Epidauros at sunset, along with the troops of vintagers, from whose
crates we took grapes to our hearts' content. As for any payment,
nobody thought of that. Now I got an interesting lesson in Greek
hospitality. My companion had brought a letter of introduction to a man
in this village whom we met coming in from his vineyard. He said that
he was very busy disposing of his grapes, and could hardly be at his
house at all that night. But he called one of his workmen and told him
to take us to his house and see that we had the best room in it. We did
not see him again until the next morning, when we met him already among
his vines at four o'clock, three miles up the valley on the road to the
Hieron. The pressure of New England haymaking is nothing compared with
that of the vintage season in Greece.
Nothing could exceed the cordiality of our host in these two encounters
by evening and morning twilight. His hospitality was as hearty as it
was a matter of course. Angels could have done no more. It was, in
the Homeric phrase, δόσις ὀλίγη τε φίλη τε. His off-hand hospitality
was to us a perfect godsend. We were lodged in the best house in
the village, and made as free and easy as if we had been in an inn.
Without him we should have come off short. The village contained only
about thirty houses, and most of these very uninviting. In fact, a
stranger would hardly seek shelter in any of them except under stress
of weather. There is hardly a more neglected corner in Greece than
this once important place, the mother city of Ægina, which lies in
plain sight confronting it, two hours' sail across the bay. Not only
does no steamer put in here, but there was not even a sail-boat in the
harbor while we were there. We were told that no sail-boat was owned by
anybody in the village, an unheard-of thing on a Greek coast. To send
a telegram or to get a physician one must send to Piada, called also
New Epidauros, an hour and a half distant. A mail comes twice a week on
horseback from Nauplia, all the way across the peninsula.
In this neglected but most picturesque corner remain the walls of a
stately acropolis on a rocky peninsula with a harbor on each side of
it, and other remains of a great city protruding from the rich soil
where this peninsula joins the mainland.
But while the city has perished, the Hieron has, in a certain sense,
come to life again. Here an area has been laid bare much larger
than that excavated by the Germans at Olympia. The theatre, the
best preserved of all Greek theatres, was never entirely covered
up, and was early and easily cleared. The project of having a grand
presentation of ancient dramas here has often been broached but never
carried out, on account of the difficulty of transporting and feeding
the spectators necessary to the success of the project, to say nothing
of lodging them. The acoustic properties of this theatre are well
known. One standing in front of the stage makes himself heard without
effort by one sitting in the top row of seats.
The finest building in the precinct was the so-called Tholos, a round
building as highly ornamented as the Erechtheum at Athens, and boasting
Polycleitus as its architect. The temple of Æsculapius was almost
equally brilliant, but these two buildings do not exist except to the
archæologist. We have inscriptions giving most elaborate accounts of
the construction of each of them; but of each building nothing remains
except their foundations and broken fragments of their brilliant
adornment. Were it not for giving this description of a journey the
appearance of a guide-book, I might speak of the Herculean labors of
Mr. Kabbadias in excavating the Stadion, and the little pleasure that
the sight of it affords the layman.
[Illustration: THEATRE AT EPIDAUROS]
The great interest of the excavation really centres in the inscriptions
discovered. Mr. Kabbadias looked up from his arduous work, the hot
afternoon of our arrival, upon a much-defaced inscription, and said
with an enthusiasm which means much in a quiet man: "I tell you no man
has a right to think that he understands Greek life if he has not read
these inscriptions of Epidauros." These inscriptions, at any rate, kept
him from sleeping during the afternoon hours of summer days when nearly
all Greeks sleep, even if they do not sleep nights.
Among this material there is, perhaps, nothing more interesting than
two long inscriptions, each containing records of twenty or more cases
of miraculous cures wrought on sick people who came here and went to
sleep in a long porch, remains of which survive. The cures are mostly
wrought in dreams. Here is a sample (I quote from the stone):
"Case of a man with a cancer in his stomach. He went to sleep and
had a vision. The god seemed to him to command his attendants to
seize him and hold him that he might cut open his stomach. He himself
seemed to be trying to run away; but the attendants caught him and
bound him, while Æsculapius opened his stomach, cut out the cancer,
sewed up the incision, and released him from his bonds. And after
this he went away healed; and the floor of the apartment was covered
with blood."
The following case ascribes to the god the power to work cures upon an
absent person:
"Case of Arata of Sparta having dropsy. Her mother, leaving her in
Sparta, slept and had a vision. It seemed to her that the god cut off
her daughter's head and hung up the body with the neck downward, and
when a great quantity of water had run out, took the body down again
and replaced the head upon the neck. After she had seen the vision
she returned to Sparta, and found her daughter restored to health,
having seen the same vision."
As if to put the seal of verification upon these cases, two
inscriptions tell of doubters who were convinced of the god's power to
heal, against their will. One records the case of a man with all the
fingers of one hand paralyzed except one, who, seeing these tablets in
the sacred precinct recording the miraculous cures, laughed and doubted:
"Now this man, in his sleep, seemed to see the god seize hold of his
hand and straighten out his fingers, and when the man, in doubt,
kept opening and shutting his fingers to see whether it were really
true, the god seemed to ask him if he _now_ doubted the truth of the
inscriptions. When the man replied that he was convinced, the god
said to him: 'Because you did not at once believe things that were in
no wise incredible I give you the name of "The Doubter."'"
This was the only vengeance inflicted by the mild god upon this
"doubting Thomas"; for "when day dawned he went away healed."
Some think that this great healing establishment had two strings to
its bow, and that alongside of the miraculous cures which drew the
crowd there was a treatment which approached in some degree the regular
practice of medicine. At any rate it is clear that water played a great
rôle here, not only from the inscriptions, but also from the fact that
the precinct is honeycombed with water-pipes. Sunlight and good air
were also doubtless operative. The Hieron lies in a bowl, high up, it
is true, but finely protected from the winds, especially the north wind
and east wind. It possesses the qualities of a good winter resort. In
summer it is now somewhat hot, but the air is certainly not so sultry
as in the lower lying parts of Argolis. As the precinct is spoken of in
ancient times as a "grove," there must then have been abundant shade
all about. Numerous porches also, with various exposures, gave an
option between sun and shade. We should not go far astray in speaking
of the Hieron as an ancient Carlsbad as well as an ancient Lourdes.
But in its material equipment it was greatly superior to both; for
from very early times down through the days of the Antonines one noble
building after another was reared here under the supervision of the
best architects.
When the cool of the day had come on we strolled over the sacred
precinct, and then with Mr. Kabbadias and his family took dinner at a
table set in the open air just behind the stage building. Close by us
was the fine _cavea_ of the theatre, resplendent with the light of a
summer full-moon. It is easily understood that such a visit is more
impressive than the usual one from Nauplia, in which most of the day is
taken up in coming and going and one has but about three hours to see
the place and take a hurried luncheon.
Rising the next morning at two o'clock from our mattresses on the floor
beside the statues in the museum, we struck into a more Alpine road
even than that by which we had come, into the roughest part of Argolis.
At eight o'clock we passed the water-shed between the Argolic and the
Saronic gulfs, from which both are plainly visible, and here, high up
between Ortholithi and the Didyma, we took our well-earned breakfast
beside a spring. At noon we were at the ruins of Troezen, and so almost
home.
MESSENE AND SANDY PYLOS
In passing from Olympia to Sparta by sea in 1891 I had put into the
harbor of Pylos at sunset; and had not fellow-travellers urged me on
I could not have resisted the powerful charm of the place. A hurried
visit to Ithome the next day afforded some compensation, and Sparta,
approached by the magnificent Langadha Pass through Taygetos, made
me forget my loss entirely. But for years that sunset and nightfall
lingered in my memory, accompanied by the hope of letting the
impression of Pylos deepen upon me by a second visit. Ten years and a
half later I found myself again in Messenia, with the full intention of
filling up the gap in my acquaintance with that corner of Greece; but
it was December, and a heavy rain set in and drove our party back to
Athens by rail.
In January of the present year six of us took the train at Athens for
Kalamata, the modern capital of Messenia. It was immediately after a
heavy fall of snow; and we hoped at least to revel in the sight of
Arcadia presenting a Swiss aspect, but indulged also the larger hope of
studying carefully Messene, and especially Pylos. Neither hope failed
us; Arcadia was magnificent in its winter dress. In Tripolitza, which
is over two thousand feet high, the snow lay several inches thick, and
the train threaded its way among mountains carrying heavy masses of it.
The journey paid for itself.
But a series of April days followed. The first of them we spent in the
"blessed plain" adjacent to Kalamata, which far surpasses all the rest
of Greece in exuberant fertility. Semi-tropical vegetation, heavily
loaded orange-trees, vineyards hidden by enormous hedges of cactus,
with a full flowing river, make one huge garden. But the setting is
more magnificent than the jewel itself. A deep bay comes running up on
the south; Taygetos towers to the east, and less magnificent mountains
to the north. Only on the west is the plain bordered by a low range
which looks rather tame, but which later gave us work enough to get
across it on our way to Pylos. The goal of our first day's journey lay
about fifteen miles to the north, where, between two considerable peaks
on the west side of the "blessed valley," lay the Messene of the fourth
century before Christ, founded by Epaminondas.
Tardy restitution given to a long-suffering people; late righting of an
ancient wrong! Let us not, however, think of Epaminondas as acting out
of pure benevolence. He was studying the best means of putting a check
upon the power of Sparta. For some two centuries and a half Sparta's
heel had rested heavily on this people, its nearest kin, who were by
no means weaklings, if we can put any trust in the tales of the first
and second Messenian wars. Twice in those fierce struggles the balance
was held nearly even for almost a generation, when it tipped in favor
of Sparta; and the Messenian state sank in blood and slavery. At last
the fulness of time had come, and with it Sparta's doom. The Delphic
oracle given to Aristodemos centuries before was fulfilled: "Do as fate
directs, but ruin falls on some before others."
The exiles were called back from far and near. So tenacious had they
been of their dialect that they became a people in the most natural way
in the world. That they loved their land is no wonder. The new city
made by Epaminondas was laid out at the foot of Mount Ithome, perhaps
on the site of an older city. At any rate, Ithome was the fortress in
which Aristodemos made the last stand against Sparta in the first war.
In the small Greek world the sensation caused by the reappearance of
the Messenian state may be compared to that which would be felt in
Europe to-day if Poland should again take her place among the nations.
So great had been the vicissitudes of the Messenian people that
Pausanias for once drops his rôle of periegete to become the historian
of a gallant race that succumbed to force and fate. But what history!
Besides quoting the poet Tyrtæus he gives as his principal sources of
information one prose historian and one poetical historian. The prose
writer, Myron of Priene, he thinks "reveals an indifference to truth."
One might think, then, that Pausanias was intent on sifting out the
pure grain and throwing away the chaff. But the following is a fair
sample of the kind of history that he serves up for us.
The first Messenian war had lasted twenty years, with varying success
and failure; but at that point the Delphic oracle told the Messenians
that the party which first dedicated a hundred tripods in the sanctuary
of Ithomian Zeus would surely win. The Messenians were elated, thinking
that surely nobody could do this but themselves, since they held that
sanctuary; but to make sure of it, since bronze was scarce, they at
once set about making the tripods of wood. But the oracle leaked out
in Sparta; and "an insignificant fellow, but with brains," made a
hundred little clay tripods, and, slinging them over his shoulder in
a bag, went up to Ithome as a hunter, escaping notice by his "mere
insignificance"; and after dark crept into the sanctuary and set up
his little tripods around the altar of Zeus. When the Messenians saw
them in the morning they had not a doubt that all was lost. The king,
Aristodemos, incontinently committed suicide. But others fought on
hopelessly to the bitter end, losing all their generals and men of
prominence. The second war, of little less duration, came to an end
with another Delphic oracle. The great fortress Eira on the northern
border had been stoutly defended for years, when the Pythian priestess
said: "When a he-goat drinks Neda's eddying water I will save Messene
no longer, for destruction is near."
For a time there was great hustling to keep the he-goats away from
the River Neda. But one day a seer noticed a wild fig-tree, which in
Messenian parlance was called _tragos_, a he-goat, growing crooked, and
bending over the Neda so as to brush the water with the tips of its
leaves. He showed this to the general, Aristomenes, who agreed with him
that all was lost; but instead of committing suicide like the leader
in the former war, he fought on like a real hero, and even after the
cause was lost became a terror to the Spartans on their own side of
Taygetos. One wonders whether a people ever really believed that the
issue of great wars turned on such portents. Such yarns may have been
spun several centuries after the events, by the more or less mendacious
historians, to whom Pausanias, in his character of historian, refers as
his sources from which he drew his pure history of Messenia.
But however flimsy the history of those past centuries, the walls of
the new city are solid reality. Pausanias records that "the first
day was devoted to prayer and sacrifice; but on the following days
they proceeded to rear the circuit wall, and to build houses and
sanctuaries within." Why did he not say "the following _years_"? These
walls are so extensive, as well as so massive, that one wonders whether
they could have been built in less than five years. But there was
every reason that the wall should be built at once, to secure the new
city against the attacks of Sparta; and we have so many cases of rapid
wall-building on the part of the Greeks that we can believe almost any
feat ascribed to them in this line. Pausanias recognizes these walls as
something extraordinary, saying: "I have not seen the walls of Babylon,
nor the Memnonian walls at Susa in Persia, nor have I heard of them
from persons who have seen them; but Ambrosos in Phokis, Byzantium, and
Rhodes are fortified in the best style; and yet the walls of Messene
are stronger than theirs." A great deal of this circuit wall, over
five miles in extent, has now disappeared; but, on the north side
the Arcadian gate, with adjacent towers and lines of wall, not only
justifies Pausanias's admiration, but makes the visitor of to-day stand
long in mute astonishment. The walls of Tiryns are of more gigantic
blocks; but they made simply an enclosure of a palace.
The view from the top of Ithome, which towers above the city, is
superb; but Pausanias must have thought it much higher than it really
is when he said, "There is no higher mountain in the Peloponnesus."
Taygetos, which stared him in the face, is more than five thousand
feet higher; so are Kyllene and Aroania. But it is, with the possible
exception of Vlocho, the acropolis of the Thestiæi, in Ætolia, the
highest acropolis in Greece, measured, not from the sea level, but from
the plain at its foot.
Pylos is about thirty miles distant from Kalamata, across the western
prong of the Peloponnesus. Our maps led us to think that there was a
fair road across. But more than fifty persons assured us that it was
impossible for bicycles. We were convinced, however, that we knew
better than they what one could accomplish with bicycles, knowing
from experience that a bridle-path is often better than a poor
carriage-road. We took the train, however, as far as Nisi (officially
styled Messene, though ten miles distant from the Messene of classical
times), thus cutting off about seven miles of our journey. In the face
of loud and universal dissuasion we struck out for Pylos, and in two
hours we had cut off seven miles more of the road, having dismounted
perhaps fifty times when it was either too muddy or too sandy, or when
the path became six inches wide and two feet deep. An occasional orange
plucked from an overhanging bough was a consolation for hard work. We
had not yet drawn far away from the sea, and had passed, by fairly
good bridges, six rivers. But now we came to a river with no bridge.
While we were hesitating, a man came out of a hut near by and offered
to carry us across, wheels and all, for a drachma apiece. While he
was rapidly lowering his price we had got over, boy fashion, each for
himself, with the added pleasure of a very cold foot-bath.
Directly after this the road took a turn up a mountain side, over
rough rock strata set on edge. For the middle third of the journey the
worst that had been said was short of the horrible truth. We toiled
up and down over the path of jagged stones, carrying our wheels and
bags. Not until two hours before sunset did we get our first glimpse
of the western sea; and darkness fell upon us before we reached the
carriage-road running along the shore northward from Pylos. We even
struck a bog in the dark; but by keeping straight on we staggered out
upon the firm road at last, probably with something of the feeling
which Ulysses had when he tumbled ashore at Scheria after his long
swim. Three hours later we were sleeping on beds by no means so soft as
the bog from which we had been delivered.
[Illustration: BAY OF NAVARINO, WITH OLD PYLOS TO THE RIGHT AND
SPHAKTERIA TO THE LEFT]
The Pylos, where we passed the night, is a comparatively new town,
having grown up around a fort built by the Franks in the thirteenth
century on the south side of a great bay. Venetians occupied it later.
It received, also, the name of Navarino from some merchants of Navarre,
who settled there in the fifteenth century. This new Pylos, beautifully
situated, looks out upon a scene so lovely that words fail to
describe it; and in this spot history has been made.
[Illustration: <Map of the Bay of Navarino.>]
The Bay of Navarino, about three miles long from north to south, and
about two miles broad, is a large natural harbor, shut off from the
sea by what was in prehistoric ages a long, continuous cliff, but
which in historic times had already been broken open in three places.
The opening farthest north had ages ago already been silted up with
sand; and the next one is in a fair way to become so before long. The
northern end of the bay has also been a good deal silted up by streams
flowing into it; and a long sand-bar has at last entirely shut it off
from the rest, making of it a lake.
The particular feature which imparts picturesqueness to the bay is
the already mentioned cliff, which rises almost perpendicularly in
the greater part of its extent to a height varying from one hundred
to three hundred feet, or even more. The face of these cliffs is in
places very red, and when struck by the morning sun they are gorgeously
colored.
In the fifth century before Christ the southern section of the hill was
called Sphacteria, and was, of course, an island; the section next it
on the north, which would have been an island had not the opening to
the north of it been silted up, was called Pylos; after that follows
a low promontory well joined to the mainland. There can be little
doubt that the name Pylos is a survival of Homeric times, and that
here we must look for the home of Nestor. It has become a fashion in
the past few years to look for the Homeric Pylos farther north, partly
to furnish a better road for Telemachos's chariot ride from Pylos to
Sparta, and partly because no Mycenæan remains have been found here.
But it is about as easy to take Telemachos straight over Taygetos as it
is to find any more convenient road farther north. Pheræ, where the
two days' journey was divided by a night's rest, has been reasonably
well identified with some ancient walls on the slope of Taygetos above
Kalamata; and if the journey was undertaken from our Pylos it would be
about evenly divided there.
Furthermore, in the great cave on the north end of Pylos, which is
probably the cave where, according to legend, the baby Hermes hid the
oxen of Apollo which he had stolen, there were found in 1896 vase
fragments of Mycenæan and even of pre-Mycenæan times. Who knows how
soon serious excavations may bring to light Mycenæan walls under the
great Venetian fortress? Such a harbor as this could hardly have failed
to be known and occupied in the earliest times; and surely there is
sand enough here to justify Homer's standing epithet of "Sandy Pylos."
But if the Homeric glory should be stolen away, this bay would yet be
remembered as the scene of that most picturesque of naval battles in
which the allied fleet, sailing in through the broad southern entrance
one afternoon in 1827, annihilated in two hours the Ottoman fleet, and
brought about the independence of Greece. Some of the wrecks from this
battle are still to be seen on shore and beneath the water.