A broad avenue, flanked with porticoes, ran from the Market-place northwest to the Dipylon gate. This double gateway, impressive even from the remains of its foundations, quickens the memory to recall the generations of citizens and foreigners that have passed this way. Along the roads from Colonus and the Academy and the Sacred Way from Eleusis, converging outside the gates, will come a motley throng of Athenian ghosts, gay or scurrilous, militant or philosophic, to blot out the consciousness of the modern city. Outside the Dipylon, in the “Outer Cerameicus,” is “the Street of the Tombs.” Some of the beautiful monuments are still _in situ_ to stimulate a detailed study of the rich material in the National Museum. It was here that the Athenians usually buried their dead. The roll-call of great names stirs the imagination here as in Westminster Abbey. This is no exclusive privilege of one place or people. But there is often an appropriate _genius loci_. As one lingers along the Appian Way, for example, deciphering inscriptions and pausing before the weather-beaten faces on the monuments, there is a lurking pessimism and an insidious melancholy that flow in from the beauty of the Roman Campagna. Here, however, in this _proastion_ of Athens, this Suburb of the Dead, the memorials still in place, with their unpretentious sincerity, give rather a sensation of beauty and hope in perpetuating scenes from actual life. Even a scene of parting has less of hopeless finality. The warrior on his horse, the woman with her jewel-box, suggests life and love, not death and lamentation. Along yonder road from Eleusis came many an initiate fresh from the Mysteries, and some may well have been ready to listen with hope to Pindar’s “trumpet-blast for immortality”:— “For them the night all through, In that broad realm below, The splendour of the sun spreads endless light; ’Mid rosy meadows bright, Their city of the tombs with incense-trees, And golden chalices Of flowers, and fruitage fair, Scenting the breezy air, Is laden. There with horses and with play, With games and lyres, they while the hours away.”[9] Footnote 9: Translated by J. A. Symonds. Whether or no we choose to identify with Charon the old man in the boat, represented on one of the stelæ still standing, Death and Life here confront each other. Æschylus, in his early allusion to Charon’s boat, draws the contrast by an antithesis of the black sails of the ship of Theseus to the god of Light, and speaks of the “rowing” of the mourners’ arms causing— “that dark-sailed mission-ship, upon whose deck Apollo treads not and the sunlight falls not, through Acheron to pass unto that shore unseen where all must lodging find.”