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 of an early date. The figures which survive, to the number of
seventeen, in a very fair state of preservation, represent warriors in
various active postures, and several draped female figures, including a
large statue of Athena. Those who have never seen these at Munich are
doubtless familiar with the reproductions in plaster which are common in
all first-class museums boasting collections of Greek masterpieces.
[Illustration: THE APPROACH TO ÆGINA]
[Illustration: THE TEMPLE AT ÆGINA]
The island of Ægina, which is large and mountainous, forms a conspicuous
feature of the gulf in which it lies. It is close to the Peloponnesian
shore, and from the temple a magnificent view is outspread in every
direction, not only over the mountains of the Argolid but northward
toward Corinth,—and on a clear day it is said that even the summit of
Parnassus can be descried. Directly opposite lies Athens, with which
city the island long maintained a successful rivalry. The chief
celebrity of the spot was achieved under its independent existence,
about the seventh century B.C., and before Athens subjugated it. It was
then tenanted by colonists from Epidaurus, who had the commercial
instinct, and who made Ægina a most prosperous place. The name is said
to be derived from the nymph Ægina, who was brought to the island by
Zeus. The hardy Æginetan sailors were an important factor in the battle
of Salamis, to which they contributed not only men but sacred images;
and they were not entirely expelled from their land by the Athenian
domination until 431 B.C. Thereafter the prominence of the city dwindled
and has never returned.
It remains to describe an excursion which we made to the north of Athens
one day shortly after Easter, to witness some peasant dances. These
particular festivities were held at Menidi, and were rather less
extensive than the annual Easter dances at Megara, but still of the same
general type; and as they constitute a regular spring feature of Attic
life, well worth seeing if one is at Athens at the Easter season, it is
not out of place to describe them here. Either Megara or Menidi may be
reached easily by train, and Menidi is not a hard carriage ride, being
only six miles or so north of Athens, in the midst of the plain. It may
be that these dances are direct descendants of ancient rites, like so
many of the features of the present Orthodox church; but whatever their
significance and history, they certainly present the best opportunity to
see the peasantry of the district in their richest gala array, which is
something almost too gorgeous to describe.
The drive out to the village over the old north road was dusty and hot,
and we were haunted by a fear that the dances might be postponed, as
occasionally happens. These doubts were removed, however, when Menidi at
last hove in sight as we drove over an undulation of the plain and came
suddenly upon the village in holiday dress, flags waving, peasant girls
and swains in gala garb, and streets lined with booths for the vending
of sweetmeats, Syrian peanuts, pistachio nuts, loukoumi, and what the
New England merchant would call “notions.” Indeed, it was all very
suggestive of the New England county fair, save for the gorgeousness of
the costumes. The streets were thronged and everybody was in a high
good-humor. What it was all about we never knew. Conflicting reports
were gleaned from the natives, some to the effect that it was, and some
that it was not, essentially a churchly affair; but all agreed
apparently that it had no connection with the Easter feast, although it
was celebrated something like five days thereafter. Others mentioned a
spring as having something to do with it,—suggesting a possible pagan
origin. This view gained color from the energy with which lusty youths
were manipulating the town pump in the village square, causing it to
squirt a copious stream to a considerable distance,—a performance in
which the bystanders took an unflagging and unbounded delight. That the
celebration was not devoid of its religious significance was evident
from the open church close by thronged with devout people coming and
going, each obtaining a thin yellow taper to light and place in the huge
many-branched candelabrum. The number of these soon became so great that
the priests removed the older ones and threw them in a heap below, to
make room for fresh-lighted candles. Those who deposited coins in the
baptismal font near the door were rewarded with a sprinkling of water by
the attendant priest, who constantly dipped a rose in the font and shook
it over those who sought this particular form of benison.
Outside, the square was thronged with merrymakers, some dancing in the
solemn Greek fashion, in a circle with arms extended on each others’
shoulders, moving slowly around and around to the monotonous wail of a
clarionet. Others were seated under awnings sipping coffee, and to such
a resort we were courteously escorted by the local captain of the
gendarmerie, whose acquaintance we had made in Athens and who proved the
soul of hospitality. Here we sat and drank the delicious thick coffee,
accompanied by the inevitable huge beaker of water drawn from the rocky
slopes of Parnes, and watched the dancers and the passing crowds. The
dress of the men was seldom conspicuous. Many wore European clothes like
our own, although here and there might be seen one in the national
costume of full white skirts and close-fitting leggings, leather wallet,
and zouave jacket. But the women were visions of incomparable
magnificence. Their robes were in the main of white, but the skirts were
decked with the richest of woolen embroideries, heavy and thick,
extending for several inches upward from the lower hem, in a profusion
of rich reds, blues, and browns. Aprons similarly adorned were worn
above. Most impressive of all, however, were the sleeveless overgarments
or coats, such as we had seen and bickered over in Shoe Lane,—coats of
white stuff, bordered with a deep red facing and overlaid with intricate
tracery in gold lace and gold braid. These were infinitely finer than
any we had seen in the Athens shops, and they made the scene gay indeed
with a barbaric splendor. To add to the gorgeousness of the display, the
girls wore flat caps, bordered with gold lace and coins, giving the
effect of crowns, flowing veils which did not conceal the face but fell
over the shoulders, and on their breasts many displayed a store of gold
and silver coins arranged as bangles—their dowries, it was explained.
Most of these young women were betrothed, it developed, and custom
dictated this parade of the marriage portion, which is no small part of
the Greek wedding arrangement. The cuffs of the full white sleeves were
embroidered like the aprons and skirt bottoms, and the whole effect was
such as to be impossible of adequate description.
[Illustration: PEASANT DANCERS AT MENIDI]
One comely damsel, whose friends clamored us to photograph her,
scampered nimbly into her courtyard, only to be dragged forth bodily by
a proud young swain, who announced himself her betrothed and who
insisted that she pose for the picture, willy-nilly,—which she did,
joining amiably in the general hilarity, and exacting a promise of a
print when the picture should be finished. The ice once broken, the
entire peasant population became seized with a desire to be
photographed, and it was only the beginning of the great dance that
dissolved the clamoring throng.
The dance was held on a broad level space, just east of the town, about
which a crowd had already gathered. We were escorted thither and duly
presented to the demarch, or mayor, who bestowed upon us the freedom of
the city and the hospitality of his own home if we required it. He was a
handsome man, dressed in a black cut-away coat and other garments of a
decidedly civilized nature, which seemed curiously incongruous in those
surroundings, as indeed did his own face, which was pronouncedly
Hibernian and won for him the sobriquet of "O'Sullivan" on the spot. His
stay with us was brief, for the dance was to begin, and nothing would do
but the mayor should lead the first two rounds. This he did with much
grace, though we were told that he did not relish the task, and only did
it because if he balked the votes at the next election would go to some
other aspirant. The dance was simple enough, being a mere solemn
circling around of a long procession of those gorgeous maidens,
numbering perhaps a hundred or more, hand in hand and keeping time to
the music of a quaint band composed of drum, clarionet, and a sort of
penny whistle. The demarch danced best of all, and after two stately
rounds of the green inclosure left the circle and watched the show at
his leisure, his face beaming with the sweet consciousness of political
security and duty faithfully performed.
How long the dance went on we never knew. The evening was to be marked
by a display of fireworks, the frames for which were already in evidence
and betokened a magnificence in keeping with the costumes of the
celebrants. For ourselves, satiated with the display, we returned to our
carriage laden with flowers, pistachio nuts, and strings of beads
bestowed by the abundant local hospitality, and bowled home across the
plain in time to be rewarded with a fine sunset glow on the Parthenon as
a fitting close for a most unusual and enjoyable day.
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