Behind Hymettus: In Two Parts. Part One



ATTICA is but a small spot on the map, to fill so vast a space in history. Broad roads were its boast even in Homeric times, long ones never. You can go well-nigh anywhere within its borders and get back to your seven-o’clock Athenian dinner.

On a bright winter morning (December 20, 1892), after an hour’s roundabout ride on the little Attic railway, we left the train at Liopesi, hardly two hours’ walk east of Athens if the mountain did not bar the way. It is a charming spot even for a passing glimpse, fronted by far-spreading olive woods, with here and there a fine oak, and backed by the central bulk of Hymettus. But the charm grows as imagination suffuses the scene with the atmosphere of ancient story. For here lay old Pæania, the birthplace of Demosthenes. Here he must have toddled, and lisped his baby Greek, and begun that growth which was to make him forever the master of all who speak. As a lad, he had only to scramble up this steep mountain side to look upon Athens and Sunium. upon Salamis and Marathon. If too delicate for that, he still had this Eden of the Attic Midland before his eyes, with its mountain walls, and the long blue line of Euboea looming over against it.

Let us see if the modern village has aught to remind us of the great foretime. It is but five minutes’ walk through the olives from the little station to the village well, where we meet a number of the town folk, and in the little café adjoining yet more. The Pæanian resinato is fine, and a little of it opens the mouth of the Pæanian cobbler at work on his outdoor bench, and well versed in Pteanian topography. Over the gate near by he points out the first bit of Pæanian antiquity, a Pentelic fragment, on which remain only the clasped hands of a funeral relief. Farther up that highwalled street we come upon a more definite document: it is a fine old Pentelic tombstone built into a garden wall, and inscribed Agonochares son of Epichares Pæanian. Found in a neighboring vineyard, it speaks to the site of old Pæania. In the Athenian Kerameikos you can call the roll of half the Attic denies, but there was little circulation from deme to deme in the country. Hence, in determining the locality of a rural deme, even one demotic inscription certainly in situ establishes a presumption; a series of such is strong proof.

At the village inn, which is only a magazi, as usual, we find the innkeeper fairly bursting with archaeological information. He leads us up a narrow lane between high walls, in one of which appears another Pentelic tombstone. Its inscription stirs the blood : Demæn[etus] son of Demosth[enes] of Pæania. The stone has been cut in two, and the last four letters of each name are missing; but there is no trouble in supplying them, for what is left is clear enough, and instantly recalls the fine basis inscription found in excavating the underground railway at Athens last winter. This basis bears the signature of the sculptor Bryaxis, the pupil of Scopas, and his collaborator in the execution of the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus ; and the inscription shows that it supported a monument commemorating the triumphs of three Pæanian phylarchs (or cavalry commanders), namely : —

Demcenetus son of Demeas of Pæania Demeas son of Demcenetus of Pæania Demosthenes son of Demcenetus of ania

This gives us three Pseanians, father and two sons, who had attained a certain celebrity before the middle of the fourth century B. C. ; and here in the wall we have another of the same line, evidently the sou of the last-named phylarcli: — Demcenetus son of Demosthenes of Pæania

One is tempted to seek a place in this line for the great orator, whose style was, Demosthenes son of Demosthenes of Pæania.

He was of the same generation with the brothers Demeas and Demosthenes, and about the time they must have won their spurs as phylarchs he was thundering his first philippic from the Pnyx1 Thanks to the trouble with his knavish guardians and the five extant speeches in the case, we know a good deal about the orator’s family, —father, mother, sister, uncles, aunts, and cousins, even his maternal grandfather ; but none of them reappear on these monuments. The next stone that is ploughed up may, however, set all these Pseanians of the speeches and the inscriptions in due relation, and possibly show that the money paid Bryaxis for perpetuating in Pentelic the memory of the three knights was part of the orator’s plundered patrimony. For two of the three guardians were his own cousins ; and the whole connection seems to have gone in for plucking the poor boy, orphaned at seven, with a sister yet younger, and a helpless sort of mother who had not force enough to follow her dowry. In those days the women folk were willed away along with the other goods and chattels, and the elder Demosthenes bequeathed his wife to one of the guardians, and his five-year-old daughter to another, each with a handsome dot: the honest fellows promptly seized the dowries, and repudiated the incumbrances. It is a pathetic chapter, and one full of interest for the student of old Greek life, this case of Demosthenes vs. Aphobos et al., but its chief importance, after all, lies in this : the struggle for his own rights led the Pæanian lad to the mastery of his powers, and so gave the world its supreme orator.

To learn more of this precious monument, we turn into the rude inclosure, in one corner of which stands a ruder hovel, floored with terra firma. It is occupied by a priest, who is so full, not of Demosthenes, but of Dionysus, that locomotion and articulation alike fail him. He can just squeeze our hands, and make signs to one of the two attendant Pæanians to bring on the big bowl of resinato, which passes from mouth to mouth, like the wassail bowl of Homeric times, or the Loving Cup at the Mansion House, We effect our escape with some difficulty and little information, only assured that this stone was likewise ploughed up in an adjacent vineyard.

There were enough Pæanian inscriptions to settle in our minds, and on the spot, the question of deme identity, a far more satisfying method than thumbing the Corpus. But our publican had a further treat in store. We followed him through the village and up the steep rocks to the south, where stands a little out-chapel (ἐξωκκλήσιoν). Built into its back wall, upside down, appears a document even more fascinating than the epitaph of Demosthenes’ son. It is a fragment of a thin marble slab, about eighteen inches long, and hardly four inches wide : but it bears two full lines and part of a third chiseled in the alphabet of the sixth century, and this is the story they spell:

This monument Kylon to his two sons Deceased set upa memorial Of affection.2

As an old document of love and death, archaic already when Demosthenes was born, it has interest enough. But the name of Kylon, that name so sinister through two centuries of Athenian history, invests it with an unique fascination. Not that we can with any certainty associate it with the young Hotspur who seized the Acropolis and sought to make himself Tyrant of Athens some time in the last quarter of the seventh century, although Ross was evidently inclined to recognize the would-be usurper in the Kylon of this marble ; and Professor J. H. Wriglit, in his admirable monograph on The Date of Cylon, has suggested a further connection between the banished Kylon family and that of the Pæanian orator.3 It is certainly tempting, here in the presence of this KyIonian monument, to put things together and speculate. Data, a Pseanian Kylon, paleographically attested as contemporary, if not identical, with the Kylon of history ; some generations after Kylon’s banishment a Gylon turns up with a foreign wife, —he, too, under ban, if we are to believe the orator’s enemies, — and gives one of his daughters in marriage to a Pæanian citizen to become the mother of Demosthenes. A descendant of the would-be usurper even in the seventh generation would hardly return under a name attainted in Athenian history; under that name as softened in a foreign utterance, he might come back without recalling old resentments. And here at Pæania. and nowhere else, the two names actually meet together ! It is tempting, we repeat; but if Demosthenes had had that taint in his blood, Æschines could hardly have failed to smell it out and proclaim it from the housetops.

This little chapel of St. John affords a bird’s-eye view of the village, which boasts three hundred houses, and is anything but mean-looking. Our publican kindly points out the exact spot where Demosthenes was born, down the vineyard way ; indeed, he goes further, and indicates the birthplace of Pisistratus, up toward the mountain. Pisistratus was not a Pseanian, though the tall and beautiful Phya, whom he palmed off for Pallas Athene, on his first return, was, according to Herodotus, from this deme. So, it would seem, was that able leader Phormion. who served Athens so well in the Peloponnesian war. At least it was here he sought retirement under the burden of his debts, until the Athenians wanted him for their admiral, and paid off his creditors.

Above the chapel, a bold bare rock invites a climb to wider views ; but before we are halfway up, the brown bees of Hymettus are making wrathful music about our ears, and we are glad to get down without lasting souvenirs of them. Below we had seen them buzzing about little water-troughs hewn in the rocks for their accommodation, and now under the big rock to the south appears their colony, a sort of amphitheatre sheltering perhaps a hundred hives. In the warm December sun they are doing a good business, and resent intrusion.

Beyond Kylon and the bees, across a little valley, and on the slope of a larger hill, lies the Liopesi cemetery, with a pretty domed chapel above it. The cemetery is new, and, for all the splendid stelce of old, shows but one bit of marble, a small cross with name and date. The usual monument is a broken jug at the head of the grave, common red ware ; for variety, a white pitcher with a hole in the bottom, and placed upside down. Jt is the pitcher broken at the fountain, the leaky vessel of the Dan aides, or what you will; anyway, an emblem of bereavement as old as death.

Meditating here, with eyes uplifted to the great chasm which seems to cleave Hymettus in twain, we hear the shouts of three lads sent out by the publican to call us down. Before his little hostelry we lunch — al fresco and in the public gaze — on our Athenian provision plus a cup of honey from the hives on the rock, the property of our host. It is clear and pure, with the true Hymettus flavor. During our repast Papa Athanasios joins us, still drunk, but recovering his speech, and another Pseanian, volubly mellow, who has delved in the Laurion mines, and drowns us with his chatter.4

At midday we had met the Pæanian boys trooping out of school for their nooning, and so called upon the schoolmaster, whose residence is, as often, a little den partitioned off from the schoolroom. The school adjoins the church, and the churchyard is a cosy shaded spot, a pleasant playground if so profaned. The schoolmaster is an elderly man, of good appearance barring a bulbous nose, claims to be an Athenian, teaches eighty boys (the girls’ school is separate, and has fifty pupils), and, after twenty-five years’ service, draws the munificent salary of one hundred drachmæ (say twelve dollars) a month. The schoolroom is primitive in its simplicity, but shows a bit of blackboard written over with copies for the day; the first (oddly enough in view of what we had just witnessed) being ὁ σεβáσμoς ἱερεúς, the reverend priest. One of the visitors takes the crayon and traces a line of Homer, while the other mounts the schoolmaster’s bema and declaims the exordium of the First Olynthiac.

Later in the day, we came back to see the school in operation. The schoolmaster stood at his desk with a class before him, while the seventy odd boys on the benches were studying at the top of their voices. As we entered, a thundering Sjôp’ ! (σιώπa, silence), followed by a shrill blast of the schoolmaster’s tin whistle, stilled the tumult, and brought the whole school to their feet to receive us. In any other country we should have thought it a girls’ school, the cotton aprons and head-bands of the lads (from five to twelve) hardly suggesting boy gear. We begged the master to go on with his drill, but, with the weakness common to the calling, he gave us dress parade instead. A dozen of the larger lads (from ten to twelve years old) were called up and put through their paces from the Trojan war down to the great Pseanian orator, though they seemed to know less of Demosthenes than of the heroic shades. The questions were fired off like orders on the field, and the responses were usually instantaneous and correct. Whenever the pupil’s articulation was bad, the master’s shrill Kaθaρá ! brought out a more carefully syllabled reply ; and it was evident that the Pæanian youth were in training for better Greek than we heard from their elders. The schoolmaster had taken to heart the story of Demosthenes and the pebbles. A man above the average of his class in intelligence, he frequently connected the old lore with the existing monuments, particularly those of Athens, on which he lingered fondly, and among which the lads seemed quite at home. He had possibly conducted them to the sacred cityon some rare holiday.

One can but wonder what schooling rural Attica afforded in Demosthenes’ day. For him it mattered little : the son of a man who had carried on two factories with his own slaves, and kept a good bank account withal, — even when thievish guardians had done their worst, — he was not shut up to provincial opportunities. Athens was his school ; Thucydides his model; Plato, Isocrates, Isæus, were his masters. Better than the tipsy priest and the master with the bulbous nose ; yet who shall say that Liopesi confines no budding Panhellenic statesman destined to more successful if less brilliant service than Demosthenes son of Demosthenes of Pæania !



The brief bright afternoon was far spent before we could get out of school and on our way, with a loquacious old Paeanian for guide, to Spata, a village perched upon the clayey bluffs an hour eastward, in the very midst of the Midland. By the roadside, just out of Liopesi, a steam grist-mill ; then the rustic laundry, walled in against the northwest, and provided with stone troughs, at which the washerwomen are at work ; hard by, among the olives, a ruined church, with abundant litter of ancient buildings. Half a mile further on we come upon an ancient marble-mouthed well, where the passing peasants are watering their beasts, and near this another chapel, the Evangelistria. Here lies what the rustics call the lion (τò λεOντáρι), but what we at once perceive to be a colossal marble sheep, already described by Leake, as we learn later. It is a fine animal even with its head off. but why this apotheosis of the gentle sheep ? Possibly it stood as deme eponymus, for the ruins here indicate a deme centre, and not far off the latest authority has mapped Oa, or Eweton, one of whose demotic inscriptions I have myself found at Koropi, a few miles south. It was a little deme, and there is room for it here.

Walking on, with our backs to the setting sun, we have the pretty village of Spata on the bluffs before us. Its outpost, half a mile nearer in the plain, is another old well and a new chapel, where we find a pretty bit of ancient carving. Hence the road ascends, passes a third great well, where the village folk are drawing water, and at last—now a finely built causeway — leads by a steep grade past some large rum factories up to Spata on the hill. In the early sunset, the view back upon Hymettus and forward on the more distant coast range, with glimpses of the sea, is reward enough for our walk. But the day is too far gone to catch our train at Kanzia and sleep in Athens, unless Spata can afford us horses. The publican declares that there are neither horses nor beds for us in Spata, but there will be a stage to Athens in the morning. We know Greece too well to accept any such ultimatum, and. going about to see what we can of Spata, we presently fall into hospitable hands. Spata boasts a fine church on a noble site, and there we meet two priests, both quite sober, and the schoolmaster. The latter thinks there are beds, and finally owns that he has some himself, but, after measuring the stature of my companion, concludes that he has none to fit him. I can have a bed, and my friend a shake-down (στρώμaτa). This is good, and we hasten to economize the last light of day in visiting the prehistoric princely tombs around the bluff about half a mile southwest of the village. The custodian (phylax) and our Pæanian guide escort us, and we are soon in the bowels of the bluff, where lighted tapers and blazing thyme reveal a dwelling for the dead of the same type with the royal treasure tombs of Mycenae and Orchomenos. There is the sunken avenue, the large vaulted chamber (tholos) opening into a smaller side chamber, and that into still another ; only this “ beehive ” tomb is not built up of solid masonry, but, like tlie so-called “ prison of Socrates ” at Athens, is a simple excavation ; excavated, too, it would seem in this light, out of clay rather than rock, — a clay so tenacious that thirty centuries have not marred the smooth surface left by those prehistoric workmen.

Schliemann had hardly uncovered the royal sepulchre of Mycenæ, “ rich in gold,” in 1876, when some peasant chanced upon these tombs at Spata, full of the same strange outlandish art wrought in gold and in ivory, the same un-Hellenic or pre-Hellenic pottery, with Assyrian mitres and Egyptian sphinxes. At once Attic history, overleaping all literary tradition, stood face to face with monuments older than Homer; monuments, too, not of autochthons, but of invaders. Here on the hill of Spata, — so say the wise in these things, — not later than eleven centuries before our era, Carian princes must have had their seat; a warlike, splendor-loving race, to deck their dead with gold from head to foot, and turn their tombs into an arsenal. This sepulchre of Carian princes was six centuries old when the Carian queen, Artemisia, followed Xerxes to Salamis, and when Herodotus was born in the Carian capital to tell her story. The spoil of these tombs may be seen side by side with Mycenae’s in the National Museum at Athens, but it means more to one who has been at Spata.

We found the schoolmaster’s house apparently the best in the village, occupying a great quadrangle, as usual, with high walls, entered through a somewhat stately portal. An outside stairway of marble led to the upper floor, which was given up for our entertainment, — a large square chamber, with balcony looking toward sunrise and the sea, and behind this two other tiny apartments. The big chamber was evidently the megaron reserved for state occasions, and cold and cheerless accordingly. A great sofa and a shake-down, with a table, a few chairs, and small pictures of Greek politicians saved it from absolute emptiness ; but the little box behind this, with the schoolmaster’s beggarly bookshelves and a big open fireplace, promised better things. The evening was chill, and I ventured the suggestion that the smell of fire would not be unpleasant. At once our host’s fair daughter, Helene, heaped an armful of pine fagots on the hearth, and touched them off. The warm blaze shot up, and in a moment we were new creatures ; the resinato went round, with Helene for cup-bearer, and the symposium was one long to he rememberedFancy two barbarians, smitten with the love of Greece, on pilgrimage to the deme of Xenophon ; their host, the schoolmaster for twenty-five years of Xenophon’s native place, without a copy of Xenophon in his house! With Marathon hardly a dozen miles away, he had never set foot upon the famous field, yet he was full of curiosity about our New World. “ So you are Americans ? ”


“ Of North or South America ? ”

That is always the next question here.

“ North America, — the United States.”“ Ah, do you live near Panama ? ” Panama is in the air now, even here behind Hymettus. We explain that it is much farther from Providence to Panama than from here to Marathon. Then the schoolmaster comes out strong.

“ You have heard of the flood ? ”

“ Yes.”

“ Noah’s flood ”

“ Yes.”

“ When all the world was drowned except Noah and his people in the ark ? ”

“ Yes.”

“ You remember Noah had three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth ? ”

“Yes, I remember.”

“ Well, one of them settled Asia, one Africa, and the other Europe.”

“ So I have heard.”

“ Then, what I want to know is. where do you Americans come from ? ”

“ Tell him,” said the Sage, observing that I was cornered, “ tell him that we had a boat of our own.”

I did so, but without provoking a smile, and it presently came out that the schoolmaster was in dead earnest. He had mixed us up with the aborigines, and was trying to get at our own opinion of our origin. Assured at last that we were Europeans and able to give an historical account of ourselves, he questioned us closely about our Red Remnant. It is a subject of profound interest to the Greek mind; probably because a modern Greek version of The Last of the Mohicans, with frightful woodcuts, is to be found in every bookstall not only in Athens, but in the provincial towns, it seems to be the same old curiosity about the outlandish to which Æschylus catered in The Persians, and Herodotus in his History. When I had given him some account of our red people, he brought out his own theory of an earthquake tearing the continent in twain at Bering’s Strait, and so parting Japheth’s family. This seismic doctrine is doubtless taught in the demotic school of Spata without ever a word of the Platonic Atlantis.

The Spata schoolmaster is by far the finest specimen of his class we have met in rural Greece. A splendid figure and a strong, genial face, an open mind unspoiled by learning, — I doubt whether he ever reads out of school, — he looks the genuine old open-air Greek, and all the more so because, unlike most of his class, he has never discarded the national dress. The dress, indeed, is Albanian, and so is he, like most of this Midland folk; but he will tell you that the Albanian is only the older Greek, the Pelasgian. whose prehistoric secret has been as well kept from the rest of the world as the red man’s and the mound builder’s. If now, as some wise men claim, the Carians were of Pelasgic stock, our host may be a descendant, only ninety generations removed, from the primitive gravediggers of Spata.

For an Albanian he has an exceptional Hellenic cheerfulness. The Albanian character, as Wordsworth well observed, is rather Dorian than Ionian. By his fireside, we, schoolmasters both, cannot repress a wish that all our colleagues at home might fare as well as he. Twenty-seven years in the business, and twentyfive of them at this one post, he is no tramp. The best dressed and best housed man in town, he is probably the foremost citizen, for the rich rum-maker lives in Athens. Beginning with a monthly stipend of sixty drachmae, he has advanced step by step, until he is now in receipt of one hundred and twenty (or, at present exchange rates, fully fifteen dollars) a month; and for each five years’ service henceforth the law allows him an increase of five drachmaæ on his monthly pay. Being now but forty-five, it will be seen that, if he keeps his place and holds out to be a centenarian, he may see this salary almost doubled ; and thirty dollars a month at Spata would be something like a royal revenue.

I do not set down this supposition in mere wantonness or without precedent, for the foremost schoolmaster of old Greece, and the longest-lived, was born here at Spata. Without looking up the demotic inscriptions for ourselves, we know that enough have been found to fix here the ancient Ercliia, the native deme of Xenophon ; it was once thought, of Alcibiades also. At any rate, that splendid scapegrace had large landed estates in Erchia, as Plato informs us. Xenophon, born here at the very outbreak of the Peloponnesian war, lived to chronicle the battle of Mantineia, sixty-nine years later, and must have been seventy-seven when he died. But the true type of Erchian longevity is her Panhellenic schoolmaster, Isocrates. Born here five years before Xenophon, he long outlived him. As a lad he saw the beginning of the long tug between Athens and Sparta. His father’s fields may have been wasted when King Archidamus raided this Midland and the Paralia all the way down to Laurioti; and if we accept the story that was good enough for Milton,

“ That dishonest victory
At Chæronea, fatal to liberty,
Kill’d with report that old man eloquent.”

“ In his ninety-eighth year,” so tradition runs, “ he was in the Palæstra of Hippocrates when he heard the news of Chæroneia. He repeated three verses of Euripides, — verses commemorating three alien conquerors of Greece, — and four days afterwards, on the burial day of those who fell at Chæroneia, he died of voluntary starvation.”

The story is clearly unhistorical, but here in the schoolmaster’s house, on the hill where Isocrates must have played, and by the prehistoric tombs which may have been his first mysteries, one cannot but recall his wonderful career as an educator and a publicist. Fallen on evil times, for Attica was practically in a state of siege through most of his youth and early manhood, he was nearly as old as the present schoolmaster of Spata when (392 B. C.) he opened his school near the Lyceum at Athens, and began his life work. A full half-century later he was putting the last touches on his Panathenaic oration. In the mean time he had become the most illustrious teacher of his day, with pupils flocking to him from the whole Hellenic world; and that not for a few showy lectures, but for solid study, staying as long, some of them, as our boys do for a full college course. Among them came out statesmen, generals, and kings ; and in that school, according to Cicero, was trained and perfected the eloquence of Greece. The school itself, says Dionysius, he made the true image of Athens. If he was not himself the teacher of Demosthenes, his pupil Isæus was, and that, it would seem, in a peculiarly close and exclusive relation.

Such was Isocrates the schoolmaster. But he was a statesman as well, exalting Hellas above Athens, and seeking all his life to break down the walls of that pitiful provincialism which was the bane of Greek politics. While Demosthenes was thundering against Philip, he could look even to the Macedonian as possible leader and deliverer of tbe Greeks. Politically his views were realized in that larger Hellenism which, under Alexander’s flag, overspread the East, and made the culture of Athens a possession for humanity ; and some faint echo of those views may be recognized to-day in a state that calls itself the kingdom of the Hellenes, not of Hellas.

But it is the schoolmaster influence that has most profoundly affected our intellectual history. In tracing the moulding forces of the perfect Attic speech, Jebb, upon whose admirable Life in The Attic Orators this brief sketch is mainly based, observes : “ Among these various elements one is dominant. The Isocratic style has become the basis of all the rest. That style, in its essential characteristics of rhythm and period, passed into the prose of Cicero ; modern prose has been modeled on the Roman: and thus, in forming the literary rhetoric of Attica, Isocrates founded that of all literatures.” Webster at Bunker Hill and Everett at Gettysburg but used the mould of speech first fashioned by the schoolmaster who saw the light here at Erchia long before Plato had dreamed of an Atlantis.

When we rose in the morning, the schoolmaster had gone to church, and so we were relieved of some embarrassment. We offered a bit of paper to Helene, who shook her head until assured that it was only a mite for her dowry. Not until we were leaving the gate did we get sight of the schoolmaster’s wife, who then appeared, shyly but with a beaming face, to speed the parting guests. At the little cafe we found the schoolmaster himself waiting to set us on our way, and he walked with us down into the plain. At parting my friend took out his poeketbook, a proceeding which moved our host’s unaffected indignation until he found it. was only to hand him a card. With all his epic curiosity about our fatherland, he had asked neither our own nor our fathers’ names; so we introduced ourselves at last, and took farewell after the fashion of Diomed and Glaucus:—

“ So now art thou our dear guest-friend in mid-
most Attica,
And we are thine whene’er thou farest to our

The speech should have been the schoolmaster’s, but he had probably never heard it, and must have retraced his steps wondering what manner of men were these that hailed from a savage land, and talked like the old tombstones.

J. Irving Manatt.

  1. This speech is assigned to 351 B. C., the year in which King Mausohis died, — an event, fixing a date for Bryaxis, collaborator on the Mausoleum, and sculptor of the phylarchs’ monument.
  2. The inscription is No. 472 in the Corpus Inscr. Atticarum.
  3. “ May not the family, early leaving their ancient homes, have survived under a slightly different name, Γúλων for Kúλων ? The Gylon of history, Demosthenes’ maternal grandfather, belonged to the deme Cerameis, but perhaps in the marriage of his daughter to Demosthenes the Pæanian there was a renewal of ancient local associations. Gylon himself, like Cylon, sought for his wife the daughter of a foreign prince. Still, the hypothesis that makes Demosthenes a descendant, or even a connexion, of Cylon is not without the gravest difficulties.”
  4. I must guard against a false impression here. Drunkenness in Greece, far from being common, is so uncommon as to make this Liopesi experience noteworthy; and the case of the bibulous priest stands alone within my observation. We met four other priests the same day at Liopesi and Spata, all of them as staid and sober as so many New England country parsons.