of its vast extent has been relieved of the superincumbent, accumulated
soil, and in fact its excavation is difficult, because the village is
built over the greater part of it. What we saw was only a confused heap
of marble, some pieces finely carved, arches, capitals, and shattered
columns. The Greek government, which is earnestly caring for the remains
of antiquity and diligently collecting everything for the National
Museum, down to broken toes and fingers, has stationed a keeper over the
ruins; and he showed us, in a wooden shanty, the interesting fragments
of statues which had been found in the excavation. I coveted a little
hand, plump, with tapering fingers, which the conservator permitted us
to hold,—a slight but a most suggestive memento of the breeding and
beauty of the lady who was the sculptor's model; and it did not so
much seem a dead hand stretched out to us from the past, as a living
thing which returned our furtive pressure.
We climbed up the hill where the fortress of the Acropolis stood, and
where there is now a little chapel. Every Grecian city seems to have had
its Acropolis, the first nucleus of the rude tribe which it fortified
against incursion, and the subsequent site of temples to the gods. The
traveller will find these steep hills, rising out of plains, everywhere
from Ephesus to Argos, and will almost conclude that Nature had
consciously adapted herself to the wants of the aboriginal occupants.
It is well worth ascending this summit to get the fine view of plain and
bay, of Mt. Kerata and its double peaks, and the road that pierces the
pass of Kithæron, and leads to the field of Platæa and the remains of
Thebes.
In a little wine-shop, near the ruins, protected from the wind and the
importunate swarms of children, we ate our lunch, and tried to impress
ourselves with the knowledge that Æschylus was born in Eleusis; and
to imagine the nature of the Eleusinian mysteries, the concealed
representations by which the ancients attempted to symbolize, in the
myths of Ceres and Proserpine, the primal forces of nature, perhaps
the dim suggestions of immortality,—a secret not to be shared by the
vulgar,—borrowed from the deep wisdom of the Egyptians.
The children of Eleusis deserve more space than I can afford them,
since they devoted their entire time to our annoyance. They are handsome
rascals, and there were enough of them, if they had been sufficiently
clothed, to form a large Sunday school. When we sat down in the ruins
and tried to meditate on Ceres, they swarmed about us, capering and
yelling incessantly, and when I made a charge upon them they scattered
over the rocks and saluted us with stones. But I find that at this
distance I have nothing against them; I recall only their beauty and
vivacity, and if they were the worst children that ever tormented
travellers, I reflect, yes, but they were Greeks, and the gods loved
their grandmothers. One slender, liquid-eyed, slim-shanked girl offered
me a silver coin. I saw that it was a beautiful Athenian piece of the
time of Pericles, and after some bargaining I bought it of her for a
reasonable price. But as we moved away to our carriage, I was followed
by the men and women of the settlement, who demanded it back. They
looked murder and talked Greek. I inquired how much they wanted. Fifty
francs! But that is twice as much as it is worth in Athens; and the
coin was surrendered. All through the country, the peasants have a most
exaggerated notion of the value of anything antique.
We returned through the pass of Daphne and by the site of the academic
grove of Plato, though olive-groves and gardens of pomegranates
in scarlet bloom, quinces, roses, and jasmines, the air sweet and
delightful. Perhaps nowhere else can the traveller so enter into the
pure spirit of Attic thought and feeling as among these scattered
remains that scholars have agreed to call the ruins of Plato's
Academe. We turned through a lane into the garden of a farm-house,
watered by a branch rivulet of the Kephissus. What we saw was not
much,—some marble columns under a lovely cypress-grove, some fragments
of antique carving built into a wall; but we saw it as it were privately
and with a feeling of the presence of the mighty shade. And then, under
a row of young plane-trees, by the meagre stream, we reclined on ripe
wheat-straw, in full sight of the Acropolis,—perhaps the most poetic
view of that magnetic hill. So Plato saw it as he strolled along this
bank and listened to the wisdom of his master, Socrates, or, pacing the
colonnade of the Academe, meditated the republic. Here indeed Aristotle,
who was born the year that Plato died, may have lain and woven that
subtle web of metaphysics which no subsequent system of thought or
religion has been able to disregard. The centuries-old wind blew strong
and fresh through the trees, and the scent of flowers and odorous
shrubs, the murmur of the leaves, the unchanged blue vault of heaven,
the near hill of the sacred Colonus, celebrated by Sophocles as the
scene of the death of Odipus, all conspired to flood us with the poetic
past. What intimations of immortality do we need, since the spell of
genius is so deathless?
After dinner we laboriously, by a zigzag path, climbed the sharp cone
of Lycabettus, whose six hundred and fifty feet of height commands the
whole region. The rock summit has just room enough for a tiny chapel,
called of St. George, and a narrow platform in front, where we sat in
the shelter of the building and feasted upon the prospect. At sunset it
is a marvellous view,—all Athens and its plain, the bays, Salamis and
the strait of the battle, Acro-Corinth; Megara, Hymettus, Pentelicus,
Kithæron.
When, in descending, we had nearly reached the foot on the west side, we
heard the violent ringing of a bell high above us, and, turning about,
saw what seemed to be a chapel under the northwest edge of the rock upon
which we had lately stood. Bandits in laced leggings and embroidered
jackets, chattering girls in short skirts and gay kerchiefs, were
descending the wandering path, and the clamor of the bell piqued our
curiosity to turn and ascend. When we reached our goal, the affair
seemed to be pretty much all bell, and nobody but a boy in the lusty
exuberance of youth could have made so much noise by the swinging of a
single clapper. In a niche or rather cleft in the rock was a pent-roofed
bell-tower, and a boy, whose piety seemed inspired by the Devil, was
hauling the rope and sending the sonorous metal over and over on its
axis. In front of the bell is a narrow terrace, sufficient, however, to
support three fig-trees, under which were tables and benches, and upon
the low terrace-wall were planted half a dozen large and differently
colored national banners. A hole in the rock was utilized as a
fireplace, and from a pot over the coals came the fumes of coffee. Upon
this perch of a terrace people sat sipping coffee and looking down upon
the city, whose evening lights were just beginning to twinkle here and
there. Behind the belfry is a chapel, perhaps ten feet by twelve, partly
a natural grotto and partly built of rough stones; it was brilliantly
lighted with tapers, and hung with quaint pictures. At the entrance,
which is a door cut in the rock, stood a Greek priest and an official in
uniform selling wax-tapers, and raking in the leptas of the devout. We
threw down some coppers, declined the tapers, and walked in. The adytum
of the priest was wholly in the solid rock. There seemed to be no
service; but the women and children stood and crossed themselves,
and passionately kissed the poor pictures on the walls. Yet there was
nothing exclusive or pharisaic in the worshippers, for priest and people
showed us friendly faces, and cordially returned our greetings. The
whole rock quivered with the clang of the bell, for the boy at the rope
leaped at his task, and with ever-increasing fury summoned the sinful
world below to prayer. Young ladies with their gallants came and went;
and whenever there was any slacking of stragglers up the hillside the
bell clamored more importunately.
As dusk crept on, torches were set along the wall of the terrace, and as
we went down the hill they shone on the red and blue flags and the white
belfry, and illuminated the black mass of overhanging rock with a red
glow. There is time for religion in out-of-the-way places here, and
it is rendered picturesque, and even easy and enjoyable, by the aid of
coffee and charming scenery. When we reached the level of the town,
the lights still glowed high up in the recess of the rocks, girls were
laughing and chattering as they stumbled down the steep, and the wild
bell still rang. How easy it is to be good in Greece!
One day we stole a march on Marathon, and shared the glory of those who
say they have seen it, without incurring the fatigue of a journey there.
We ascended Mt. Pentelicus. Hymettus and Pentelicus are about the same
height,—thirty-five hundred feet,—but the latter, ten miles to the
northeast of Athens, commands every foot of the Attic territory; if
one should sit on its summit and read a history of the little state,
he would need no map. We were away at half past five in the morning,
in order to anticipate if possible the rising of the daily wind. As we
ascended, we had on our left, at the foot of the mountain, the village
of Kephisia, now, as in the days of Herodes Atticus, the summer resort
of wealthy Athenians, who find in its fountains, the sources of the
Kephissus, and in its groves relief from the heat and glare of the
scorched Athenian plain. Half-way we halted at a monastery, left our
carriage, and the ladies mounted horses. There is a handsome church
here, and the situation is picturesque and commands a wide view of the
plain and the rugged north slope of Hymettus, but I could not learn that
the monastery was in an active state; it is only a hive of drones which
consumes the honey produced by the working-bees from the wild thyme
of the neighboring mountain. The place, however, is a great resort
of parties of pleasure, who picnic under the grove of magnificent
forest-trees, and once a year the king and queen come hither to see the
youths and maidens dance on the greensward.
Up to the highest quarries the road is steep, and strewn with broken
marble, and after that there is an hour's scramble through bushes and
over a rocky path. We rested in a large grotto near the principal of the
ancient quarries; it was the sleeping-place of the workmen, subsequently
a Christian church, and then, and not long ago, a haunt and home
of brigands. Here we found a party of four fellows, half clad in
sheep-skins, playing cards, who seemed to be waiting our arrival; but
they were entirely civil, and I presume were only shepherds, whatever
they may have been formerly. From these quarries was hewn the marble for
the Temple of Theseus, the Parthenon, the Propylæa, the theatres, and
other public buildings, to which age has now given a soft and creamy
tone; the Pentelic marble must have been too brilliant for the eye, and
its dazzling lustre was no doubt softened by the judicious use of color.
Fragments which we broke off had the sparkle and crystalline grain
of loaf-sugar, and if they were placed upon the table one would
unhesitatingly take them to sweeten his tea. The whole mountain-side
is overgrown with laurel, and we found wild-flowers all the way to
the summit. Amid the rocks of the higher slopes, little shepherd-boys,
carrying the traditional crooks, were guarding flocks of black and white
goats, and, invariably as we passed, these animals scampered off and
perched themselves upon sharp rocks in a photographic pose.
Early as we were, the wind had risen before us, and when we reached
the bare back of the summit it blew so strongly that we could with
difficulty keep our feet, and gladly took refuge in a sort of stone
corral, which had been a camp and lookout of brigands. From this
commanding point they spied both their victims and pursuers. Our guide
went into the details of the capture of the party of Englishmen who
spent a night here, and pointed out to us the several hiding-places in
the surrounding country to which they were successively dragged. But my
attention was not upon this exploit. We looked almost directly down upon
Marathon. There is the bay and the curving sandy shore where the
Persian galleys landed; here upon a spur, jutting out from the hill,
the Athenians formed before, they encountered the host in the plain,
and there—alas! it was hidden by a hill—is the mound where the one
hundred and ninety-two Athenian dead are buried. It is only a small
field, perhaps six miles along the shore and a mile and a half deep, and
there is a considerable marsh on the north and a small one at the south
end. The victory at so little cost, of ten thousand over a hundred
thousand, is partially explained by the nature of the ground; the
Persians had not room enough to manouvre, and must have been thrown into
confusion on the skirts of the northern swamp, and if over six thousand
of them were slain, they must have been killed on the shore in the panic
of their embarkation. But still the shore is broad, level, and firm, and
the Greeks must have been convinced that the gods themselves terrified
the hearts of the barbarians, and enabled them to discomfit a host which
had chosen this plain as the most feasible in all Attica for the action
of cavalry.
A sea-haze lay upon the strait of Euripus and upon Euboea, and nearly
hid from our sight the forms of the Cyclades; but away in the northwest
were snow peaks, which the guide said were the heights of Parnassus
above Delphi. In the world there can be few prospects so magnificent as
this, and none more inspiring to the imagination. No one can properly
appreciate the Greek literature or art who has not looked upon the Greek
nature which seems to have inspired both.
Nothing now remains of the monuments and temples which the pride and
piety of the Athenians erected upon the field of Marathon. The visitor
at the Arsenal of Venice remembers the clumsy lion which is said to have
stood on this plain, and in the Temple of Theseus, at Athens, he may see
a slab which was found in this meadow; on it is cut in very low relief
the figure of a soldier, but if the work is Greek the style of treatment
is Assyrian.
The Temple of Theseus, which occupies an elevation above the city
and west of the Areopagus, is the best-preserved monument of Grecian
antiquity, and if it were the only one, Athens would still be worthy of
a pilgrimage from the ends of the earth. Behind it is a level esplanade,
used as a drill-ground, upon one side of which have been gathered some
relics of ancient buildings and sculptures; seated there in an ancient
marble chair, we never wearied of studying the beautiful proportions of
this temple, which scarcely suffers by comparison with the Parthenon or
that at Pæstum. In its construction the same subtle secret of curved
lines and inclined verticals was known, a secret which increases its
apparent size and satisfies the eye with harmony.
While we were in Athens the antiquarians were excited by the daily
discoveries in the excavations at the Keramicus (the field where the
Athenian potters worked). Through the portion of this district outside
the gate Dipylum ran two streets, which were lined with tombs; one ran
to the Academe, the other was the sacred way to Eleusis. The excavations
have disclosed many tombs and lovely groups of funereal sculpture, some
of which are in situ, but many have been removed to the new Museum. The
favorite device is the seated figure of the one about to die, who in
this position of dignity takes leave of those most loved; perhaps it is
a wife, a husband, a lovely daughter, a handsome boy, who calmly awaits
the inevitable moment, while the relatives fondly look or half avert
their sorrowful faces. In all sculpture I know nothing so touching as
these family farewells. I obtained from them a new impression of the
Greek dignity and tenderness, of the simplicity and nobility of their
domestic life.
The Museum, which was unarranged, is chiefly one of fragments, but
what I saw there and elsewhere scattered about the town gave me a finer
conception of the spirit of the ancient art than all the more perfect
remains in Europe put together; and it seems to me that nowhere except
in Athens is it possible to attain a comprehension of its depth and
loveliness. Something, I know, is due to the genius loci, but you come
to the knowledge that the entire life, even the commonest, was pervaded
by something that has gone from modern art. In the Museum we saw a
lovely statue of Isis, a noble one of Patroclus, fine ones of athletes,
and also, showing the intercourse with Egypt, several figures holding
the sacred sistrum, and one of Rameses II. But it is the humbler
and funereal art that gives one a new conception of the Greek grace,
tenderness, and sensibility. I have spoken of the sweet dignity, the
high-born grace, that accepted death with lofty resignation, and yet not
with stoical indifference, of some of the sepulchral groups. There was
even more poetry in some that are simpler. Upon one slab was carved a
figure, pensive, alone, wrapping his drapery about him and stepping into
the silent land, on that awful journey that admits of no companion. On
another, which was also without inscription, a solitary figure sat in
one corner; he had removed helmet and shield, and placed them on the
ground behind him; a line upon the stone indicated the boundary of the
invisible world, and, with a sad contemplation, the eyes of the soldier
were fixed upon that unknown region into which he was about to descend.
Scarcely a day passed that we did not ascend the Acropolis; and again
and again we traversed the Areopagus, the Pnyx, the Museum hills. From
the valley of the Agora stone steps lead up the Areopagus to a bench cut
in the rock. Upon this open summit the Areopagite Council held, in the
open air, its solemn sessions; here it sat, it is said, at night and in
the dark, that no face of witness or criminal, or gesture of advocate,
should influence the justice of its decisions. Dedicated to divine
justice, it was the most sacred and awful place in Athens; in a cavern
underneath it was the sanctuary of the dread Erinnyes, the avenging
Euries, whom a later superstition represented with snakes twisted
in their hair; whatever the gay frivolity of the city, this spot was
silent, and respected as the dread seat of judicature of the highest
causes of religion or of politics. To us Mars Hill is chiefly associated
with the name of St. Paul; and I do not suppose it matters much whether
he spoke to the men of Athens in this sacred place or, as is more
probable, from a point farther down the hill, now occupied by a little
chapel, where he would be nearer to the multitude of the market-place.
It does not matter; it was on the Areopagus, and in the centre of
temples and a thousand statues that bespoke the highest civilization of
the pagan world, that Paul proclaimed the truth, which man's egotism
continually forgets, that in temples made with hands the Deity does not
dwell.
From this height, on the side of the Museum Hill, we see the grotto that
has been dignified with the title of the “prison of Socrates,” but
upon slight grounds. When the philosopher was condemned, the annual
sacred ship which was sent with thank-offerings to Delos was still
absent, and until its return no execution was permitted in Athens. Every
day the soldiers who guarded Socrates ascended this hill, and went round
the point to see if the expected vessel was in sight; and it is for
their convenience that some antiquarian designated this grotto as the
prison. The delay of the ship gave us his last immortal discourse.
We went one evening by the Temple of Jupiter, along the Ilissus, to the
old Stadium. This classic stream, the Ilissus, is a gully, with steep
banks and a stony bottom, and apparently never wet except immediately
after a rain. You would think by the flattery it received from
the ancient Athenians that it was larger than the Mississippi. The
Panathenaic Stadium, as it is called, because its chief use was in
the celebration of the games of the great quadrennial festival, was
by nature and art exceedingly well adapted to chariot races and other
contests. Open at the end, where a bridge crossed the Ilissus, it
extended a hundred feet broad six hundred and fifty feet into the hill,
upon the three sloping sides of which, in seats of marble, could be
accommodated fifty thousand spectators. Here the Greek youth contended
for the prizes in the chariot race, and the more barbarous Roman
emperors amused a degenerate people with the sight of a thousand wild
beasts hunted and slain in a single celebration.
The Stadium has been lately re-excavated, and at the time of our visit
the citizens were erecting some cheap benches at one end, and preparing,
in a feeble way, for what it pleases them to call the Olympic Games,
which were to be inaugurated the following Sunday. The place must
inevitably dwarf the performance, and comparison render it ridiculous.
The committee-men may seem to themselves Olympic heroes, and they had
the earnest air of trying to make themselves believe that they were
really reviving the ancient glory of Greece, or that they could bring it
back by calling a horse-race and the wrestling of some awkward peasants
an “Olympiad.” The revival could be, as we afterwards learned it
was, only a sickly and laughable affair. The life of a nation is only
preserved in progress, not in attempts to make dead forms live again. It
is difficult to have chariot races or dramatic contests without chariots
or poets, and I suppose the modern imitation would scarcely be saved
from ludicrousness, even if the herald should proclaim that now a
Patroclus and now an Aristophanes was about to enter the arena. The
modern occupants of Athens seem to be deceiving themselves a little with
names and shadows. In the genuine effort to revive in its purity the
Greek language, and to inspire a love of art and literature, the Western
traveller will wholly sympathize. In the growth of a liberal commercial
spirit he will see still more hope of a new and enduring Greek state.
But a puerile imitation of a society and a religion which cannot
possibly have a resurrection excites only a sad smile. There is no more
pitiful sight than a man who has lost his ideals, unless it be a nation
which has lost its ideals. So long as the body of the American people
hold fast to the simple and primitive conception of a republican
society,—to the ideals of a century ago,—the nation can survive,
as England did, a period of political corruption. There never was, not
under Themistocles nor under Scanderbeg, a more glorious struggle
for independence than that which the battle of Navarino virtually
terminated. The world had a right to expect from the victors a new and
vigorous national life, not a pale and sentimental copy of a splendid
original, which is now as impossible of revival as the Roman Empire.
To do the practical and money-getting Greeks justice, I could not learn
that they took a deep interest in the “Olympiad”; nor that the
inhabitants of ancient Sparta were jealous of the re-institution of
the national games in Athens, since, they say, there are no longer any
Athenians to be jealous of.
The ancient Athenians were an early people; they liked the dewy
freshness of the morning; they gave the first hours of the day to the
market and to public affairs, and the rising sun often greeted the
orators on the bema, and an audience on the terrace below. We had seen
the Acropolis in almost every aspect, but I thought that one might
perhaps catch more of its ancient spirit at sunrise than at any other
hour.