THE OTHER MONUMENTS
[Illustration]
There are two favorite ways whereby those leaving the Acropolis are wont
to descend to the modern city. One lies around to the right as you leave
the gates, passing between the Acropolis and Mars Hill to the north side
of the former, where steps will be found leading down to the old quarter
and thence past Shoe Lane to Hermes Street and home. The other passes to
the south of the Acropolis along its southerly slopes, finally emerging
through an iron gate at the eastern end, whence a street leads directly
homeward, rather cleaner and sweeter than the other route but hardly as
picturesque. Since, however, this way leads to some of the other notable
remains of classic Athens, for the present let us take it.
Immediately on leaving the avenue in front of the gates of the
Acropolis, one finds a path leading eastward directly behind and above
the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, which is made conspicuous in the landscape
by the lofty stone arches remaining at its front. These arches are
blackened and bear every ear-mark of the later Roman epoch. Moreover
they strike the beholder as rather unstable, as if some day they might
fall unless removed. But their loss would be a pity, nevertheless, for
they certainly present a striking and agreeable feature to the sight
despite their lack of harmony with the received ideas of pure Greek
architecture. It hardly repays one to descend to the pit of this
commodious theatre, or rather concert hall, since one gets a very
accurate idea of it from above looking down into its orchestra over the
tiers of grass-grown seats. For more detailed inspection of ancient
theatrical structures, the Dionysiac theatre farther along our path is
decidedly more worth while, besides being much more ancient and more
interesting by association.
On the way thereto are passed several remnants of a long “stoa,” or
portico, called that of Eumenes, curiously intermingled with brick
relics of the Turkish times, and the non-archæological visitor will
hardly care to concern himself long with either. But he will doubtless
be interested to turn aside from the path and clamber up to the base of
the steeper rock to inspect the damp and dripping cave where once was an
important shrine of Asklepios, with the usual “sacred spring” still
flowing, and still surrounded with remains of the customary porticoes,
in which the faithful in need of healing once reposed themselves by
night, awaiting the cure which the vision of the god might be hoped to
bestow. The cave is now a Catholic shrine, with a picture of its
particular saint and an oil lamp burning before it. It is dank and
dismal, and for one to remain there long would doubtless necessitate the
services of Asklepios himself, or of some skillful modern disciple of
his healing art—of which, by the way, Athens can boast not a few. The
Greek seems to take naturally to the practice of medicine, and some of
the physicians, even in remote country districts, are said to possess
unusual talent.
Not far below the shrine lies the theatre of Dionysus, scooped out of
the hillside as are most Greek theatres, with a paved, semi-circular
“orchestra,” or dancing place, at its foot. Much of the original seating
capacity is concealed by the overgrowth of grass, so that one is likely
greatly to underestimate its former size. Once the seats rose far up
toward the precinct of Asklepios, and the path that to-day traverses the
slope passes through what was once the upper portion of the
amphitheatre. It is only in the lower portions that the stones still
remain in a fair state of preservation and serve to show us the manner
of theatre that the Athenians knew—the same in which the earlier
generations saw for the first time the tragedies of that famous trio of
playwrights, Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. This theatre has
undergone manifold changes since its first construction, as one will
discover from his archæological books. It is idle for us here to seek to
recall the successive alterations which changed the present theatre from
that which the ancients actually saw, or to point out the traces of each
transformation that now remain, to show that the “orchestra” was once a
complete circle and lay much farther back. It will, however, be found
interesting enough to clamber down over the tiers of seats to the bottom
and inspect at leisure the carved chairs once allotted to various
dignitaries, and bearing to this day the names of the officers who used
them. Particularly fine is the chief seat of all, the carved chair of
the high priest of Dionysus, in the very centre of the row, with its
bas-relief of fighting cocks on the chair-arms still plainly to be seen.
It is well to remember, however, that most of what the visitor sees is
of a rather recent period as compared with other Athenian monuments, for
it is stated that very little of the present visible theatre is of
earlier date than the third century B.C., while much is of even a more
recent time and is the work of the Romans. This is true, especially, of
the conspicuous carved screen that runs along behind the orchestra
space, and which may have supported the stage—if there was a stage at
all. The paved orchestra will also strike one as unusual, contrasting
with the greensward to be seen in other similar structures, such as the
theatre at Epidaurus.
The vexed question of the use of any elevated stage in Greek theatres so
divides the skilled archæologists into warring camps even to-day that it
ill becomes an amateur in the field to advance any opinion at all, one
way or the other, upon the subject. There are eminent authorities who
maintain that the use of a raised stage in such a theatre was utterly
unknown by the ancients, and that any such development can only have
come in comparatively modern times, under Roman auspices. Others insist,
and with equal positiveness, that some sort of a stage was used by the
more ancient Greeks. The arguments pro and con have waxed warm for
several years, without convincing either side of its error. It is safe
to say that American students generally incline to the view that there
was no such raised stage, agreeing with the Germans, while English
scholars appear generally to believe that the stage did exist and was
used. As just remarked, the views of mere laymen in such a case are of
small account, and I shall spare the reader my own, saying only that in
the few reproductions of Greek plays that I myself have seen, there has
been no confusion whatever produced by having the principal actors
present in the “orchestra” space with the chorus—and this, too, without
the aid of the distinguishing cothurnos, or sandal, to give to the
principals any added height. From this it seems to me not unreasonable
to contend that, if a stage did exist, it was hardly called into being
by any pressing necessity to avoid confusion, as some have argued;
while, on the contrary, it does seem as if the separation of the chief
actors to the higher level would often mar the general effect. Such a
play as the “Agamemnon” of Æschylus would, it seems to me, lose much by
the employment of an elevated platform for those actors not of the
chorus. In fact, there was no more need of any such difference in level,
to separate chorus from principal, in ancient times than there is
to-day. The ancients did, however, seek to differentiate the principals
from the chorus players, by adding a cubit unto their stature, so to
speak, for they devised thick-soled sandals that raised them above the
ordinary height. Besides this they employed masks, and occasionally even
mechanism for aerial acting, and also subterranean passages.
Whatever we may each conclude as to the existence or non-existence of an
elevated stage at the time of Pericles, we shall all agree, no doubt,
that our modern stagecraft takes its nomenclature direct from the Greek.
The “orchestra,” which in the old Greek meant the circle in which the
dancing and acting took place, we have taken over as a word referring to
the floor space filled with the best seats, and by a still less
justifiable stretch of the meaning we have come to apply it to the
musicians themselves. Our modern “scene” is simply the old Greek word
σκηνή (skèné), meaning a “tent,” which the ancient actors used as a
dressing-room. The marble or stone wall, of varying height, and pierced
by doors for the entrance and exit of actors, was called by the Greeks
the “proskenion,” or structure before the skèné, serving to conceal the
portions behind the scenes and add background to the action. The word is
obviously the same as our modern “proscenium,” though the meaning to-day
is entirely different. In ancient times the proskenion, instead of being
the arch framing the foreground of a “scene,” was the background, or
more like our modern “drop” scene. Being of permanent character and made
of stone, it generally represented a palace, with three entrances, and
often with a colonnade. At either side of the proskenion were broad
roads leading into the orchestra space, called the “parodoi,” by means
of which the chorus entered and departed on occasion, and through which
chariots might be driven. Thus, for instance, in the “Agamemnon,” that
hero and Cassandra drove through one of the parodoi into the orchestra,
chariots and all—a much more effective entrance than would have been
possible had they been forced to climb aloft to a stage by means of the
ladder represented on some of the vases as used for the purpose. The
side from which the actor entered often possessed significance, as
indicating whether he came from the country or from the sea. As for
disagreeable scenes, such as the murders which form the motif of the
Oresteian trilogy, it may not be out of place to remark that they were
almost never represented on the stage in sight of the orchestra or
spectators, but were supposed always to take place indoors, the audience
being apprized of events by groans and by the explanations of the
chorus. The ordinary theatrical performance was in the nature of a
religious ceremony, the altar of the god being in the centre of the
orchestra space, and served by the priest before the play began. And in
leaving the subject, one may add that many Greek plays required sequels,
so that they often came in groups of three, each separate from the
other, but bearing a relation to each other not unlike our several acts
of a single piece. So much for Greek theatres in general, and the
theatre of Dionysus in particular.
Leaving it by the iron gate above and plunging into a labyrinthine mass
of houses just outside, one will speedily come upon an interesting
monument called the “choragic monument of Lysicrates.” This is the only
remaining representative of a series of pedestals erected by victors in
musical or dancing fêtes to support tripods celebrating their victories.
This one, which is exceedingly graceful, has managed to survive and is a
thing of beauty still, despite several fires and vicissitudes of which
it bears traces. The street is still called the “Street of the Tripods.”
[Illustration: TEMPLE OF OLYMPIAN ZEUS]
A few steps farther, and one emerges from the narrower lanes into the
broader avenues of the city, and is confronted at once by the arch of
Hadrian, which stands in an open field across the boulevard of Amalia.
It is frankly and outspokenly Roman, of course, and does not flatter the
Latin taste as compared with the Greek. It need delay nobody long,
however, for the tall remaining columns of the temple of Olympian Zeus
are just before, and are commanding enough to inspire attention at once.
To those who prefer the stern simplicity of the Doric order of columns,
the Corinthian capitals will not appeal. But the few huge, weathered
pillars, despite the absence of roof or of much of the entablature, are
grand in their own peculiar way, and the vast size of the temple as it
originally stood may serve to show the reverence in which the father of
the gods was held in the city of his great daughter, Athena. The more
florid Corinthian capital seems to have appealed to the Roman taste, and
it is to be remembered that this great temple, although begun by Greeks,
was completed in the time of Hadrian and after the dawn of the Christian
era: so that if it disappoints one in comparison with the more classic
structures of the Acropolis, it may be set down to the decadent
Hellenistic taste rather than to a flaw in the old Hellenic. As for the
Corinthian order of capital, it is supposed to have been devised by a
Corinthian sculptor from a basket of fruit and flowers which he saw one
day on a wall, perhaps as a funeral tribute. The idea inspired him to
devise a conventionalized flower basket with the acanthus leaf as the
main feature, and to apply the same to the ornamentation of the tops of
marble columns, such as these.
On the northern side of the Acropolis, down among the buildings and
alleys of the so-called “Turkish” quarter, there exist several
fragmentary monuments, which may be passed over with little more than a
word. The most complete and at the same time the most interesting of
these relics is unquestionably the “Tower of the Winds,” an octagonal
building not unlike a windmill in shape and general size, but devoted
originally to the uses of town clock and weather bureau. On its
cornices, just below the top, are carved eight panels facing the
different points of the compass, the figures in high relief representing
the several winds. The appropriate general characteristics of each wind
are brought out by the sculpture—here an old man of sour visage brings
snow and storms; another, of more kindly mien, brings gentle rain;
others bring flowers and ripening fruits. A weather-vane once surmounted
the structure. Near by, scattered among the houses, are bits of old
porticoes, sometimes areas of broken columns, and at others quite
perfect specimens still bearing their pedimental stones, testifying to
the former presence of ancient market places, or public meeting places,
in large part belonging to the later, or Roman, period. It was in this
general vicinity that the original agora, or market place, stood, no
doubt. In some of the porticoes were often to be found teachers of one
sort or another, and in one “stoa” of this kind, we are told, taught
those philosophers who, from the location of their school, came to be
called "stoics"—giving us an adjective which to-day has lost every
vestige of its derivative significance. Nothing remains of the other
famous structures that are supposed to have been located in this
vicinity, or at least nothing has been unearthed as yet, although
possibly if some of the congested and rather mean houses of the quarter
could be removed, some vestiges of this important section of the classic
city might be recovered. Nothing remains of the ancient “agora,” or
market place, in which St. Paul said he saw the altar with this
inscription, “To the unknown god.” But the Areopagus, or Mars Hill,
where Paul is supposed to have stood when he made his noble speech to
the men of Athens, is still left and well repays frequent visitation.
Its ancient fame as the place where the god Ares, or Mars, was tried for
his life, and as the place of deliberation over the gravest Athenian
affairs, has been augmented by the celebrity it derived from the
apostle’s eloquent argument, in which he commented on the activity of
the Athenian mind and its fondness for theology, a characteristic rather
inadequately brought out by the Bible’s rendering, “too superstitious.”
The Areopagus to-day is a barren rock devoid of vegetation or of any
trace of building, although rough-hewn steps here and there and a rude
leveling of the top are visible. Of the great events that have passed on
this rocky knoll not a trace remains. With reference to the Acropolis
towering above and close at hand, Mars Hill seems small, but the ascent
of it from the plain is long and steep enough. It is apparently no more
than an outlying spur of the main rock of the Acropolis, from which it
is separated by a slight depression; but it shares with the holy hill of
Athena a celebrity which makes it the object of every thoughtful
visitor’s attention. From its top one may obtain almost the best view of
the afterglow of sunset on the temples and the Propylæa of the
Acropolis, after the custodians of the latter have driven all visitors
below; and sitting there as the light fades one may lose himself readily
in a reverie in which the mighty ones of old, from Ares himself down to
the mortal sages of later days, pass in grand review, only to fade away
from the mind and leave the eloquent apostle of the newer religion
saying to the citizens gathered around him, “Whom, therefore, ye
ignorantly worship, Him declare I unto you.” Let us, if we will, believe
that it was “in the midst of Mars Hill” that Paul preached his sonorous
sermon, despite a tendency among scholars to suggest that he probably
stood somewhere else, “close by or near to” rather than “in the midst
of” the spot. If we paid undue heed to these iconoclastic theories of
scientists, what would become of all our cherished legends? The traveler
in Greece loses half the charm of the place if he cannot become as a
little child and believe a good many things to be true enough that
perhaps can hardly stand the severe test of archæology. And why should
he not do this?
[Illustration: THE AREOPAGUS]
Peopled with ghostly memories also is the long, low ridge of rocky
ground to the westward, across the broad avenue that leads from the
plain up to the Acropolis, still bearing its ancient name of the “Pnyx.”
In the valley between lie evidences of a bygone civilization, the
crowded foundations of ancient houses, perhaps of the poorer class,
huddled together along ancient streets, the lines of which are faintly
discernible among the ruins, while here and there are traces of old
watercourses and drains, with deep wells and cisterns yawning up at the
beholder. Thus much of the older town has been recovered, lying as it
does in the open and beyond the reach of the present line of dwellings.
Above this mass of ruin the hill rises to the ancient assembling place
of the enfranchised citizens—the “Bema,” or rostrum, from which speeches
on public topics were made to the assembled multitude. The Bema is still
in place, backed by a wall of huge “Cyclopean” masonry. Curiously enough
the ground slopes downward from the Bema to-day, instead of upward as a
good amphitheatre for auditors should do, giving the impression that the
eloquence of the Athenian orators must literally have gone over the
heads of their audiences. That this was anciently the case appears to be
denied, however, and we are told that formerly the topography was quite
the reverse of modern conditions, made so artificially with the aid of
retaining walls, now largely destroyed. Until this is understood, the
Bema and its neighborhood form one of the hardest things in Athens to
reconstruct in memory. It is from the rocky platform of this old rostrum
that one gets the ideal view of the Acropolis, bringing out the perfect
subordination of the Propylæa to the Parthenon, and giving even to-day a
very fair idea of the appearance of the Acropolis and its temples as the
ancients saw them. Fortunate, indeed, is one who may see these in the
afternoon light standing out sharply against a background of opaque
cloud, yet themselves colored by the glow of the declining sun. Of all
the magnificent ruins in Greece, this is the finest and best,—the
Acropolis from the Bema, or from any point along the ridge of the Pnyx.
Of course that temple which is called, though possibly erroneously, the
Theseum, is one of the best preserved of all extant Greek temples of
ancient date, and is one of the most conspicuous sights of Athens, after
the Acropolis and the temples thereon. And yet, despite that fact, it
somehow fails to arouse anything like the same enthusiasm in the average
visitor. Just why this is so it may be rash to attempt to say, but I
suspect it is chiefly because the Theseum is, after all, a rather
colorless and uninspiring thing by comparison with the Parthenon,
lacking in individuality, although doubtless one would look long before
finding real flaws in its architecture or proportions. It simply suffers
because its neighbors are so much grander. If it stood quite alone as
the temple at Segesta stands, or as stand the magnificent ruins at
Pæstum, it would be a different matter. As it is, with the Parthenon
looking down from the Acropolis not far away, the Theseum loses
immeasurably in the effect that a specimen of ancient architecture so
obviously perfect ought, in all justice, to command. It seems entirely
probable that the failure of this smaller temple to inspire and lay hold
on Athenian visitors is due to the overshadowing effect of its greater
neighbors, which it feebly resembles in form without at all equaling
their beauty, and in part also, perhaps, to the uncertainty about its
name. That it was really a temple of Theseus, an early king of Athens,
seems no longer to be believed by any, although no very satisfactory
substitute seems to be generally accepted. It will remain the Theseum
for many years to come, no doubt, if not for all time. Theseus certainly
deserved some such memorial as this, and it is not amiss to believe that
the bones of the hero were actually deposited here by Cimon when he
brought them back from Scyros. The services of Theseus to the city were
great. If we may, in childlike trust, accept the testimony of legend,
Theseus was the son of King Ægeus and Æthra, but was brought up in the
supposition that he was a son of Poseidon, in the far city of Tr[oe]zen.
When he grew up, however, he was given a sword and shield and sent to
Athens, where his father, Ægeus, was king. Escaping poisoning by Medea,
he appeared at the Athenian court, was recognized by his armor, and was
designated by Ægeus as his rightful successor. He performed various
heroic exploits, freed Athens of her horrid tribute of seven boys and
seven girls paid to the Cretan Minotaur, came back triumphant to Athens
only to find that Ægeus, mistaking the significance of his sails, which
were black, had committed suicide by hurling himself in his grief from
the Acropolis; and thereupon, Theseus became king. He united the Attic
cities in one state, instituted the democracy and generously abdicated a
large share of the kingly power, devised good laws, and was ever after
held in high esteem by the city—although he died in exile at Scyros, to
which place he withdrew because of a temporary coolness of his people
toward him. Cimon brought back his bones, however, in 469 B.C., and
Theseus became a demi-god in the popular imagination. The Theseum owes
its splendid preservation to the fact that it was used, as many other
temples were, as a Christian church, sacred to St. George of Cappadocia.
[Illustration: THE THESEUM]
Infinitely more pregnant with definite interest is the precinct of the
Ceramicus, near the Dipylon, or double gate, of the city, which gave
egress to the Eleusis road on the western side of the town, the remains
of which are easily to be seen to-day. The excavations at this point
have recently been pushed with thoroughness and some very interesting
fragments have come to light, buried for all these centuries in the
“Themistoclean wall” of the city. It will be recalled that the Spartans,
being jealous of the growing power of Athens, protested against the
rebuilding of the walls. Themistocles, who was not only a crafty soul
but in high favor at Athens at the time, undertook to go to Sparta and
hold the citizens of that town at bay until the walls should be of
sufficient height for defense. Accordingly he journeyed down to Sparta
and pleaded the non-arrival of his ambassadorial colleagues as an excuse
for delaying the opening of negotiations on the subject of the wall.
Days passed and still the colleagues did not come, much to the
ostensible anxiety and disgust of Themistocles, who still asserted they
must soon arrive. Meantime every man, woman, and child in Athens was
working night and day to build those walls, heaping up outworks for the
city from every conceivable material, sparing nothing, not even the
gravestones of the Ceramicus district, in their feverish anxiety to get
the walls high enough to risk an attack. The Roman consul worked no more
assiduously at hewing down the famous bridge, nor did Horatius labor
more arduously at his task, than did Themistocles in diplomatic duel
with the men of Sparta. At last the news leaked out—but it was too late.
The walls were high enough at last, and all further pretense of a
delayed embassy was dropped. The diplomacy of the wily Themistocles had
triumphed—and by no means for the first time. Out of this so-called
Themistoclean wall there have recently been taken some of the grave
“stelae,” or flat slabs sculptured in low relief, from the places where
the harassed Athenians cast them in such haste more than four centuries
before Christ. They are battered and broken, but the figures on them are
still easily visible, and while by no means sculpturally remarkable the
relics possess an undoubted historical interest.
The tombs of the Ceramicus district, which form an important part of the
sculptural remains of Athenian art, are still numerous enough just
outside the Dipylon Gate, although many examples have been housed in the
National Museum for greater protection against weather and vandals. Of
those that fortunately remain _in situ_ along what was the beginning of
the Sacred Way to Eleusis, there are enough to give a very fair idea of
the appearance of this ancient necropolis, while the entire collection
of tombstones affords one of the most interesting and complete exhibits
to be seen in Athens. The excellence of the work calls attention to the
high general level of skill achieved by the artisans of the time, for it
is hardly to be assumed that these memorials of the dead were any more
often the work of the first Athenian artists of that day than is the
case among our own people at present.
The whole question of the Greek tomb sculpture is a tempting one, and a
considerable volume of literature already exists with regard to it. The
artistic excellence of the stelae in their highest estate, the
quaintness of the earlier efforts, the ultimate regulation of the size
and style by statute to discourage extravagance, the frequent
utilization of an older stone for second-hand uses, and a score of other
interesting facts, might well furnish forth an entire chapter. As it is,
we shall be obliged here briefly to pass over the salient points and
consider without much pretense of detail the chief forms of tomb
adornment that the present age has to show, preserved from the day when
all good Athenians dying were buried outside the gates on the Eleusinian
way. Not only carved on the stelae themselves, but also placed on top of
them, are to be seen reliefs or reproductions of long-necked amphorae,
or two-handled vases, in great numbers. These are now known to have had
their significance as referring to the unmarried state of the deceased.
They are nothing more nor less than reproductions of the vases the Greek
maidens used to carry to the spring Callirrhoë for water for the nuptial
bath, and the use of them in the tomb sculpture, on the graves of those
who died unmarried, is stated to have grown out of the idea that “those
who died unwed had Hades for their bridegroom.” These vases come the
nearest to resembling modern grave memorials of any displayed at Athens,
perhaps. The rest of the gravestones are entirely different both in
appearance and in idea from anything we are accustomed to-day to use in
our cemeteries, and it is likely to be universally agreed that they far
eclipse our modern devices in beauty. The modern graveyard contents
itself in the main with having its graves marked with an eye to
statistics, rather than artistic effect, save in the cases of the very
rich, who may invoke the aid of eminent sculptors to adorn their burial
plots. In Athens this seems not to have been so. There is very little in
the way of inscription on the stones, save for the name. The majority
are single panels containing bas-reliefs, which may or may not be
portraits of the departed.
[Illustration: TOMB AMPHORA, CERAMICUS]
The usual type of tomb relief of this sort seems to be a group of
figures, sometimes two, sometimes three or four, apparently representing
a leave-taking, or frequently the figure of a person performing some
characteristic act of life. Of the latter the well-known tomb of Hegeso,
representing a woman attended by her maid fingering trinkets in a jewel
casket, is as good a type as any, and it has the added merit of standing
in its original place in the street of the tombs. Others of this kind
are numerous enough in the museum. The aversion to the representation of
death itself among the ancient Greeks is well understood, and many have
argued from it that these tomb reliefs indicate an intention to recall
the deceased as he or she was in life, without suggestion of mourning.
Nevertheless, the obvious attitudes of sorrowful parting visible in many
of the tomb stelae seem to me to do violence to this theory in its full
strength. Among those which seem most indicative of this is a very
well-executed one showing three figures,—an old man, a youth, and a
little lad. The old man stands looking intently, but with a far-away
gaze, at a splendidly built but thoughtful-visaged young man before him,
while the lad behind is doubled up in a posture plainly indicating
extreme grief, with his face apparently bathed in tears. The calm face
of the youth, the grave and silent grief of the paternal-looking man,
and the unbridled emotion of the boy, all speak of a parting fraught
with intense sorrow. It might be any parting—but is it not more
reasonable to assume that it means the parting which involves no return?
The more archaic gravestones are best typified by the not unfamiliar
sculpture, in low relief, of a warrior leaning on a spear, or by the
well-known little figure of Athena, similarly poised, mourning beside
what appears to be a gravestone of a hero. It was one of the former type
that we saw exhumed from the Themistoclean wall, with the warrior’s
figure and portions of the spear still easily discernible.
[Illustration: TOMB RELIEF, CERAMICUS]
It remains to speak, though very briefly and without much detail, of the
National Museum itself, which is one of the chief glories of Athens, and
which divides with the Acropolis the abiding interest and attention of
every visitor. It is in many ways incomparable among the great museums
of the world, although others can show more beautiful and more famous
Greek statues. The British Museum has the Elgin marbles from the
Parthenon, which one would to-day greatly prefer to see restored to
Athens; the Vatican holds many priceless and beautiful examples of the
highest Greek sculptural art; Munich has the interesting pedimental
figures from the temple at Ægina; Naples and Paris have collections not
to be despised; but nowhere may one find under a single roof so wide a
range of Greek sculpture, from the earliest strivings after form and
expression to the highest ultimate success, as in the Athenian National
Museum, with its priceless treasures in marble and in bronze. The wealth
of statues, large and small, quaintly primitive or commandingly lovely,
in all degrees of relief and in the round, is stupendous. And while it
may be heresy to pass over the best of the marbles for anything else, it
is still a fact that many will turn from all the other treasures of the
place to the “bronze boy” as we will call him for lack of a better name.
This figure of a youth, of more than life size and poised lightly as if
about to step from his pedestal, with one hand extended, and seemingly
ready to speak, is far less well known than he deserves to be, chiefly
because it is but a few years since the sponge divers found him in the
bed of the ocean and brought him back to the light of day. At present
nobody presumes to say whether this splendid figure represents any
particular hero. He might be Perseus, or Paris, or even Hermes. His hand
bears evidence of having at one time clasped some object, whether the
head of Medusa, the apple, or the caduceus, it is impossible to say. But
the absence of winged sandals appears to dismiss the chance that he was
Hermes, and the other identifications are so vague as to leave it
perhaps best to refer to him only as an “ephebus,” or youth. The bronze
has turned to a dark green, and such restorations as had to be made are
quite invisible, so that to all outward seeming the statue is as perfect
as when it was first cast. The eyes, inlaid with consummate skill to
simulate real eyes, surpass in lifelike effect those of the celebrated
bronze charioteer at Delphi. That a more detailed description of this
figure is given here is not so much that it surpasses the other statues
of the museum, but because it is so recent in its discovery that almost
nothing has been printed about it for general circulation.
[Illustration:
_National Museum, Athens_
BRONZE EPHEBUS
]
It would be almost endless and entirely profitless to attempt any
detailed consideration of the multitude of objects of this general
sculptural nature which the museum contains, and volumes have been
written about them all, from the largest and noblest of the marbles to
the smallest of the island gems. It may not be out of place, however, to
make brief mention of the spoils of Mycenæ which are housed here, and
which reproductions have made generally familiar, because later we shall
have occasion to visit Mycenæ itself and to discuss in more detail that
once proud but now deserted city, the capital which Agamemnon made so
famous. In a large room set apart for the purpose are to be seen the
treasures that were taken from the six tombs, supposed to be royal
graves, that were unearthed in the midst of the Mycenæan agora,
including a host of gold ornaments, cups, rosettes, chains, death masks,
weapons, and human bones. Whether Dr. Schliemann, as he so fondly hoped
and claimed, really laid bare the burial place of the conqueror of Troy,
or whether what he found was something far less momentous, the fact
remains that he did exhume the bodies of a number of personages buried
in the very spot where legend said the famous heroes and heroines were
buried, together with such an array of golden gear that it seems safe to
assert that these were at any rate the tombs of royalty. If one can
divest his mind of the suspicions raised by the ever-cautious
archæologist and can persuade himself that he sees perhaps the skeleton
and sword of the leader of the Argive host that went to recapture Helen,
this Mycenæan room is of literally overwhelming interest. Case after
case ranged about the room reveals the cunningly wrought ornaments that
gave to Mycenæ the well-deserved Homeric epithet “rich-in-gold.” From
the grotesque death masks of thin gold leaf to the heavily embossed
Vaphio cups, everything bears testimony to the high perfection of the
goldsmith’s art in the pre-Homeric age. Of all this multitude of
treasures, the chief objects are unquestionably the embossed daggers and
the large golden cups, notably the two that bear the exceedingly
well-executed golden bulls, and the so-called “Nestor” cup, which, with
its rather angular shape and its double handle, reproduces exactly the
cup that Homer describes as belonging to that wise and reverend
counselor.
As has been hinted, the scientific archæologists, less swept away by
Homeric enthusiasm than was Schliemann, have proved skeptical as to the
identification of the tombs which Schliemann so confidently proclaimed
at first discovery. The unearthing of a sixth tomb, where the original
excavator had looked for only five, is supposed to have done violence to
the Agamemnonian theory. But what harm can it do if we pass out of the
Mycenæan room with a secret, though perhaps an ignorant, belief that we
have looked upon the remains and accoutrements of one who was an epic
hero, the victim of a murderous queen, the avenger of a brother’s honor,
and the conqueror of a famous city? It is simply one more of those cases
in which one gains immeasurably in pleasure if he can dismiss scientific
questionings from his mind and pass through the scene unskeptical of the
heroes of the mighty past, if not of the very gods of high Olympus
themselves. It may be wrong; to a scientific investigator such guileless
trust is doubtless laughable. But on our own heads be it if therein we
err!
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