TO OLYMPIA
[Illustration]
At five o'clock the persistent thumping of Spyros on the bedroom doors
announced the call of incense-breathing morn, though Ph[oe]bus had not
yet by any means driven his horses above the rim of the horizon. The air
outside was thick o' fog,—doubtless a low-lying cloud settling on the
mountain,—and it was dark and cheerless work getting out of our narrow
beds and dressing in the cold twilight. Nevertheless it was necessary,
for the ride to Olympia is long, and Spyros had promised us a fatiguing
day, with twelve hours in the saddle as a minimum. To this forecast the
pessimistic Baedeker lent much plausibility by his reference to the road
as being unspeakably bad; and besides we ourselves had on the previous
day gathered much personal experience of the mountain trails of the
region. Breakfast under these circumstances was a rather hasty meal,
consumed in comparative silence.
By the time the last of the rolls and jam had disappeared and the task
of furling up the beds was well advanced, a clatter of hoofs in the
village street drew one of the party to the door, whence word was
speedily returned that the street outside was full of horses. And it
was. There were ten steeds, including four for our party, two for Spyros
and Stathi, one for a muleteer relief conveyance, and the rest for the
baggage—the latter being small and seemingly quite inadequate burros or
donkeys, who proved more notable for their patient indifference than for
size or animation. While these were being laden, four other beasts drew
near, bearing our solitary German of the day before and another of his
countrymen who had materialized during the night, with their
impedimenta. They were welcomed to the caravan, which, numbering
fourteen beasts and almost as many humans, took the road out of town
with commendable promptitude at sharp six o'clock. The cloud had lifted
as we rounded the western edge of the valley and looked back at
Andhritsæna, glimmering in the morning light. We were streaming off in
Indian file along a very excellent road, like that on which we had
ridden up from Megalopolis two days before, and which promised well for
a speedy removal of the apprehensions awakened by Bædeker. But the road
did not last long. Before we had fairly lost Andhritsæna in the hills
behind, the leading guide turned sharply to the left, through a rocky
defile in the hillside, and precipitated us down one of those rocky
torrent beds, with the nature of which we had become only too familiar
the day before. It was the less disturbing this time, however, because
we had learned to trust implicitly to the careful feet of our horses,
with no more than a firm grip on bridle and pommel and an occasional
soft whistle, or murmured "ochs', ochs'," to the intelligent beasts as
an outward and audible sign of inward and spiritual perturbation. It was
steep but short, and we came out below upon the road again, to
everybody’s unconcealed delight.
The road, however, soon lost itself in a meadow. When it is ultimately
finished, the journey will be much easier than we found it. In a few
years I suppose it will be perfectly possible to ride to Olympia in a
carriage, and the horseback problem will cease to deter visitors to
Bassæ from continuing their journey westward. The way now lay along a
pleasant and rolling meadow country, dotted with primitive farms, which
glowed under the bright morning sun. We splashed through a narrow upland
river and up another rocky ascent, beyond which another downward pitch
carried us to a still lower meadow. Meantime the cold of morning gave
place to a growing warmth, and the wraps became saddle blankets in short
order. We rode and walked alternately, choosing the level stretches
through the grass for pedestrianism and riding only when we came to
sharp upward climbs, thus easing the fatigue that we should otherwise
have found in continued riding. Always we could see the imposing peaks
to the north, and the downward tendency of the trail soon brought out
the altitude of the hills behind Andhritsæna. The immediate vicinity of
our path was pastoral and agricultural, in the main, for the recurring
ridges over which we scrambled served only as boundaries between
well-watered vales in which small trees and bushes flourished, and where
the occasional sharp whir of pressure from a primitive penstock called
attention to the presence of a water mill. Aside from these isolated
mills there was little sign of habitation, for the fields seemed mostly
grown up to grass. In the far distance we could see the valley of the
Alpheios, broadening out of its confining walls of rock to what seemed
like a sandy reach in the plain far below, and we were told that at
nightfall we should be ferried across it close to Olympia, provided we
caught the boatmen before they left for home. It was this anxiety to be
on time that led Spyros to urge us along, lest when we came out at the
bank of the river we should find no response to the ferryman’s call of
"Varka! Varka!"—the common mode of hailing boatmen in Greece. With this
for a spur we wasted little time on the way, but proceeded steadily, now
riding, now walking, up hill and down dale, through groves of low
acacias or Judas trees, or along grassy meadows where a profusion of
wild flowers added a touch of color to the green.
The pleasant valley, however, proved not to be the road for very long.
In an hour or so the guides branched off again into a range of hills
that seemed as high as those we had left, and there entered a tortuous
ravine worn by a mountain brook, along which the path wound higher and
higher toward a distant house which the muleteers pointed out and
pronounced to be a "ξενοδοχεῖον,"—the Professor had long ago learned to
call it "Senator Sheehan,"—at which wayside inn the mistaken impression
prevailed that we were speedily to lunch. It was not so to be, however.
When we had achieved the height and rested under two leafy plane trees
that we found there, Spyros repeated his tale about the ferrymen and
their departure at sundown; and we must away at once, with no more
refreshment than was to be drawn from some crackers and a bottle of
Solon. And so we pressed on again, still climbing, though more
gradually. The path was not so bad after all, despite the Bædeker, and
in one place we voted it easily the finest spot we had found in all our
Peloponnesian rambles. We were riding along at the time through a shady
grove when we came suddenly upon a collection of mammoth planes, whose
branches spread far and wide, and from the midst of the cleft side of
one of them a spring bubbled forth joyously, flooding the road. It was
here that the king on one of his journeys the year before had stopped to
rest and partake of his noonday meal. It seemed to us, famished by six
hours of hard riding, that the king’s example was one all good citizens
should follow; but Spyros was inexorable, and reminded us that ferrymen
might wait for the King of Greece, but not for any lesser personages
whatsoever. We must not halt until we got to Gremka; for at Gremka we
should find a good road, and beyond there it was four hours of travel,
and we might judge exactly how much time we had for rest by the hour of
our reaching the place. So we obediently proceeded, joined now by two
more beasts so laden with the empty oil-cans common to the region that
only their legs were visible. These furnished the comedy element in the
day’s experiences, for the donkeys thus loaded proved to be contrary
little creatures, always getting off the trail and careering down the
mountain-side through the scrubby trees and bushes, their deck-loads of
tin making a merry din as they crashed through the underbrush, while our
guides roared with derisive laughter at the discomfiture of the harassed
attendants. When not engaged in ridiculing the owners of those numerous
and troublesome oil-cans, the muleteers sang antiphonally some music in
a minor key which Spyros said was a wedding song wherein the bridegroom
and the bride’s family interchange sentiments. This seems to be the
regular diversion of muleteers, judging by the unanimity with which
travelers in Greece relate the experience. Anon our muleteers would
likewise find amusement by stealing around behind and administering an
unexpected smack on the plump buttocks of the horses, with the
inevitable result of starting the beast out of his meditative amble into
something remotely resembling a canter, and eliciting an alarmed squeal
from the rider—at which the muleteer, with the most innocent face in the
world, would appear under the horse’s nose and grasp the bridle,
assuring the frightened equestrian that the beast was "kalà"—or “all
right.”
All the steeds were small with the exception of the altitudinous mule
ridden by one of the ladies, and they were not at all bothered by the
low branches of the trees through which we wended our way. Not so,
however, the riders. The thorny branches that just cleared the
nonchalant horse’s head swept over the saddle with uncompromising vigor,
and the effort to swing the beast away from one tree meant encountering
similar difficulties on the other side of the narrow path. Through this
arboreal Scylla and Charybdis it was extremely difficult navigation and
the horses took no interest in our plight at all, so that long before we
emerged from the last of the groves along the way we were a beraveled
and bescratched company.
Shortly after noon two villages appeared far ahead, and we were engaged
in speculating as to which one was Gremka, when the guides suddenly
turned again and shot straight up the hill toward a narrow defile in the
mountain wall we had been skirting. It proved as narrow as a chimney and
almost as steep, and for a few moments we scrambled sharply, our little
horses struggling hard to get their burdens up the grade; but at last
they gained the top, and we emerged from between two walls of towering
rock into another and even fairer landscape. The plain of the Alpheios
spread directly below, but we were not allowed to descend to it. Instead
we actually began to climb, and for an hour or two more we rode along
the side of the range of hills through the midst of which we had just
penetrated. The path was pleasantly wooded, and the foliage was thick
enough to afford a grateful shade above and a soft carpeting of dead
leaves below. The air was heavy with the balsamic fragrance of the
boughs, and the birds sang merrily although it was midday. Through the
vistas that opened in this delightful grove we got recurring glimpses of
the Erymanthus range, now separated from us only by the miles of open
plain, and vastly impressive in their ruggedness.
The sides of the range of hills along which our path wound were
corrugated again and again by ravines, worn by the brooks, and our
progress was a continual rising and falling in consequence. The footing
was slippery, due to the minute particles of reddish gravel and sand, so
that here even our mountain horses slipped and stumbled, and we were
warned to dismount and pick our own way down, which we did, shouting
gayly “Varka! Varka!” at the crossing of every absurd little three-inch
brook, to the intense enjoyment of the muleteers. And thus by two in the
afternoon we arrived at Gremka, a poor little hamlet almost at the edge
of the great plain, and were told that we had made splendid time, so
that we might have almost an hour of rest, while Stathi unlimbered the
sumpter mules and spread luncheon under two pleasant plane trees beside
a real spring.
From Gremka on, we found the road again. It was almost absolutely level
after we left the minor foothill on which Gremka sits, and for the
remainder of our day we were to all intents and purposes in civilization
again. Curiously enough, it was here that our little horses, that had
been so admirably reliable in precipitous trails of loose rock and sand,
began to stumble occasionally, as if careless now that the road was
smooth and doubtless somewhat weary with the miles of climbing and
descending. The guides and muleteers, refreshed with a little food and a
vast amount of resinated wine, began to sing marriage music louder than
ever, and the most imposing figure of all, a man who in every-day life
was a butcher and who carried his huge cleaver thrust in his leathern
belt, essayed to converse with us in modern Greek, but with indifferent
success. The landscape, while no longer rugged, was pleasant and
peaceful as the road wound about the valley through low hillocks and
knolls crowned with little groves of pine, the broad lower reaches of
the rivers testifying that we were nearing the sea. And at last, toward
sunset, we swung in a long line down over the sands that skirt the
rushing Alpheios and came to rest on the banks opposite Olympia, whose
hotels we could easily see across the swelling flood.
The Alpheios is not to be despised as a river in April. It is not
especially wide, but it has what a good many Greek rivers do not,—water,
and plenty of it, running a swift course between the low banks of the
south and the steeper bluffs that confine it on the Olympia side. The
ferry was waiting. It proved to be a sizable boat, of the general shape
of a coastwise schooner, but devoid of masts, and mainly hollow, save
for a little deck fore and aft. Three voluble and, as it proved,
rapacious natives manned it, the motive power being poles. With these
ferrymen Spyros and Stathi almost immediately became involved in a
furious controversy, aided by our cohort of muleteers. It did not
surprise us greatly, and knowing that whatever happened we should be
financially scathless, we sat down on the bank and skipped pebbles in
the water. It developed that the boatman had demanded thrice his fee,
and that Spyros, who had no illusions about departed spirits, objected
strenuously to being gouged in this way and was protesting vehemently
and volubly, while Stathi, whose exterior was ordinarily so calm, was
positively terrible to behold as he danced about the gesticulating knot
of men. It finally became so serious that the Professor and I, looking
as fierce as we could, ranged ourselves alongside, mentioning a wholly
mythical intimacy with the head of the Hellenic police department in the
hope of promoting a wholesome spirit of compromise, but really more
anxious to calm the excited cook, who was clamoring for the tools of his
trade that he might dispatch these thrice-qualified knaves of boatmen
then and there. Eventually, as tending to induce a cessation of
hostilities, we cast off the mooring—whereat the dispute suddenly ended
and the beasts of burden went aboard. So also did the Professor, who was
anxious to establish a strategic base on the opposite bank; and the rest
of us sat and watched the craft pushed painfully out into the stream and
well up against the current, until a point was reached whence the force
of the river took her and bore her madly down to her berth on the
Olympia bank. Here fresh difficulties arose,—not financial but
mechanical. The heavily loaded little donkeys proved utterly unable to
step over the gunwale and get ashore. It was an inspiring sight to
watch, the Professor tugging manfully at the bridle and the remainder of
the crew boosting with might and main; but it was of no avail, although
they wrought mightily, until at the psychological moment and in the spot
most fitted to receive it, a muleteer gave the needed impetus by a
prodigious kick, which lifted the patient ass over the side and out on
the bank. The rest was easy. We were ferried over in our turn and
disappeared from the view of the boatmen, each side expressing its
opinion of the other in terms which we gathered from the tones employed
were the diametrical reverse of complimentary. It was twelve hours to a
dot from the time of our departure from Andhritsæna when we strolled
into our hotel—at which fact Spyros plumed himself not a little.
[Illustration: HERÆUM. OLYMPIA]
It had not been an unduly fatiguing day, after all. The frequent walking
that we had done served to break up the tedium of long riding, which
otherwise would have been productive of numb limbs and stiff joints. It
is well to bear this in mind, for I have seen unaccustomed riders
assisted from their saddles after too long jaunts utterly unable to
stand, and of course much less to walk, until a long period of rest had
restored the circulation in the idle members. Fortunately, too, we had
been blessed with an incomparable day. Spyros confessed that he had
secretly dreaded a rain, which would have made the path dangerous in
spots where it was narrow and composed of clay. As it was, we arrived in
Olympia in surprisingly good condition, and on schedule time, though by
no means unready to welcome real beds again and the chance for unlimited
warm water.
Olympia, like Delphi, is a place of memories chiefly. The visible
remains are numerous, but so flat that some little technical knowledge
is needed to restore them in mind. There is no village at the modern
Olympia at all,—nothing but five or six little inns and a railway
station,—so that Delphi really has the advantage of Olympia in this
regard. As a site connected with ancient Greek history and Greek
religion, the two places are as similar in nature as they are in general
ruin. The field in which the ancient structures stand lies just across
the tiny tributary river Cladeus, spanned by a footbridge.
Even from the opposite bank, the ruins present a most interesting
picture, with its attractiveness greatly enhanced by the neighboring
pines, which scatter themselves through the precinct itself and cover
densely the little conical hill of Kronos close by, while the grasses of
the plain grow luxuriantly among the fallen stones of the former temples
and apartments of the athletes. The ruins are so numerous and so
prostrate that the non-technical visitor is seriously embarrassed to
describe them, as is the case with every site of the kind. All the
ruins, practically, have been identified and explained, and naturally
they all have to do with the housing or with the contests of the
visiting athletes of ancient times, or with the worship of tutelary
divinities. Almost the first extensive ruin that we found on passing the
encircling precinct wall was the Prytaneum—a sort of ancient training
table at which victorious contestants were maintained gratis—while
beyond lay other equally extensive remnants of exercising places, such
as the Palæstra for the wrestlers. But all these were dominated,
evidently, by the two great temples, an ancient one of comparatively
small size sacred to Hera, and a mammoth edifice dedicated to Zeus,
which still gives evidence of its enormous extent, while the fallen
column-drums reveal some idea of the other proportions. It was in its
day the chief glory of the inclosure, and the statue of the god was even
reckoned among the seven wonders of the world. Unfortunately this
statue, like that of Athena at Athens, has been irretrievably lost. But
there is enough of the great shrine standing in the midst of the ruins
to inspire one with an idea of its greatness; and, in the museum above,
the heroic figures from its two pediments have been restored and set up
in such wise as to reproduce the external adornment of the temple with
remarkable success. Gathered around this central building, the remainder
of the ancient structures having to do with the peculiar uses of the
spot present a bewildering array of broken stones and marbles. An
obtrusive remnant of a Byzantine church is the one discordant feature.
Aside from this the precinct recalls only the distant time when the
regular games called all Greece to Olympia, while the “peace of God”
prevailed throughout the kingdom. Just at the foot of Kronos a long
terrace and flight of steps mark the position of a row of old
treasuries, as at Delphi, while along the eastern side of the precinct
are to be seen the remains of a portico once famous for its echoes,
where sat the judges who distributed the prizes. There is also a most
graceful arch remaining to mark the entrance to the ancient stadium, of
which nothing else now remains. Of the later structures on the site, the
“house of Nero” is the most interesting and extensive. The Olympic games
were still celebrated, even after the Roman domination, and Nero himself
entered the lists in his own reign. He caused a palace to be erected for
him on that occasion—and of course he won a victory, for any other
outcome would have been most impolite, not to say dangerous. Nero was
more fortunately lodged than were the other ancient contestants, it
appears, for there were no hostelries in old Olympia in which the
visiting multitudes could be housed, and the athletes and spectators who
came from all over the land were accustomed to bring their own tents and
pitch them roundabout, many of them on the farther side of the Alpheios.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE STADIUM. OLYMPIA]
The many treasuries, to which reference has been made as running along
the terrace wall at the very foot of the hill of Kronos, are spoken of
by Pausanias. Enough of them is occasionally to be found to enable one
to judge how they appeared—somewhat, no doubt, like the so-called
“treasury of the Athenians” that one may see in a restored form at
Delphi. In these tiny buildings were kept the smaller votive gifts of
the various states and the apparatus for the games. Not far from this
row of foundations and close by the terrace wall that leads along the
hill down to the arch that marks the stadium entrance, are several bases
on which stood bronze statues of Zeus, set up by the use of moneys
derived from fines for fracturing the rules of the games. Various
ancient athletes achieved a doubtful celebrity by having to erect these
“Zanes,” as they were called, one of them being a memorial of the arrant
coward Sarapion of Alexandria, who was so frightened at the prospect of
entering the pankration for which he had set down his name that he fled
the day before the contest.
Within the precinct one may still see fragments of the pedestal which
supported Phidias’s wonderful gold-and-ivory image of Zeus. The god
himself is said to have been so enchanted with the sculptor’s work that
he hurled a thunderbolt down, which struck near the statue; and the spot
was marked with a vase of marble. Just how approval was spelled out of
so equivocal a manifestation might seem rather difficult to see; but
such at any rate was the fact. Of the other remaining bases, the most
interesting is doubtless the tall triangular pedestal of the Niké of
Pæonius, still to be seen _in situ_, though its graceful statue is in
the museum.
Just above the meadows on the farther bank, there runs a range of hills,
through which we had but recently ridden. And it was there that the
ancients found a convenient crag from which to hurl the unfortunate
women who dared venture to look on at the games. The law provided that
no woman’s eye should see those contests, and so far as is known only
one woman caught breaking this law ever escaped the penalty of it. She
was the mother of so many victorious athletes that an unwonted immunity
was extended to her. Other women, whose disguise was penetrated, were
made stern examples to frighten future venturesome maids and matrons out
of seeking to view what was forbidden.
The games at Olympia were celebrated during a period of about a thousand
years, throughout which time they furnished the one recognized system of
dates. They recurred at four-year intervals. Long before the appointed
month of the games, which were always held in midsummer, duly accredited
ambassadors were sent forth to all the cities and states of Hellas to
announce the coming of the event and to proclaim the “peace of God,”
which the law decreed should prevail during the days of the contest, and
in which it was sacrilege not to join, whatever the exigency. On the
appointed date the cities of all Greece sent the flower of their youth
to Olympia, runners, wrestlers, discus throwers, chariot drivers,
boxers, and the like, as well as their choicest horses, to contend for
the coveted trophy. During the first thirteen Olympiads there was but
one athletic event,—a running race. In later times the number was added
to until the race had grown to a “pentathlon,” or contest of five kinds,
and still later to include twenty-four different exercises. None but
Greeks of pure blood could contest, at least until the Roman times, and
nobles and plebeians vied in striving for the victor’s wreath, although
the richer were at a decided advantage in the matter of the horse races.
The prize offered, however, was of no intrinsic value at all, being
nothing but a crown of wild olive, and it astonished and dismayed the
invading Persians not a little to find that they were being led against
a nation that would strive so earnestly and steadfastly for a prize that
seemed so little. As a matter of fact it was not as slight a reward as
it appeared to be, for in the incidental honors that it carried the
world has seldom seen its equal. The man who proved his right to be
crowned with this simple wreath was not only regarded as honored in
himself, but honor was imputed to his family and to his city as well;
and the city generally went wild with enthusiasm over him, some even
going so far as to raze their walls in token that with so gallant sons
they needed no bulwarks. Special privileges were conferred upon him at
home and even abroad. In many cities the victor of an Olympic contest
was entitled to maintenance at the public charge in the utmost honor,
and the greatest poets of the day delighted to celebrate the victors in
their stateliest odes. Thus, although games in honor of the gods were
held at various other points in Greece, as for example at Delphi and at
the isthmus of Corinth, none surpassed the Olympic as a national
institution, sharing the highest honors with the oracle at Delphi as an
object of universal reverence.
Of course the origin of these great games is shrouded in mystery, which
has, as usual, crystallized into legend. And as the pediment in one end
of the temple of the Olympian Zeus, preserved in the museum near by,
deals with this story, it may be in order to speak of it. Tradition
relates that King [OE]nomaus had a splendid stud of race horses of which
he was justly proud, and likewise was possessed of a surpassingly
beautiful daughter whom men called Hippodameia, who was naturally sought
in marriage by eligible young men from all around. The condition
precedent set by [OE]nomaus to giving her hand was, however, a difficult
one. The suitor must race his horses against those of [OE]nomaus,
driving the team himself; and if he lost he was put to death. One
version relates that [OE]nomaus, if he found himself being distanced,
was wont to spear the luckless swains from behind. At any rate nobody
had succeeded in winning Hippodameia when young Pelops came along and
entered the contest. He had no doubt heard of the king’s unsportsmanlike
javelin tactics, for he adopted some subterfuges of his own,—doing
something or other to the chariot of his opponent, such as loosening a
linchpin or bribing his charioteer to weaken it in some other part,—with
the result that when the race came off [OE]nomaus was thrown out and
killed, and Pelops won the race and Hippodameia—and of course lived
happily ever after.
The pedimental sculptures from the great temple reproduce the scene that
preceded the race in figures of heroic size, with no less a personage
than Zeus himself in the centre of the group, while [OE]nomaus and
Pelops with their chariots and horses and their attendants range
themselves on either side, and Hippodameia stands expectantly waiting.
The restorations have been liberal, but on the whole successful; and
besides giving a very good idea of the legend itself, they are highly
interesting from a sculptural point of view as showing a distinctive
style of carving in marble. The other pediment, preserved in about the
same proportion, is less interesting from a legendary standpoint, but is
full of animation and artistic interest. It represents the contest
between the Centaurs and Lapiths, with Apollo just in the act of
intervening to prevent the rape of the Lapith women. This episode had
little appropriateness to the Olympic site, so far as I know, but the
ease with which the Centaur lent himself to the limitations of
pedimental sculpture might well explain the adoption of the incident
here. The head of Apollo is of the interesting type with which one grows
familiar in going through museums devoted to early work, the most
notable thing being the curious treatment of hair and eyes.
The precinct about the great temple was once filled with votive statues,
and Pliny relates that he counted something like three thousand. Of
these it appears that few remain sufficiently whole to add much
interest. But out of all the great assemblage of sculptures there is one
at least surviving that must forever assuage any grief at the loss of
the rest. That, of course, is the inimitable Hermes of Praxiteles, which
everybody knows through reproductions and photographs, but which in the
original is so incomparably beautiful that no reproduction can hope to
give an adequate idea of it, either in the expression of body and
features, its poise and grace, or in the exquisite sheen of marble. They
have wisely set it off by itself in a room which cannot be seen from the
great main hall of the museum, and the observer is left to contemplate
it undistracted. It seems generally to be agreed that it is the
masterpiece of extant Greek sculpture. It is nearly perfect in its
preservation, the upraised arm and small portions of the legs being
about all that is missing. The latter have been supplied, not
unsuccessfully, to join the admirable feet to the rest. No effort has
been made, and happily so, to supply the missing arm. The infant
Dionysus perched on the left arm is no great addition to the statue, and
one might well wish it were not there; but even this slight drawback
cannot interfere with the admiration one feels for so perfect a work.
Hermes alone fully justifies the journey to Olympia, and once seen he
will never be forgotten. The satin smoothness of the marble admirably
simulates human (or god-like) flesh, doubtless because of the processes
which the Greeks knew of rubbing it down with a preparation of wax. No
trace of other external treatment survives, save a faint indication of
gilding on the sandals. If the hair and eyes were ever painted, the
paint has entirely disappeared in the centuries that the statue lay
buried in the sands that the restless Alpheios and Cladeus washed into
the sacred inclosure. For the rivers frequently left their narrow beds
in former times and invaded the precincts of the gods, despite the
efforts of man to wall them out. They have done irreparable damage to
the buildings there, but since they at the same time preserved Hermes
almost intact for modern eyes to enjoy, perhaps their other vandalisms
may be pardoned.
The museum also includes among its treasures a number of the metopes
from the great temple of Zeus, representing the labors of Hercules. But
probably next after the incomparable Hermes must be reckoned the Niké of
Pæonius, standing on a high pedestal at one end of the great main hall,
and seemingly sweeping triumphantly through space with her draperies
flowing free—a wonderful lightness being suggested despite the weight of
the material. This Niké has always seemed to me a fair rival of her more
famous sister from Samothrace, suggesting the idea of victory even more
forcibly than the statue on the staircase of the Louvre, which has an
Amazonian quality suggestive of actual conflict rather than a past
successful issue. The unfortunate circumstance about the Niké at Olympia
is that her head is gone, and they have sought to suspend the recovered
portion of it over the body by an iron rod. A wrist is in like manner
appended to one of the arms, and the two give a jarring note, by
recalling Ichabod Crane and Cap'n Cuttle in most incongruous
surroundings. Nevertheless the Niké is wonderful, and would be more so
if it were not for these lamentable attempts to restore what is not
possible to be restored.
Of all the many little collections in Greece, that in Olympia is
doubtless the best, and it is fittingly housed in a building in the
classic style, given by a patriotic Greek, M. Syngros. Aside from the
artistic remnants, there are a number of relics bearing on the athletic
aspect of Olympia—its chief side, of course. And among these are some
ancient discs of metal and stone, and a huge rock which bears an
inscription relating that a certain strong man of ancient times was able
to lift it over his head and to toss it a stated distance. It seems
incredible—but there were giants in the land in those days.
The modern Olympic games, such as are held in Athens every now and then,
are but feeble attempts to give a classic tone to a very ordinary
athletic meet of international character. There is none of the
significance attached to the modern events that attended the old, and
the management leaves much to be desired. Former visitors are no longer
maintained at the Prytaneum; but, on the contrary, are even denied
passes to witness the struggles of their successors. The games fill
Athens with a profitable throng and serve to advertise the country, but
aside from this they have no excuse for being on Greek soil, and mar the
land so far as concerns the enjoyment of true Philhellenes. Fortunately
there is no possible chance of holding any such substitute games at
Olympia herself. Her glory has departed forever, save as it survives in
memory.
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