Part 8

As the successful party, consisting of four Englishmen and three guides, elated by their victory, were just beginning their descent, one of them slipped, knocking a guide completely off his feet and dragging his companions after him, since all were bound together by a rope. Four of them hung an instant there, head downward, between earth and heaven. The other three clung desperately to the icy crags, and would have rescued them, had not the rope between them broken. There was a fearful cry—a rush of falling bodies. Then Whymper and two guides found themselves clinging to the rocks, and looking into each other's haggard faces, pale as death. The others had fallen over the precipice—nearly four thousand feet—to the ice below!

"One moment stood they, as the angels stand, High in the stainless eminence of air; The next, they were not;—to their Fatherland Translated unaware!"

On my last evening at Zermatt, I lingered in the deepening twilight to say farewell to this unrivaled peak. At first its clear-cut silhouette stood forth against the sky, unutterably grand, while darkness shrouded its giant form. So overwhelming appeared its tapering height, that I no longer wondered at the belief of the peasants that the gate of Paradise was situated on its summit; because it seemed but a step thence to Heaven.

At last there came a change, for which I had been waiting with impatience. In the blue vault of heaven the full-orbed moon came forth to sheathe the Matterhorn in silver. In that refulgent light its icy edges looked like crystal ropes; and its sharp, glistening rocks resembled silver steps leading to the stupendous pinnacle above. Never, this side the shore of Eternity, do I expect to see a vision so sublime as that of moonlight on the Matterhorn. For from the gleaming parapets of this Alpine pyramid, not "forty centuries," but forty thousand ages look down on us as frivolous pygmies of a day. Yes, as I gazed on this illumined obelisk, rising from out its glittering sea of ice, to where—four thousand feet above—the moving stars flashed round its summit like resplendent gems, it seemed a fitting emblem of creative majesty—the scepter of Almighty God.

Athens

A nation's influence is not dependent on its size. Its glory is not measured by square miles. Greece is the smallest of all European countries, being not larger than the State of Massachusetts. Yet, in the light of what a few Athenians accomplished in the days of Phidias, China's four hundred millions seem like shadows cast by moving clouds. China compared to Athens! The enlightened world could better lose the entire continent of Asia from its history than that little area. Better fifty years of Athens than a cycle of Cathay. In the historic catalogue of earth's great cities Athens stands alone. The debt which civilization owes her is incalculable. For centuries Athens was the school of Rome, and through Rome's conquests she became the teacher of the world. If most of her art treasures had not been torn from her, first to embellish Rome, and subsequently to enrich the various museums of the world, Athens would now be visited by thousands instead of hundreds. But even in her desolation Athens repays a pilgrimage. Were absolutely nothing of her glory left, it would still remain a privilege merely to stand amid the scenes where human intellect reached a height which our material progress has not equaled. They err who say that Greece is dead. She cannot die. The Language of Demosthenes is still extant. Not only are its accents heard within the shadow of the Parthenon; it is so interwoven with our own, that we unconsciously make use of its old words, as one walks on a pavement of mosaic, unmindful whence its pieces came. The Greek Religion lives in every statue of the gods, in every classical allusion, in every myth which poets weave into the garland of their song. What could a sculptor do without the gods and heroes of old Greek mythology? Hellenic Architecture lives in every reproduction of Doric column or Corinthian capital. The Art of the Acropolis remains the standard for all time. The History of Greece still gives to us as models of heroic patriotism, Thermopylæ and Marathon. Even her ideas live,—the thoughts of Phidias in marble; of Plato in philosophy; of Socrates in morals; of Euripides and Sophocles in tragedy.

What, then, if it be true that Greece has greatly changed in twenty centuries? The influence of ancient Greece comes down the ages to us like the light from a fixed star. The star itself may have gone out in darkness years ago; but waves of brilliancy which left it previous to its destruction are traveling toward us still, and fall in silvery pulsations on our earth to-day. The best way to approach the shores of Greece is over the classic Mediterranean and Ægean seas. Around these oceans gather more thrilling and inspiring associations than cluster about any others on the globe. Upon no equal area of the earth's surface have so many mighty events happened or deeds been enacted as around these inland seas. Every keel that now cleaves their waters traverses the scene of some maritime struggle or adventure of ancient times, or glides by shores forever hallowed to the scholar and historian by the memories of the genius and grandeur that have passed away. To sail on Grecian waters is to float through history. The seas of other countries gleam with phosphorescence; hers sparkle with the scintillations of a deathless fame. The very islands they caress have been the cradles of fable, poesy and history. From each has sprung a temple, a statue, a poem, or at least a myth, which still exists to furnish joy and inspiration to the world.

It is with the liveliest anticipations of pleasure that one who is inspired by these memories, arrives at the port of Athens, which still retains its ancient title,—The Piræus. Its appearance is not especially attractive, and yet I gazed upon it with profound emotion. Still are its waves as blue as when Athenian vessels rode at anchor here, or swept hence to the island of Salamis to aid in the destruction of the Persian fleet and cause the mad flight of the terror-stricken Xerxes. Around them History and Poetry have woven an immortal charm, for in their limpid depths have been reflected the forms of almost every famous Greek and Roman of antiquity.

But the Piræus, after all, is merely a doorway to glories beyond. Hence one quickly leaves the steamer here, and hastens to the capital itself, six miles away. A train of street-cars, drawn by a steam-engine, was one of the first objects that confronted us in the streets of Athens, but even this reminder of the nineteenth century could not dispel the fascination of antiquity. It all swept back upon me. The locomotive and the tram-cars faded from my view, and in their place I saw again my school-room, with its rows of well-worn desks. Once more was felt the summer breeze, as it stole through the open window, and lured me from my lexicon to the fair fields. Xenophon's graphic prose and Homer's matchless verse at last seemed real to me; for over the shop-doors were the Greek characters that I had learned in boyhood, and on the corners of the streets were words once uttered by the lips of Socrates.

Even before the tourist reaches the outskirts of the city of Minerva, he plainly sees rising in bold relief against the sky, what was in ancient times the gem of Athens, the casket of the rarest architectural jewels in the world,—the temple-crowned Acropolis. It is a memorable moment when one first beholds it. No other citadel in the world has embraced so much beauty and splendor within its walls. Not one has witnessed such startling changes in the fortunes of its possessors. Its history reaches back over a period of two thousand four hundred years. Wave after wave of war and conquest have beaten against it. It has been plundered by the Persian, the Spartan, the Macedonian, the Roman, the Venetian and the Turk. Yet there is now a modern city at its base, astonishingly new and fresh, compared with its historic background. The buildings of to-day and those of two thousand years ago seem gazing at each other with surprise. Yet there is no hostility between them. Despite her tattered robes of royalty, Old Athens sits enthroned as the acknowledged sovereign. New Athens kneels in reverence before her. For the modern Greeks still cling with pride to the memories of Pericles and Phidias, and sigh when they think of the glory that once was theirs.

A walk around the Acropolis reveals the fact that it is a natural mass of rock, built up in places by substantial masonry. On three sides it is practically perpendicular. Two thousand years ago its summit rose toward heaven, like a magnificent altar consecrated to the gods. There, elevated in the sight of all, and overlooking the adoring city on the one side and the blue Ægean on the other, stood those incomparable specimens of architectural beauty, grace and majesty, which have made Athens immortal. Even now, although its temples are in ruins, the few remaining columns of the Parthenon stand out in delicate relief against the sky, like strings of an abandoned harp, which even the most skilful hand can never wake again to melody.

In making the ascent of this historic eminence by the only avenue of approach, the traveler soon finds himself before the ruined entrance to the Acropolis,—the Propylæa. This was originally a majestic gateway of Pentelic marble, crowning a marble staircase seventy feet in breadth, which led up from the city to the brow of the Acropolis. Its cost was two and a half millions of dollars. It was considered, in its prime, equal, if not superior, to the Parthenon. Nor is this strange, for this portal was a veritable gallery of art. Along its steps were arranged those chiseled forms that almost lived and breathed in their transcendent beauty,—the masterpieces of Praxiteles and Phidias, the mutilated fragments of which we now cherish as our most perfect models of the beautiful.

Yet there was nothing effeminate in this magnificence. Solidity and splendor here went hand in hand. When the Propylæa was finished, under Pericles, more than four centuries were still to pass before the birth of Christ; yet so much strength was here combined with beauty, that, if no human hands had striven to deface it, its splendid shafts would, no doubt, still be perfect. The columns that remain appear to stand like sentinels, guarding their illustrious past. It thrills one to reflect that these identical pillars have cast their shadows on the forms of Phidias, Pericles, Demosthenes, and indeed every Greek whose name has been preserved in history.

When I passed on beyond the Propylæa, and gained a broader view of the Acropolis, I looked around me with astonishment. The whole plateau is literally covered with headless statues, fallen columns and disjointed capitals. Some of them bear unfinished sentences, as though these blocks would speak, if they were properly restored. Their power of speech, however, has been forever paralyzed by the destructive blows they have received. This rugged rock is nevertheless an illustrated volume of Greek history bound in stone. Its letters are disfigured, its binding is defaced, but the old volume is still legible; and it assures us that this tiny platform, scarcely one thousand feet in length and four hundred in breadth, is richer in some respects than any other portion of the globe, for in the golden crucible of memory, Art, History and Poetry transmute each particle of its sacred dust into a precious stone.

It is, however, to the highest point of the plateau that the tourist's gaze turns with keenest interest, for there stood what was formerly the crown of the Acropolis, the architectural glory of the world,—The Parthenon.

No photographic view can do it justice. Pictures invariably represent its marble columns as dark and dingy, like the sooty architecture of London. But such is not the case. The discolorations are so slight as hardly to be blemishes. The general appearance of the edifice is one of snowy whiteness, softly defined against the clear, blue sky, and I have seen its columns in the glow of sunset gleam like shafts of gold. But on approaching it more closely, one sees that nothing can conceal the ravages of time and man. Yet, only two hundred years ago it stood comparatively unchanged in its unrivaled beauty. The Turks were then the masters of this classic land. They showed their appreciation of the Parthenon by using it as a powder-magazine! In 1687 an army of Venetians recklessly bombarded Athens, and one of their shells exploded in this shrine. Instantly, with a wild roar, as though Nature herself shrieked at the sacrilege, the Parthenon was ruined. Columns on either side were blown to atoms, the front was severed from the rear, and the entire hill was strewn with marble fragments, mute witnesses of countless forms of beauty lost to us forever.

One of these fragments is a portion of the frieze that once surrounded the entire edifice like a long garland of rare beauty. How careful were the old Greek artists of their reputation; how conscientious in their art! The figures in this frieze were fifty feet above the ground, where small defects would never have been noticed, yet every part of each was finished with the utmost care. While they remained there for two thousand years, this trait of old Greek character was unperceived; but, with their downfall and removal, the sculptor's grand fidelity to truth was brought to light,—as death sometimes reveals the noble qualities which we in life, alas! have not observed.

Enough of the Parthenon remains to show the literal perfection of its masonry. It has, for example, in its steps, walls, and columns, curves so minute as to be hardly visible, yet true to the one-hundredth part of an inch. They show alike the splendid genius of the architect and the wonderful skill of the workmen. For all the curves are mathematical. The reasons for them can be demonstrated like a problem in geometry. Once fifty life-size statues stood upon its pediments. Around it ran a sculptured frieze, five hundred and twenty feet in length, carved mainly by the hand of Phidias; while the especial treasure of the temple was the famous statue of Athene Parthenos, made of ivory and gold. The value of the precious metal used in this one figure was seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

It is a marvel that any fragments can be gathered on the top of the Acropolis, after the persistent spoliation which Greece has undergone for more than eighteen centuries. From the one city of Delphi alone Nero is said to have carried off to Rome five hundred bronze statues. How many beautiful works in marble, gold and ivory he removed, we cannot tell. And when the Roman conqueror, Æmilius Paulus, was borne in triumph up the Appian Way, exhibiting the spoils of conquered Greece, there preceded him two hundred and fifty wagons filled with the rarest pictures and statues of Greek artists, after which came three thousand men, each bearing some gold or silver ornament taken from Hellenic cities. Yet this was merely the beginning of the plundering, which practically ended only fifty years ago, when Lord Elgin carried off to London over two hundred and fifty feet of the beautifully sculptured frieze of the Parthenon. Opinions differ in regard to the propriety of this act on the part of Lord Elgin. Defenders of his conduct urge that, had this not been done, these works of art would have been ruined by the Turks. Others maintain that they would have remained intact, and point to some of the comparatively uninjured decorations of the shrines of the Acropolis, such as the Caryatides of the Erectheum, which have at least never been injured by the Turks, though one of them was removed to England by Lord Elgin. At all events, it would be a noble and graceful act on the part of England particularly, and of many other countries also, to restore some of her lost art-treasures to Greece,—now that she has risen again to the rank of a well-governed and progressive nation. It is sad indeed to see in Athens only plaster casts of the incomparable works of her old sculptors, the originals of which enrich so many European capitals.

One of the most beautiful of the ruined shrines of the Acropolis is the "Temple of Wingless Victory;" so-called because the statue of the goddess was represented without wings, in the fond hope that Victory would never fly away from the Athenian capital. Most of the beautiful statues which adorned this building were carried off to the British Museum seventy years ago, and some were ruined in the process of removal. One exquisite portion of the frieze, which had for twenty centuries stood forth resplendent over the historic city, was carelessly dropped and broken into atoms. A Greek who was standing near, watching this shameful devastation, brushed away a tear, and with a sob exclaimed pathetically: "Telos!" (That is the end of it!) and turned away.

No one has condemned the plunder of the Acropolis more trenchantly than Byron, in the lines:

"Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee, Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; Dull is the eye that will not weep to see Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed By British hands, which it had best behooved To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, And once again thy hapless bosom gored, And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr'd!"

Before the mental vision of the traveler, who muses thus upon the crest of the Acropolis, there naturally rises the form of the goddess Athene (or, as the Romans called her, Minerva), who gave the name Athens to the city which she specially protected. Who can forget how this old classic citadel, within whose shrines this goddess was adored, remained for many centuries, even in its ruin, a beacon light of history? Its radiance pierced even the darkness of the Middle Ages, when, over-run by conquerors, pillaged by barbarians, assailed by fanatics, the world of art lay buried beneath the rubbish of brutality and ignorance. Under the blows of the iconoclasts, the pulse of artistic life had almost ceased to beat. But, though the fire of genius seemed extinct, there was still vitality in its dying embers. The light which came from the Acropolis gave its illumination to the Renaissance. Without an Athens there had been no Florence; without a Phidias no Michael Angelo.

Almost as interesting as a visit to the summit of the Acropolis is a walk around its base. A part of it is lined with ruins, many of them being demolished theatres. Upon the hill the drama of the gods went on: below it were performed the tragedy and comedy of man. One of these theatres, called the Odeon, was of Roman origin, built by the conquerors of Greece when they were masters of the world. Its rows of massive arches, climbing one above another up the cliff, remind us of the Colosseum. Above them was the classic Parthenon, which Phidias had built five hundred years before. This theatre could accommodate eight thousand people, and doubtless was magnificent and imposing; but amid such surroundings it must have seemed to the Athenians like an interloper and intruder,—a gilded fetter on a lovely slave.

Vastly more interesting, however, than the Odeon is the edifice which adjoins it,—the ancient theatre of Bacchus,—built by the Greeks two thousand four hundred years ago. It was excavated from the side of the Acropolis, just below the Parthenon. Its rows of seats were partly sculptured from the solid rock and partly built up of Pentelic marble, and thirty thousand people could be seated here. Its form was a perfect amphitheatre, a model for all others in the world. How grand was its simplicity! Its light was furnished by the sun. God was the painter of its drop-curtain, which was the sunset sky; the scenery was that of mountains and the sea; its only roof was the blue dome of heaven.