ess one like the cyclopean walls of Tiryns. The wonder is, that they
could have been built in so short a time--eighty-five days, says
history, which would appear incredible, had not still more marvelous
things of the kind been done in Russia.

The next day, we rode across the head of the Messenian plain, crossed
the Mount Lycaeus and the gorge of the Neda, and lodged at the little
village of Tragoge, on the frontiers of Arcadia. Our experience of
Grecian highways was pleasantly increased by finding fields plowed
directly across our road, fences of dried furze built over it, and
ditches cutting it at all angles. Sometimes all trace of it would be
lost for half a mile, and we were obliged to ride over the growing crops
until we could find a bit of fresh trail.

The bridle-path over Mount Lycaeus was steep and bad, but led us through
the heart of a beautiful region. The broad back of the mountain is
covered with a grove of superb oaks, centuries old, their long arms
muffled in golden moss, and adorned with a plumage of ferns. The turf at
their feet was studded with violets, filling the air with delicious
odors. This sylvan retreat was the birthplace of Pan, and no more
fitting home for the universal god can be imagined. On the northern side
we descended for some time through a forest of immense ilex trees, which
sprang from a floor of green moss and covered our pathway with summer
shade....

We were now in the heart of the wild mountain region of Messenia, in
whose fastnesses Aristomenes, the epic hero of the state, maintained
himself so long against the Spartans. The tremendous gorge below us was
the bed of the Neda, which we crossed in order to enter the lateral
valley of Phigalia, where lay Tragoge. The path was not only difficult
but dangerous--in some places a mere hand's-breath of gravel, on the
edge of a plane so steep that a single slip of a horse's foot would have
sent him headlong to the bottom.

In the morning, a terrible sirocco levante was blowing, with an almost
freezing cold. The fury of the wind was so great that in crossing the
exposed ridges it was difficult to keep one's seat upon the horse. We
climbed toward the central peak of the Lycaean Hills, through a wild dell
between two ridges, which were covered to the summit with magnificent
groves of oak. Starry blue flowers, violets and pink crocuses spangled
the banks as we wound onward, between the great trunks. The temple of
Apollo Epicurius stands on