After the Peloponnesian War we have a happier picture of Megara as the home of philosophy. Plato in his first grief over the death of his master went there to visit Eucleides, who had been wont to creep into Athens by night, in defiance of the decree, to talk with Socrates. And from the vivid opening scene of the “Theætetus,” a severely metaphysical dialogue written a few years later, we know that Eucleides and his philosophical friends used to meet each other in the market-place (where now the peasant women dance at Easter) or go to the harbour to greet a friend _en route_ from Corinth to Athens, or gather at home for readings and conversations. Isocrates praised in Megara a domestic prosperity finer than the lust for empire which had ruined Athens and Sparta. The Megarians shared the Greek lot at Chæronea. The later fate of the city is summed up in the reflections of the Roman governor, Sulpicius, who, coming from Ægina, gazed at its ruins from his vessel’s prow and argued from them the brevity of human glory. In antiquity travellers by land made their way from Megara to Corinth either over the difficult heights of Geraneia or close along the shore of the Saronic Gulf. The railroad follows the direction of this coast route, and from a high bridge the old road can be seen below, skirting the foot of the precipices in which the spurs of Geraneia end. These precipices crowd so close to the sea that the space for the road is exceedingly narrow, and the resulting dangers gave to the pass in modern days the name of Kake Skala. Even in the nineteenth century robbers made use of the natural difficulties of the site as they did in Roman times. Hadrian thought it important to widen the road as much as possible. To the ancients the steep precipices were known as the Scironian Cliffs, and the Athenian story ran that a robber, Sciron, dwelt beside them and hurled every wayfarer into the sea, where a huge tortoise devoured him. Theseus killed the villain and threw him down to his old ally. The sea that surged below the road took its own toll of travellers. Among the unfortunates in the fifth century one was either rich or distinguished enough to have an inscription by Simonides upon his cenotaph:— “Geraneia, cruel scar, Where the mist of morning creeps, Would that thou on Ister far Ward wert keeping, or where sweeps Scythian stream of Tanaïs. Wert not here where snow-storms’ scourges Fill Moluriad’s rocky gorges; Wert not here above the surges On Scironian rocks that hiss. As it is, his corpse the Ocean Death-chilled swings in restless motion; Mocks his voyage a bitter laugh Echoing from his cenotaph.”