season after we had completely
lost all recollection of the proper procedure
for stopping and were seeking to accomplish it by
loud “whoas” instead of the soothing sibilant which
is the modern Greek equivalent for that useful, and
indeed necessary, word.

We found it highly desirable now and then to alight
and walk, for to the unaccustomed rider the strain of
sitting in a cramped position on a horse for hours at
a time is wearying and benumbing to the lower limbs.
On the ride up to Bassæ, those who did no walking
at all found it decidedly difficult to walk when they
arrived. The one deterrent was the labor involved in
dismounting and the prospective difficulty of getting
aboard again. In this operation the muleteers assisted
our clumsiness not a little, and we discovered that
the way to attract their attention to a desire to alight
.bn 312.png
.pn +1
was to say “ka-tò,” in a commanding tone—the
same being equivalent to “down.”

So much for our experiences as we wound along
the sides of rocky ravines and gorges in the heart of
the hills behind Andhritsæna. When we had grown
accustomed to the manipulation of the horses and had
learned that the beasts really would not fall down and
dash us into the depths below, we began to enjoy the
scenery. It was rugged, for the most part, although
at the bottoms of the valleys there was frequently
meadow land spangled with innumerable wildflowers
and shrubbery, watered by an occasional brook. It
was a lovely morning, still cool and yet cloudless. The
birds twittered among the stunted trees. We passed
from narrow vale to narrow vale, and at last, when
no outlet was to be seen, we ceased to descend and
began a steady climb out of the shady undergrowth
along the side of a rocky mountain, where there was
no wood at all save for scattered groves of pollard
oaks—curious old trees, low and gnarled, covered
with odd bunches, and bearing an occasional wreath
of mistletoe. At the ends of their branches the trees
put forth handfuls of small twigs, which we were
told the inhabitants are accustomed to lop off for
fagots. It is evident that the trees do not get half a
chance to live and thrive. But they manage in some
way to prolong their existence, and they give to the
.bn 313.png
.bn 314.png
.bn 315.png
.pn +1
region at Bassæ and to the temple there a certain
weird charm.

.il id=i313 fn=i_313.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca THRESHING FLOOR AT BASSÆ

Off to the west as we climbed there appeared a
shining streak of silver which the guides saw and
pointed to, shouting “Thalassa! Thalassa!” (the
sea). And, indeed, it was the first glimpse of the
ocean west of Greece. Shortly beyond we attained
the summit and began a gentle descent along a sort
of tableland through a sparse grove of the stunted
oaks, among which here and there appeared round
flat floors of stone used for threshing. Many of these
could be seen on the adjacent hills and in the valleys,
and the number visible at one time proved to be
something like a score. All at once, as we wound
slowly down through the avenue of oaks, the temple
itself burst unexpectedly into view, gray like the surrounding
rocks, from which, indeed, it was built. To
approach a shrine like this from above is not common
in Greece, and this sudden apparition of the
temple, which is admirably preserved, seems to have
struck every visitor who has described it as exceedingly
beautiful, particularly as one sees it framed in
a foreground of these odd trees. We were high
enough above the structure to look down into it, for
it is of course devoid of any roof; and unlike most
of the other temples, it was always so, for it was of
the “hypæthral” type, and intended to be open to
.bn 316.png
.pn +1
the sky. Nor was this the only unusual feature of the
temple at Bassæ. It was peculiar among the older
shrines in that it ran north and south instead of east
and west, which was the regular custom among the
roofed structures of the Greeks. Of course this difference
in orientation has given rise to a great deal
of discussion and speculation among those whose
opinions are of weight in such matters. Probably the
casual visitor in Greece is well aware of the custom
of so fixing the axes of temples as to bring the eastern
door directly in line with the rising sun on certain
appropriate days, for the better illumination of
the interior on those festivals. Although such expedients
as the use of translucent marble roofs were
resorted to, the lighting of the interior of roofed temples
was always a matter of some little difficulty, and
this arrangement of the doorways was necessary to
bring out the image of the god in sufficiently strong
light. From this system of orientation it has occasionally
been possible to identify certain temples
as dedicated to particular deities, by noting the
days on which the rising sun would have come exactly
opposite the axis of the shrine. No such consideration
would apply with the same force to a
hypæthral temple, whatever else might have figured
in the general determination of the orientation. But
even at Bassæ, where the length of the temple so
.bn 317.png
.pn +1
obviously runs north and south, it is still true that
one opening in it was eastward, and it is supposed
that in the end of the temple space was an older
shrine to Apollo, which, like other temples, faced the
rising sun. This older precinct was not interfered
with in erecting the greater building, and it is still
plainly to be seen where the original sacred precinct
was.

The members of the single encircling row of columns
are still intact, although in some cases slightly
thrown out of alignment; and they still bear almost
the entire entablature. The cella wall within is also
practically intact, and inside it are still standing large
sections of the unusual engaged half-columns which
encircled the cella, standing against its sides. The great
frieze in bas-relief, which once ran around the top,
facing inward, is now in the British Museum, where it
is justly regarded as one of the chief treasures of the
Greek collection. It hardly needs the comment that
such arrangement of the frieze was highly unusual,
inside the building, instead of on the outer side of
the cella, as was the case in the Parthenon. Ictinus,
the architect of the Parthenon, also built the temple
at Bassæ, which was dedicated by the Phigalians to
“Apollo the Helper,” in gratification for relief from a
plague. That fact has given rise to the conjecture that
it was perhaps built at the same time that the plague
.bn 318.png
.pn +1
ravaged Athens, during the early part of the Peloponnesian
War. However that may be, it is evidently
true that it belongs to the same golden age that gave
us the Parthenon and the Propylæa at Athens. Unlike
them, it does not glow with the varied hues of the
weathered Pentelic marble, but is a soft gray, due to
the native stone of which it was constructed. And this
gray color, contrasting with the sombreness of the
surrounding grove, gives much the same satisfactory
effect as is to be seen at Ægina, where the temple is
seen, like this, in a framework of trees.

Needless to say, the outlook from this lofty site—something
like four thousand feet above the sea—is
grand. The ocean is visible to the south as well as
to the west. The rolling mountains to the east form
an imposing pageant, culminating in the lofty Taÿgetos
range. Looming like a black mound in the
centre of the middle distance to the southward is the
imposing and isolated acropolis of Ithome, the stronghold
of the ancient Messenians. As usual, the builders
of the temple at Bassæ selected a most advantageous
site for their shrine. It was while we were enjoying
the view after lunch that a solitary German appeared
from the direction of Ithome, having passed through
the modern Phigalia. He had a boy for a guide, but
aside from that he was roaming through this deserted
section of Greece alone. He knew nothing of the language.
.bn 319.png
.bn 320.png
.bn 321.png
.pn +1
He had no dragoman to make the rough
places smooth. He had spent several sorry nights in
peasants’ huts, where vermin most did congregate.
But he was enjoying it all with the enthusiasm of the
true Philhellene, and on the whole was making his
way about surprisingly well. We sat and chatted for
a long time in the shade of the temple, comparing it
with the lonely grandeur of the temple at Segesta, in
Sicily. And as the sun was sinking we took the homeward
way again, but content to walk this time rather
than harrow our souls by riding down the excessively
steep declivity that led from the mountain to the
valleys below.

.il id=i319a fn=i_319a.jpg w=500px ew=90%
.ca TEMPLE AT BASSÆ, FROM ABOVE

.il id=i319b fn=i_319b.jpg w=500px ew=90%
.ca TEMPLE AT BASSÆ, FROM BELOW

At dinner that night in Andhritsæna an old man
appeared with wares to sell—curiously wrought and
barbaric blankets, saddlebags, and the like, apparently
fresh and new, but really, he claimed, the dowry
of his wife who had long been dead. He had no further
use for the goods, but he did think he might
find uses for the drachmæ they would bring. Needless
to say, our saddlebags were the heavier the next
day when our pack-mules were loaded for the journey
over the hills to Olympia.

One other thing deserves a word of comment before
we leave Andhritsæna, and that is the cemetery.
We had seen many funeral processions at Athens,
carrying the uncoffined dead through the streets, but
.bn 322.png
.pn +1
we had never paid much attention to the burial places,
because they are still mainly to be found outside the
city gates, and not in the line commonly taken by
visitors. At Andhritsæna we came upon one, however,
and for the first time noticed the curious little
wooden boxes placed at the heads of the graves,
resembling more than anything else the bird-houses
that humane people put on trees at home. Inside of
the boxes we found oil stains and occasionally the
remains of broken lamps, placed there, we were told,
as a "mnemeion"—doubtless meaning a memorial,
which word is a direct descendant. The lamps appear
to be kept lighted for a time after the death of the person
thus honored, but none were lighted when we saw
the cemetery of Andhritsæna, and practically all had
fallen into neglect, as if the dead had been so long
away that grief at their departure had been forgotten.
A little chapel stood hard by, and on its wall a metal
plate and a heavy iron spike did duty for a bell.

Then the cold night settled down upon Andhritsæna,
and we retired to the warmth of our narrow
beds, ready for the summons which should call us
forth to begin our fatiguing ride to the famous site
of old Olympia.
.bn 323.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=chap13
CHAPTER XIII. OVER THE HILLS | TO OLYMPIA

.il fn=i_323.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
At five o'clock the persistent thumping of Spyros
on the bedroom doors announced the call of
incense-breathing morn, though Ph[oe]bus had not yet
by any means driven his horses above the rim of the
horizon. The air outside was thick o' fog,—doubtless a
low-lying cloud settling on the mountain,—and it was
dark and cheerless work getting out of our narrow
beds and dressing in the cold twilight. Nevertheless
it was necessary, for the ride to Olympia is long, and
Spyros had promised us a fatiguing day, with twelve
hours in the saddle as a minimum. To this forecast
the pessimistic Baedeker lent much plausibility by his
reference to the road as being unspeakably bad; and
besides we ourselves had on the previous day gathered
much personal experience of the mountain trails
of the region. Breakfast under these circumstances
was a rather hasty meal, consumed in comparative
silence.
.bn 324.png
.pn +1

By the time the last of the rolls and jam had disappeared
and the task of furling up the beds was well
advanced, a clatter of hoofs in the village street drew
one of the party to the door, whence word was speedily
returned that the street outside was full of horses.
And it was. There were ten steeds, including four for
our party, two for Spyros and Stathi, one for a muleteer
relief conveyance, and the rest for the baggage—the
latter being small and seemingly quite inadequate
burros or donkeys, who proved more notable for their
patient indifference than for size or animation. While
these were being laden, four other beasts drew near,
bearing our solitary German of the day before and
another of his countrymen who had materialized during
the night, with their impedimenta. They were
welcomed to the caravan, which, numbering fourteen
beasts and almost as many humans, took the road out
of town with commendable promptitude at sharp six
o'clock. The cloud had lifted as we rounded the western
edge of the valley and looked back at Andhritsæna,
glimmering in the morning light. We were
streaming off in Indian file along a very excellent
road, like that on which we had ridden up from
Megalopolis two days before, and which promised well
for a speedy removal of the apprehensions awakened
by Bædeker. But the road did not last long. Before
we had fairly lost Andhritsæna in the hills behind,
.bn 325.png
.pn +1
the leading guide turned sharply to the left, through
a rocky defile in the hillside, and precipitated us down
one of those rocky torrent beds, with the nature of
which we had become only too familiar the day before.
It was the less disturbing this time, however,
because we had learned to trust implicitly to the careful
feet of our horses, with no more than a firm grip
on bridle and pommel and an occasional soft whistle,
or murmured "ochs', ochs'," to the intelligent beasts
as an outward and audible sign of inward and spiritual
perturbation. It was steep but short, and we came out
below upon the road again, to everybody’s unconcealed
delight.

The road, however, soon lost itself in a meadow.
When it is ultimately finished, the journey will be
much easier than we found it. In a few years I suppose
it will be perfectly possible to ride to Olympia
in a carriage, and the horseback problem will cease
to deter visitors to Bassæ from continuing their journey
westward. The way now lay along a pleasant
and rolling meadow country, dotted with primitive
farms, which glowed under the bright morning sun.
We splashed through a narrow upland river and up
another rocky ascent, beyond which another downward
pitch carried us to a still lower meadow. Meantime
the cold of morning gave place to a growing
warmth, and the wraps became saddle blankets in
.bn 326.png
.pn +1
short order. We rode and walked alternately, choosing
the level stretches through the grass for pedestrianism
and riding only when we came to sharp
upward climbs, thus easing the fatigue that we should
otherwise have found in continued riding. Always
we could see the imposing peaks to the north, and
the downward tendency of the trail soon brought out
the altitude of the hills behind Andhritsæna. The immediate
vicinity of our path was pastoral and agricultural,
in the main, for the recurring ridges over
which we scrambled served only as boundaries between
well-watered vales in which small trees and
bushes flourished, and where the occasional sharp
whir of pressure from a primitive penstock called
attention to the presence of a water mill. Aside from
these isolated mills there was little sign of habitation,
for the fields seemed mostly grown up to grass. In
the far distance we could see the valley of the Alpheios,
broadening out of its confining walls of rock to what
seemed like a sandy reach in the plain far below, and
we were told that at nightfall we should be ferried
across it close to Olympia, provided we caught the
boatmen before they left for home. It was this anxiety
to be on time that led Spyros to urge us along, lest
when we came out at the bank of the river we should
find no response to the ferryman’s call of "Varka!
Varka!"—the common mode of hailing boatmen in
.bn 327.png
.pn +1
Greece. With this for a spur we wasted little time on
the way, but proceeded steadily, now riding, now
walking, up hill and down dale, through groves of
low acacias or Judas trees, or along grassy meadows
where a profusion of wild flowers added a touch of
color to the green.

The pleasant valley, however, proved not to be
the road for very long. In an hour or so the guides
branched off again into a range of hills that seemed
as high as those we had left, and there entered a tortuous
ravine worn by a mountain brook, along which
the path wound higher and higher toward a distant
house which the muleteers pointed out and pronounced
to be a "[Greek: xenodochei~on],"—the Professor had
long ago learned to call it "Senator Sheehan,"—at
which wayside inn the mistaken impression prevailed
that we were speedily to lunch. It was not so to be,
however. When we had achieved the height and
rested under two leafy plane trees that we found
there, Spyros repeated his tale about the ferrymen
and their departure at sundown; and we must away
at once, with no more refreshment than was to be
drawn from some crackers and a bottle of Solon.
And so we pressed on again, still climbing, though
more gradually. The path was not so bad after all,
despite the Bædeker, and in one place we voted it
easily the finest spot we had found in all our Peloponnesian
.bn 328.png
.pn +1
rambles. We were riding along at the time
through a shady grove when we came suddenly upon
a collection of mammoth planes, whose branches
spread far and wide, and from the midst of the cleft
side of one of them a spring bubbled forth joyously,
flooding the road. It was here that the king on one
of his journeys the year before had stopped to rest
and partake of his noonday meal. It seemed to us,
famished by six hours of hard riding, that the king’s
example was one all good citizens should follow; but
Spyros was inexorable, and reminded us that ferrymen
might wait for the King of Greece, but not for
any lesser personages whatsoever. We must not halt
until we got to Gremka; for at Gremka we should
find a good road, and beyond there it was four hours
of travel, and we might judge exactly how much time
we had for rest by the hour of our reaching the place.
So we obediently proceeded, joined now by two more
beasts so laden with the empty oil-cans common to
the region that only their legs were visible. These
furnished the comedy element in the day’s experiences,
for the donkeys thus loaded proved to be contrary
little creatures, always getting off the trail and
careering down the mountain-side through the scrubby
trees and bushes, their deck-loads of tin making a
merry din as they crashed through the underbrush,
while our guides roared with derisive laughter at the
.bn 329.png
.pn +1
discomfiture of the harassed attendants. When not
engaged in ridiculing the owners of those numerous
and troublesome oil-cans, the muleteers sang antiphonally
some music in a minor key which Spyros
said was a wedding song wherein the bridegroom
and the bride’s family interchange sentiments. This
seems to be the regular diversion of muleteers, judging
by the unanimity with which travelers in Greece
relate the experience. Anon our muleteers would likewise
find amusement by stealing around behind and
administering an unexpected smack on the plump
buttocks of the horses, with the inevitable result of
starting the beast out of his meditative amble into
something remotely resembling a canter, and eliciting
an alarmed squeal from the rider—at which the
muleteer, with the most innocent face in the world,
would appear under the horse’s nose and grasp the
bridle, assuring the frightened equestrian that the
beast was "kalà"—or “all right.”

All the steeds were small with the exception of the
altitudinous mule ridden by one of the ladies, and
they were not at all bothered by the low branches of
the trees through which we wended our way. Not
so, however, the riders. The thorny branches that
just cleared the nonchalant horse’s head swept over
the saddle with uncompromising vigor, and the
effort to swing the beast away from one tree meant
.bn 330.png
.pn +1
encountering similar difficulties on the other side of
the narrow path. Through this arboreal Scylla and
Charybdis it was extremely difficult navigation and
the horses took no interest in our plight at all, so
that long before we emerged from the last of the
groves along the way we were a beraveled and
bescratched company.

Shortly after noon two villages appeared far ahead,
and we were engaged in speculating as to which
one was Gremka, when the guides suddenly turned
again and shot straight up the hill toward a narrow
defile in the mountain wall we had been skirting. It
proved as narrow as a chimney and almost as steep,
and for a few moments we scrambled sharply, our
little horses struggling hard to get their burdens up
the grade; but at last they gained the top, and we
emerged from between two walls of towering rock
into another and even fairer landscape. The plain of
the Alpheios spread directly below, but we were not
allowed to descend to it. Instead we actually began
to climb, and for an hour or two more we rode along
the side of the range of hills through the midst of
which we had just penetrated. The path was pleasantly
wooded, and the foliage was thick enough to
afford a grateful shade above and a soft carpeting
of dead leaves below. The air was heavy with the
balsamic fragrance of the boughs, and the birds sang
.bn 331.png
.pn +1
merrily although it was midday. Through the vistas
that opened in this delightful grove we got recurring
glimpses of the Erymanthus range, now separated
from us only by the miles of open plain, and vastly
impressive in their ruggedness.

The sides of the range of hills along which our
path wound were corrugated again and again by
ravines, worn by the brooks, and our progress was
a continual rising and falling in consequence. The
footing was slippery, due to the minute particles of
reddish gravel and sand, so that here even our
mountain horses slipped and stumbled, and we were
warned to dismount and pick our own way down,
which we did, shouting gayly “Varka! Varka!” at
the crossing of every absurd little three-inch brook,
to the intense enjoyment of the muleteers. And thus
by two in the afternoon we arrived at Gremka, a
poor little hamlet almost at the edge of the great
plain, and were told that we had made splendid time,
so that we might have almost an hour of rest, while
Stathi unlimbered the sumpter mules and spread
luncheon under two pleasant plane trees beside a
real spring.

From Gremka on, we found the road again. It was
almost absolutely level after we left the minor foothill
on which Gremka sits, and for the remainder of
our day we were to all intents and purposes in civilization
.bn 332.png
.pn +1
again. Curiously enough, it was here that our
little horses, that had been so admirably reliable in
precipitous trails of loose rock and sand, began to
stumble occasionally, as if careless now that the road
was smooth and doubtless somewhat weary with the
miles of climbing and descending. The guides and
muleteers, refreshed with a little food and a vast
amount of resinated wine, began to sing marriage
music louder than ever, and the most imposing figure
of all, a man who in every-day life was a butcher and
who carried his huge cleaver thrust in his leathern
belt, essayed to converse with us in modern Greek,
but with indifferent success. The landscape, while no
longer rugged, was pleasant and peaceful as the road
wound about the valley through low hillocks and
knolls crowned with little groves of pine, the broad
lower reaches of the rivers testifying that we were
nearing the sea. And at last, toward sunset, we swung
in a long line down over the sands that skirt the rushing
Alpheios and came to rest on the banks opposite
Olympia, whose hotels we could easily see across the
swelling flood.

The Alpheios is not to be despised as a river in
April. It is not especially wide, but it has what a
good many Greek rivers do not,—water, and plenty
of it, running a swift course between the low banks
of the south and the steeper bluffs that confine it on
.bn 333.png
.pn +1
the Olympia side. The ferry was waiting. It proved
to be a sizable boat, of the general shape of a coastwise
schooner, but devoid of masts, and mainly hollow,
save for a little deck fore and aft. Three voluble
and, as it proved, rapacious natives manned it, the
motive power being poles. With these ferrymen Spyros
and Stathi almost immediately became involved
in a furious controversy, aided by our cohort of muleteers.
It did not surprise us greatly, and knowing that
whatever happened we should be financially scathless,
we sat down on the bank and skipped pebbles in the
water. It developed that the boatman had demanded
thrice his fee, and that Spyros, who had no illusions
about departed spirits, objected strenuously to being
gouged in this way and was protesting vehemently
and volubly, while Stathi, whose exterior was ordinarily
so calm, was positively terrible to behold as he
danced about the gesticulating knot of men. It finally
became so serious that the Professor and I, looking
as fierce as we could, ranged ourselves alongside, mentioning
a wholly mythical intimacy with the head of
the Hellenic police department in the hope of promoting
a wholesome spirit of compromise, but really more
anxious to calm the excited cook, who was clamoring
for the tools of his trade that he might dispatch
these thrice-qualified knaves of boatmen then and
there. Eventually, as tending to induce a cessation
.bn 334.png
.pn +1
of hostilities, we cast off the mooring—whereat the
dispute suddenly ended and the beasts of burden went
aboard. So also did the Professor, who was anxious
to establish a strategic base on the opposite bank;
and the rest of us sat and watched the craft pushed
painfully out into the stream and well up against the
current, until a point was reached whence the force of
the river took her and bore her madly down to her
berth on the Olympia bank. Here fresh difficulties
arose,—not financial but mechanical. The heavily
loaded little donkeys proved utterly unable to step
over the gunwale and get ashore. It was an inspiring
sight to watch, the Professor tugging manfully at the
bridle and the remainder of the crew boosting with
might and main; but it was of no avail, although they
wrought mightily, until at the psychological moment
and in the spot most fitted to receive it, a muleteer
gave the needed impetus by a prodigious kick, which
lifted the patient ass over the side and out on the
bank. The rest was easy. We were ferried over in
our turn and disappeared from the view of the boatmen,
each side expressing its opinion of the other in
terms which we gathered from the tones employed
were the diametrical reverse of complimentary. It was
twelve hours to a dot from the time of our departure
from Andhritsæna when we strolled into our hotel—at
which fact Spyros plumed himself not a little.
.bn 335.png
.bn 336.png
.bn 337.png
.pn +1

.il id=i335 fn=i_335.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca HERÆUM. OLYMPIA

It had not been an unduly fatiguing day, after all.
The frequent walking that we had done served to
break up the tedium of long riding, which otherwise
would have been productive of numb limbs and stiff
joints. It is well to bear this in mind, for I have seen
unaccustomed riders assisted from their saddles after
too long jaunts utterly unable to stand, and of course
much less to walk, until a long period of rest had
restored the circulation in the idle members. Fortunately,
too, we had been blessed with an incomparable
day. Spyros confessed that he had secretly dreaded
a rain, which would have made the path dangerous
in spots where it was narrow and composed of clay.
As it was, we arrived in Olympia in surprisingly good
condition, and on schedule time, though by no means
unready to welcome real beds again and the chance
for unlimited warm water.

Olympia, like Delphi, is a place of memories
chiefly. The visible remains are numerous, but so
flat that some little technical knowledge is needed to
restore them in mind. There is no village at the modern
Olympia at all,—nothing but five or six little inns
and a railway station,—so that Delphi really has
the advantage of Olympia in this regard. As a site
connected with ancient Greek history and Greek religion,
the two places are as similar in nature as they
are in general ruin. The field in which the ancient
.bn 338.png
.pn +1
structures stand lies just across the tiny tributary
river Cladeus, spanned by a footbridge.

Even from the opposite bank, the ruins present
a most interesting picture, with its attractiveness
greatly enhanced by the neighboring pines, which
scatter themselves through the precinct itself and
cover densely the little conical hill of Kronos close
by, while the grasses of the plain grow luxuriantly
among the fallen stones of the former temples and
apartments of the athletes. The ruins are so numerous
and so prostrate that the non-technical visitor is
seriously embarrassed to describe them, as is the case
with every site of the kind. All the ruins, practically,
have been identified and explained, and naturally
they all have to do with the housing or with the contests
of the visiting athletes of ancient times, or with
the worship of tutelary divinities. Almost the first
extensive ruin that we found on passing the encircling
precinct wall was the Prytaneum—a sort of
ancient training table at which victorious contestants
were maintained gratis—while beyond lay other
equally extensive remnants of exercising places, such
as the Palæstra for the wrestlers. But all these were
dominated, evidently, by the two great temples, an
ancient one of comparatively small size sacred to
Hera, and a mammoth edifice dedicated to Zeus,
which still gives evidence of its enormous extent,
.bn 339.png
.pn +1
while the fallen column-drums reveal some idea of
the other proportions. It was in its day the chief
glory of the inclosure, and the statue of the god
was even reckoned among the seven wonders of the
world. Unfortunately this statue, like that of Athena
at Athens, has been irretrievably lost. But there is
enough of the great shrine standing in the midst of
the ruins to inspire one with an idea of its greatness;
and, in the museum above, the heroic figures from
its two pediments have been restored and set up in
such wise as to reproduce the external adornment of
the temple with remarkable success. Gathered around
this central building, the remainder of the ancient
structures having to do with the peculiar uses of the
spot present a bewildering array of broken stones
and marbles. An obtrusive remnant of a Byzantine
church is the one discordant feature. Aside from this
the precinct recalls only the distant time when the
regular games called all Greece to Olympia, while
the “peace of God” prevailed throughout the kingdom.
Just at the foot of Kronos a long terrace and
flight of steps mark the position of a row of old treasuries,
as at Delphi, while along the eastern side of
the precinct are to be seen the remains of a portico
once famous for its echoes, where sat the judges who
distributed the prizes. There is also a most graceful
arch remaining to mark the entrance to the ancient
.bn 340.png
.pn +1
stadium, of which nothing else now remains. Of the
later structures on the site, the “house of Nero” is
the most interesting and extensive. The Olympic
games were still celebrated, even after the Roman
domination, and Nero himself entered the lists in his
own reign. He caused a palace to be erected for him
on that occasion—and of course he won a victory, for
any other outcome would have been most impolite,
not to say dangerous. Nero was more fortunately
lodged than were the other ancient contestants, it
appears, for there were no hostelries in old Olympia
in which the visiting multitudes could be housed, and
the athletes and spectators who came from all over
the land were accustomed to bring their own tents
and pitch them roundabout, many of them on the
farther side of the Alpheios.

.il id=i341 fn=i_341.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca ENTRANCE TO THE STADIUM. OLYMPIA

The many treasuries, to which reference has been
made as running along the terrace wall at the very
foot of the hill of Kronos, are spoken of by Pausanias.
Enough of them is occasionally to be found to enable
one to judge how they appeared—somewhat, no
doubt, like the so-called “treasury of the Athenians”
that one may see in a restored form at Delphi. In
these tiny buildings were kept the smaller votive
gifts of the various states and the apparatus for the
games. Not far from this row of foundations and
close by the terrace wall that leads along the hill
.bn 341.png
.pn +1
.bn 342.png
.bn 343.png
down to the arch that marks the stadium entrance,
are several bases on which stood bronze statues of
Zeus, set up by the use of moneys derived from fines
for fracturing the rules of the games. Various ancient
athletes achieved a doubtful celebrity by having to
erect these “Zanes,” as they were called, one of them
being a memorial of the arrant coward Sarapion of
Alexandria, who was so frightened at the prospect of
entering the pankration for which he had set down
his name that he fled the day before the contest.

Within the precinct one may still see fragments
of the pedestal which supported Phidias’s wonderful
gold-and-ivory image of Zeus. The god himself is
said to have been so enchanted with the sculptor’s
work that he hurled a thunderbolt down, which struck
near the statue; and the spot was marked with a vase
of marble. Just how approval was spelled out of so
equivocal a manifestation might seem rather difficult
to see; but such at any rate was the fact. Of the
other remaining bases, the most interesting is doubtless
the tall triangular pedestal of the Niké of Pæonius,
still to be seen <lang=la><em>in situ</em></lang>, though its graceful statue
is in the museum.

Just above the meadows on the farther bank, there
runs a range of hills, through which we had but recently
ridden. And it was there that the ancients found
a convenient crag from which to hurl the unfortunate
.bn 344.png
.pn +1
women who dared venture to look on at the games.
The law provided that no woman’s eye should see
those contests, and so far as is known only one woman
caught breaking this law ever escaped the penalty
of it. She was the mother of so many victorious
athletes that an unwonted immunity was extended to
her. Other women, whose disguise was penetrated,
were made stern examples to frighten future venturesome
maids and matrons out of seeking to view what
was forbidden.

The games at Olympia were celebrated during a
period of about a thousand years, throughout which time
they furnished the one recognized system of dates.
They recurred at four-year intervals. Long before the
appointed month of the games, which were always
held in midsummer, duly accredited ambassadors
were sent forth to all the cities and states of Hellas to
announce the coming of the event and to proclaim the
“peace of God,” which the law decreed should prevail
during the days of the contest, and in which it was
sacrilege not to join, whatever the exigency. On the
appointed date the cities of all Greece sent the flower
of their youth to Olympia, runners, wrestlers, discus
throwers, chariot drivers, boxers, and the like, as well
as their choicest horses, to contend for the coveted
trophy. During the first thirteen Olympiads there was
but one athletic event,—a running race. In later times
.bn 345.png
.pn +1
the number was added to until the race had grown
to a “pentathlon,” or contest of five kinds, and still
later to include twenty-four different exercises. None
but Greeks of pure blood could contest, at least until
the Roman times, and nobles and plebeians vied in
striving for the victor’s wreath, although the richer
were at a decided advantage in the matter of the horse
races. The prize offered, however, was of no intrinsic
value at all, being nothing but a crown of wild olive,
and it astonished and dismayed the invading Persians
not a little to find that they were being led against a
nation that would strive so earnestly and steadfastly
for a prize that seemed so little. As a matter of fact
it was not as slight a reward as it appeared to be, for
in the incidental honors that it carried the world has
seldom seen its equal. The man who proved his right
to be crowned with this simple wreath was not only
regarded as honored in himself, but honor was imputed
to his family and to his city as well; and the
city generally went wild with enthusiasm over him,
some even going so far as to raze their walls in token
that with so gallant sons they needed no bulwarks.
Special privileges were conferred upon him at home
and even abroad. In many cities the victor of an
Olympic contest was entitled to maintenance at the
public charge in the utmost honor, and the greatest
poets of the day delighted to celebrate the victors in
.bn 346.png
.pn +1
their stateliest odes. Thus, although games in honor
of the gods were held at various other points in
Greece, as for example at Delphi and at the isthmus
of Corinth, none surpassed the Olympic as a national
institution, sharing the highest honors with the oracle
at Delphi as an object of universal reverence.

Of course the origin of these great games is
shrouded in mystery, which has, as usual, crystallized
into legend. And as the pediment in one end
of the temple of the Olympian Zeus, preserved in the
museum near by, deals with this story, it may be
in order to speak of it. Tradition relates that King
[OE]nomaus had a splendid stud of race horses of which
he was justly proud, and likewise was possessed of
a surpassingly beautiful daughter whom men called
Hippodameia, who was naturally sought in marriage
by eligible young men from all around. The condition
precedent set by [OE]nomaus to giving her hand
was, however, a difficult one. The suitor must race
his horses against those of [OE]nomaus, driving the
team himself; and if he lost he was put to death. One
version relates that [OE]nomaus, if he found himself
being distanced, was wont to spear the luckless swains
from behind. At any rate nobody had succeeded
in winning Hippodameia when young Pelops came
along and entered the contest. He had no doubt
heard of the king’s unsportsmanlike javelin tactics,
.bn 347.png
.pn +1
for he adopted some subterfuges of his own,—doing
something or other to the chariot of his opponent,
such as loosening a linchpin or bribing his charioteer
to weaken it in some other part,—with the result that
when the race came off [OE]nomaus was thrown out
and killed, and Pelops won the race and Hippodameia—and
of course lived happily ever after.

The pedimental sculptures from the great temple
reproduce the scene that preceded the race in figures
of heroic size, with no less a personage than Zeus
himself in the centre of the group, while [OE]nomaus
and Pelops with their chariots and horses and their
attendants range themselves on either side, and Hippodameia
stands expectantly waiting. The restorations
have been liberal, but on the whole successful;
and besides giving a very good idea of the legend
itself, they are highly interesting from a sculptural
point of view as showing a distinctive style of carving
in marble. The other pediment, preserved in about the
same proportion, is less interesting from a legendary
standpoint, but is full of animation and artistic interest.
It represents the contest between the Centaurs
and Lapiths, with Apollo just in the act of intervening
to prevent the rape of the Lapith women. This
episode had little appropriateness to the Olympic site,
so far as I know, but the ease with which the Centaur
lent himself to the limitations of pedimental sculpture
.bn 348.png
.pn +1
might well explain the adoption of the incident here.
The head of Apollo is of the interesting type with
which one grows familiar in going through museums
devoted to early work, the most notable thing being
the curious treatment of hair and eyes.

The precinct about the great temple was once filled
with votive statues, and Pliny relates that he counted
something like three thousand. Of these it appears
that few remain sufficiently whole to add much interest.
But out of all the great assemblage of sculptures
there is one at least surviving that must forever assuage
any grief at the loss of the rest. That, of course,
is the inimitable Hermes of Praxiteles, which everybody
knows through reproductions and photographs,
but which in the original is so incomparably beautiful
that no reproduction can hope to give an adequate
idea of it, either in the expression of body and features,
its poise and grace, or in the exquisite sheen
of marble. They have wisely set it off by itself in a
room which cannot be seen from the great main hall
of the museum, and the observer is left to contemplate
it undistracted. It seems generally to be agreed
that it is the masterpiece of extant Greek sculpture.
It is nearly perfect in its preservation, the upraised
arm and small portions of the legs being about all
that is missing. The latter have been supplied, not
unsuccessfully, to join the admirable feet to the rest.
.bn 349.png
.pn +1
No effort has been made, and happily so, to supply
the missing arm. The infant Dionysus perched on
the left arm is no great addition to the statue, and
one might well wish it were not there; but even this
slight drawback cannot interfere with the admiration
one feels for so perfect a work. Hermes alone fully
justifies the journey to Olympia, and once seen he
will never be forgotten. The satin smoothness of
the marble admirably simulates human (or god-like)
flesh, doubtless because of the processes which the
Greeks knew of rubbing it down with a preparation
of wax. No trace of other external treatment survives,
save a faint indication of gilding on the sandals. If
the hair and eyes were ever painted, the paint has
entirely disappeared in the centuries that the statue
lay buried in the sands that the restless Alpheios and
Cladeus washed into the sacred inclosure. For the
rivers frequently left their narrow beds in former times
and invaded the precincts of the gods, despite the
efforts of man to wall them out. They have done
irreparable damage to the buildings there, but since
they at the same time preserved Hermes almost intact
for modern eyes to enjoy, perhaps their other
vandalisms may be pardoned.

The museum also includes among its treasures a
number of the metopes from the great temple of Zeus,
representing the labors of Hercules. But probably next
.bn 350.png
.pn +1
after the incomparable Hermes must be reckoned the
Niké of Pæonius, standing on a high pedestal at one
end of the great main hall, and seemingly sweeping
triumphantly through space with her draperies flowing
free—a wonderful lightness being suggested despite
the weight of the material. This Niké has always
seemed to me a fair rival of her more famous sister
from Samothrace, suggesting the idea of victory even
more forcibly than the statue on the staircase of the
Louvre, which has an Amazonian quality suggestive
of actual conflict rather than a past successful issue.
The unfortunate circumstance about the Niké at Olympia
is that her head is gone, and they have sought to
suspend the recovered portion of it over the body by
an iron rod. A wrist is in like manner appended to
one of the arms, and the two give a jarring note, by
recalling Ichabod Crane and Cap'n Cuttle in most
incongruous surroundings. Nevertheless the Niké is
wonderful, and would be more so if it were not for
these lamentable attempts to restore what is not possible
to be restored.

Of all the many little collections in Greece, that
in Olympia is doubtless the best, and it is fittingly
housed in a building in the classic style, given by a
patriotic Greek, M. Syngros. Aside from the artistic
remnants, there are a number of relics bearing on the
athletic aspect of Olympia—its chief side, of course.
.bn 351.png
.pn +1
And among these are some ancient discs of metal and
stone, and a huge rock which bears an inscription relating
that a certain strong man of ancient times was
able to lift it over his head and to toss it a stated distance.
It seems incredible—but there were giants in
the land in those days.

The modern Olympic games, such as are held in
Athens every now and then, are but feeble attempts to
give a classic tone to a very ordinary athletic meet of
international character. There is none of the significance
attached to the modern events that attended the
old, and the management leaves much to be desired.
Former visitors are no longer maintained at the Prytaneum;
but, on the contrary, are even denied passes
to witness the struggles of their successors. The
games fill Athens with a profitable throng and serve to
advertise the country, but aside from this they have
no excuse for being on Greek soil, and mar the land
so far as concerns the enjoyment of true Philhellenes.
Fortunately there is no possible chance of holding
any such substitute games at Olympia herself. Her
glory has departed forever, save as it survives in
memory.
.bn 352.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=chap14
CHAPTER XIV. THE ISLES OF | GREECE: DELOS

.il fn=i_352.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
It was a gray morning—for Greece. The sky was
overcast, the wind blew chill from the north, and
anon the rain would set in and give us a few moments
of downpour, only to cease again and permit a brief
glimpse ahead across the Ægean, into which classic
sea our little steamer was thrusting her blunt nose,
rising and falling on the heavy swell. We had borne
around Sunium in the early dawn, and our course was
now in an easterly direction toward the once famous
but now entirely deserted island of Delos, the centre
of the Cyclades. Ahead, whenever the murk lifted, we
could see several of the nearer and larger islands of
the group,—that imposing row of submerged mountain
peaks that reveal the continuation of the Attic
peninsula under water as it streams away to the southeast
from the promontory of Sunium. The seeming
chaos of the Grecian archipelago is easily reducible
to something like order by keeping this fact in mind.
It is really composed of two parallel submerged mountain
.bn 353.png
.pn +1
ranges, the prolongations of Attica and of Eub[oe]a
respectively, the summits of which pierce the surface
of the water again and again, forming the islands
which every schoolboy recalls as having names that
end in “os.” Just before us, in a row looming through
the drifting rain, we saw Kythnos, Seriphos, and Siphnos,
while beyond them, and belonging to the other
ridge, the chart revealed Andros, Tenos, Naxos, Mykonos,
and Paros, as yet impossible of actual sight.
This galaxy of islands must have proved highly useful
to the ancient mariners, no doubt, since by reason
of their numbers and proximity to each other and to
the mainland, as well as by reason of their distinctive
shapes and contours, it was possible always to keep
some sort of landmark in sight, as was highly desirable
in days when sailors knew nothing of compasses
and steered only by the stars. Lovers of Browning will
recall the embarrassment that overtook the Rhodian
bark that set sail with Balaustion for Athens, only to
lose all reckoning and bring up in Syracuse. No ancient
ship was at all sure of accurate navigation without
frequent landfalls, and even the hardy mariners of
Athens were accustomed, when en route to Sicily, to
hug the rugged shores of the Peloponnesus all the way
around to the opening of the Corinthian Gulf, and
thence to proceed to Corfu before venturing to strike
off westward across the Adriatic to the “heel” of
.bn 354.png
.pn +1
Italy, where one could skirt the shore again until Sicily
hove in sight near the dreaded haunts of Scylla. Of
course other considerations, such as food and water,
added to the desirability of keeping the land in sight
most of the time on so long a voyage; but not the least
important of the reasons was the necessity of keeping
on the right road.

We had set sail on a chartered ship, in a party
numbering about forty, most of whom were bent on
the serious consideration of things archæological,
while the inconsiderable remainder were unblushingly
in search of pleasure only slightly tinged by
scientific enthusiasm. In no other way, indeed, could
such a journey be made in anything like comfort.
The Greek steamers, while numerous, are slow and
small, and not to be recommended for cleanliness or
convenience; while their stated routes include much
that is of no especial interest to visitors, who are
chiefly eager to view scenes made glorious by past
celebrity, and are less concerned with the modern seaports
devoted to a prosaic traffic in wine and fruits.
To one fortunate enough to be able to number himself
among those who go down to the sea in yachts,
the Ægean furnishes a fruitful source of pleasure. To
us, the only recourse was to the native lines of freight
and passenger craft, or to join ourselves to a party
of investigators who were taking an annual cruise
.bn 355.png
.pn +1
among the famous ancient sites. We chose the latter,
not merely because of the better opportunity to
visit the islands we had long most wished to see,
but because of the admirable opportunity to derive
instruction as well as pleasure from the voyage. So
behold us in our own ship, with our own supplies,
our own sailing master and crew, sailing eastward
over a gray sea, through the spring showers, toward
the barren isle where Ph[oe]bus sprung.

Delos is easy enough to find now, small as it is.
It long ago ceased to be the floating island that legend
describes. If we can permit ourselves a little
indulgence in paganism, we may believe that this
rocky islet was a chip, broken from the bed of the
ocean by Poseidon, which was floating about at random
until Zeus anchored it to afford a bed for Leto,
that she might be comfortably couched at the birth
of Apollo, despite the promise of Earth that the guilty
Leto should have no place to lay her head. Thus the
vow which the jealousy of Hera had procured was
brought to naught, and in Delos was born the most
celebrated of the sons of Zeus, together with his twin
sister, Artemis.

Delos is in fact a double island, divided by a narrow
strait into Greater and Lesser Delos. And it was
with the lesser portion that we had to do, as also did
ancient history. For despite its insignificant size and
.bn 356.png
.pn +1
remoteness, Delos the Less was once a chief seat of
empire and a great and flourishing city, as well as the
repository of vast wealth. Distant as it seems from
Athens, the island is really quite central with reference
to the rest of the archipelago, and from its low summit
may be seen most of the Cyclades on a clear
day. The narrow strait before referred to furnishes
about all the harbor that is to be found at Delos
to-day. Into this sheltered bit of water we steamed
and dropped anchor, happy in the favoring wind that
allowed us a landing where it is occasionally difficult
to find water sufficiently smooth for the small boats;
for here, as in all Greek waters, small boats furnish
the only means of getting ashore. There was a shallow
basin just before what was once the ancient city,
and doubtless it was considered good harborage for
the triremes and galleys of small draught; but for even
a small steamer like ours it was quite insufficient in
depth, and we came to rest perhaps a quarter of a
mile from the landing, while the clouds broke and
the afternoon sun came out warm and bright as
we clambered down to the dories and pulled for the
shore.

There proved to be little or no habitation save for
the French excavators and their men, who were completing
a notable work in uncovering not only the ancient
precincts of Apollo and of the headquarters of the
.bn 357.png
.pn +1
Delian league, but the residence portion of the ancient
city as well, which we later discovered to lie off to the
east on the high ground. We landed on a sort of
rocky mole erected along the edge of what was once
the sacred harbor and picked our way along a narrow-gauge
track used by the excavators, to the maze of
ruins that lay beyond. It proved as bewildering a
mass of fallen marbles as that at Olympia. The main
part of the ruin is apparently a relic of the religious
side of the place, dominated, of course, by the cult of
Apollo. Centuries of reverence had contributed to the
enrichment of the environs of the shrine. All about
the visitor finds traces of porticoes and propylæa, the
largest of these being erected by Philip V. of Macedon,
as is testified to by an extant inscription. Little
remains standing of any of the buildings, but the
bits of capital and entablature that lie strewn about
serve to give a faint idea of the nature of the adornment
that attended the temples in their prime. It is
not difficult to trace the course of the sacred way leading
from the entrance around the sacred precinct to
the eastern façade of the main temples, lined throughout
most of its course by the bases of statues, altars,
and remnants of the foundations of small rectangular
buildings which are supposed to have been treasuries,
as at Delphi and Olympia. Not far away from the
main temple of the god is still to be seen the base of
.bn 358.png
.pn +1
his colossal statue, an inscription reciting that the
Naxians made it, and that they carved statue and base
from the same stone. Whether this means that the
figure and base were actually a single block, or only
that the figure and base were made of the same specific
material, has caused some little speculation. As for
the statue itself, there are at least two large fragments
on the ground not far away, easily identified by the
modeling as parts of the huge back and breast of the
colossus. One of his feet is preserved in the British
Museum, and a hand is at the neighboring island of
Mykonos. The rest is either buried in the earth near
by, or has been carried off by vandals. That the earth
has many treasures still to yield up is evident by the
occasional accidental discoveries recently made on the
site by the diggers. When we were there the construction
of a trench for the diminutive car-track had
unearthed a beautifully sculptured lion deep in the
soil; and since that time I have heard that several
other similar finds have been made. So it may be
that the lime burners have not made away with the
great Apollo entirely.

There are three temples, presumably all devoted
to the cult of Apollo, and one of them no doubt to
the memory of his unfortunate mother, Leto, who
bore him, according to tradition, on the shores of the
sacred lake near by. Not far from the Apollo group
.bn 359.png
.pn +1
are two other ruined shrines, supposed to have been
sacred to Artemis. More interesting than either, however,
to the layman is the famous “hall of the bulls,”
which is the largest and best preserved of all the
buildings, and which takes its name from the carved
bullocks on its capitals. It is not saying much, however,
to say that it is better preserved than the others.
It is only so in the sense that its extent and general
plan are easier to trace. Its altar, known as the
“horned altar of Apollo,” from the rams’ heads with
which it was adorned, was accounted by the ancients
one of the seven wonders of the world. We were well
content to leave the sacred precinct, and to wander
along toward the north, past the Roman agora, in the
general direction of the sacred lake. It proved to
be a sorry pool, stagnant and unattractive compared
with what it must have been when it was in its prime,
with its banks adorned with curbing. Not far from
its shores we were shown the remains of several ancient
houses, also of the Roman period, in which the
rooms were still divided by walls of a considerable
height. These walls gave occasional evidence of
having been adorned with stucco and frescoes, and
the rooms revealed fragments of tessellated pavement,
while under each house was a capacious cistern
for the preservation of rain water. Of course these
dwellings, while recalling Pompeii, were far less perfect
.bn 360.png
.pn +1
in the way of artistic revelations, being so much
older.

These houses, interesting as they were, did not compare
with those which we were later shown on the
hill above the precinct. These we passed on our way
up to the theatre, and to those of us who were unskilled
in archæological science they proved to be the
most absorbing of all the ruins on the little island.
There are a good many of them, lining several old
streets, as at Pompeii. Their walls are of sufficient
altitude to give even an idea of the upper stories,
and in one case, at least, we were able to mount, by
a sadly ruined stone staircase, to what was once
the upper landing. The general arrangement of the
rooms was quite similar to that made familiar by the
excavated houses at Pompeii, the great central court,
or atrium, being adorned with a most remarkable
mosaic representing Dionysos riding on a dragon
of ferocious mien. It is kept covered, but a guard
obligingly raised the heavy wooden door that shields
it from the weather, and propped it up with a stick
so that it resembled nothing so much as a huge piano
lid. The coloring of the mosaic was lively in spite of
its sombreness, and the eyes of the figures were admirably
executed.

All around the atrium were traces of a colonnade,
pieces of the columns remaining intact. The walls
.bn 361.png
.pn +1
were apparently decorated with bits of stone set deep
in a coating of mortar, and once adorned with a colored
wash of red, yellow, and blue. Mural paintings
naturally were wanting, for these houses were not
only older than those of the Neapolitan suburb, but
they perished by a slow weathering process instead
of by a sudden overwhelming such as overtook Pompeii.
What traces of painting there are left on the
Delian walls are indistinct and rather unsatisfactory,
and recall the childish scrawls of our own day. But
the houses themselves, with their occasional pavements
and the one admirable mosaic, leave little to
be desired. Particularly interesting was the revelation
of the drainage system. The houses were not
only carefully provided with deep cisterns for preserving
rain water; they had also well-designed channels
for carrying waste water away. Every house in
these streets had its drain covered with flat stones
running out to the main sewer of the street, while
those in turn converged in a trunk sewer at the foot
of the slope. It is evident enough that Delos was a
dry sort of place, both by nature and by artifice, and
that in the period of the city’s greatest celebrity it
would be impossible for the historian to refer to the
muddy condition existing at that period of the month
just before the streets underwent their regular cleaning.
.bn 362.png
.pn +1

We had passed well up toward the theatre on the
slopes of the height called Kythnos before we cleared
the ancient dwellings. The theatre itself proved to
be roomy, but largely grass-grown and exceedingly
steep to clamber over. The portion devoted to seats
was chiefly notable for occupying considerably more
than the traditional semicircle, and for having its
ends built up with huge walls of masonry. Only the
lower seats are preserved. The colonnaded proskenion,
which may have supported a stage, is, however,
highly unusual and interesting.

Sundry venturesome spirits climbed to the summit
of Kythnos, but it was no day for the view for which
that eminence is celebrated. On a clearer day a
great many of the Cyclades could be seen, no doubt,
because of the central location of the island and the
marvelous clarity of the Greek atmosphere, when it
is clear at all. We were unfortunate enough to meet
with a showery April day, which promised little in the
way of distant prospects. Halfway down the side of
Kythnos, however, was easily to be seen the grotto
of Apollo. In fact, it is the most constantly visible
feature of the island. It is a sort of artificial cave in
the side of the hill toward the ruins, and here was
the earliest of the temples to the god. Ancient hands
added to what natural grotto there was by erecting a
primitive portal for it. Two huge slabs of stone seem
.bn 363.png
.bn 364.png
.bn 365.png
.pn +1
to have been allowed to drop toward one another
until they met, forming a mutual support, so that the
effect is that of a gable. Other slabs have been arranged
to form a pitch roof over the spot, and a marble
lintel and gate posts have also been added,—presumably
much later than the rest. It is even probable
that this venerable shrine was also the seat of an
oracle, for certain of the internal arrangements of the
grotto bear a resemblance to those known to have
existed at Delphi; but if there was one in Delos, it
never attained to the reputation that attended the
later chief home of the far-darting god.

.il id=i363a fn=i_363a.jpg w=500px ew=90%
.ca DELOS, SHOWING GROTTO

.il id=i363b fn=i_363b.jpg w=500px ew=90%
.ca GROTTO OF APOLLO. DELOS

The births of Apollo and Artemis appear to have
been deemed quite enough for the celebrity of Delos;
for in after years, when the Athenians felt called upon
to “purify” the city, they enacted that no mortal in
the future should be permitted to be born or to die
on the island. In consequence, temporary habitations
were erected across the narrow strait on the shores
of Greater Delos for the use of those <lang=la><em>in extremis</em></lang> or
those about to be confined. Aside from this fact, the
larger island has little or no interest to the visitor.

There is, of course, a museum at Delos. Some day
it will be a very interesting one indeed. At the time
of our visit it was only just finished, and had not been
provided with any floor but such as nature gave. In
due season it will probably rank with any for its
.bn 366.png
.pn +1
archæological value, although it will be infinitely less
interesting than others to inexpert visitors, who generally
prefer statues of fair preservation to small fragments
and bits of inscription. Of the notable sculptures
that must have abounded in Delos once, comparatively
little remains; certainly nothing to compare
with the charioteer and the Lysippus at Delphi, or
with the Hermes and pedimental figures at Olympia.
The great charm of Delos to the unskilled mind
is to be found in its history and in its beautiful surroundings.
As a birthplace of one of the major gods
of high Olympus, the seat of the Delian league against
the Persians, and the original treasury of the Athenian
empire, Delos has history enough to satisfy an
island many times her size. Traces still remain of the
dancing place where the Delian maidens performed
their wonderful evolutions during the annual pilgrimage,
which was a feature during the Athenian supremacy;
and the temples and treasuries, ruined as
they are, forcibly recall the importance which once
attached to the spot. The memory still survives of
the so-called “Delian problem” of the doubling of
the cube, a task that proved a poser for the ancient
mathematicians when the oracle propounded, as the
price of staying a plague, that the Delians should
double the pedestal of Parian marble that stood in
the great temple. But it is almost entirely a place of
.bn 367.png
.pn +1
memories, deserted by all but the excavators and an
occasional shepherd. To-day it is little more than the
bare rock that it was when Poseidon split it from the
bed of the sea. Apollo gave it an immortality, however,
which does not wane although Apollo himself is
dead. Athens and Corinth gave it a worldly celebrity,
which proved but temporary so far as it depended on
activity in the world of affairs. Delos, washed by the
Ægean, has little to look forward to but to drowse
the long tides idle, well content with her crowded
hour of glorious life, and satisfied that her neighbors
should have the age without a name.
.bn 368.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=chap15
CHAPTER XV. SAMOS AND THE | TEMPLE AT BRANCHIDÆ

.il fn=i_368.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
The stiff north wind, which was known to be
blowing outside, counseled delaying departure
from Delos until after the evening meal, for our course
to Samos lay through the trough of the sea. In the
shelter of the narrow channel between Greater and
Lesser Delos the water was calm enough to enable
eating in comfort, and it was the commendable rule
of the cruise to seek shelter for meals, owing to the
lack of “racks” to prevent the contents of the tables
from shifting when the vessel rolled. Hence it was
well along in the evening before the anchor was
weighed; and as the engines gave their first premonitory
wheezes, word was passed from the bridge that
all who did not love rough weather would better retire
at once, as we were certain to “catch it” as soon
as we rounded the capes of the neighboring Mykonos
and squared away for Samos across a long stretch of
open water. The warning served to bring home to us
one of the marked peculiarities about cruising in the
.bn 369.png
.pn +1
Ægean, namely, the succession of calm waters and
tempestuous seas, which interlard themselves like the
streaks of fat and lean in the bacon from the Irishman’s
pig, which was fed to repletion one day and
starved the next. This, of course, is due to the numerous
islands, never many miles apart, which are forever
affording shelter from the breezes and waves, only to
open up again and subject the craft to a rolling and
boisterous sea as it crosses the stretches of open channel
between them. When the experiences due to these
sudden transitions were not trying, they were likely
to be amusing, we discovered, as was the case on one
morning when the tables had been laid for breakfast
rather imprudently just before rounding a windy
promontory. The instant the ship felt the cross seas
she began to roll heavily, and the entire array of breakfast
dishes promptly left the unprotected table, only
to crash heavily against the stateroom doors that lined
the saloon, eliciting shrieks from those within; while
the following roll of the vessel sent the débris careering
across the floor to bring up with equal resonance
against the doors on the other side, the stewards meantime
being harassed beyond measure to recover their
scudding cups and saucers.

In the morning of our arrival off Samos we found
ourselves moving along on an even keel, under the
lee of that extensive island and close also to the
.bn 370.png
.pn +1
shores of Asia Minor, the famous promontory of
Mykale looming large and blue ahead. We coasted
along the Samian shore, close enough to distinguish
even from a distance the ruins of the once famous
Heræum, which was among the objects of our visit.
It was marked from afar by a single gleaming column,
rising apparently from the beach. For the present
we passed it by, the ship heading for the little
white town farther ahead and just opposite the bay
made by the great bulk of Mykale. It was historic
ground, for it was at Mykale that the pursuing
Greeks, under Leotychides and Xantippus, made the
final quietus of the Persian army and navy in the
year 479 <sc>B.C.</sc>, just after Salamis, by the final defeat
of Tigranes. Mykale, however, we viewed only from
afar. The ship rounded the mole protecting the harbor
of what was once the chief city of Samos, and
came to anchor for the first time in Turkish waters.
While the necessary official visits and examination
of passports were being made, there was abundant
opportunity to inspect the port from the deck. It lay
at the base of a rugged mountain, and the buildings
of the city lined the diminutive harbor on two sides,
curving along a low quay. In general appearance
the town recalled Canea, in Crete, by the whiteness
of its houses and the pale greenness of its shutters
and the occasional slender tower of a mosque. Technically
.bn 371.png
.pn +1
Samos is a Turkish island. Practically it is so
only in the sense that it pays an annual tribute to
the Sultan and that its Greek governor is nominated
by that monarch. It was sufficiently Turkish, in any
event, to require passports and the official call of a
tiny skiff flying the crescent flag and bearing a resplendent
local officer crowned with a red fez. The
formalities were all arranged by proxy ashore, and in
due time the ship’s boat returned, bearing the freedom
of the city and a limited supply of Samian cigarettes,
which retailed at the modest sum of a franc and
a half the hundred.

Herodotus devotes a considerable space to the history
of the Samians in the time of the Persian supremacy
and especially to the deeds of the tyrant Polycrates,
who seized the power of the island and proved
a prosperous ruler. In fact the rampant successes of
Polycrates alarmed his friend and ally, King Amasis
of Egypt, who had the wholesome dread of the ancients
for the “jealousy” of the gods; and in consequence
Amasis sent a messenger up to Samos to tell
Polycrates that he was too successful for his own good.
Amasis was afraid, according to the messenger, that
some evil would overtake the Samian ruler, and he
advised Polycrates to cast away whatever thing he
valued the most as a propitiation of the gods. The
advice so impressed Polycrates that he recounted his
.bn 372.png
.pn +1
possessions, selected a certain emerald seal-ring that
he cherished exceedingly, took it aboard a fifty-oared
galley and, when sufficiently far out at sea, hurled the
treasured ring into the water. Whereat he returned
content that he had appeased the presumably jealous
gods. In less than a week a fisherman, who had taken
an unusually beautiful fish in those waters, presented
it as a great honor to Polycrates, and in dressing it
for the table the servants found in its belly the ring
that Polycrates had tried so hard to cast away! The
event was held to be superhuman, and an account of
it was promptly sent to Amasis in Egypt. He, however,
judging from it that Polycrates was inevitably
doomed by heaven, ended his alliance with Samos on
the naïve plea that he should be sorry to have anything
happen to a friend, and therefore proposed to make of
Polycrates an enemy, that he need not grieve when
misfortune overtook him! Misfortune did indeed overtake
Polycrates, and Herodotus describes at some
length how it occurred, ending his discourse with the
remark that he feels justified in dealing at such length
with the affairs of the Samians because they have accomplished
"three works, the greatest that have been
achieved by all the Greeks. The first is of a mountain,
one hundred and fifty orgyiæ in height, in which is dug
a tunnel beginning at the base and having an opening
at either side of the mountain. The length of the
.bn 373.png
.pn +1
tunnel is seven stadia, and the height and breadth are
eight feet respectively. Through the whole length of
the tunnel runs another excavation three feet wide and
twenty cubits deep, through which cutting the water,
conveyed by pipes, reaches the city, being drawn from
a copious fount on the farther side of the mountain.
The architect of this excavation was a Megarian, Eupalinus
the son of Naustrophus. This, then, is one
of the three great works. The second is a mound
in the sea around the harbor, in depth about a hundred
orgyiæ and in length about two stadia. The
third work of theirs is a great temple, the largest we
ever have seen, of which the architect was Rh[oe]cus,
son of Phileos, a native Samian. On account of these
things I have dwelt longer on the affairs of the
Samians."[3]

.fn 3
Herodotus, Book III, section 60.
.fn-

.fm rend=t lz=t
.fm rend=t

It was, then, inside this mole, two stadia in length,
that we were anchored. Doubtless the modern mole is
still standing on the ancient foundation, but it would
not be considered anything remarkable in the way of
engineering to-day, whatever it may have been deemed
in the childhood of the race. Something in the air of
Samos must have bred a race of natural engineers,
no doubt, for not only were these artificial wonders
constructed there, but Pythagoras, the mathematical
philosopher, was born in the island.
.bn 374.png
.pn +1

From the city up to the remnants of the ancient
aqueduct in the mountain is not a difficult climb, and
the tunnel itself affords a great many points of interest.
In an age when tunneling was not a common or well-understood
art, it must indeed have seemed a great
wonder that the Samians were able to pierce the bowels
of this considerable rocky height to get a water supply
that could not be cut off. The source of the flowage
was a spring located in the valley on the side of the
mountain away from the town, and it would have been
perfectly possible to convey the water to the city without
any tunnel at all, merely by following the valley
around. For some reason this was deemed inexpedient—doubtless
because of the evident chance an enemy
would have for cutting off the supply. The obvious
question is, what was gained by making the tunnel,
since the spring itself was in the open and could have
been stopped as readily as an open aqueduct? And the
only answer that has been suggested is that the spring
alone is so concealed and so difficult to find that, even
with the clue given by Herodotus, it was next to impossible
to locate it. And in order to conceal the source
still further, the burial of the conduit in the heart of the
mountain certainly contributed not a little. Nevertheless
it is a fact that the farther end of the tunnel was
discovered some years ago by tracing a line from the
site of this spring, so that now the aqueduct has been
.bn 375.png
.pn +1
relocated and is found to be substantially as described
by Herodotus in the passage quoted.

Most visitors, possessed of comparatively limited
time like ourselves, are content with inspecting only
the town end of the tunnel, which lies up in the side
of the mountain. It is amply large enough to enter,
but tapers are needed to give light to the feet as one
walks carefully, and often sidewise, along the ledge
that borders the deeper cutting below, in which once
ran the actual water pipes. The depth of the latter,
which Herodotus calls “twenty cubits,” is considerably
greater at this end of the tunnel than at the
other,—a fact which is apparently accounted for by
the necessity of correcting errors of level, after the
tunnel was finished, to give sufficient pitch to carry
the water down. In those primitive days it is not
surprising that such an error was made. There is
evidence that the tunnel was dug by two parties
working from opposite ends, as is the custom to-day.
That they met in the centre of the mountain with
such general accuracy speaks well for the engineering
skill of the time, and that they allowed too little
for the drop of the stream is not at all strange. The
result of this is that, in the end commonly visited
by travelers, there is need of caution lest the unwary
slip from the narrow ledge at the side into the supplementary
cut thirty feet below—a fall not to be
.bn 376.png
.pn +1
despised, either because of its chance of injury or
because of the difficulty of getting the victim out
again. So much, as Herodotus would say, for the
water-conduit of the Samians.

From the tunnel down to the ancient Heræum,
whither our ship had sailed to await us, proved to
be a walk of something over two miles along a curving
beach, across which occasional streams made
their shallow way from inland to the sea. It was a
pleasant walk, despite occasional stony stretches; for
the rugged mountain chain inland presented constantly
changing views on the one hand, while on
the other, across the deep blue of the Ægean, rose
the commanding heights of Asia Minor, stretching
away from the neighboring Mykale to the distant,
and still snow-crowned, peaks of the Latmian range.
Under the morning sun the prospect was indescribably
lovely, particularly across the sea to the bold
coasts of Asia, the remote mountains being revealed
in that delicate chiaroscuro which so often attends
white peaks against the blue. Ahead was always the
solitary column which is all that remains standing of
the once vast temple of Hera, “the largest we ever
have seen,” according to the ingenuous and truthful
Herodotus.

There is a reason for holding the spot in an especial
manner sacred to Hera, for it is said by legend
.bn 377.png
.pn +1
that she was born on the banks of one of the little
streams whose waters we splashed through in crossing
the beach to her shrine. The temple itself we
found to lie far back from the water’s edge, its foundations
so buried in the deposited earth that considerable
excavation has been necessary to reveal them.
The one remaining column is not complete, but is
still fairly lofty. It bears no capital, and its drums
are slightly jostled out of place, so that it has a rather
unfinished look, to which its lack of fluting contributes;
for, as even the amateur knows, the fluting of
Greek columns was never put on until the whole pillar
was set up, and every joint of it ground so fine
as to be invisible. We walked up to the ruin through
the inevitable cutting, in which lay the inevitable narrow-gauge
track for the excavator’s cars, but there
was no activity to be seen. The excavation had progressed
so far as to leave little more to be done, or
there was no more money, or something had intervened
to put an end to the operations for the time.
Not far away, however, along the beach, lay a few
houses, which constituted the habitation of the diggers
and of a few fishermen, whose seine boats were
being warped up as we passed.

The exploration of the great temple of Hera has revealed
the not unusual fact that there had been two
temples on the same spot at successive periods. They
.bn 378.png
.pn +1
were not identical in location, but the later overlapped
the earlier, traces of the latter being confined to its
lowest foundation stones. Of the ruins of the later
temple there was but slightly more visible, save for
the one standing column and a multitude of drums,
capitals, and bases lying about. The latter were of a
type we had not previously seen. They were huge lozenges
of marble ornamented with horizontal grooves
and resembling nothing so much as great cable drums
partially wound—the effect of a multitude of narrow
grooves in a slightly concave trough around the column.
They were of a noticeable whiteness, for the
marble of which this temple was composed was not
so rich in mineral substances as the Pentelic, and
gave none of that golden brown effect so familiar in
the Athenian temples.

.il id=i379a fn=i_379a.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca COLUMN BASES. SAMOS

.il id=i379b fn=i_379b.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca CARVED COLUMN-BASE. BRANCHIDÆ

It was in this great Heræum, which in size rivaled
the great temples at Ephesus and at Branchidæ, that
the Samians deposited the brazen bowl filched from
the Spartans, of which the ancients made so much.
It appears that because of Cr[oe]sus having sought an
alliance with Lacedæmonia, the inhabitants of that
land desired to return the compliment by sending him
a present. They caused a huge brass bowl to be made,
adorned with many figures and capable of holding
three hundred amphoræ. This they dispatched to
Sardis. But as the ship bearing it was passing Samos
.bn 379.png
.bn 380.png
.bn 381.png
.pn +1
on her way, the Samians came out in force, seized the
ship, and carried the great bowl off to the temple,
where it was consecrated to the uses of the goddess.
That the Samians stole it thus was of course indignantly
denied,—the islanders retorting that the bowl
was sold them by the Spartans when they discovered
that Cr[oe]sus had fallen before Cyrus and was no
longer an ally to be desired. No trace of any such
relic of course is to be seen there now. In fact there
is very little to recall the former greatness of the place
but the silent and lonely column and a very diminutive
museum standing near the beach, which contains disappointingly
little. It is, as a matter of fact, no more
than a dark shed, similar in appearance to the rest
of the houses of the hamlet.

The steamer was waiting near by in the sheltered
waters of the sound, and as we were desirous of visiting
the temple at Branchidæ that same afternoon,
we left Samos and continued our voyage. Under
that wonderfully clear sky the beauty of both shores
was indescribable. The Asian coast, toward which we
now bore our way, was, however, the grander of the
two, with its foreground of plains and meadows and
its magnificent background of imposing mountains
stretching far into the interior and losing themselves
in the unimagined distances beyond. The sun-kissed
ripples of the sea were of that incredible blue that one
.bn 382.png
.pn +1
never ceases to marvel at in the Mediterranean, and
it was the sudden change from this color to a well-defined
area of muddy yellow in the waters through
which we glided that called attention to the mouth
of the Mæander on the shore. That proverbially
crooked and winding stream discharges so large a
bulk of soil in projecting itself into the sea that the
surface is discolored for a considerable distance off
shore; and through this our steamer took her way,
always nearing the low-lying beach, until we descried
a projecting headland, and rounded it into waters as
calm as those of a pond. Here we dropped anchor
and once again proceeded to the land, setting our
feet for the first time on the shores of Asia.

Samos was, of course, still to be seen to the northwest,
like a dark blue cloud rising from a tossing sea.
Before us, glowing in the afternoon sun, stretched a
long expanse of open seashore meadow, undulating
here and there, almost devoid of trees, but thickly
covered with tracts of shrubs and bushes, through
which we pushed our way until we came upon an
isolated farmhouse and a path leading off over the
moor. It was a mere cart-track through the green of
the fields, leading toward a distant hillock, on which
we could from afar make out the slowly waving arms
of windmills and indications of a small town. None
of the many rambles we took in the Greek islands
.bn 383.png
.pn +1
surpassed this two-mile walk for pure pleasure. The
air was balmy yet cool. The fields were spangled
with flowers,—wild orchids, iris, gladioli, and many
others. There were no gray hills, save so far in the
distance that they had become purple and had lost
their bareness. All around was a deserted yet pleasant
and pastoral country—deserving, none the less,
the general name of moor.

What few people we met on the way were farmers
and shepherds, leading pastoral lives in the little brush
wigwams so common in Greek uplands in the summer
months. They gave us the usual cheerful good-day,
and looked after our invading host with wondering
eyes as we streamed off over the rolling country
in the general direction of Branchidæ.

That ancient site appeared at last on a hillock overlooking
the ocean. A small and mean hamlet had
largely swallowed up the immediate environs of the
famous temple that once stood there, contrasting
strangely with the remaining columns that soon came
into view over the roofs, as we drew near, attended
by an increasing army of the youth. The name of
the little modern village on the spot we never knew.
Anciently this was the site of the temple of Apollo
Didymeus, erected by the Branchidæ,—a clan of the
neighborhood of ancient Miletus who claimed descent
from Branchus. The temple of Apollo which had formerly
.bn 384.png
.pn +1
stood upon the site was destroyed in some way
in the sixth century before Christ, and the Branchidæ
set out to erect a shrine that they boasted should rival
the temple of Diana at Ephesus in size and in ornamentation.
Nor was this an inappropriate desire, since
Apollo and Diana—or Artemis, as we ought to call
her—were twins, whence indeed the name “Didymeus”
was applied to the temple on the spot. Unfortunately
the great temple which the Branchidæ
designed was never completed, simply because of the
vastness of the plan. Before the work was done,
Apollo had ceased to be so general an object of veneration,
and what had been planned to be his most
notable shrine fell into gradual ruin and decay.

It has not been sufficient, however, to destroy the
beauty of much that the Branchidæ accomplished
during the centuries that the work was progressing,
for it is stated that several hundred years were spent
in adorning the site. The fact that one of the few
columns still standing and still bearing its crowning
capital is unfluted bears silent testimony to the fact
that the temple never was completed. Of the finished
columns it is impossible to overstate their grace and
lightness or the elegance of the carving on their bases,
which apparently were designed to be different one
from another. The pillars that remain are of great
height and remarkable slenderness. Nineteen drums
.bn 385.png
.pn +1
were employed in building them. The bases, of which
many are to be seen lying about, and some <lang=la><em>in situ</em></lang>,
display the most delicate tracery and carving imaginable,
some being adorned with round bands of
relief, and others divided into facets, making the base
dodecagonal instead of round, each panel bearing a
different and highly ornate design. Close by we found
the remains of a huge stone face, or mask, apparently
designed as a portion of the adornment of the cornice
and presumably one of the metopes of the temple.

The mass of débris of the great structure has been
heaped up for so long that a sort of conical hill rises
in the midst of it; and on this has been built a tower
from which one may look down on the ground plan
so far as it remains. The major part of the ruin,
however, is at its eastern end, the front, presumably,
where the only standing columns are to be seen, rising
gracefully from a terrace which has been carefully
uncovered by the explorers. Enough remains
to give an idea of the immense size projected for the
building, and better still enough to give an idea
of the elegance with which the ancients proposed
to adorn it, that the Ephesians need not eclipse the
Milesians in honoring the twin gods. Of the rows of
statues that once lined the road from the sea to the
shrine, one is to be seen in the British Museum—a
curious sitting colossus of quaintly archaic workmanship,
.bn 386.png
.pn +1
and somewhat suggestive, to my own mind, of
an Egyptian influence in the squat modeling of the
figure.

As one might expect of a shrine sacred to Apollo,
there seems to have been an oracle of some repute
here; for Cr[oe]sus, who was credulous in the extreme
where oracles were concerned, sent hither for advice
on various occasions, and dedicated a treasure here
that was similar to the great wealth he bestowed
upon the shrine at Delphi. Furthermore one Neco,
who had been engaged in digging a canal to connect
the Nile with the Red Sea,—a prototype of the Suez,—dedicated
the clothes he wore during that period
to the god at the temple of the Branchidæ. Thus
while the site never attained the fame among Grecians
that was accorded the Delphian, it nevertheless
seems to have inspired a great deal of reverence
among the inhabitants of Asia Minor and even of
Egypt, which may easily account for the elaborate
care the Branchidæ proposed to bestow and did
bestow upon it.

Our inspection of the temple and the surrounding
town was the source of immense interest upon the part
of the infantile population, of which the number is enormous.
The entire pit around the excavations was lined
three deep with boys and girls, the oldest not over
fifteen, who surveyed our party with open-mouthed
.bn 387.png
.pn +1
amazement. They escorted us to the city gates, and
a small detachment accompanied us on the way back
over the moor to the landing, hauling a protesting
bear-cub, whose mother had been shot the week before
somewhere in the mountains of Latmos by some
modern Nimrod, and whose wails indicated the presence
of a capable pair of lungs in his small and furry
body. He was taken aboard and became the ship’s
pet forthwith, seemingly content with his lot and decidedly
partial to sweetmeats.

The walk back over that vast and silent meadow in
the twilight was one never to be forgotten. There was
something mystical in the deserted plain, in the clumps
of bushes taking on strange shapes in the growing
dusk, in the great orb of the moon rising over the serrated
tops of the distant mountains of the interior—and
last, but not least, in the roaring fire which the
boatmen had kindled on the rocks to indicate the landing
place as the dark drew on. We pushed off, three
boatloads of tired but happy voyagers, leaving the fire
leaping and crackling on the shore, illuminating with
a red glare the rugged rocks, and casting gigantic and
awful shadows on the sea.
.bn 388.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=chap16
CHAPTER XVI. COS AND CNIDOS

.il fn=i_388.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
From the little harbor where we had found shelter
for our landing to visit Branchidæ it proved but
a few hours’ steaming to Cos, which was scheduled as
our next stopping place. Like Samos, Cos lies close
to the Asia Minor shore. The chief city, which bears
the same name as the island, unchanged from ancient
times, proved to be a formidable looking place by reason
of its great walls and moles, recalling the Cretan
cities much more forcibly than the Samos town had
done; for the yellowish-white fortresses which flank
the narrow inner harbor of Cos resemble both in color
and architecture the outworks that were thrown up to
protect the ports of Candia and Canea. Later in the
day it was borne in upon us that these walls were by
no means uncommon in the vicinity, and that they bore
witness to the visits of the Crusaders; for the great
walls and castle at Halicarnassus not far away were
very similar to the forts of Cos, and with the best of
reasons, since they were the work of the same hands,—of
.bn 389.png
.pn +1
the so-called “Knights of Rhodes,” who once
settled in these regions and built strongholds that for
those times were impregnable enough. Our next day
or two brought us often in contact with the relics of
these stout old knights, who were variously known as
of Rhodes, or of St. John, and, last of all, of Malta.
As far as Cos was concerned, the knightly fortress was
chiefly remarkable from the water, as we steamed past
the frowning battlements of buff and dropped anchor
in the open roadstead before the city; for, as is generally
the case with these old towns, there is at Cos no
actual harborage for a steamer of modern draught,
whatever might have been the case anciently when
ships were small.

The morning sun revealed the city itself spreading
out behind the fortress, in a great splash of dazzling
white amidst the green of the island verdure, its domes
and minarets interspersed with the tops of waving
trees. Behind the city, the land rose gradually to the
base of a long range of green hills stretching off to the
southward and into the interior of the island. It was
easily the most fertile and agreeable land we had yet
encountered in our Ægean pilgrimage, and so lovely
that we almost forgot that it was Turkish and that we
had been warned not to separate far from one another
on going ashore for fear of complications and loss of
the road. However it was Turkish, this time, pure and
.bn 390.png
.pn +1
unadulterated, and the examination of our papers and
passports was no idle formality, but was performed
with owl-like solemnity by a local dignitary black-mustachioed
and red-fezzed. While this was proceeding
the members of our party stood huddled behind
a wicket gate barring egress from the landing
stage and speculated on the probability of being haled
to the dungeons, which might easily be imagined as
damp and gloomy behind the neighboring yellow
walls of stone.

The Sultan’s representative being fully satisfied
that we might safely be permitted to enter the island,
the gate was thrown back, and in a quaking body we
departed through a stone arcade in which our feet
echoed and reëchoed valiantly, past rows of natives
sipping coffee and smoking the nargileh in the shade,
and thence through a stone archway into a spacious
public square, paved with cobble-stones and dominated
by the most gigantic and venerable plane tree
imaginable. Its enormous trunk stood full in the centre
of the square, rising from a sort of stone dais, in
the sides of which were dripping stone fountains,
deeply incrusted with the green mildew of age. Overhead,
even to the uttermost parts of the square, the
branches spread a curtain of fresh green leaves. They
were marvelous branches—great, gnarled, twisted
limbs, that were as large in themselves as the trunk of
.bn 391.png
.bn 392.png
.bn 393.png
.pn +1
a very respectable tree, and shored up with a forest
of poles. Actual measurement of the circumference of
the trunk itself revealed it to be something over forty
feet in girth, and it was not difficult to believe the legend
that this impressive tree really did date back to
the time of Hippocrates, the great physician of Cos,
who was born in the island long before the dawn of
the Christian era. In any event, the great plane of Cos
is called to this day the “tree of Hippocrates,” whether
it has any real connection with that eminent father of
medicine or not.

.il id=i391 fn=i_391.jpg w=451px ew=80%
.ca TREE OF HIPPOCRATES. COS

We left the shady square by a narrow and roughly
paved street, little wider than an alley and lined with
whitewashed houses, closely set. It wound aimlessly
along through the thickly settled portion of the city,
and at last opened out into the country-side, where
the houses grew fewer and other splendid trees became
more numerous, generally shading wayside fountains,
beside which crouched veiled native women gossiping
over their water-jars. A pair of baggy-trousered
soldiers went with us on the road, partly as overseers,
no doubt, but chiefly as guides and protectors—the
latter office proving quite needless save for the occasional
expert kicking of a barking cur from some
wayside hovel. They proved to be a friendly pair,
although of course conversation with them was impossible,
and a lively exchange of cigarettes and tobacco
.bn 394.png
.pn +1
was kept up as we walked briskly along out of
the city and into the open country that lay toward
the hills. Their chief curiosity was a kind of inextinguishable
match, which proved exceedingly useful
for smokers bothered by the lively morning breeze.
They were flat matches, seemingly made of rude
brown paper such as butchers at home used to employ
for wrapping up raw meat. The edges were serrated,
and when once the match was lighted it burned
without apparent flame and with but little smoke until
the entire fabric was consumed.

The object of this walk, which proved to be of something
like three or four miles into the suburbs of
Cos, was to view the remnants of the famous health
temple, sacred, of course, to Asklepios. We found it
situated on an elevation looking down across a smiling
plain to the sea, with the white walls and roofs
of Cos a trifle to one side. It was not a prospect to
be forgotten. It was a bright day, but with sufficient
haze in the air to give to the other islands visible
across the intervening water an amethystine quality,
and to make the distant summits in Asia Minor faint
and ethereal. The nearer green of the fields, the
purple of the sea, and the delicate hues of the islands
and far-away peaks, held us for a long time before
turning to the curious ruin of the temple, which, as
usual, was less a temple than a hospital.
.bn 395.png
.pn +1

Little remains of it, save for the foundations. Three
enormous terraces, faced with flights of steps of easy
grade, led up to the main sanctuary of the god, comparatively
little of which remains to be seen. Various
smaller buildings, shrines for allied divinities, porticoes
for the sick, apartments for the priests, treasuries and
the like, are readily distinguishable, and serve to reveal
what an extensive establishment the health temple
was in its time. Restorations of it, on paper, reveal
it as having been probably most impressive, both
architecturally and by reason of its commanding position,
which was not only admirable by nature but
accentuated by the long approach over the three successive
terraces to the many-columned main building
above.

Of the numerous smaller structures lying about the
precinct, the most curious and interesting were the
subterranean treasuries—if that is the proper name
for them—which have been discovered at the foot
of the slope. They apparently consist of vaults in the
earth, each covered over with a massive stone slab.
The slab is removable, but only at great pains. A
circular hole pierces it through the centre, suitable for
dropping money or other valuables into the receptacle
beneath and for inserting the tackle with which
to lift the rock when the treasury was to be opened.
The vast weight of the stone and the time required
.bn 396.png
.pn +1
for raising it would have been ample guarantee
against unauthorized visits to the treasury. Other
theories accounting for these underground chambers
and their curious coverings have been advanced—the
most fantastic one being the supposition that these
were the chambers devoted to housing the sacred
serpents of the god, the holes serving for their emergence
and for the insertion of food! But while the
cult of Asklepios certainly does appear to have made
use of the sacred snakes as a part of its mummery, it
seems hardly likely that these subterranean cavities
were used for any such purpose.

As for the practice of medicine in Cos, it is widely
believed to have been of a sensible and even of an
“ethical” sort, largely devoid of mere reliance on
idle superstition or religious formalism for its curative
effects, though unquestionably employing these,
as was not only the case in ancient times, but as even
persists to-day in some localities of the archipelago.
The religious ceremonies, which generally took the
form of sleeping in the sacred precincts in the hope
of being divinely healed, appear to have been supplemented
at Cos by the employment of means of
healing that were rudely scientific. Hippocrates, the
most celebrated of the Coan physicians, has left abundant
proof that he was no mere charlatan, but a
common-sense doctor, whose contributions to medical
.bn 397.png
.pn +1
science have not by any means entirely passed out of
esteem. Reference has been made hitherto to the custom
of depositing in the temple anatomical specimens
representing the parts healed, as votive offerings from
grateful patients—a custom which persists in the
modern Greek church, as everybody who examines
the altar-screen of any such church will speedily
discover.

The extreme veneration of Asklepios at Cos is
doubtless to be explained by the fact that Cos was
an Epidaurian colony; for the Epidaurians claimed
that the healing god was born in the hills overlooking
their valley in the Peloponnesus. At any rate the
health temple at Cos and the great sanitarium at Epidaurus
shared the highest celebrity in ancient times
as resorts for the sick; and in each case there are
traces to show that they were sites devoted not only
to the worship of a deity, but to the ministration unto
the ailing by physical means, as far as such means
were then understood.

Cos, however, was far from basing her sole claim
to ancient celebrity on her physicians and hospitals.
Her embroideries rivaled the more famous Rhodian
work, and she was an early home of culture and resort
of noted students, not only of medicine, but of
rhetoric, grammar, poetry, philosophy, and science.
Ptolemy II, otherwise known as Ptolemy Philadelphus,
.bn 398.png
.pn +1
is known to have studied here, and it is not at
all improbable that the Sicilian poet, Theocritus, was
a fellow student with him. For it is known that Theocritus
was a student at Cos at some time, and he
was later summoned to Ptolemy’s Egyptian court,
where he wrote the epithalamium for the unholy marriage
between Philadelphus and his sister. Not a little
of the present knowledge of ancient Cos is due to
the writings that Theocritus left as the result of his
student days in the island.

The curator of antiquities in charge of the excavations
at the Asklepeion took us in charge on our return
walk and led us through the city to his own
home, where, although we were on Turkish soil, we
had a taste of real Greek hospitality. Our party was
numerous enough to appall any unsuspecting hostess,
but we were ushered into the great upper room of
the house, with no trace of dismay on the part of the
wife and daughter. It was a huge room, scrupulously
neat and clean, and the forty or so included in our
number found chairs ranged in line about the apartment,
where we sat at ease examining the fragments
that the curator had to show from the mass of inscriptions
recovered from the temple. Meantime, after the
national custom, the eldest daughter served refreshment
to each in turn, consisting of preserved quince,
glasses of mastika, and huge tumblers of water. It
.bn 399.png
.pn +1
was a stately ceremony, each helping himself gravely
to the quince from the same dish, and sipping the
cordial, while the mother bustled about supplying
fresh spoons. And with a general exchange of cards
and such good wishes as were to be expressed in
limited traveler’s Greek, we departed to the landing
and again embarked.

We designed to push on to Cnidos at once, and to
climb the heights of that ancient promontory of Asia
Minor in the late afternoon. But inasmuch as Halicarnassus,
the native city of Herodotus, lay directly
on the way, we sailed into its capacious harbor and
out again without stopping, for the sake of such
glance at the site as might be had from the water.
The bay on which the city lies—it is now called
Boudrun—is wonderfully beautiful, running well into
the mainland, while the city itself, with its great white
castle of the Knights of St. John as the central feature,
lies at the inmost end. Of the castle we were able to
get a very good view, going close enough to arouse
the violent excitement of a gesticulating Turkish
official who came out in a tiny boat, bravely decked
with the crescent flag, to show us where to anchor if
we so desired. The site of the famous Mausoleum
was pointed out from the deck, and most of us were
confident that we saw it, although it was not easy to
find. The remains of this incomparably magnificent
.bn 400.png
.pn +1
tomb, designed for King Mausolus, are, as everybody
knows, to be seen in the British Museum to-day.

It was but a few miles farther to the promontory
of Cnidos, and we dropped anchor there in mid-afternoon,
in one of the double bays for which the
ancient naval station was famous. The bays are still
separated by a narrow isthmus—the same which the
ancients tried in vain to sever. The story goes that
the drilling of the rocks caused such a flying of fragments
as to endanger the eyes of the workmen, and
the oracle when questioned dissuaded them from continuing
the work, saying “Zeus could have made the
land an island if he had intended so to do.” Hence
the two little harbors remain, one on either side
of the neck of land that juts into the sea. They were
used as anchorage for triremes and merchant ships
respectively, when Cnidos was a power in the world.
To-day the spot is absolutely deserted, and we found
both the diminutive bays devoid of all trace of life,
until at evening a passing fisherman came in and
made all snug for the night.

.il id=i401 fn=i_401.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca CNIDOS, SHOWING THE TWO HARBORS

Above the waters of the harbor towered the commanding
rock of the Cnidian acropolis, something
like twelve hundred feet in height—a bare and forbidding
rock, indeed. Of the town and the temples
that once clustered along its base nothing was to be
seen. Man has long ago abandoned this spot and left
.bn 401.png
.bn 402.png
.bn 403.png
.pn +1
it absolutely untenanted save by memories. It was in
ancient times a favorite haunt of Aphrodite, and three
temples did honor to that goddess on the knolls above
the sea. Here also stood the marble Aphrodite carved
by Praxiteles, and esteemed his masterpiece by many.
It was carried off to Constantinople centuries ago, and
perished miserably in a fire in that city in 1641.

Our three boatloads landed with no little difficulty
on the abrupt rocks of the shore, being somewhat put
to it to avoid sundry submerged boulders lying just
off the land. It was a sharp scramble from the water’s
edge to the narrow and ascending shelf above, on
which the temples had stood. The ruins of them lay
buried in tall grasses and in huge clumps of daisies,
the latter growing in the most remarkable profusion.
With a single sweep of the knife I cut a prodigious
armful of them, and the dining saloon that night was
made a perfect bower by the wild flowers that the returning
party brought back with them.

It was one of the days when the non-archæological
section of the party hastily left the remnants of ancient
greatness below and set out precipitately for a
climb, for the prospect of a view from the overshadowing
cliff above was promising. It proved the most
formidable ascent that we undertook in all our Ægean
cruising. Anciently there was a gradual ascent by
means of a zigzag causeway to the fortified heights
.bn 404.png
.pn +1
above, but the majority of us disregarded it and struck
off up the steep toward the summit. It is not a wise
plan for any but hardened climbers, for the slope soon
became so sharp that it made one giddy to look back
down the mountain, and the footing was often difficult
because of the shelving stone and fragments of
loose rock. Small bushes were the only growth, and
they were often eagerly seized upon to give the needful
purchase to lift us onward and upward. The summit,
however, amply rewarded our toil. It was easier
going toward the top, for we found the old road and
rose more gradually toward the point where the ancient
walls began.

From the pinnacle of the rock the sweep of the view
was indescribably fine. The sun was sinking rapidly
to the horizon, illuminating the islands and the sea.
The wind had dropped, the haze had disappeared, and
the shore line of Asia Minor stretched away, clear cut,
in either direction. We were practically at the southwest
corner of the peninsula. The rugged headlands
retreated to the north and to the east from our feet,
while inland piled the impressive interior mountains
rearing their snow-capped heads against the blue
evening dusk. Over the Ægean, dark blue and violet
islands rose from a sea of molten gold. At our feet lay
the twin harbors and our steamer, looking like a toy
ship, the thin smoke of her funnel rising in a blue wisp
.bn 405.png
.pn +1
into the silent evening air. The fishermen from the
tiny smack that had sought a night’s berth there had
kindled a gleaming fire on the beach. Along the sharp
spine of the promontory we could see the ancient line
of wall, rising and falling along the summit and flanked
here and there by ruined towers—a stupendous engineering
work of a nation long dead. It was all impressively
silent, and deserted save for ourselves. The
course of empire had indeed taken its westward way
and left once powerful Cnidos a barren waste.

But the darkness coming suddenly in these latitudes
at this season warned us to descend in haste to the
fire that was signaling us from the landing, and we
slipped and slid down the old causeway to the boats.
That night the moon was at the full, and we sat late
on the after-deck enjoying the incomparable brilliancy
of the light on sea and cliffs, shining as of old on a time-defying
and rock-bound coast, but on a coast no longer
teeming with life and harbors no longer alive with
ships. And at midnight the wheezing of the engines
and the jarring of the screw gave notice that we were
slipping out of the harbor of Cnidos and out into the
sea, to Rhodes.
.bn 406.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=chap17
CHAPTER XVII. RHODES

.il fn=i_406.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
It was our purpose to land on Rhodes the isle, not
at Rhodes the town. To visit the famous northern
city where once stood the Colossus would have
been highly agreeable had opportunity presented
itself; but as it was we planned to coast along the
southeasterly side of Rhodes and make our landing
at the little less celebrated and probably even more
picturesque site of Lindos. So in the morning we
woke to find our vessel rolling merrily in a cross sea
just off the entrance to the little bay that serves Lindos
for a harbor,—a sea that stripped our breakfast
table of its few dishes and converted the floor of the
saloon into a sea of broken crockery. The waters of
the bay proved calm enough when we had slid past
the imposing promontory on which stood the acropolis
of ancient Lindos, and felt our way across the
rapidly shoaling waters to a safe anchorage. The water
was of a wonderful clarity as well as of remarkable
blueness, the bottom being visible for many fathoms
.bn 407.png
.pn +1
and seeming much more shoal than was the case in
fact. We were able to go quite close to shore before
anchoring, and found ourselves in good shelter
from the wind that was then blowing, although well
outside the tiny inner port which lay at the foot of a
steep bluff. Towering above the whole town stood
the precipitous and seemingly inaccessible acropolis,
its steep sides running down to the sea, the rich
redness of the rock contrasting on the one hand
with the matchless blue of the Ægean, and on the
other with the pure whiteness of the buildings of
the town. The summit of the promontory was
crowned with the ruin of a castle of the Knights of
Rhodes, who had once made this a famous stronghold
in the Middle Ages. In fact the residence of the
knights had obliterated the more ancient remnants
of the classic period, which included a temple of
Athena; and the work of exhuming the Greek ruins
from under the débris of the Crusaders’ fortress was
only just beginning when we landed there.

From the ship, the most conspicuous object on the
heights was the ruined castle of St. John, the portal of
which, giving the sole means of access to the plateau
on top of the promontory, was plainly to be seen as
we sailed in. It gave the impression of yellowish-brown
sandstone from below, a color which it shared
with the goodly battlements that frowned down from
.bn 408.png
.pn +1
all sides of the citadel, even where the abruptness of
the declivity for something like three hundred feet
made battlements a seeming work of supererogation.
Nestling under the shadow of the mighty rock on the
landward side lay the modern village of Lindos itself,
apparently freshly whitewashed and gleaming in the
sun wherever the rock failed to shelter it from the
morning warmth. It was one of those marvelously
brilliant days that have made the Greek atmosphere
so famous—cloudless and clear, with that clearness
that reveals distant objects so distinctly, yet so softly
withal. As for the nearer prospects, they were almost
trying to the eyes, under the forenoon glare beating
down on that immaculate array of close-set white
houses and shops.

Our boats set off shoreward across a placid sheet of
water that varied from a deep indigo at the ship to
the palest of greens as it surged among the fringes of
slippery rock along the foot of the bluff. The landing
stage was but a narrow shelf of pebbly beach, from
which a rough paved way led steeply up to the town
just above the sea. The contrast of the blue sky and
the white purity of the town was dazzling in the extreme,
and the glare accounted in a measure for the
veiled women and sore-eyed children we met in the
courtyards of the town. Our own eyes soon ached
sufficiently to make us walk in single file along the
.bn 409.png
.pn +1
shady side of the high-walled streets, looking chiefly
at the shadow and only occasionally at the houses and
shops as we wound along into the heart of the village.
But even these occasional glimpses revealed the most
fascinating of little details in the local architecture,
curious Gothic and Moorish windows surviving from
a bygone day and ornamented with the border of
“rope” pattern worked in the stone. Almost everything
had been covered with the dazzling whitewash,
save here and there a relic of former days which
was allowed to retain the natural color of the native
rock.

In most of the cases the actual dwellings were set
well back from the streets, which were extremely narrow
and crooked. Between the highway and the house
was invariably a tiny courtyard, screened from the view
of passers by a lofty wall, always of white. The yards
were occasionally to be peered into, however, through
a gate left temptingly ajar. These diminutive courts
were floored with pebble work in black and white designs
throughout their extent, save where the matron
of the house had a flower bed under cultivation. These
beds and boxes of flowers were a riot of color and
filled the air with fragrance, while the green foliage
furnished a lively contrast with the dead white of the
walls behind.

In the doorways of the dwellings within could be
.bn 410.png
.pn +1
seen groups of bashful women, and shy children hiding
in their mothers’ skirts, who looked furtively at us
as we stopped hesitatingly before their gates. Growing
bolder we finally ventured to set foot within the
courtyards now and then, charmed with the sweetness
of the tiny gardens; and at length we made bold to
enter and to walk over the pleasant firmness of the
pebbly pavements of white and black tracery to the
doorways, where the women gave a timid but welcoming
good-day and bade us come in. The absence
of men was notable. We were later told that the male
population of Lindos was temporarily away, being
largely employed in the construction of the great dam
at Assouan, on the Nile; and that in consequence the
women had practically the sole charge in Lindos at
the time, which may have accounted for the immaculateness
of everything. We were likewise told that in
the evening a certain hour was reserved for the sole
use of the women, who might be free to wander at will
through the streets, chiefly to get water for their households,
without fear of molestation. Lindos for the time
was an Adamless Eden, and as spick and span a town
as it would be possible to find on earth.

The houses into which we were welcomed proved
to be as clean within as without. The lower story apparently
consisted as a general thing of a single great
room, with possibly a smaller apartment back of it for
.bn 411.png
.pn +1
cooking. This large room was the living room and
sleeping room as well. The floor was scrubbed until
its boards shone. The walls were of the universal
white. On one side of the room—and occasionally on
both sides—was to be seen a sort of dais, or elevated
platform, which apparently served for the family bed.
The bedding, including blankets and rugs of barbaric
splendor, was neatly piled on the platform or hung
over the railing of it. And it was here, according to
all appearance, that the entire household retired to rest
in a body at night, in harmonious contiguity.

What interested us most of all, however, was the
decoration of the rooms. Nearly every one that we
entered was adorned with numerous plates hung on
the wall in great profusion, seldom more than two
being of the same pattern, and including all sorts of
designs, from the valuable Rhodian down to the common
“willow” patterns of our own grandmothers’
collections at home. This heterogeneous array of
plates puzzled us not a little at first. It was so universal
among the householders, and representative of
so wide a field of the ceramic art, that some explanation
of the presence of these plates seemed necessary.
Later it developed that the Rhodian custom
has long been to mark the birth of each child by the
addition of a plate to the family collection, the fewer
duplicates the better. The agglomeration of these
.bn 412.png
.pn +1
dishes that we saw represented the family trees for
generations. Despite the connection presumably existing
between the plates and the family history, however,
we found the women not reluctant to part with
specimens for a price, and we carried away not a few.
The comparatively rare instances in which we found
any of the genuine and celebrated Rhodian ware, however,
proved that its great value was well known by
the native women. Their prices in such cases proved
prohibitive, especially in view of the risk of breakage
involved in getting the plates home from so distant
an island. These plates, notable for the beauty of their
design and for the distinguishing rose pattern in the
centre, are often to be found in museum collections,
and their great rarity and consequent value unfits
them for other uses than those of the collector. The
few that we found in Lindos were to be had for
prices equivalent to about eighty dollars apiece in our
money, which seemed exorbitant until we were later
told that even one hundred dollars would have been
reasonable enough for some of the finer specimens.
Indeed, it is getting to be rather unusual to find one
of these for sale at all.

There are opportunities enough, as we discovered,
to purchase the famous Rhodian embroidery; but we
were cautioned to leave the bargaining to experts
familiar with values, for the infrequent visitor is almost
.bn 413.png
.pn +1
certain to be imposed upon in any such transaction.
These embroideries, or at least the older ones,
are very elaborate creations of colored wools on a
background of unbleached linen, the colors being remarkably
rich and fresh despite their age, an age
that is eloquently testified to by the stains and worn
places in the cloth. The subject of Rhodian embroidery
is a most interesting one, but too intricate
and technical to be gone into here. The study of the
growth of certain well-defined groups of conventionalized
figures might well furnish material for a considerable
body of literature, if it has not already done
so. We were informed that the wealth of Rhodian
embroidery was due to the ancient custom—which
may still exist among the Rhodian girls—to begin
the preparation of the nuptial gear at a tender age,
they plying their needles almost daily, until by the
time they are marriageable they have accumulated a
surprising amount of bizarre blankets, cloths, and bits
of finery for their dower chests.

The leisurely progress through the town required
some time, occupied as we were by frequent visits to
the odd little houses in the quest of curious wares to
carry away. And by the time we had reached the
centre of the town, the hot sun made us glad indeed
to step under a spacious arch, washed underneath
with a sky-blue tint which was restful to our tired
.bn 414.png
.pn +1
eyes, and thence to go into the cool and aromatic
quiet of a very old Greek church, where the glare of
the sun on the white buildings could be forgotten.
Most notable of all the curious things shown us by
the attendant priest was the quaintly carved roof,
which, after so much excessive light out of doors, it
was decidedly difficult to see at all in the grateful
gloom of the church.

We delayed but a little while there, for the acropolis
above was the ultimate goal of our visit to the
spot. Thither we were conducted by the Danish gentleman
who had charge of the investigations being
prosecuted there. The way led out of the dense buildings
of the town and along the base of the overhanging
cliff to the side toward the open sea, always
upward and above the flat roofs of the little town
below, until we came to the foot of the stairway of
stone leading up through a defile in the rock to the
arched portal of the castle on the height. It was a
long flight of steps, one side against the smooth face
of the rock, the other unprotected. And at the foot
of the impressive approach to the citadel was one of
the most interesting of the discoveries made on the
site. It was a gigantic sculpture in bas-relief hewn out
of the face of the cliff itself and representing, in “life
size,” so to speak, the stern of an ancient trireme. The
relief was sufficiently high to give a flat space on what
.bn 415.png
.pn +1
was intended to be the deck of the ship, supposably
as a pedestal for some statue which has disappeared.
The curved end of the trireme with its sustaining
bolt, the seat of the helmsman, and a blade of one of
the oars, were still intact, and as a large representation
of a classic ship the sculpture is doubtless unique,
To all intents and purposes it is as perfect to-day as
when the artists first carved it.

.il id=i415 fn=i_415.jpg w=500px ew=80%
.ca
SCULPTURED TRIREME IN ROCK AT LINDOS
<s><em>From a Sketch by the Author</em></s>
.ca-

In the grateful shade of the rock we sat and listened
.bn 416.png
.pn +1
to the description of the archæological work done on
the spot by the Danes, which has not, at this writing,
been officially published, and therefore seems not
proper matter for inexpert discussion here. One interesting
fact, however, which we were told, was that,
by means of certain records deciphered from tablets
found on the acropolis, it had been possible to fix
definitely the date of the statue of the Laocoön as
a work of the first century before Christ. This was
established by the list of the names of the priests,
and of the sculptors who worked for them, at periods
which it proved possible to fix with a remarkable
degree of exactness.

.il id=i417 fn=i_417.jpg w=475px ew=80%
.ca ARCHED PORTAL OF ACROPOLIS. LINDOS

We ascended to the height above, where we were
permitted to wander at will among the ruins. As
from below, the chief features were those of the medieval
period, which had so largely swallowed up the
temple of Athena. Nevertheless the excavators had
restored enough of the original site from its covering
of débris to reveal the vestiges of the old temple
and an imposing propylæa, with traces enough in
fragmentary form to enable making drawings of the
structures as they probably appeared to the ancient
eye. For the rest the chief interest centred in the
relics of the abode of the knights. Just at the head
of the grand entrance stairway was the tower which
defended the acropolis on its one accessible side. The
.bn 417.png
.bn 418.png
.bn 419.png
.pn +1
arched portal is very nearly perfect still, and one
passes under it, across a sort of moat, by means of an
improvised bridge of planks, where once, no doubt,
a drawbridge served to admit or to bar out at the
will of the Grand Master of the ancient commandery.
Beyond the entrance hall lay a succession of vaulted
halls and chambers leading around to the open precincts
of the acropolis, the most evidently well-preserved
buildings being the chapel of St. John and the
house once occupied by the Grand Master himself.
All were of the brownish native rock, and were unmistakably
medieval in their general style of architecture.
On the open terraces above the entrance,
little remained to be seen save the heaps of débris
and the faint traces of the classic temples. But most
impressive of all was the sheer drop of the rock on
all sides around the acropolis and the views off to
sea and inland over Rhodes. The precipices everywhere,
save at the entrance alone, fell away perpendicularly
to the sea, which murmured two or three
hundred feet below. Nevertheless, despite the evident
hopelessness of ever scaling the height, the painstaking
knights had built a wall with battlements all
about, less serviceable as protecting the inhabitants
against assault than for preserving them from falling
over to a certain and awful death themselves.
The drop on the landward side was considerably less,
.bn 420.png
.pn +1
but quite as steep and quite as impregnable to would-be
scaling parties. Even a few munitions of war, in
the shape of rounded stones about the size of old-fashioned
cannon balls seen in our modern military
parks, were to be found about the summit.

The views from this elevated height were superb,
not only off across the sea to the mountainous land
of Asia Minor, but inland toward the rocky interior
of Rhodes herself. The land just across the little depression
in which the white town lay, rose to another
though less commanding height, in the slopes
of which the excavator said they had but recently
unearthed some ancient rock tombs. Beyond, the
country rolled in an undulating sea of green hills—a
pleasant land as always, and doubtless as flowery as
of old when she took her name from the rose (rhodos)
and when the wild pomegranate flower gave Browning’s
“Balaustion” her nickname. As a colony of
the Athenian empire she stood loyal to the Attic city
down to 412 <sc>B.C.</sc>, in those troublous days of the Peloponnesian
war, when the star of Athens waned and
most of the Rhodians at last revolted. Those who still
clung to Athens probably went away as Balaustion
did, and returned, if at all, only after Athens had been
laid waste to the sound of the flute. Under the Roman
domination Rhodes enjoyed a return to high favor,
and Tiberius selected the smiling isle as his place of
.bn 421.png
.pn +1
banishment. For siding with Cæsar, Cassius punished
the island by plundering it. For centuries after, it was
overrun by the Arabs; and from them it was taken
by the Byzantines, who turned it over to the Knights
of St. John, who took the new name of the Knights
of Rhodes, fortified the spot as we saw, and held it for
a long time against all comers, down to 1522, when
the Sultan Solyman II. reduced it. It is still Turkish
territory, and of the finds made by the archæologists
on the site of Lindos, the great bulk have been
sent to Constantinople, including several hundred
terra cotta figurines. The zealous Turks, the excavators
complained, had taken away their books on
landing, with the result that they had led a lonely life
of it, their only diversion being their labors on the
acropolis.

We had no chance to inspect the interior of the
island, which other visitors have described in glowing
colors as most attractive in the profusion of its
almost tropic verdure and its growths of cactus, oleander,
myrtle, figs, and pomegranates. Like Cos,
Rhodes was an ancient seat of culture, greatly favored
by students, and the site of a celebrated university.
Æschines founded here a famous school of oratory,
and in later years the institution was honored by the
patronage of no less a personage than the Roman
Cicero. Of these, of course, we saw no trace.
.bn 422.png
.pn +1

Neither had we any opportunity to visit the ancient
capital, “Rhodes the town,” which boasts the ruins of
a very similar castle of the knights. As for the famous
Colossus, which nearly everybody remembers first of
all in trying to recall what were the wonders of the
world, it no longer exists. But in passing one may
remark that the notion that this gigantic statue bestrode
the harbor has been exploded, destroying one
of the most cherished delusions of childhood which
the picture in the back of Webster’s Unabridged contributed
not least of all in producing, in the past two
generations.

There were three celebrated cities in Rhodes in its
golden age—Lindos, Ialysos, and Kameiros—which,
with Cos, Cnidos, and Halicarnassus, formed the ancient
Dorian “hexapolis,” or six cities, four of which
it had been our good fortune to visit within the past
two days. The city of Rhodes was formed comparatively
late by inhabitants from the three original cities
of the island, and became a prosperous and influential
port. The inhabitants were seafaring people and
developed a high degree of skill in navigation, with
an interesting corollary in their code of maritime law,
from which a faint survival is found in the doctrine
of “general average” in our own admiralty practice,
sometimes referred to as the Rhodian law, and having
to do with the participation of all shippers in such
.bn 423.png
.pn +1
losses as may be occasioned by throwing a part of
the cargo overboard to save the whole from loss. To
visit Kameiros and the interior would have been interesting
but impossible, and we found our consolation
for the inability to visit other Rhodian sites in the
loveliness of Lindos, with its acropolis above and its
pure white walls below, its gardens, its courtyards, and
its collections of plates. And we left it with regret—a
regret which was shared no doubt by the lonely
Danish explorer whom we left waving adieu to us
from the shore as we pulled away across the shallow
waters of the harbor to the steamer, and turned our
faces once more toward the west and that Athens of
which Balaustion dreamed.
.bn 424.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=chap18
CHAPTER XVIII. THERA

.il fn=i_424.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
No island that we visited in our Ægean cruise
was more interesting than Thera proved to
be, when we had steamed across the intervening
ocean from Rhodes and into the immense basin that
serves Thera—or modern Santorin—for a harbor.
No more remarkable harbor could well be conceived.

If Vesuvius could be imagined to sink into Naples
bay until there were left protruding only about a
thousand feet of the present altitude; if the ocean
should be admitted to the interior of the volcano
by two great channels or fissures in the sides—one
at the point where the ubiquitous Mr. Cook has—or
did have—his funicular railway, and the other
in the general locality represented by the ill-starred
Bosco Trecase; and if the present awesome crater,
into which so many thousand visitors have peered,
should thus be filled throughout its extent by the
cooling waters, so as to form a great and placid bay
within the mountain,—then we should have an almost
.bn 425.png
.pn +1
exact reproduction of what happened at Thera
something like four thousand years ago. Furthermore,
if we may add to our Vesuvian hypothesis the
supposition that there be built along the eastern lip
of the crater a long white town, stretching for perhaps
a mile along the sharp spine of the summit, we
should have an equally exact reproduction of what
exists at Thera to-day.

Thera lies at the end of the chain of submerged
peaks that reveal the continuation of the Attic peninsula
under the waters of the Ægean. The same
rocky range of mountains that disappears into the
sea at Sunium rises again and again as it stretches
off to the southeast to form the islands of Cythnos,
Seriphos, Siphnos, and their fellows, and the series
closes, apparently, in the volcanic island of Santorin,
under which name the moderns know the island
which the ancients called successively Kallista (most
beautiful) and Thera. Considering her beauty as an
island and her comparative nearness to the mainland
of Greece or to Crete, Thera is surprisingly little
known. Historically Thera had small celebrity compared
with her neighbors; but in every other way it
seemed to us that she surpassed them all. Legend
appears to have left the island comparatively unhonored,
and poetry has permitted her to remain unsung.
No Byron has filled high his bowl with Theran wine.
.bn 426.png
.pn +1
No burning poetess lived or sang in her single tortuous
street. No god of Olympus claimed the isle
for his birthright. But for beauty of every kind, from
the pastoral to the sublimely awful, Thera has no
fellow in the Ægean; and for extraordinary natural
history and characteristics, it is doubtful if it has a
fellow in the world. For it is a sunken volcano, with
a bottomless harbor, where once was the centre of
fiery activity,—a harbor, rimmed about with miles
of encircling precipices, on the top of one of which
.bn 427.png
.pn +1
lies the town of Thera, a thousand feet straight up
above the sea, and reachable only by a steep and
winding mule track which connects it with the diminutive
landing stage below.

.il id=i426 fn=i_426.jpg w=500px ew=90%
.ca Santorin

There appears to be a wide divergence of opinion
as to the exact date when the original mountain was
blown to pieces and sunk in the ocean, but it may be
roughly stated to have occurred in the vicinity of the
sixteenth century before Christ, although some authorities
incline to believe the eruption to have come
to pass at a still earlier period. As to the inhabitants
before the time of that extraordinary upheaval, little
is known save what may be gleaned from a multitude
of pottery vases left behind by those early settlers,
and bearing ornamentation of a rude sort that
stamps them as belonging to the remote pre-Mycenæan
age, the age that preceded the greatness of
Agamemnon’s city and the sack of Troy. It seems
entirely probable that the early Therans were from
Ph[oe]nicia, and tradition says that they came over
under the leadership of no less a personage than
Cadmus himself. What we know for a certainty,
however, is that at some prehistoric time the original
volcano underwent a most remarkable change and
subsided, with a blaze of glory that can hardly be
imagined, into the waters of the Ægean, until only
the upper rim and three central cones are now to be
.bn 428.png
.pn +1
seen above the water’s edge. Through two enormous
crevices torn in the northern and southern slopes the
irresistible ocean poured into the vast central cavity,
cooling to a large extent the fiery ardor of the mountain
and leaving it as we found it, a circle of frowning
cliffs, nearly a thousand feet in height and something
like eighteen miles in periphery, inclosing a
placid and practically bottomless harbor in what was
once the volcano’s heart, the surface of the bay pierced
by only three diminutive islands, once the cones of
the volcano, and not entirely inert even to-day. In
fact one of these central islands appeared as recently
as 1866 during an eruption that showed the fires of
Santorin not yet to be extinguished by any means—a
fact that is further testified to by the heat of certain
portions of the inclosed waters of the basin.

.il id=i429 fn=i_429.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca LANDING-PLACE AT THERA

Into this curious harbor our little chartered ship
glided in the early light of an April morning, which
dimly revealed the walls of forbidding stone towering
high above in cliffs of that black, scarred appearance
peculiar to volcanic formation, marred by the ravages
of the ancient fires, yet none the less relieved from
utter sullenness here and there by strata of rich red
stone or by patches of grayish white tufa. Nevertheless
it was all sombre and forbidding, especially in
the early twilight; for the sun had not yet risen above
the horizon, much less penetrated into the cavernous
.bn 429.png
.bn 430.png
.bn 431.png
.pn +1
depths of Thera’s harbor. High above, however,
perched on what looked like a most precarious position
along the summit of the cliff, ran the white line
of the city, already catching the morning light on its
domes and towers, but seeming rather a Lilliputian
village than a habitation of men; while far away to the
north, on another portion of the crater wall, a smaller
city seemed rather a lining of frost or snow gathered
on the crater’s lip.

A few shallops made shift to anchor close to the foot
of the precipice, where a narrow submarine shelf projects
sufficiently to give a precarious holding ground
for small craft; and near them were grouped a few
white buildings showing duskily in the morning half-light
and serving to indicate the landing stage. In
the main, however, there is little anchorage in the
entire bay, which is practically bottomless. No cable
could fathom the depth of the basin a few rods off
shore, and fortunately none is needed, since the shelter
is perfect. The steamer held her own for hours
by a mere occasional lazy turning of her screw. To
the southward lay the broad channel through which
our ship had entered, and to the north lay the narrow
passage through which at nightfall we proposed
to depart for Athens. Everywhere else was the encircling
wall of strangely variegated rock, buttressed
here and there by enormous crags of black lava,
.bn 432.png
.pn +1
which sometimes seemed to strengthen it and sometimes
threatened to fall crashing to the waters directly
below. Indeed landslides are by no means uncommon
in Thera, and several persons have been killed even
at the landing place by masses of stone falling from
above.

As the light increased at the base of the cliff, it
became possible to see the donkey track leading in
a score or more of steep windings up the face of the
rock from the landing to the city high above, arched
here and there over old landslips or ravines, while
near by were to be seen curious cave-dwellings, where
caverns in the tufa had been walled up, provided with
doors and windows, and inhabited.

There was some little delay in landing, even after
our small boats had set us ashore on the narrow quay,
slippery with seaweed and covered with barnacles.
We were herded in a rather impatient group behind
a row of shore boats drawn up on the landing stage,
and detained there until “pratique” had been obtained,
which entitled us to proceed through the devious
byways of the tiny village close by to the beginning
of the ascent. The wharf was covered with
barrels, heaps of wood, carboys covered with wicker,
and all the paraphernalia to be expected of the port
of a wine-exporting, water-importing community; for
Thera has to send abroad for water, aside from what
.bn 433.png
.pn +1
she is able to collect from the rains, and also relies
largely on her neighbors for wood. There are almost
no native trees and no springs at all; and one French
writer apparently has been greatly disturbed by this
embarrassing difficulty, saying, “One finds there
neither wood nor water, so that it is necessary to go
abroad for each—and yet to build ships one must
have wood, and to go for water ships are necessary!”

On emerging from the cluster of small buildings at
the base of the cliff and entering upon the steep path
which leads to the city above, we at once encountered
the trains of asses that furnish the only means of communication
between the village of Thera above and
the ships below—asses patiently bearing broad deck-loads
of fagots, or of boards, or of various containers
useful for transporting liquids. It was easily possible
to hire beasts to ride up the winding highway to Thera,
but as the grade was not prohibitive and as the time
required for a pedestrian to ascend was predicted to be
from twenty minutes to half an hour, these were voted
unnecessary, especially as it was still shady on the bay
side of the cliff and would continue so for hours. So
we set out, not too briskly, up the path. It proved to
be utterly impracticable for anything on wheels, being
not only steep but frequently provided with the
broad steps so often to be seen in Greek and Italian
hill towns, while it was paved throughout with blocks
.bn 434.png
.pn +1
of basalt which continual traffic had rendered slippery
in the extreme. The slipperiness, indeed, renders
the ascent to Thera if anything easier than the
coming down, for on the latter journey one must exercise
constant care in placing the feet and proceed
at a pace that is anything but brisk, despite the
downward grade.

.il id=i435 fn=i_435.jpg w=600px ew=90%
.ca THERA

The only care in going up was to avoid the little
trains of donkeys with their projecting loads and their
mischievous desire to crowd pedestrians to the parapet
side of the road, a propensity which we speedily
learned to avoid by giving the beasts as wide a berth
as the constricted path would allow, choosing always
the side next the cliff itself; for the sheer drop from
the parapet soon became too appalling to contemplate
as the way wound higher and higher, turn after turn,
above the hamlet at the landing. The view speedily
gained in magnificence, showing the bay in its full
extent, with the two entrance channels far away and
the detached portion of the opposite crater wall, now
called Therasia, as if it were, as it appears to be, an
entirely separate island of a small local archipelago,
instead of one homogeneous but sunken mountain.
Directly below lay the landing stage with its cluster
of white warehouses, the scattered cave-dwellings, and
the tiny ships moored close to the quay—small enough
at close range, but from this height like the vessels in
.bn 435.png
.bn 436.png
.bn 437.png
.pn +1
a toy-shop. So precipitous is the crater wall that one
could almost fling a pebble over the parapet and strike
the settlement at the foot of the path. The varying
colors of the rock, when brought out by the growing
sunlight, added a sombre liveliness to the view, the
red tones of the cliff preponderating over the forbidding
black of the lava, while here and there a long
gash revealed the ravages of a considerable landslip.

It was, indeed, a half-hour’s hard climb to Thera.
But when the town did begin, it stole upon us ere we
were aware, isolated and venturesome dwellings of the
semi-cave type dropping down the face of the cliff to
meet the highway winding painfully up, these in turn
giving place to more pretentious dwellings with flat
or domed roofs, all shining with immaculate whitewash
and gleaming in the morning sun, in sharp
contrast with the dark rocks on which they had their
foundation. The scriptural architect who built his
house upon the sand might well have regarded that
selection as stable and secure compared with some
of these Theran dwellings; for although they are
founded upon a rock and are in some cases half sunk
in it, there seems to be little guarantee that the rock
itself may not some day split off and land them down
among the ships.

When the winding path finally attained the summit,
it was found to debouch into a narrow public square,
.bn 438.png
.pn +1
flanked by the inevitable museum of antiquities and a
rather garish church; the latter painfully new, and, like
all Greek houses of worship, making small pretense
of outward and visible signs of inward and spiritual
grace. It may be sacred to St. Irene, and very likely
is, for the island takes its modern name from that saint
and boasts innumerable shrines to her memory. We
take credit to ourselves that, although Thera called
loudly with manifold charms, we first sought the sanctuary;
but to our shame we did not remain there long.
A venerable priest, perspiring under a multitude of
gorgeous vestments, was officiating in the presence of
a very meagre congregation, composed of extremely
young boys and a scant choir. Fortunately for our
peace of mind, this particular church’s one foundation
was on the side of the square away from the precipice,
giving a sense of security not otherwise to be gained.
But the mountain, even on its gentler side, is far from
being gradual, and is only less steep than toward the
inner basin. The “blessed mutter of the mass” in
Greek is so unintelligible to foreign ears that it soon
drove us forth into the air outside and then to the little
museum next door, where were displayed the rather
overwhelming antiquities of the place,—mainly vases
that had been made and used long before the eruption
which destroyed the island’s original form so many
thousand years before. Many of these were graceful
.bn 439.png
.pn +1
in form, and some are in quite perfect preservation
despite their fragility and the enormous lapse of time,
revealing still the rude efforts of the early artist’s brush
in geometric patterns, lines, angles, and occasionally
even primitive attempts to represent animal shapes.
Doubtless these relics are no more ancient than those to
be seen by the curious in the palace of Minos in Crete,
and are paralleled in antiquity by pottery remnants in
other pre-Mycenæan sites; but for some reason the
lapse of ages since they were made and used comes
home to one with more reality in Thera than elsewhere,
I suppose because of the impressive story of
the eruption at such a hazy distance before the dawn
of recorded history. So overpowering did these silent
witnesses of a bygone day prove, that we disposed
of them with a celerity that would have shocked an
archæologist, and betook ourselves straightway to the
modern town without, which ran temptingly along
the ridge of the summit northward, presenting, like
Taormina, a single narrow street lined with the whitest
of shops and dwellings, with here and there narrow
byways of steps leading up or down, as the case
might be, to outlying clusters of buildings. This main
thoroughfare, hardly wider than a city sidewalk, follows
the uneven line of the mountain top, winding
about and dodging up and down, sometimes by inclined
planes and sometimes by flights of steps, such
.bn 440.png
.pn +1
as are common enough in side streets of Italian or
Greek hill towns.

From the higher points the city presented a sea of
undulating white, the roofs divided almost evenly
between the flat, parapeted style, designed to catch
the falling rain, which is doubly precious in the island,
and the dome, or half-barrel style, which bears witness
to the local scarcity of timber, making necessary
this self-supporting arch of cement. Thus over and
over again is the lack of wood and water brought to
mind. At a turn in the main street there disclosed itself
a fascinating vista of white walls, inclosing neat
courtyards, pebble-paved in black and white after the
island manner, and framing in the distance a many-arched
campanile in clear relief against the brilliant
sky, the glare of the whiteness mitigated by the
strong oblique shadows and the bronze green of the
bells.

.il id=i441 fn=i_441.jpg w=393px ew=70%
.ca A THERAN STREET

Two things prevented our tarrying in Thera indefinitely.
One was the urgent need of returning to
our steamer and pursuing our cruise through the
Ægean; the other was the lack of suitable lodging.
However, it is likely that the latter would have proved
anything but an insuperable obstacle if tested by an
irresistible force of intrepid determination, for lodging
we could have found, despite the fact that Thera
boasts no hotel. Wandering along the street and
.bn 441.png
.bn 442.png
.bn 443.png
.pn +1
stopping now and then to inspect the curious wayside
shops, or to gaze in wonder through gaps in the
walls of dwellings at the incredible gulf yawning beyond
and beneath, we came suddenly upon a coffee-house
which completed our capture. The proprietor,
as it developed, spoke Italian enough to give us
common ground, ushered us out upon a balcony that
looked toward the water, and produced a huge flagon
of the wine of the country. Ah, the wine of the country!
It was yellow. It was not sickish sweet, like the
Samian that Byron praised so. It was warming to
the midriff and made one charitable as one sipped.
Overhead flapped a dingy awning in the lazy western
breeze. Below wound the donkey path, with its
trains of asses silently ascending and descending
through the shimmering heat of the April morning.
Far, far beneath, and indeed almost directly at our
feet, lay the toy-ships and the steamer, close by the
little hamlet of the landing stage, where tiny people,
like ants, scurried busily, but at this distance made no
sound. Across the sea of rising and falling roofs came
the tinkle of an insistent church bell, calling the congregation
of some church of St. Irene. Bliss like this
is cheap at three drachmas, with a trifling addition
of Greek coppers for good-will! It was on this narrow
balcony overlooking the bay that we fell in love with
Thera. Before we had been merely prepossessed.
.bn 444.png
.pn +1

The Greek word for hotel sounds suspiciously like
“Senator Sheehan” in the mouth of the native, as we
had long ago learned; so we instituted inquiry as to
that feature of the town, in the hope some day of returning
thither for a more extended stay, with opportunity
to explore the surrounding country. A distant
and not unpromising edifice was pointed out, a coffee-house
like our own, but provided with a large room
where rather dubious beds were sometimes spread
for the weary, according to our entertainer; and it
may be that his shrug was the mere product of professional
jealousy. Inexorable fate, however, decreed
that we should not investigate, but content ourselves
with rambling through the town from end to end,
enjoying its quaint architecture, its white walls relieved
only by touches of buff or the lightest of light
blues, its incomparable situation on this rocky saddle,
and its views, either into the chasm of the harbor or
outward across the troubled expanse of the Ægean
to other neighboring islands.

At the north end of the city, where the houses
ceased and gave place to the open ridge of the
mountain, there stood an old mill, into the cavernous
depths of which we were bidden enter by an
aged crone. It revealed some very primitive machinery,
the gearing being hewn out of huge slices
of round logs in which rude cogs were cut. Just outside
.bn 445.png
.pn +1
stood a sooty oven, for the miller not only ground
the neighborhood corn, but converted it into bread.
Beyond the mill there was nothing in the way of habitation,
although on a distant bend of the crater there
was visible a white patch of basalt that bore the appearance
of a populous city with towers and battlements.
Still farther to the north, at the cape next the
channel out to sea, lies an inconsiderable town, similarly
situated on the ridge, while along the bay to the
south are occasional settlements and windmills. But
Thera town is the only congested centre of population.

In attempting to analyze the impression that Thera
made on us, we have come to the conclusion that its
chief charm, aside from its curious position, is its color;
and that the difficulty of describing it is due in large
part to the inability to paint in words the amazing
contrasts of rock, city, and sky, not to mention the sea.
One may depict, although feebly, the architectural
charm, with the aid of his camera, or, if duly gifted,
may chant the praise of Theran wine. With the aid
of geological statistics one may tell just how the mountain
would appear if we could draw off the ocean and
expose its lower depths, leaving a circle of mountain
inclosing a three-thousand foot cup, and jagged central
cones. One might, by a superhuman effort, do
justice to the importunity of the begging children of
.bn 446.png
.pn +1
the town. But to give a true account of Thera demands
the aid of the artist with his pigments, while
best of all is a personal visit, involving little time and
trouble to one visiting Greece—little trouble, that is to
say, in comparison with the charms that Thera has to
show. And it is safe to say that every such visitor will
pick his way gingerly down over the slippery paving
stones to the landing below with a poignant sense of
regret at leaving this beauty spot of the Ægean, and
sail out of the northern passage with a sigh, looking
back at the lights of Thera, on the rocky height
above the bay, mingling their blinking points with
the steady stars of the warm Mediterranean night.
.bn 447.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=chap19
CHAPTER XIX. NIOS; PAROS; | A MIDNIGHT MASS

.il fn=i_447.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
We spent Easter Sunday at Paros. It proved to
be a mild and not especially remarkable day
in the local church, which was old and quaint and
possessed of many highly interesting features within
and without, of which we must speak later on, for some
of its portions date back to the pagan days. Its floor
was littered with the aromatic leaves which had been
dropped and trampled under foot the night before
by the worshipers at the midnight mass; for it appeared
that the chief observance of the feast in the
Greek church was on the night before Easter, rather
than on the day itself. Indeed we ourselves had been
so fortunate, on the previous evening, as to attend
this quaint nocturnal ceremony at the neighboring
island of Ios, or Nios, as it is variously called.

Our little ship, as is the usual custom among the
Greeks, had a shrine in the end of its saloon, with an
icon, and a lamp was perpetually burning before it.
.bn 448.png
.pn +1
The Greek takes his religion seriously, and makes it
a part of his life afloat and ashore, it would seem. On
Good Friday, for example, our national flag was lowered
to half-mast and kept there in token of mourning
for the crucified Lord, until the church proclaimed
His rising from the dead, when it once again mounted
joyously to the peak. The men seemed religiously
inclined, and it was in deference to a request of the
united crew, preferred while we lay in the harbor of
Santorin, that it was decided to run north from that
island to Nios, which was not far away and which
possessed one of the best harbors in the Ægean, in
order that the native sailors and the captain might
observe the churchly festival according to custom—a
request that was the more readily granted because we
were all rather anxious to see the Easter-eve ceremony
at its climax. Those who had witnessed it in previous
years vouched for it as highly interesting, and such
proved to be the fact; for between the ceremony
itself and the excitement of reaching the scene, this
evening furnished one of the most enjoyable of all our
island experiences.

In reply to questions touching upon the remoteness
of the church at Nios from the landing, the second
officer, who spoke Italian, had assured us with a high
disregard of the truth that it was “vicino! vicino!”
It was pitch dark before we neared Nios, however,
.bn 449.png
.pn +1
and as the moon was due to be late in rising that night
we got no warning glimpse of the land, but were made
aware of its approach only by a shapeless bulk in the
dark which suddenly appeared on either hand, the
entrance to the harbor being vaguely indicated by a
single light, past which we felt our way at little more
than a drifting pace until we were dimly conscious of
hills all about, half-guessed rather than visible in the
gloom. Then, faint and far away, we began to hear
the clamor of the village bells, rung with that insistent
clatter so familiar to those acquainted with southern
European churches. That their notes sounded so distant
gave us some idea at the outset that the mate’s
“vicino” might prove to be a rather misleading promise,
but very little was to be told by the sound, save
that the churches from which the bells were pealing
lay off somewhere to the right and apparently up a
hill. Light there was none, not even a glimmer; and
our three dories put off for the shore over an inky sea
in becoming and decorous silence, toward the point
where a gloom even more dense than the sky showed
that there was land. The effect of it all was curious and
had not a little of solemnity in it, as we groped our way
to shore with careful oars and then felt about in the
dark for the landing. The forward boat soon announced
that some stone steps leading upward from the water
had been found, and the rowers immediately raised
.bn 450.png
.pn +1
a shout for lights, as one by one we were handed up
the slimy stairs to the top of a broad stone quay, on
which some white buildings could be dimly seen. A
lantern did materialize mysteriously from some nook
among the ghostly houses, and came bobbing down
to the water’s edge, serving little purpose, however,
save to make the rest of the darkness more obscure.
By its diminished ray the party were assembled in a
compact body, and received admonition to keep together
and to follow as closely as possible the leader,
who bore the light.

These instructions, while simple enough to give,
proved decidedly difficult to follow. The moon was
far below the horizon, and the stars, while numerous
and brilliant, gave little aid to strangers in a strange
land, who could see no more than that they were on
a deserted pier flanked by dim warehouses, and a
long distance from the bells which were calling the
devout to midnight prayer. The lantern set off along
the flagstones of the deserted hamlet; and after it in
single file clattered the rest of us, keeping up as best
we could. We emerged in short order from the little
group of huts by the wharf and came out into a vast
and silent country, where all was darker than before,
save where the leading lantern pursued its fantastic
way upward over what turned out to be a roughly
paved mule track leading into a hill. Like most mule
.bn 451.png
.pn +1
tracks, it mounted by steps, rather than by inclines,
and the progress of the long file of our party was slow
and painful, necessitating frequent halts on the part
of the guide with the lantern, while a warning word
was constantly being passed back along the stumbling
line of pedestrians as each in turn stubbed his toes
over an unlooked-for rise in the grade. There was
little danger of wandering off the path, for it was bordered
by high banks. The one trouble was to keep
one’s feet and not to stumble as we climbed in the
dark, able scarcely to see one another and much less
to see anything of the path. The bells ceased to ring
as we proceeded, and even that dim clue to the distance
of the town was lost. Decidedly it was weird,
this stumbling walk up an unknown and unfrequented
island path in the dead of night; for it was long past
eleven of the clock, and the Easter mass, as we knew,
should reach its most interesting point at about twelve.
Knowing this we made such haste as we could and
the little town of Nios stole upon us ere we were
aware, its silent buildings of gray closing in upon the
road and surrounding us without our realizing their
presence, until a sudden turning of the way caused
the lantern far ahead to disappear entirely from our
view in the mazes of the town.

It was as deserted as the little wharf had been.
Moreover it was as crooked as it was dark. Here and
.bn 452.png
.pn +1
there an open doorway gave out across the way a
single bar of yellow light, but most of the habitations
were as silent as the tomb, their owners and occupants
being in church long before. On and on through
a seeming labyrinth of little streets we wound, the
long thread of the party serving as the sole clue to
the way, as did Ariadne’s cord; for the lantern was
never visible to the rear guard now, owing to the
turns and twists of the highway. Twice we met belated
church-goers coming down from side paths with
their tiny lanterns, and the utter astonishment on
their faces at beholding this unexpected inundation
of foreigners at that unearthly hour of night was as
amusing as it was natural. Once the thread of the
party was broken at a corner, and for an anxious
moment there was a council of war as to which street
to take. It was a lucky guess, however, for a sudden
turn brought the laggards out of the obscurity and
into a lighted square before the doors of the church
itself—a tiny church, white walled and low roofed,
and filled apparently to its doors, while from its open
portals trickled the monotonous chant of a male choir,
the voices always returning to a well-marked and not
unmelodious refrain.

In some mysterious way, room was made for us in
the stifling church, crowded as it was with men and
women. Candles furnished the only light. On the
.bn 453.png
.pn +1
right a choir of men and boys, led by the local schoolmaster,
chanted their unending, haunting minor litany.
An old and bespectacled priest peered down
over the congregation from the door of the iconostasis.
Worshipers came and went. The men seemed
especially devout, taking up the icon before the entrance
and kissing it passionately and repeatedly.
On each of us as we entered was pressed a slender
taper of yellow wax, perhaps a foot in length, and we
stood crowded in the little auditorium holding these
before us expectantly, and regarded with lively and
good-humored curiosity by the good people within.
Presently the priest came forward from the door of
the altar-screen with his candle alight, which was the
signal for an excited scramble by a dozen small boys
nearest him to get their tapers lighted first—after
which the fire ran from candle to candle until everybody
bore his tiny torch; and following the old priest,
we all trooped out into the square before the church,
where the service continued.

That was a sight not easily to be forgotten—the
tiny square, in the centre of which stood the catafalque
of Christ, while all around stood the throng of
worshipers, each bearing his flaring taper, the whole
place flooded with a yellow glow. The monotone of
the service continued as before. The gentle night
breeze sufficed now and then to put out an unsheltered
.bn 454.png
.pn +1
candle here and there, but as often as this
occurred the bystanders gave of their fire, and the
illumination was renewed as often as interrupted.

The quaint service culminated with the proclamation
of the priest that Christ had risen,—"Christos
anéste,"—at which magic words all restraint was
thrown off and the worshipers abandoned themselves
to transports of holy joy. A stalwart man seized
the bell-rope that dangled outside the church and rang
a lively toccata on the multiple bells above, while exuberant
boys let fly explosive torpedoes at the walls
of neighboring houses, making a merry din after the
true Mediterranean fashion; for the religious festivals
of all southern countries appear to be held fit
occasions for demonstrations akin unto those with
which we are wont to observe our own national birthday.
We were soon aware that other churches of the
vicinity had reached the “Christos anéste” at about
the same hour, for distant bells and other firecrackers
and torpedoes speedily announced the rising of the
Lord.

Doubtless a part of the Easter abandon is due to
the reaction from the rigorous keeping of Lent among
the Greeks, as well as to a devout sentiment that renews
itself annually at this festival with a fervor that
might well betoken the first novel discovery of eternal
salvation as a divine truth. The Greek Lent is an
.bn 455.png
.pn +1
austere season, in which the abstinence from food and
wine is astonishingly thorough. Indeed, it has been
reported by various travelers in Hellas in years past
that they were seriously inconvenienced by the inability
they met, especially in Holy Week, to procure
sufficient food; for the peasantry were unanimously
fasting, and unexpected wayfarers in the interior could
find but little cheer. The native manages to exist on
surprisingly little sustenance during the forty days.
On the arrival of Easter it is not strange that he casts
restraint to the winds and manifests a delight that is
obviously unbounded. However, it need not be inferred
from this that undue license prevails, for this
apparently was not the case—not in Nios, at any
rate. The service, after the interruption afforded by
bells and cannonading, resumed its course, and was
said to endure until three o'clock in the morning; a
fact which might seem to indicate that the Easter
pleasuring was capable of a decent restraint and postponement,
although the Lord had officially risen and
death was swallowed up in victory.

Our own devotion was not equal to the task of
staying through this long mass, as it was already well
past the midnight hour, and we had made a long and
strenuous day of it. So, with repeated exchanges of
“Christos anéste” between ourselves and the villagers,
we set out again through the narrow byways
.bn 456.png
.pn +1
of the town, and down over the rough mule path to
the ship, each of us bearing his flaring taper and
shielding it as well as possible from the night wind;
for the sailors were bent on getting some of that
sacred flame aboard alive, and in consequence saw to
it that extinguished candles were promptly relighted
lest we lose altogether the precious fire. We made a
long and ghostly procession of winking lights as we
streamed down over the hillside and out to the boats—a
fitting culmination to one of the most curious
experiences which the Ægean vouchsafed us.

We found the “red eggs” peculiar to the Greek
Easter awaiting us when we came aboard—eggs,
hard-boiled and colored with beet juice or some similar
coloring matter, bowls of which were destined to
become a familiar sight during the week or two that
followed the Easter season. The Greeks maintain that
this is a commemoration of a miracle which was once
performed to convince a skeptical woman of the reality
of the resurrection. She was walking home, it
seems, with an apron full of eggs which she had
bought, when she met a friend whose countenance
expressed unusual rejoicing, and who ran to meet
her, crying, “Have you heard the news?” “Surely
not,” was the reply. “What is this news?” “Why,
Christ the Lord is risen!” “Indeed,” responded the
skeptic, "that I cannot believe; nor shall I believe it
.bn 457.png
.pn +1
unless the eggs that I carry in my apron shall have
turned red." And red they proved to be when she
looked at them!

Owing to the exhaustion due to the festivities of
the night before, we found Easter Sunday at Paros a
quiet day indeed. The streets of the little town proved
to be practically deserted, for it was a day of homekeeping,
and no doubt one of feasting. The occasional
vicious snap of a firecracker was to be heard
as we landed on the mole that serves the chief town
of Paros for a wharf and started for a short Sunday
morning ramble through the streets. From the landing
stage the most conspicuous object in Paros was
a large white church not far from the water, rejoicing
in the name of the “Virgin of a Hundred Gates,” as
we were told we should interpret the epithet “hekatonpyliani.”
It proved to be a sort of triple church,
possessing side chapels on the right and left of the
main auditorium, and almost as large. In that at the
right was to be seen a cruciform baptismal font, very
venerable and only a little raised from the level of
the floor, indicating the uses to which this apartment
of the church was put. The presence of ancient marble
columns incorporated into this early Christian
edifice was likewise striking. In the main church the
most noticeable thing was the employment of a stone
altar-screen, or iconostasis, with three doors leading
.bn 458.png
.pn +1
into the apse behind instead of the customary single
one, an arrangement which has often been commented
upon as resembling the proskenion of the
ancient theatre. It was all deserted, and the air was
heavy with old incense and with the balsamic perfume
of the leaves and branches that had fallen to
the floor and been trampled upon during the mass of
the previous night. It was all very still, very damp
and cool, and evidently very old, doubtless supplanting
some previous pagan shrine.

In the court before the church stood a sort of abandoned
monastery, as at the pass of Daphne, only this
one was spotless white, and with its walls served to
shut in completely the area in front of the church
itself. In a portion of the buildings of this inclosure
is a small museum, chiefly notable for inscriptions,
one of which refers to Archilochus, the writer of Iambic
verse, who lived in Paros in the seventh century
before the birth of Christ.

.il id=i459 fn=i_459.jpg w=414px ew=75%
.ca OLD COLUMNS IN CHURCH. PAROS

The chief fame of Paros was, of course, for its marbles.
The quarries whence these superb blocks came
lay off to the northeast, we were aware; and had time
only allowed, they might have been explored with
profit. The Parian marble was the favorite one for
statues, owing to its incomparable purity and translucence,
and the facility with which it could be worked
up to a high finish. It was quarried under ground,
.bn 459.png
.bn 460.png
.bn 461.png
.pn +1
and thus derived its designation, “lychnites,” or
“quarried-by-candlelight.” Those who have visited
the subterranean chambers formed by the men who
anciently took marble from the spot relate that the exploration
of the quarries is fraught with considerable
interest and with not a little danger, owing to the
complex nature of the galleries and the varying levels.

In wandering around the little modern town which
occupies the site of the ancient city of Paros, and bears
the name of Paroikia, we found not a little color to
delight the eye, although the streets were generally
rather muddy and squalid. On the southerly side of
the harbor, where the basic rock of the island rises
to a considerable height, there was anciently a small
acropolis, which is still crowned with a rather massive
tower built by the Franks out of bits of ancient
marble structures. From the outside, the curious log-cabin
effect caused by using marble columns for the
walls, each drum laid with ends outward, was most
apparent and striking. Within we found a tiny shrine,
deserted as the great church had been, but still giving
evidence of recent religious activity. Aside from
the remnants of old temples, serving as the marble
logs of this Frankish stronghold, there seemed to be
little in Paros to recall the days when she was one of
the richest of all the Athenian tributaries. A few prehistoric
houses have been uncovered and several ancient
.bn 462.png
.pn +1
tombs. But the most lasting of all the classic
monuments are the quarries, now deserted, but still
revealing the marks of the ancient chisels, whence
came the raw material for most of the famous Greek
sculptures preserved to us.

To us, seated on the pebbly beach and idly listening
to the lapping of the Ægean waves, as we sunned
ourselves and awaited the time for embarking, there
appeared a native, gorgeous in clothes of a suspiciously
American cut. He drew near, smiling frankly,
and with a comprehensive gesture which explicitly
included the ladies in his query, said: “Where do
you fellers come from?” He had served in the American
navy, it appeared, and had voyaged as far as
the Philippines. Other Parians ranged themselves at
a respectful distance and gazed in open-mouthed
admiration at their fellow townsman who understood
how to talk with the foreigners, and who walked along
with a lady on either side, whom he constantly addressed
as “you fellers” to their unbounded amusement
and delight. We convoyed him to a wayside
inn near the quay, under two spindling plane trees,
and plied him with coffee as a reward for his courtesy
and interest; and later we left him standing with bared
head watching our little ship steam away westward,
toward the setting sun and that land to which he
hoped one day to follow us once more.
.bn 463.png
.pn +1

Our return to Athens from our island cruise was
by way of the southeastern shore of the Peloponnesus,
touching at Monemvasía, a rocky promontory
near the most southern cape, and connected with the
mainland by a very narrow isthmus, which it has
even been necessary to bridge at one point; so that,
strictly speaking, Monemvasía is an island, rather
than a promontory or peninsula. It is a most striking
rock, resembling Gibraltar in shape, though
vastly smaller. In fact, like Gibraltar, it has the history
of an important strategic point, though it is such
no longer. Its summit is still crowned by a system
of defenses built by the Franks, and the inclosure,
which includes the entire top of the rock, also contains
a ruined church. A narrow and not unpicturesque
town straggles along the shore directly beneath
the towering rock itself, much as the town of Gibraltar
does, and in it may be seen other ruined churches,
belonging to the Frankish period largely, and unused
now. The entrance to this village is through a formidable
stone gateway in the wall, which descends
from the sheer side of the cliff above. A steep zig-zag
path leads up from the town to the fort, which
although deserted is kept locked, so that a key must
be procured before ascending.

Those who have seen the Norman defenses at the
promontory of Cefalù, on the northern coast of Sicily,
.bn 464.png
.pn +1
will recognize at once a striking similarity between
that place and this Grecian one, not only from a topographical
standpoint, but from the arrangement of
the walls at the top and lower down at the gateway
that bars the upward path. Cefalù, however, is in a
more ruinous condition than this Frankish fortress
to-day. In point of general situation and view from
the summit the two are certainly very similar, with
their broad outlook over sea and mainland. The
sheer sides of the promontory made it a practically
inaccessible citadel from nearly every direction, save
that restricted portion up which the path ascends,
and the defense of it against every foe but starvation
was an easy matter. Even besiegers found it no easy
thing to starve out the garrison, for it is on record
that the stout old Crusader Villehardouin sat down
before the gates of Monemvasía for three years before
the inhabitants were forced to capitulate.

The name of Monemvasía is derived from the fact
that the isolated rock crowned with the fortress is
connected with the mainland by a single narrow neck
affording the only entrance. Hence the Greek [Greek: mo/nê e)/mbasis]
(moné emvasis) was combined in the modern
pronunciation to form the not unmusical name of the
place and has a perfectly natural explanation. Moreover
the same name, further shortened, lives again in
the name of “Malmsey” wine, which is made from
.bn 465.png
.pn +1
grapes grown on rocky vineyards and allowed to
wither before gathering, as was the custom in the old
Monemvasía wine industry.

Of course the village at the base of the cliff is wholly
unimportant now. Malmsey wine is no longer the chief
product of this one solitary spot, but comes from Santorin,
Portugal, Madeira, and a dozen other places,
while Monemvasía and the derivation of the word are
largely forgotten. The town has sunk into a state of
poverty, and as for the fort, it is capable neither by
artifice nor by natural surroundings of defending anything
of value, and hence is of no strategic importance.
It has had its day and probably will never have
another. It is, however, ruggedly beautiful, and the
town, if degraded and half ruined, is still highly
picturesque, though unfortunately seldom visited by
Greek pilgrimages. It formed a fitting close for our
island cruise, and indeed it is, as we discovered, really
an island itself, the ribbon of isthmus connecting it
with the Peloponnesus having been severed years ago,
when Monemvasía was worthy to be counted a stronghold.
The gap in the land is now spanned by a permanent
bridge, so that practically Monemvasía is a
promontory still, lofty and rugged, but not ungraceful;
and its imposing bulk loomed large astern as we
steamed back along the coast toward the Piræus and
home.
.bn 466.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=chap20
CHAPTER XX. CORFU

.il fn=i_466.jpg w=400px ew=80%
.sp 2
The city of Patras, from which port we are about
to take leave of Greece, is probably the most
incongruous city in the kingdom. To be sure it is
second in importance to Piræus, and the latter city is
quite as frankly commercial. But the proximity of the
Piræus to Athens and the presence of the Acropolis,
crowned with its ruined temples always in the field of
view, conspire to take a little of the modern gloss off
the major port, and thus prevent it from displaying
an entire lack of harmony with those classic attributes
which are the chief charm of Hellas. Patras
has no such environment. It has no such history. It
is a busy seaport town, a railroad centre, and it is
about everything that the rest of Greece is not. It
even has a trolley line, which no other Greek city
at this writing has, although of course the years
will bring that convenience to Athens, as they have
already brought the third-rail inter-urban road to the
sea.
.bn 467.png
.pn +1

Patras appears to have been as uninteresting in
antiquity as it is to-day, though doubtless from its advantageous
position on the Gulf of Corinth it was always
a more or less prosperous place. A very dubious
tradition says that the Apostle Andrew was crucified
here; and whether he was or not, St. Andrew has remained
the patron saint of the town. In any event,
Patras shares with Corinth the celebrity of being one
of the earliest seats of Christianity in Greece, although
it is a celebrity which Corinth so far overshadows that
poor Patras is generally forgotten. It probably figures
to most Hellenic travelers, as it has in our own case,
as either an entrance or an exit, and nothing more.
Still, after one has spent a fortnight or more in the
wilds of the Peloponnesian mountains, an evening
stroll through the brilliantly lighted streets of the
city comes not amiss, and gives one the sense of civilization
once more after a prolonged experience of
the pastoral and archaic.

It was stated early in this book that probably the
ideal departure from Greece is by way of the Piræus,
as by that route one leaves with the benediction of
the Acropolis, which must be reckoned the crowning
glory of it all. But since we have elected to enter by
the eastern gate in voyaging through these pages, it
is our lot to depart by the western, and to journey
back to Italy by way of Corfu, the island of Nausicaa.
.bn 468.png
.pn +1
It is not to be regretted, after all. One might look far
for a lovelier view than that to be had from the harbor
of Patras. The narrow strait that leads into the Corinthian
Gulf affords a splendid panorama of mountain
and hill on the farther side, as the northern coast
sweeps away toward the east; while outside, toward
the setting sun, one may see the huge blue shapes of
“shady Zakynthos,” and “low-lying” Ithaca—which
it has always struck me is not low-lying at all, but
decidedly hilly. Through the straits and past these
islands the steamers thread their way, turning northward
into the Adriatic and heading for Corfu—generally,
alas, by night.

The redeeming feature of this arrangement is that,
while it robs one of a most imposing view of receding
Greece, it gives a compensatingly beautiful approach
to Corfu on the following morning; and there is not
a more charming island in the world. It lies close to
the Albanian shore, and with reference to the voyage
between Patras and Brindisi it is almost exactly half
way. In Greek it still bears the name of Kerkyra, a
survival of the ancient Corcyra, the name by which
it was known in the days when Athens and Corinth
fought over it. The ancients affected to believe it the
island mentioned in the Odyssey as “Scheria,” the
Phæacian land ruled over by King Alcinoös; and
there is no very good reason why we also should not
.bn 469.png
.pn +1
accept this story and call it the very land where the
wily Odysseus was cast ashore, the more especially
since his ship, converted into stone by the angry Poseidon,
is still to be seen in the mouth of a tiny bay not
far from the city! We may easily drive down to it
and, if we choose, pick out the spot on shore where
the hero was wakened from his dreams by the shouts
of Nausicaa and the maids as they played at ball on
the beach while the washing was drying.

In the ancient days, when navigation was conducted
in primitive fashion without the aid of the mariner’s
compass, and when the only security lay in creeping
from island to island and hugging the shore, Corcyra
became a most important strategic point. In their
conquest of the west, the Greeks were wont to sail
northward as far as this island, skirting the mainland
of Greece, and thence to strike off westward to
the heel of Italy, where the land again afforded them
guidance and supplies until they reached the straits
of Messina. So that the route of Odysseus homeward
from the haunts of Scylla and Charybdis and the isle
Ortygia was by no means an unusual or roundabout
one. This course of western navigation gave rise
to continual bickering among the great powers of
old as to the control of Corcyra, and Thucydides
makes the contention over the island the real starting-point
of the difficulties that culminated in the Peloponnesian
.bn 470.png
.pn +1
war and in the overthrow of the Athenian
empire.

Modern Corfu has a very good outer harbor, suitable
for large craft, although landing, as usual, is
possible only by means of small boats. The declaration
in Bædeker that the boatmen are insolent and
rapacious appears no longer to be true. The matter
of ferriage to shore seems to have been made the
subject of wise regulation, and the charge for the
short row is no longer extortionate. From the water
the city presents a decidedly formidable appearance,
being protected by some massive fortifications which
were doubtless regarded as impregnable in their day,
but which are unimportant now. They are of Venetian
build, as are so many of the fortresses in Greek
waters. Aside from the frowning ramparts of these
ancient defenses, the town is a peaceful looking place
in the extreme, with its tall white and gray houses,
green-shuttered and trim. It is a town by no means
devoid of picturesqueness, although it will take but
a few moments’ inspection to convince the visitor that
Corfu is by nature Italian rather than Greek, despite
its incorporation in the domains of King George.
Corfu has always been in closer touch with western
Europe than with the East, and it is doubtless because
she has enjoyed so intimate a connection with Italy
that her external aspects are anything but Hellenic.
.bn 471.png
.pn +1
Moreover the English were for some years the suzerains
of the island, and have left their mark on it, for
the island’s good, although it is many years since the
British government honorably surrendered the land
to Greece, in deference to the wish of the inhabitants.

Despite the Venetian character of the fortresses, they
remind one continually of Gibraltar, although of course
infinitely less extensive. Particularly is this true of the
"<lang=it>fortezza nuova</lang>," which it is well worth while to explore
because of the fine view over the city and harbor
to be had from its highest point. A custodian resides
in a tiny cabin on the height and offers a perfectly
needless telescope in the hope of fees, although it is
doubtful that many ever care to supplement the eye
by recourse to the glass. The prospect certainly is incomparably
beautiful. Below lies the city with its narrow
streets and lofty buildings, and before it the bay
decked with white ships, contrasting with the almost
incredible blue of the water, for the ocean is nowhere
bluer than at Corfu. Across the straits not many miles
away rises the bluff and mountainous mainland of Albania
and Epirus, stretching off north and south into
illimitable distances. Behind the town the country rolls
away into most fertile swales and meadows, bounded
on the far north by a high and apparently barren
mountain. All the narrow southern end of the island is
.bn 472.png
.pn +1
a veritable garden, well watered, well wooded, covered
with grass and flowers, and rising here and there into
low, tree-clad hills. Trim villas dot the landscape, and
on a distant hill may be seen from afar the gleaming
walls of the palace which belonged to the ill-fated
Empress of Austria.

From the fortress southward toward the bay where
lies the “ship of Ulysses,” there runs a beautiful esplanade
along the water front, lined with trees and
flanked on the landward side by villas with most luxuriant
gardens. Even though the British occupation
came to an end as long ago as 1865, the roadways of
the island bear the marks of the British thoroughness,
and make riding in Corfu a pleasure. The houses
along the way are largely of the summer-residence
variety, the property of wealthy foreigners rather
than of native Corfiotes; and their gardens, especially
in the springtime, are a riot of roses, tumbling over
the high walls, or clambering all over the houses
themselves, and making the air heavy with their fragrance.
The trees are no less beautiful, and the roads
are well shaded by them. After a month or so of the
comparatively treeless and often barren mainland of
Greece, this exuberant Eden is a source of keen enjoyment
with its wanton profligacy of bloom.

.il id=i473 fn=i_473.jpg w=464px ew=80%
.ca “SHIP OF ULYSSES.” CORFU

It cannot be more than two miles, and perhaps it
is rather less, over a smooth road and through a continuous
.bn 473.png
.bn 474.png
.bn 475.png
.pn +1
succession of gardens, from the town of Corfu
out to the little knoll which overlooks the bay and
“ship of Ulysses,” and the view down on that most
picturesque islet and across the placid waters of the
narrow arm of the sea in which it lies, furnishes one
of the most beautiful prospects in the island. The
“ship” itself is a rather diminutive rock not far from
shore, almost completely enshrouded in sombre, slender
cypresses, which give it its supposed similarity to
the Phæacian bark of the wily Ithacan. Nor is it a
similarity that is entirely imaginary. Seen from a distance,
the pointed trees grouped in a dark mass on
this tiny isle do give the general effect of a vessel.
Those who know the picture called the “Island of
Death” will be struck at once with the similarity between
the “ship” and the painter’s ideal of the abode
of shades; and with the best of reasons, for it is said
that this island was the model employed. Amidst
the dusk of the crowded trees one may distinguish a
monastery, tenanted we were told by a single monk,
while on a neighboring island, closer to the shore
and connected therewith by a sort of rocky causeway,
there is another monastery occupied by some band
of religious brothers. This island also is not without
its charms, but the eye always returns to that mournful
abandoned “ship,” which surpasses in its weird
fascination any other thing that Corfu has to show.
.bn 476.png
.pn +1

The Villa Achilleion, which lies off to the southward
on a lofty hill, shares with the ship of Ulysses
the attention of the average visitor, and worthily so,
not only because of the great beauty of the villa itself,
with its mural paintings of classic subjects and its
wonderful gardens, but because of the exquisite view
that is to be had over the island from the spot. The
lively verdure, the vivid blueness of the sea, and the
gloomy rocks of the Turkish shore, all combine to
form a picture not soon to be forgotten. As for the
Achilleion itself, it was built for the Empress of Austria,
who was assassinated some years ago, and the
estate has now, I believe, passed into private hands.
The road to it is excellent, and occasional bits of the
scenery along the way are highly picturesque, with
now and then an isolated and many-arched campanile,
adorned with its multiple bells in the Greek manner,
obtruding itself unexpectedly from the trees.

There are unquestionably many rides around the
island that are quite as enjoyable as this, but the ordinary
visitor is doubtless the one who stops over for
a few hours only, during the stay of his steamer in
the port, and therefore has little time for more than
the sights described. Those who are able to make the
island more than a brief way-station on the way to
or from Greece express themselves as enchanted with
it, and the number of attractive villas built by foreigners
.bn 477.png
.pn +1
of means would seem to emphasize the statement.
Corfu as an island is altogether lovely.

The city itself has already been referred to as more
Italian than Greek in appearance. Nevertheless it is
really Greek, and its shops are certainly more like those
of Athens than like those of Italy, while the ordinary
signboards of the street are in the Greek characters.
It is the height of the houses, the narrowness of the
streets, the occasional archways, and the fact that almost
everybody can speak Italian, that give the unmistakable
Italian touch to Corfu after one has seen
the broader highways and lower structures of Athens.
But Greco-Italian as it is, one cannot get away from
the fact that, after all, it reminds one quite as much of
Gibraltar as of anything. The town does this, quite as
much as the fortresses, with its narrow ways and its
evident cosmopolitanism. The shops, although devoted
largely to Greek merchandise, are a good deal like
the Gibraltar bazaars, and make quite as irresistible an
appeal to the pocket, with their gorgeous embroidered
jackets, blue and gold vestments, and other barbaric
but incredibly magnificent fripperies, fresh from the
tailor’s hand, and not, as at Athens, generally the
wares of second-hand dealers. To see peasant jackets
and vests of red and blue, and heavily ornamented
with gold tracery, go to Corfu. Nothing at Athens
approaches the Corfiote display.
.bn 478.png
.pn +1

There are some archæological remains at Corfu,
but not of commanding prominence; and the average
visitor, busied with the contemplation of the loveliness
of the country and the quaintness of the town for a few
brief hours, probably omits to hunt them up, as we
ourselves did. The most obvious monuments of the past
are those of the medieval period, the Venetian strongholds
that served to protect Corfu when the island was
an important bulwark against the Saracens. Of the
days when the rival powers of classic Greece warred
over the Corcyreans and their fertile island, little trace
has survived. There is a very old tomb in the southerly
suburb of Kastradès and the foundation of an
ancient temple, but neither is to be compared for interest
with the host of monuments of equal antiquity
to be seen in Greece and even in Sicily. Corfu, like
Italy, has suffered a loss of the evidences of her antiquity
by being so constantly on the great highway to
western Europe. She has never been left to one side,
as Greece so long was. Her fertility prevented her degenerating
into mere barren pasturage, as happened
in Hellas proper, and her situation made her important
all through the Middle Ages, just as it made her
important during the expansion period of the Athenian
empire. And as Rome, through active and continuous
existence, has gradually eaten up her own ancient
monuments before they achieved the value of great
.bn 479.png
.pn +1
age, so Corfu has lost almost entirely all trace of what
the ancient Corcyreans built; while Athens, through
her long ages of unimportance, preserved much of her
classic monumental glories unimpaired, and thanks to
an awakened appreciation of them will cherish them
for all time.

The long years in which Greece lay fallow and deserted
now appear not to have been in vain. Through
that period of neglect her ancient sites and monuments
lay buried and forgotten, but intact. Men were
too busy exploring and expanding elsewhere to waste
a thought on the dead past. Even the revival of learning,
which exhumed the classic writings from the oblivion
of monkish cells and made the literature of
Greece live again, was insufficient to give back to the
world the actual physical monuments of that classic
time. It has remained for the present day, when the
earth has been all but completely overrun and when
men have found a dearth of new worlds to conquer,
that we have had the time and the interest to turn back
to Greece, sweep away the rubbish of ages, and give
back to the light of day the palaces of Agamemnon,
the strongholds of Tiryns, and the hoary old labyrinth
of Minos. On the fringes of Magna Græcia, where the
empire was in touch with the unceasing tides of western
civilization, as in Sicily and at Corfu, the remnants of
the older days fared but ill. It was in the mountain fastnesses
.bn 480.png
.pn +1
of the Peloponnesus and in the gloomy glens
of Delphi that so much of the ancient, and even of the
prehistoric and preheroic days, survived as to give us
moderns even a more definite knowledge of the times
of the Achæans and Trojans than perhaps even Homer
himself had.
.bn 481.png
.pb
.pn +1



.h2 id=index
INDEX
.bn 482.png
.bn 483.png
.pn +1



.ce
<l>INDEX</l>


.sp 2
.ix
Acrocorinth, #169#.

Acropolis, of Athens, first views of, #46#;
  description of, #76#;
  approach to, #79#;
  gates of, #79#;
  view from, #79#, #80#.

Acropolis Museum, #86#, #91#, #92#.

Ægina, #39#, #80#, #137#-139.

Agamemnon, #28#, #167#, #175#, #180#, #181#.

Agora, at Athens, #76#, #106#.

Alcmæonidæ, #165#.

Alpheios, #223#, #256#-258.

Andhritsæna, #227#, #229#-246.

Aphrodite, of Praxiteles, #315#.

Apollo, #154#, #243#, #277#, #278#, #299#.

Apoxyomenos, of Lysippus, #166#.

Aqueduct, at Samos, #291#-294.

Arcadia, #211#-228.

Arch, development of, #181#, #192#.

Areopagus, #107#.

Argive Heræum, #186#.

Argos, #187#, #172#-192.

Ariadne, #31#.

Artemis, #279#, #300#.

Asklepios, #3#, #4#, #97#, #98#, #203#, #207#, #308#-311.

Athena, birth of, #83#, #86#;
  strife of, with Poseidon, #83#, #90#;
  sacred image of, #90#;
  Archaic representations of, #92#;
  Pronoia, #164#,168.

Athens, approaches to, #46#;
  modern city, #50#-75;
  ancient traditions of, #51#;
  growth and history, #51#, #52#;
  street venders, #55#;
  street names, #57#;
  stadium, #58#;
  street car system, #58#;
  climate of, #59#, #60#;
  street scenes, #61#-68;
  newspapers, #63#;
  Shoe Lane, #63#, #64#;
  shopping, #64#;
  street of the coppersmiths, #66#;
  giaourti, #68#;
  modern architecture, #69#;
  churches, #69#, #70#;
  icons, #69#;
  soldiery, #70#, #71#;
  funerals, #73#;
  conversation beads, #74#;
  Acropolis, #76#;
  destruction of, by Persians, #88#.

Atreus, treasury of, #183#, #184#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
“Balaustion,” 273, #330#.

Bassæ, #235#-245.

Bee-hive tombs, #183#, #184#.

Bema, #109#.

Beulé gate, #79#.

Branchidæ, #297#-303.

Burial customs, #73#, #246#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Candia, #26#-29.

Canea, #18#-26.

Caryatid portico, #91#.

Castalian spring, #167#.

Cephissus, #50#.

Ceramicus, #112#-118.

Charioteer, statue of, at Delphi, #166#.

Choragic monument of Lysicrates, #76#, #104#.

Churches, Greek, #69#, #70#.

Cnidos, #314#-317.

Cnossos, #29#-36.

Coffee, #66#, #67#.

Coffee-houses, #53#, #54#.

Corcyra (Kerkyra) 370.

Corfu, #368#-380.

Corinth, #169#, #170#.
.bn 484.png
.pn +1

Corinthian canal, #148#, #149#.

Corinthian capitals, #105#.

Corinthian Gulf, #149#, #150#.

Cos, #304#-313.

Crete, #18#-36.

Cr[oe]sus, #156#;
  trial of oracles by, #160#, #161#;
  gifts to oracle at Delphi, #161#-163.

Cyclopean masonry, #175#, #189#.

Cyclopes, #191#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Dances, of peasants, #139#-145.

Daphne, pass of, #124#;
  convent of, #125#.

Delos, #272#-285;
  legend of, #275#;
  dual nature, #276#;
  excavations at, #277#;
  ancient houses, #279#-281.

Delphi, #146#-168;
  excavations at, #153#-158;
  legend of, #154#, #155#;
  oracle at, #155#-157, #159#-165;
  gifts of Cr[oe]sus to oracle, #161#-163;
  great temple at, #165#;
  corruption of oracle, #157#-165;
  statue of charioteer, #166#.

Demeter, #128#, #130#.

Dipylon, #112#.

Drachma, fluctuation of, #71#-73.

Dragoman, #212#.

Dress, of peasants, #142#, #171#, #201#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Easter eggs, #360#.

Eleusinian mysteries, #128#.

Eleusis, #124#-132.

Elgin marbles, #83#, #86#.

Embroideries, #311#, #325#.

Ephebus, bronze statue at Athens, #118#, #119#.

Epidaurus, #198#-210.

Erechtheum, #88#;
  sacred precinct of, #90#.

Erechtheus, #89#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Giaourti, #68#.

Greece, traveling in, #1#-17;
  entrances to, #37#-49;
  landing in, #44#.

Greek churches, #69#, #70#.

Greek language, #9#-13.

Greek people, character of, #14#, #15#, #53#, #54#.

Gremka, #255#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Hadrian, arch of, #48#, #104#.

Halicarnassus, #313#.

Hera, #275#, #294#.

Heræum, Argive, #186#;
  at Olympia, #260#;
  at Samos, #291#-294.

Hermes, of Praxiteles, #268#, #269#.

Herodotus, #90#, #160#-163, #290#, #291#.

Hippocrates, tree of, at Cos, #307#.

Hippodameia, #266#.

Hymettus, #39#, #47#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Icons, #69#.

Ictinus, #81#, #243#.

Ios (Nios) 352-360.

Islands, of the Ægean, #272#-367;
  geographical arrangement, #273#;
  communication with, #274#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Karytæna, #224#.

King George, #74#, #75#.

Knights of Rhodes, #305#, #319#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Labyrinth, of Minos, #31#, #32#.

Lindos, #318#.

Lion Gate, at Mycenæ, #178#, #179#.

Long walls, at Athens, #42#.

Loukoumi, #25#.

Lycabettus, #38#.

Lysippus, #166#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Malmsey wine, #367#.

Marathon, #133#.
.bn 485.png
.pn +1

Mars Hill, #76#, #88#, #107#.

Mausoleum, #313#.

Megalokastron, #27#.

Megalopolis, #218#-223.

Menidi, dances at, #139#-145.

Midnight mass, #353#-361.

Minoan age, #28#.

Minos, #27#-31;
  throne of, #33#.

Minotaur, #31#, #32#, #89#, #112#.

Monemvasía, #365#-367.

Mycenæ, #169#-186;
  accommodation at, #173#;
  excavations at, #175#;
  acropolis of, #177#;
  Lion Gate, #178#, #179#;
  Cyclopean masonry, #175#, #178#, #179#;
  inverted columns, #178#;
  tombs at, #180#;
  reservoir, #182#;
  treasury of Atreus, #183#.

Mycenæan age, #28#;
  stone pillars of, #33#, #178#.

Mycenæan relics at Athens, #120#-122.

Mykale, #288#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
National Museum, at Athens, #118#.

Nauplia, #193#-198.

Nausicaa, #371#.

Navigation, in ancient times, #273#, #371#.

Newspapers, #10#, #63#.

Niké Apteros, temple of, #80#;
  binding sandal, #81#;
  of Pæonius, #263#, #270#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Odeon of Herodes Atticus, #96#.

Odysseus, #16#, #17#, #370#.

[OE]nomaus, legend of, #266#.

Olympia, overland route to, #247#-258;
  site of, #259#-271;
  temple of Zeus at, #260#, #263#.

Olympian Zeus, temple of, at Athens, #48#, #76#, #104#.

Olympic games, #264#-266;
  modern, #271#.

Orientation of temples, #242#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Paganism, traces of, in Greek church, #3#, #4#.

Painting, of statues, #91#.

Panathenaic festival, #89#.

Parian marble, #362#.

Parnassus, #145#, #151#.

Paros, #351#, #361#-365.

Parthenon, #3#, #4#;
  destruction by Morosini, #77#, #85#;
  description of, #82#-88;
  pedimental sculptures of, #83#;
  curious architectural devices, #84#-86;
  restorations of, #86#;
  frieze of, #87#.

Patras, #368#.

Paul, sermon to the Athenians, #107#.

Peasant dances, #139#-145.

Peasant dress, #142#, #171#, #201#.

Pedestal of Agrippa, #81#.

Pedimental sculptures, of Parthenon, #83#;
  at Olympia, #267#, #268#.

Pelops, #266#.

Pentelic marble, #134#.

Pentelicus, #38#, #134#.

Pericles, #42#.

Persians, invasion by, #87#, #88#;
  at Delphi, #164#.

Phalerum, #45#.

Philopappos, monument of, #47#.

Piraeus, #39#-46.

Pnyx, #108#.

Political customs, #61#.

Polychrome decoration of temples, #92#.

Polycrates, #290#.

Poseidon, strife with Athena, #83#, #90#.

Praxiteles, #268#, #315#.
.bn 486.png
.pn +1

Propylæa, #79#, #80#, #81#.

Ptolemy II., #311#.

Pythagoras, #291#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Religious anniversaries, #62#, #353#-361.

Reservoir, at Mycenæ, #182#.

Resinated wine, #137#.

Rhodes, #318#-333;
  Colossus of, #332#.

Rhodian plates, #323#, #324#.

Routes to Greece, #15#, #16#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
St. Elias, successor of ancient Helios, #5#.

Salamis, #39#, #43#, #132#.

Samos, #286#-297.

Santorin, #334#-350.

“Ship of Ulysses,” #375#.

Shoe Lane, at Athens, #63#-65.

Shopping in Athens, #63#-65.

Soldiery, #70#, #71#.

Sparta, #216#.

Stage, use of, in Greek theatre, #100#, #101#.

Stoa, #106#.

Stoics, #106#.

Suda Bay, #19#, #25#, #26#.

Sunium, #37#, #134#-138.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Taÿgetos, #216#.

Temples, survival of, as Christian churches, #4#.

Theatre of Dionysus, #98#;
  of Epidaurus, #204#.

Theatres, #99#-103.

Themistoclean wall, #113#.

Themistocles, #42#, #113#.

Theocritus, #312#.

Thera, #334#-350.

Theseum, #110#.

Theseus, #31#, #89#, #111#.

Tiryns, #188#-192.

Tomb-sculpture, #114#-118.

Tombs, at Mycenæ, #183#, #184#.

Tower of the Winds, #105#.

Treasury of Atreus, #183#.

Troy, #28#, #36#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Villa Achilleion, #376#.

“Virgin of a Hundred Gates,” 361.

Votive offerings, #126#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Xerxes, #87#, #88#.
.ix-

.sp 2
.ix
Zeus, legends of, in Crete, #30#;
  temple in Athens, #48#, #76#, #104#;
  temple at Olympia, #260#;
  statue at Olympia, #263#;
  see also, #275# <em>et seq.</em>
.ix-
.bn 487.png
.pn +1
.bn 488.png
.pn +1

.sp 4
.nf c
<bl>The Riverside Press</bl>

CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS

U · S · A
.nf-

.fm rend=h lz=h
.sp 4
<target id='endnote'>
.dv class='tnotes'
.ce
<l>Transcriber’s Note</l>

The table at the end of this note summarizes any corrections to the text that
have been deemed to be printer’s errors.

The spelling of Greek place-names may occasionally use the terminal ‘-us’
interchangeably with the Greek ‘-os’, especially in the Index. Both are
retained.

The latinized Greek word ‘lepta’ is occasionally given with an accented ‘a’,
either ‘à’ or ‘á’. All have been retained as printed.

.dv-