Various - "Short Story Classics (American) Vol. 2"

George John Romanes - "Thoughts on Religion"

John Buchan - "The Half Hearted"

Edward S. Ellis - "Dewey and Other Naval Commanders"

Books of The Times: It’s Still Making the World Go ’Round
Michael Wolff has written a supercilious yet star-struck portrait of Rupert Murdoch, the planet’s most notorious press baron.

Books of The Times: A Media Mogul With Relentless Moxie
In this novel of the 17th century, Morrison performs her deepest excavation yet into America’s history and exhumes our twin original sins: the enslavement of Africans and the near extermination of Native Americans.

Original Sins
Malcolm Gladwell says success depends not only on brains and drive, but on where we come from — and what we do about it.

Various - Continental Monthly, Vol. II. July, 1862. No. 1.

V >> Various >> Continental Monthly, Vol. II. July, 1862. No. 1.




It had been our intention to procure horses that night, and ride as far
as Mycenae, but we were too late, so contented ourselves with a walk to
Tiryus, and a rapid examination of its ruins. The massive walls of this
venerable town--they were a wonder in the age of Pericles as in
ours--still stand in their whole circuit, and here and there apparently
in their whole hight. It is a small, steep, mound-like hill--you can
walk around it in fifteen minutes--and within the walls the terraced
slope, thickly sprinkled with fragments of ruins, is grown over with the
tall purple flowers of the asphodel--a fit monument to the perished
city. From the citadel of Tiryus the view over the wide plain of the
Inachus, the broad bay beyond, covered with sails, the bold headland of
Napoli crowned with the ruined castle, the noble citadel of Argos, and
the mountain ranges on every side, made a picture beautiful even under
the dull sky of that March evening. Our walk--quickened by the fear that
the city gates would be found closed--gave us a hearty appetite, and a
classic smack was imparted to our modest viands by the fact that Orestes
himself waited on our table. We slept well, notwithstanding the
uncomfortable reputation of the inn, and set off early the next morning
upon our wanderings.

Traveling in Greece is no child's play. Roads there are none, except
between some large towns; indeed, the nature of the country hardly
allows of them, as it is made up chiefly of mountain ridges and ravines.
Neither would the poverty-stricken inhabitants be able at present to
make much use of them. When I expressed to Dhemetri the great benefits I
conceived that roads would confer upon the community, he asked
contemptuously: 'What good would roads be to them, when they have no
carriages?' Inns, too, there are none, or almost none; after leaving
Napoli we found none until we returned to Athens. In their stead, each
village has its _khan_, a house rather larger than ordinary, and
containing one large unfurnished room for guests. Here a fire is made on
the hearth, (the smoke escaping, or intended to escape, through a hole
in the roof, for chimneys do not exist,) and the traveler pitches his
tent metaphorically in this apartment. The beds, which he carries with
him, are spread on the floor, to do double duty as seats during the
evening and beds by night. Thus the accommodations are reduced to their
lowest terms--shelter and fire; to which add a lamb from the flock, eggs
in abundance, or sometimes a chicken, loaf of bread, or string of figs.
Wine, too, flavored with resin in true classic style, and tasting like
weak spirits of turpentine, is to be had every where. But for any
entertainment beyond this, the host is no-way responsible. If you do not
choose to sleep on the bare floor, you must bring beds and bedding with
you. If you wish the luxury of a knife and fork, you must furnish them
yourself. Kettles, plates, saucepans, cups, coffee, sugar, salt,
candles, all came from that mysterious basket which rode on the
pack-horse with the baggage. Were I visiting Greece again, I would
eschew all these vanities--carry nothing but a _Reisesack_, or
travel-bag, as the Germans are wont to call every variety of knapsack--a
shawl, and a copy of _Pausanias_, and live among the Greeks as the
Greeks do; but I was inexperienced then.

So we set out with great pomp and circumstance, each on his
beast--_alogon_, the Unreasonable Thing, is the word for horse--while a
fifth, with two drivers, carried our goods. A ride of about three
hours--passing the silent and deserted Tiryus--brought us to the village
of Charvati, the modern representative of the 'rich Mycenae.' Here,
while Dehmetri prepared our breakfast, we followed a villager, who led
us by rapid strides up the rocky hill toward the angle formed by two
mountains. As we rose over one elevation after another, he plucked his
hands full of dry grass and brush, and then leading us into a hole in
the side of the hill, informed us in good classic Greek that it was the
tomb of Agamemnon. It is a large, round apartment, rising to the hight
of forty-nine feet, and of about the same width, the layers of masonry
gradually approaching one another until a single stone caps the whole;
not conical in shape, however, but like a beehive. A single monstrous
stone, twenty-seven feet long and twenty wide, is placed over the
doorway. The whole is buried with earth, and covered with a growth of
grass and shrubs, and a passage leads from it into a smaller chamber
hewn in the solid rock, in which our guide lighted the fuel he had
gathered. The gloomy walls were lighted up for a moment, then when the
fire died away, we returned to the open air. A little further on is the
famous gateway with two lionesses carved in relief above--the armorial
bearings, we may call it, of the city--and in every direction are seen
massive walls, foundation-stones, ruins of gates and of subterraneous
chambers like the first we visited, conical hillocks, probably
containing others in equally good preservation, and other marks of the
busy hand of man--'_Spuren ordnender Menschenhand unter dem Gestraeuch_.'
Sidney Smith says: 'It is impossible to feel affection beyond
seventy-eight degrees or below twenty degrees of Fahrenheit.... Man only
lives to shiver or to perspire.' I think it is so with the sublime and
beautiful, and deeply as I felt in the abstract the privilege I enjoyed
in standing on the citadel of Agamemnon, and seeing the most venerable
ruins that Europe can boast, that keen March wind was too much for me,
and I was not sorry to return to the khan, where, sitting cross-legged
on the floor, we ate with our fingers a roast chicken dissected with the
one knife of the family, and drank a bumper of resinous wine.

After dinner we remounted and rode back through the broad plain to
Argos, traversed its narrow, dirty streets, stared at by the Argive
youth, examined its grass-grown theatre, cast wistful eyes at the lofty
citadel of Larissa, which time forbade us to ascend, then wound along
the foot of the mountain-range, saw at a distance on the seashore a spot
of green, which we were told was Lerna, where Hercules slew the hydra,
and near the road an old ruined pyramid, which we afterward examined
more closely, then followed a mountain-path, catching now and then a
glimpse of the bay, following the crest of the ridge into the valley
beyond. On one of the undulations of the path we passed over the site of
an ancient city, evidenced only by that most sure sign, a soil thickly
covered with potsherds. No classic writer mentions it, no inscription
gives it a name; perhaps the careless traveler would pass without a
suspicion that he was treading on the street, or forum, or temple of a
once thriving town. Striking soon into the carriage-road from Napoli to
Tripolitza, and descending into a charming little valley with the
euphonious name of Achladhokamvo, we were not sorry to find a khan, and
take up our quarters for the night. We found the family sitting on the
floor around a fire blazing on a hearth in the middle of a room, and
here we placed ourselves, watching the women spinning and Dhemetri
making his preparations for supper. Out of the afore-mentioned basket
quickly came all the afore-mentioned articles. A lamb was killed, and
shortly an excellent supper was served up to us. Soon the guest-chamber
was announced to be ready for us, a large open room having a fire at one
end, and containing our beds, spread on the floor, a cricket three
inches high, that served as a table, two windows closed by shutters
instead of glass, and a large quantity of smoke.

The next morning a steep and picturesque path over Mount Parthenion--the
same path, I suppose, on which Phidippides had his well-known interview
with the god Pan--brought us to Arcadia. And at the name of Arcadia let
not the fond mind revert to scenes of pastoral innocence and enjoyment,
such as poets and artists love to paint--a lawn of ever-fresh verdure
shaded by the sturdy oak and wide-spreading beech, watered by
never-failing springs, swains and maidens innocent as the sheep they
tend, dancing on the green sward to the music of the pipe, and snowy
mountains in the distance lending repose and majesty to the scene.
Nothing of this picture is realized by the Arcadia of to-day, but the
snowy mountains, and they, indeed, are all around and near. No, let your
dream of Arcadia he something like this: A bare, open plain, three
thousand feet above the level of the sea, fenced in on every side by
snow-topped mountains, and swept incessantly by cold winds, the sky
heavy with clouds, the ground sown with numberless stones, with here and
there a bunch of hungry-looking grass pushing itself feebly up among
them. Not a tree do you behold, hardly a shrub. You come to a river--it
is a broad, waterless bed of cobble-stones and gravel, only differing
from the dry land in being less mixed with dirt, and wholly, instead of
partly, destitute of vegetation. But your eye falls at last on a sheet
of water--there is surely a placid lake giving beauty and fertility to
its neighborhood. No, it is a _katavothron_, or chasm, in which the
accumulated waters of the plain disappear. For as these Arcadian valleys
are so shut in by mountains as to leave no natural egress to the water,
it gathers in the lowest spot it can reach, and there stagnates, unless
it can wear a passage for itself, or find a subterraneous channel
through the limestone mountain, and come to light again in a lower
valley. Such a reaeppearance we saw near Argos, a broad, swift
stream--the Erasmus--rushing from under a mountain with such force as to
turn mills; it is believed to come from a _kalavothron_ in the northern
part of Arcadia. And not far from thence a fountain of fresh water
bubbles up in the sea a few yards from the shore; this is traced to a
similar source. In some parts of Greece the remains may still be seen of
the subterranean channels by which in ancient times the _katavothra_
were kept clear, and thus prevented from overflowing. In this way much
land was artificially redeemed to agriculture.

If, now, you seek for the dwellers in this paradise, behold them in yon
shepherd and his faithful dog--_Arcades ambo_--the shepherd muffled
against the searching wind in hood and cloak, under his arm a veritable
crook, while his sheep and goats are browsing about wherever a blade of
grass or a green leaf can be found. His invariable companion is--I was
about to say a tamed wolf; but in reality, an untamed animal of wolfish
aspect and disposition, always eager to make your acquaintance. These
creatures are the torment of the traveler throughout Greece, and most of
all in Arcadia. If on foot, he can pick up a stone, at sight of which
the enemy will beat a hasty retreat. Greece seems to have been
bountifully supplied with loose stones of the right size for this very
purpose, just as the rattlesnake-plant is said to grow wherever the
rattlesnake itself is found. If on horseback, he can easily escape,
although the animal will not scruple to hang to the horse's tail or bite
his heels. Such was Arcadia in March. No doubt, at another season it is
a delightful retreat from the overpowering heat of the Greek summer. It
may have a beauty of its own at that season; but there can be little of
that quiet rural landscape which we call Arcadian.

After crossing this plain, visiting by the way the ruins of Tegea, which
consisted of a potato-field, sprinkled with bits of brick and marble,
and a medieval church, with some ancient marble built into its walls, we
came to a broad river, the Alpheus, whose water, when it has any,
empties in a _katavothron_ which we left on our right; followed it up in
a southerly direction until we came to a little water in its bed, then
crossing over some rolling land which divides the water-courses of
Arcadia from those of Laconia, we found ourselves in a country of a very
different character. The land was better, and was covered with a low
growth of wood; we could even see extensive forests on the sides of
Parnon. The scenery became highly picturesque, and the weather, although
still rigorous, was more comfortable than in the morning. Night came on
us long before we reached our journey's end, the wayside khan of
Krevata. There was a little parleying at the door, and Dhemetri seemed
dissatisfied with what he saw, and disposed to carry us on to another
resting-place. But thoroughly benumbed as we were, the blaze of light
that fell upon us from the half-open door quite won our hearts, and we
felt willing to risk whatever discomforts the place might have rather
than go further. As we entered the door, the scene was striking. A large
fire was roaring in the middle of the room, filling it with smoke. On
cushions and scraps of carpet, disposed about the fire, were crouched
six or eight men and women, dressed in their national costume, very
dirty and equally picturesque. Two or three children were among them, or
lay stretched at random on the floor asleep. A large, swarthy man
opposite us held a child of two or three years, now nestling in its
father's arms, now climbing over to its mother, now gazing bashfully and
curiously at the strangers. Basil, ever ready on occasion, seized his
pencil and soon transferred the group to paper, to the admiration of
them all. They moved to right and left as we came in, and made room for
us on the side next the door, where our faces were scorched, Our backs
shivering, and our eyes smarting with the smoke. An old woman who sat
next me eyed us inquisitively, and would gladly have entered into
conversation; but almost our sole Greek phrase, 'It is cold,' (_eeny
krio_), we had exhausted immediately on entering the room. Basil
essayed Italian, having a vague idea that it would pass any where in
Greece, as French does in Italy, but with no success. Neither was our
conversation among ourselves brilliant. We were tired, cold, sleepy, and
hungry, and we thought despairingly on the long miles back that we had
last seen our baggage. At length a shout at the door gladdened our
hearts; our beds and that ever-welcome basket were handed in, and
Dhemetri was soon deeply engaged in preparing supper. Meanwhile, a fire
had been built in the upper room, and we went up by a ladder. But here
we were worse off than below. Roof, floor, walls, and (wooden) windows,
all were amply provided with cracks and knot-holes, through which the
wind roved at its will. A wretched fire was smoldering on the hearth,
and a candle was burning in a tin cup hanging by its handle on a nail in
the wall, which, set it where we would, flickered in the wind. And when
our supper came, fricassee, boiled chicken, roast hare, omelette, bread,
cheese, figs, and wine--for such a bill of fare had Dhemetri made ready
for us--we swallowed it hastily, huddled our beds about the fire,
wrapped ourselves in our blankets, and lay down at once. The inquisitive
old lady below, on seeing the extensive preparations for the supper of
three fellow-mortals, was struck with reverence for us, and expressed
her belief that those, who lived on such marvelous and unheard-of
delicacies would never die. We, indeed, had requested Dhemetri to cater
more simply for us; but his professional pride would not suffer it.

We were right glad when morning came, and after a mug of thick coffee, a
bit of bread, and a handful of figs, we bid farewell to Krevata with no
regrets. A short ride brought us to the brow of the range on which we
were traveling, and there lay the valley of Sparta at our feet, and
beyond it the Taygetus, if not the highest, the boldest and sharpest
mountain-range in Greece. Its white and jagged crest was still tipped
with clouds, and it appeared to rise from the valley of Sparta in an
almost unbroken ascent to its hight of seven thousand feet. This was the
finest single prospect of our journey; but we gladly left it, after a
short pause, to push on to the warmth and sunshine of the valley below.
The precipitous descent was soon accomplished; we forded the Eurotas, a
broad, clear, shallow stream, the only real river we saw in Greece, and
stood in Sparta, its site marked by a group of low hills and a few
unimportant ruins. The ground is good, and was then green with young
wheat; the valley was sheltered from the winds which had persecuted us
on the highlands, and for a few hours in the middle of the day, the
clouds were scattered, and we basked in the sun's rays. It seemed an
Elysium. A small and thrifty village has recently sprung up south of
this group of hills, still within the limits of the ancient city, and
here we dined in a cafe (_kapheterion_) kept by one Lycurgus, not on
black broth, but on roast lamb, omelette, figs, oranges, and wine.
Truly, if national character depended wholly on physical geography, we
should be inclined to look in the valley of the Eurotas for the rich and
luxurious Athens, and seek its stern and simple rival among the bleak
hills and sterile plains of Attica. We had a short ride that afternoon
up the valley of the Eurotas, with a keen north wind in our faces, and
were not sorry to reach Kalyvia at an early hour.

Dhemetri had sent the pack-horse with our baggage across by a shorter
path, and now announced that we were to sleep to-night in a house
instead of a khan, that the mayor (_demarchos_) of Kalyvia had consented
to receive us. Great was our exultation at the prospect of spending a
night in this aristocratic mansion, and in truth we found the
accommodations here much the most comfortable--nay, we reckoned them
luxurious--which we had on our journey. We were first shown into a small
room with one glass window, with tight walls, and a chimney. A fire was
burning cheerfully on the hearth--that is to say, a stone platform
slightly elevated above the floor. The floor around the fire was spread
with mats, and in one corner the lady of the house was--what shall I
say?--squatted upon the floor, engaged in domestic work. Her daughter, a
pretty, blue-eyed maiden, of some fourteen years, named Athena,
glaykhopis Hathhena, was working by her side, and the demarch himself,
with his stalwart son, were similarly seated on the opposite side of the
hearth. Three rough, unpainted stools, an extra luxury for guests, were
brought in for us, and we at once plunged into conversation.

'_Eeny kriho_!' said we.

'_Mhalista, mhalista, eeny krio_!' was the prompt reply.

Stimulated by our success, we made another attempt, and were overwhelmed
by a flood of Romaic, to which we could only nod our heads gratefully,
with 'Malista, malista, chari, chari,' (certainly, certainly, thank you,
thank you.) When we retired to our room, we found our beds laid on a
sort of shelf along the wall, instead of on the floor, and our supper
was served on a table instead of in our laps, as we were used. The
family shook hands with us cordially when we took leave, in the morning,
placing their hands on their hearts.

This day we rode through a rolling country, quite well watered and
wooded, separating the waters of the Eurotas from those of the Alpheus,
Laconia from Arcadia. As we reached the highest point, and were about to
descend, Dhemetri pointed out a village, distinguished by a single tall,
slender cypress, with the words; 'There is Megalopolis.' This is the
city founded by Epaminondas, almost the only statesman of antiquity who
seems to have had a dim conception of the modern policy of the balance
of power, as a point of union for the jealous and disunited States of
Arcadia, and as a sentinel stationed at a chief entrance to Laconia. The
whole of his great project was not realized, and Megalopolis, instead of
becoming 'the great city' of Arcadia, was only a mate to Tegea and
Mantinea. Even thus, the work was by no means lost; a Spartan army, to
reach Messenia, whose independence was to be secured, must pass through
the territory of Megalopolis, and even a second-rate city would answer
as a guard. But not even Epaminondas could make of Arcadia a first-class
power, and a sufficient counterpoise to Sparta. Megalopolis is now
wholly deserted, and represented only by the little village of Sinanu,
half a mile distant, where we stopped at a khan kept by an old soldier
of Colocotroni, and ran, while dinner was preparing, to examine the
scanty ruins of the great city--interesting only from their association
with a great name.

Reluctantly, we now turned our backs upon Messene, with its renowned
fortress of Ithome, the sacred Olympia, and the beautiful temple of
Phigalia, and began our homeward journey. Passing over a mountain from
which we had a wide and beautiful view, we rode through a barren and
uninteresting plain to the lonely khan of Frankovrysi, and early the
next day arrived at Tripolitza. We had had a clear sky at Megalopolis
and Frankovrysi, but here, in the high table-land of Arcadia, we found
the self-same leaden sky and bleak winds we left three days before. This
valley or table-land stretches from north to south, nearly divided in
two by the approach of the mountains from east and west. Thus the valley
takes the shape rudely of the figure eight; the southern part, through
one corner of which we had passed before, being occupied by Tegea, the
northern by Mantinea. Tripolitza, to the northwest of Tegea, represents
the ancient Pallantium, the birthplace of Evander. Here Dhemetri brought
us bad news. We had intended to go to Mantinea, thence north through
Orchomenus, Stymphalus, and Sicyon, to Corinth; but the passes, we
learned, were impracticable for the snow, and we must recross Mount
Parthenion, and revisit Achladhokamvo and Argos. First, however, we took
a rapid ride to Mantinea, about eight miles through a level, tolerably
well-cultivated country. At the narrow passage between the mountains,
there stood in ancient times a grove of cork-trees, called 'Pelagus,'
the sea. Epaminondas, warned by an oracle to beware of the 'Pelagus,'
had carefully avoided the sea. But it was just in this spot that he drew
up his troops for the great battle which cost him his life. When
mortally wounded, he was carried to a high place called
'Skope'--identified with the sharp spur of Mount Maenalus, which projects
just here into the plain, and from this he watched the battle, and here
he died, like Wolfe, at the moment of victory. The well-built walls of
Mantinea still stand in nearly their entire circuit, built in the fourth
century before Christ, after Agesipolis of Sparta had captured the city,
by washing away its walls of sun-burnt brick, and had dispersed the
inhabitants among the neighboring villages. The restoration of the city
was a part of the great system of humbling Sparta, set on foot by
Epaminondas after the battle of Leuctra.

After spending the night at Achladhokamvo, where we visited the ruins of
Hysiae close by, we went next day through Argos, passing within sight of
Mycenae, to Nemea, where, in a beautiful little valley, three Doric
columns, still standing, testify to the former sanctity of the spot.
Then to Kurtissa, the ancient Cleonae, to pass the night. When Dhemetri
pointed it out to us from the hill above, it looked like a New-England
farm-house, a neat white cottage peeping out from among the trees, and
we rejoiced at the prospect. But lo! the neat white cottage was a
guardhouse, and our khan was the rude, unpainted, windowless barn. It
was, nevertheless, very comfortable. There was a ceiling to the room,
and the board windows were tight. The floor, to be sure, gaped in wide
cracks; but as there was a blazing fire in the room beneath, the cracks
let in no cold air, nothing but smoke, a sort of compensation, as it
seemed, for our having a chimney, lest we should be puffed up with pride
and luxury. For we not only had a chimney, but a table and two stools,
one sitting on an inverted barrel spread with a horse-blanket. Here
Dhemetri concocted for our supper an Hellenic soup, of royal flavor, the
recollection of which is still grateful to my palate. And here a youth,
named Agamemnon, son of George, came and displayed to us his
school-books, a geography, beginning with Greece and ending with
America, where Bostonia as put down as capital of Massachoytia. Longing
to hear a Greek war-song, we requested him to sing, at which he warbled
Dehyte pahides ton Hellhenon to a tune which we strongly suspected he
composed for the occasion, following it up with others, with such
delight that we were fain at last to plead sleepiness and let him
depart.

We were up betimes the following morning, for we had a long day's work
before us. We were approaching Corinth, and knew that from the
Acrocorinthus, a very high and steep hill over-hanging it, a prospect
was to be had inferior to none in Greece. The morning, though not
actually unpleasant, was chill and hazy, and Dhemetri tried to dissuade
us from wasting the time. But we were determined to see what there was
to be seen, and after a ride of two or three hours over a rough country,
we entered the fortifications of this chief citadel of Greece. It is now
guarded by a handful of soldiers, two or three neglected cannons thrust
their muzzles idly over the rampart, and shepherds with their flocks
roam at will within. A sharp wind was sweeping over the summit, and the
mountains and islands--Parnassus, Cyllene, Helicon, Pentclicon, Salamis,
AEgina--were veiled with a dull, opaque haze. While Basil, with stiff
fingers, was sketching the view from the top, I wandered about with my
other companion, picking spring flowers, reading the descriptions of
Pausanias, and studying the distant landscape. There is a thriving town
at the bottom of the hill, and hither we descended, asking for the inn
(Xenodhekeon) where Dhemetri had told us to meet him. But alas! modern
Corinth can not sustain an inn; and we were obliged to eat our dinner in
a grocery, stared at by all the youth of Corinth. Half a dozen Doric
columns, belonging to a very old temple, are the only considerable
relics of ancient Corinth. And as we had a long afternoon's work before
us, we set off before twelve. We galloped at good speed across the
Isthmus, about an hour's ride; Dhemetri, who understood the management
of Greek horses, driving us before him like a flock of sheep. We paused
a moment at the Isthmic sanctuary of Poseidon, passed through the
village of Kalamaki, whence steamers run to Athens, then continued along
the shore between Mount Geroneia and the sea, through a low, uneven
country, well grown with pine, heather, arbute, gorse in the full
splendor of its yellow blossoms, and sweet-smelling thyme. The afternoon
was warm and bright. Here and there were flocks of long-haired sheep and
sturdy black goats, cropping the grass and the shrubs, and it was well
in keeping with the scene when we passed a shepherd, with his cloak
thrown carelessly aside, leaning on his crook, and playing a few simple
notes--not a _tune_--on his flageolet to while away the time. We delayed
half an hour at the miserable hamlet of Kineta, to rest one of the
horses, exhausted with our fast riding, then began the ascent of our
last mountain-pass. A spur of Mount Geroneia runs boldly into the sea,
forming a wall between the territories of Corinth and Megara. It is
called 'Kake-Scala,' 'Bad Ladder,' an odd mixture of Greek and Italian.
Here, as the ancients fabled, dwelt the robber Skiron, plundering and
mutilating all wayfarers, and throwing them into the sea; but Theseus
subdued him and subjected him to a like treatment, and thereafter
traveling was secure. No doubt Theseus crowned his labors by building a
road, as we know one existed here in antiquity, but it has long since
disappeared, and King Otho was then imitating him, as we found,
presently, to our cost. The sun had already set, when the road became
impassable, and shouts from two men some distance above, informed us
that the building of the new road had rendered the old bridle-path
impracticable. We had to urge our horses down a steep, narrow path to
the water's edge, then as the beach was blocked up with huge rocks, to
ride a rod or two through the water, then climb up the steep rocks on
the other side, where one horse slipped and came near tumbling with his
rider into the sea below. Ten minutes later, and we must have returned
to Kineta, or waited an hour or two for the moon, for as soon as we were
over this dangerous spot it became quite dark; but the path was now safe
and easy to find. The full moon was up when we reached the top of the
cliff, and the valley of Megara, the mountains, the bay, and the islands
of AEgina and Salamis lay distinctly before us. We made all speed to
Megara, cheered by the fame of its khan as one of the best in Greece,
and by the certainty that there was now a good road all the way to
Athens.

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