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.

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.

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.

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.