Greece and the Ægean Islands
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Title: Greece and the Ægean Islands
Author: Philip Sanford Marden
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
GREECE
AND
THE ÆGEAN ISLANDS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: ACROPOLIS, SHOWING PROPYLÆA]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
GREECE
AND THE
ÆGEAN ISLANDS
BY
PHILIP SANFORD MARDEN
[Illustration]
~London~
ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO., LTD.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
1907
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT 1907 BY PHILIP S. MARDEN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published November 1907_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PROLEGOMENA
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 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.
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 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 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.
PHILIP SANFORD MARDEN.
LOWELL, MASS., August, 1907.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. TRAVELING IN GREECE 1
II. CRETE 18
III. THE ENTRANCE TO GREECE 37
IV. ATHENS; THE MODERN CITY 50
V. ANCIENT ATHENS: THE ACROPOLIS 76
VI. ANCIENT ATHENS: THE OTHER MONUMENTS 96
VII. EXCURSIONS IN ATTICA 123
VIII. DELPHI 146
IX. MYCENÆ AND THE PLAIN OF ARGOS 169
X. NAUPLIA AND EPIDAURUS 193
XI. IN ARCADIA 211
XII. ANDHRITSÆNA AND THE BASSÆ TEMPLE 229
XIII. OVER THE HILLS TO OLYMPIA 247
XIV. THE ISLES OF GREECE: DELOS 272
XV. SAMOS AND THE TEMPLE AT BRANCHIDÆ 286
XVI. COS AND CNIDOS 304
XVII. RHODES 318
XVIII. THERA 334
XIX. NIOS; PAROS; A MIDNIGHT MASS 351
XX. CORFU 368
INDEX 381
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
ACROPOLIS, SHOWING PROPYLÆA _Frontispiece_
MAP 1
LANDING-PLACE AT CANEA 20—
THRONE OF MINOS AT CNOSSOS 34
STORE-ROOMS IN MINOAN PALACE, CNOSSOS 36
OLD CHURCH IN TURKISH QUARTER, ATHENS 60
TEMPLE OF NIKÉ APTEROS 80
THE PARTHENON, WEST PEDIMENT 86
TEMPLE OF OLYMPIAN ZEUS 104
THE AREOPAGUS 108
THE THESEUM 112
TOMB AMPHORA, CERAMICUS 116
TOMB RELIEF, CERAMICUS 118
BRONZE EPHEBUS, NATIONAL MUSEUM, ATHENS 120
THE TEMPLE AT SUNIUM 134
THE APPROACH TO ÆGINA 138
THE TEMPLE AT ÆGINA 138
PEASANT DANCERS AT MENIDI 142
THE PLAIN BELOW DELPHI 150
THE VALE OF DELPHI 156
CHARIOTEER, DELPHI 166
AGORA, MYCENÆ 180
WOMAN SPINNING ON ROAD TO EPIDAURUS 198
EPIDAURIAN SHEPHERDS 202
THEATRE AT EPIDAURUS 206
AN OUTPOST OF ARCADY 224
THE GORGE OF THE ALPHEIOS 226
ANDHRITSÆNA 230
AN ARBOREAL CAMPANILE. ANDHRITSÆNA 234
THRESHING FLOOR AT BASSÆ 240
TEMPLE AT BASSÆ, FROM ABOVE 244
TEMPLE AT BASSÆ, FROM BELOW 244
HERÆUM. OLYMPIA 258
ENTRANCE TO THE STADIUM. OLYMPIA 262
DELOS, SHOWING GROTTO 282
GROTTO OF APOLLO, DELOS 282
COLUMN BASES. SAMOS 296
CARVED COLUMN-BASE. BRANCHIDÆ 296
TREE OF HIPPOCRATES. COS 306
CNIDOS, SHOWING THE TWO HARBORS 314
SCULPTURED TRIREME IN ROCK AT LINDOS. 327
(From a Sketch by the Author)
ARCHED PORTAL OF ACROPOLIS. LINDOS 328
SANTORIN 336
LANDING-PLACE AT THERA 338
THERA 342
A THERAN STREET 346
OLD COLUMNS IN CHURCH, PAROS 362
“SHIP OF ULYSSES.” CORFU 374
------------------------------------------------------------------------
GREECE
AND
THE ÆGEAN ISLANDS
[Illustration:
SKETCH MAP
OF
GREECE
AND THE
ÆGEAN ISLANDS
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER I. TRAVELING IN
GREECE
[Illustration]
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 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 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 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 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 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.
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 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 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 _en rapport_ 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 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.
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CHAPTER II. CRETE
[Illustration]
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 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 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 "molto cattivo" 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.
[Illustration: 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
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 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 (_née_ 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 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 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, 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 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 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.
[Illustration: 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 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. 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.
[Illustration: STORE-ROOMS IN MINOAN PALACE, CNOSSOS]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER III. THE ENTRANCE
TO GREECE
[Illustration]
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 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 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 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 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 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 B.C. 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 B.C., 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 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 B.C., 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.” 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 _facchini_.
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 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 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
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
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!”
(εμπρός), 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 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.
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CHAPTER IV. ATHENS; THE
MODERN CITY
[Illustration]
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 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
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.
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 _kaffeneion_ 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.
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 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 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.
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” 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
ὁδὸς Ἑρμοῦ (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 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 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 only are the ancient
monuments worthy of long and thoughtful contemplation, but the modern
city itself is abundantly worthy of intimate acquaintance.
[Illustration: 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. 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 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, and the effect of the _tout ensemble_ 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 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 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. 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 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. 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 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 παράδεισος, 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, 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 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 _vice
versa_, 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 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, 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 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.
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CHAPTER V. ANCIENT ATHENS:
THE ACROPOLIS
[Illustration]
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, 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 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 _in situ_ 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.
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 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.
[Illustration: 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 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 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 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.
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 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 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.
[Illustration: 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 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 B.C. 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 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 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.
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 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 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.
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
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 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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VI. ANCIENT ATHENS:
THE OTHER MONUMENTS
[Illustration]
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 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 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 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 B.C., 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
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 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 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
σκηνή (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 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 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.”
[Illustration: 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 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 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 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 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?
[Illustration: 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 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 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
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 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 B.C., 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.
[Illustration: 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 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 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 _in situ_ 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 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 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.
[Illustration: 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 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 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.
[Illustration: 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 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 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.
[Illustration:
_National Museum, Athens_
BRONZE EPHEBUS
]
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 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, 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!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VII. EXCURSIONS IN
ATTICA
[Illustration]
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 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 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 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.
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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.
[Illustration: 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 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, 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 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 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 o
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