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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the cold night settled down upon AndhritsÆna, and we retired to the warmth of our narrow beds, ready for the summons which should call us forth to begin our fatiguing ride to the famous site of old Olympia.