As has been hinted, the scientific archæologists, less swept away by Homeric enthusiasm than was Schliemann, have proved skeptical as to the identification of the tombs which Schliemann so confidently proclaimed at first discovery. The unearthing of a sixth tomb, where the original excavator had looked for only five, is supposed to have done violence to the Agamemnonian theory. But what harm can it do if we pass out of the Mycenæan room with a secret, though perhaps an ignorant, belief that we have looked upon the remains and accoutrements of one who was an epic hero, the victim of a murderous queen, the avenger of a brother’s honor, and the conqueror of a famous city? It is simply one more of those cases in which one gains immeasurably in pleasure if he can dismiss scientific questionings from his mind and pass through the scene unskeptical of the heroes of the mighty past, if not of the very gods of high Olympus themselves. It may be wrong; to a scientific investigator such guileless trust is doubtless laughable. But on our own heads be it if therein we err!
CHAPTER VII. EXCURSIONS IN
ATTICA
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.