Part 9

A portion of the front of the old stage is still intact. If the old Greeks had needed footlights, they would have placed them on this marble parapet. It sends the blood in a swift current to the heart to think that all its kneeling or supporting statues have listened to the plays of Aristophanes or Sophocles, and have beheld innumerable audiences occupying the marble seats which still confront them. Alas! What have they not beheld here since those glorious days! In this, the earliest home of tragedy, how many tragedies have been enacted! Directly opposite this parapet is one of the ancient marble seats. It was occupied by an Athenian magistrate more than two thousand years ago. His name is still inscribed upon it,—perfectly legible, and defiant of the touch of Time. Standing in this amphitheatre, one realizes as never before, how, in an epoch of great intellectual activity, genius does not confine itself to one particular line. Whether it be the age of Pericles, the Renaissance, the era of Elizabeth, or the magnificent century of the Moors, a wave of mental energy rolls over an entire nation. Thus here, at Athens, it was not only sculpture that attained such excellence, but painting; not only painting but architecture; not only architecture but oratory; not only oratory but philosophy; and in addition to all these, this wonderful city gave mankind the drama, so perfect at the start that even the modern world, with all its literary culture and experience, regards the old Greek dramatists as its masters. Filled with such thoughts, one seems to see, while lingering here, the form of Sophocles, the greatest of Greek tragic poets. For more than two thousand three hundred years his plays have been admired as almost perfect models of dramatic composition. There is hardly a university in the world that has not one of his magnificent tragedies in its curriculum of study. His play of "Œdipus the King," which is so well interpreted by the French actor, Mounet Sully, is still a masterpiece of strength and majesty; and all his other plays, together with those of Æschylus, Euripides, and Aristophanes, have in their lofty sentiments never been surpassed, unless, indeed, by those of Shakespeare. Inspired by the memory of these Hellenic heroes, I approached (still almost in the shadow of the Acropolis) a rocky ledge, known as the "Platform of Demosthenes." Rough and unshapely though it be, in view of all that has transpired on its summit it is of greater value to the world than if the entire hill were paved with gold and studded with the rarest gems. From this rock the orators of Athens spoke to the assembled people. Before it then was the Athenian market-place,—the forum of the city. The site is perfectly identified, and one can look upon the very spot from which Demosthenes delivered his orations, still unsurpassed in ancient or in modern times even by those of Cicero and Burke.

Truly, as Byron says, in Athens

"Where'er we tread 'tis haunted holy ground, No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, Till the sense aches with gazing to behold The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon."

Leaving this noble relic of the past, I presently stood before a solitary gate, known as "The Arch of Hadrian." It was, in fact, erected here by that Roman emperor in the second century after Christ, when Greece was but a province of the Cæsars. In Italy this would seem to us of great antiquity; but amid objects such as I had just beheld, it appeared comparatively modern. On one side of this portal is the inscription, "This is Athens, the old City of Theseus." On the other are the words, "This is the new City of Hadrian, not that of Theseus." In fact this gateway was a barrier, yet a connecting link, between the Grecian and the Roman Athens,—the cities of the conquered and the conqueror.

Looking through this historic arch, I saw a group of stately columns in the distance. They are the only relics that remain of the great Temple of Olympian Jove. Even the writers of antiquity, familiar though they were with splendid structures, speak of that shrine as being awe-inspiring in its grandeur. With the exception of the Temple of Diana at Ephesus, it was the largest Grecian temple ever built. There were, originally, at least one hundred and twenty-six of these Corinthian columns. They formed almost a marble forest. Within it was a veritable maze of statues, including one of Jupiter, which was world-renowned; but these, as well as nearly all the columns, have long since been abstracted or destroyed.

These marble giants do not form a single group. Two of them stand apart, like sentries stationed to give warning of the fresh approach of the despoiler. Between them one column lies prostrate; a sad reminder of the fate that has overtaken so many of its brethren. However, unlike most other ruins in the world, this was not caused by the maliciousness of man. On the night of the 26th of October, 1852, a heavy rainstorm undermined the soil at its base, and the huge column, overcome at last, fell its full length of sixty feet upon the sand. It is interesting to observe how evenly its massive sections still rest upon the ground, like bricks set up in rows to push each other over in their fall.

It is said that the prostrate column could be restored, but perhaps it is more eloquent as it lies. The shaft above it, with its beautiful Corinthian capital, presents a striking contrast. One seems proudly to say, "See what this noble temple was!" the other to murmur pathetically, "See what it is to-day!"

Continuing my way still farther round the base of the Acropolis, I presently perceived a low-browed hill, partially covered with a rocky ledge. It was the ancient Areopagus, or Hill of Mars. Here the Supreme Court of Athens held its sessions. Such was the simple grandeur of the old Athenians that the only covering of this court-room was the canopy of heaven. For the immortal gods no temple could be too magnificent; but for the serious business of deciding life and death the Greeks would have no sumptuous decoration. The sessions of the court were always held at night, so that no face or gesture could exert the slightest influence. It must have been a scene of wonderful solemnity, for here accusers and accused stood, as it were, between their venerable judges and the gods, while in the dome of night a cloud of glittering witnesses looked down upon them from illimitable space.

A flight of sixteen rough-hewn steps leads to the summit, where the judges sat. They are the ancient steps. By them St. Paul ascended to address the Athenian audience which gathered before him. Above him, as he spoke, rose the whole glory of the Acropolis, with its magnificent temples and bewildering array of statues. And yet this stranger dared to utter the impressive words, "God dwelleth not in temples made with hands." This in the shadow of the Parthenon! "We ought not to think that the Godhead is like unto gold or silver, or stone graven by art and man's device." This in the presence of the works of Phidias!

When we remember how the Acropolis must then have looked, we cannot wonder that the Athenians who heard these words spoken within its shadow smiled, and ironically answered, "We will hear thee again of this matter!" Well, Athens has heard him again, and so has the entire world. Paul discoursed here for possibly an hour, but what he said has ever since been echoing down the ages. None knew him then; but in a few short years, to the church founded by him in the Greek town of Corinth, he wrote his two epistles to the Corinthians, which may be read in every language of the civilized world; and now there is hardly a city in all Christendom that has not a cathedral or church bearing the great Apostle's name.

Not far from this historic spot is another ledge of great antiquity. Here dungeons have been excavated in the solid rock, one of them being called the "Prison of Socrates." Opinions differ as to its authenticity; just as men still dispute about the exact locality where Jesus hung upon the Cross. But of the general situation in each case there is no doubt. In Athens, as in Jerusalem, one stands in close proximity to where the purest souls this earth has ever known were put to death by those who hated them; and somewhere on this hill, four hundred years before the scene of Calvary, Socrates drank the poisoned cup forced upon him by his enemies, and in that draught found immortality.

The lineaments of Christ's face are not surely known to us, but those of Socrates have been preserved in marble. His was a plain and homely visage. The playwright, Aristophanes, caricatured him on the stage, and moved the audience to shouts of laughter; but, with the exception of the Nazarene, no man ever spoke like Socrates. He was a natural teacher of men. He walked daily among the temples or in the market-place, talking with every one who cared to listen to him. His method was unique. It was, by asking searching questions, to force men to think,—to know themselves. If he could make an astonished man give utterance to an original thought, he was contented for that day. He had sown the seed; it would bear fruit. He had no notes, nor did he ever write a line; yet his incomparable thoughts, expressed in purest speech, were faithfully recorded by his pupils, Xenophon and Plato, and will be treasured to the end of time.

Another memorial of Athens which well repays a visit is the Temple of Theseus,—that legendary hero of old Greece, half-man, half-god, whose exploits glimmer through the dawn of history, much as a mountain partially reveals itself through morning mists. Fortune has treated this old temple kindly. There is hardly an ancient structure extant that has so perfectly resisted the disintegrating touch of time or the destroying hand of man. For the Theseum was built nearly five hundred years before the birth of Christ, in commemoration of the glorious battle of Marathon, where Theseus was believed to have appeared to aid the Greeks in driving from their shores the invading Persians.

When in 1824 Lord Byron died upon Greek soil, striving to free the Hellenic nation from the Turkish yoke, the Athenians wished his body to be buried in this temple. No wonder they were grateful to him, for the action of that ardent admirer of the Greeks in hastening to their land to consecrate his life and fortune to the cause of liberty, was not, as some have thought, unpractical and sentimental. Byron, unlike many other poets, was no mere dreamer. He could, when he desired, descend from Poesy's empyrean to the practical realities of life; and during his short stay in Greece, whether he was securing loans, conciliating angry chiefs, or giving counsel to the government, he showed the tact and firmness of an able statesman.

As if, then, this classic temple were a Greek sarcophagus, within which was enshrined the form of the immortal dead, I seemed to see among its marble columns that noble statue representing Byron at Missolonghi, the little town where, with such fatal haste, his life was sacrificed. It would be difficult to imagine anything more distressing than Byron's last illness. He was in a wretched, malarial district, utterly devoid of comforts. No woman's hand was there to smooth his brow or give to him the thousand little comforts which only woman's tender thoughtfulness can understand. Convinced at last by the distress of his servants that his death was near, he called his faithful valet, Fletcher, to his side, and spoke with great earnestness, but very indistinctly, for nearly twenty minutes. Finally he said, with relief, "Now I have told you all."

"My lord," replied Fletcher, "I have not understood a word you have been saying."

"Not understood me?" exclaimed Lord Byron, with a look of the utmost distress. "What a pity! for it is too late; all is over!"

"I hope not," answered Fletcher, "but the Lord's will be done."

"Yes, not mine," said the poet; and soon after murmured, "Now I shall go to sleep." These were the last words of Byron, for, with a weary sigh, he then sank into that peaceful slumber in which his spirit gradually loosed its hold on earth, and drifted outward into the Unknown.

The more modern part of Athens recalls happier recollections of Byron. When he came here in his youth, he not only wrote those magnificent stanzas in "Childe Harold," which are among the choicest treasures of our English tongue, but also composed that graceful poem, "Maid of Athens," each verse of which ends with Greek words that signify, "My Life, I love thee!" It was addressed to the eldest daughter of the Greek lady in whose house he lodged. Little did that fair Athenian girl imagine that his verses would make her known throughout the world. Yet so it was. No actual likeness of her can be given, but we may well believe that she, in some respects, resembled a typical Grecian maiden of to-day.

"By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each Ægean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love's alternate joy and woe, Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

Maid of Athens! I am gone: Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ."

The tourist who visits Greece to-day finds much to admire in the modern city which ancient Athens wears now like a jewel on her withered breast. It is a bright, attractive place. When I revisited it a few years ago, it seemed to me by contrast with the Orient a miniature Paris. Yet this is all of very recent growth. Half a century ago the devastation wrought here by the Turks had left the city desolate. Hardly a house in the whole town was habitable. But now we find a city of one hundred and thirty thousand people, with handsome residences, public squares, clean streets, and several public buildings that would adorn any capital in the world.

One of the finest private residences in Athens is the home of the late Doctor Schliemann, the world-renowned explorer of the plain of Troy and other sites of Greek antiquity. It is constructed of pure Pentelic marble. Around its roof beautiful groups of statuary gleam white against the blue of the Athenian sky. Anywhere else this style of decoration would perhaps seem out of place; not so in Athens. It simply serves as a reminder of the fact that once the wealth of art here was so great that half the galleries of the world are filled to-day with the fragments of it that remain. So many statues once existed here, that an Athenian wit declared that it was easier to find a god in Athens than a man!

Perhaps the finest of the public buildings in Athens is its Academy of Science. It is a noble structure, composed entirely of Pentelic marble and built in imitation of the classic style, with rows of grand Ionic columns, while in the pediment are sculptures resembling those with which the Greeks two thousand years ago adorned the shrines of the Acropolis. The lofty marble columns in the foreground are crowned with figures of Minerva and Apollo. Below them are the seated statues of Socrates and Plato. What more appropriate combination could be made than this: the wisdom of the gods above, the wisdom of humanity below, expressed by the greatest names which in religion and philosophy have given Athens an immortal fame? In the spring of 1896 modern Athens seemed suddenly to surpass the ancient city in interest, through the revival of the Olympian games. The mention of these famous contests suggests at once the old Greek statue of the Disk-Thrower, whose arm has been uplifted for the admiration of the world for more than two thousand years. Although this national festival of the Greeks had its origin nearly eight hundred years before the birth of Christ, and though the last one was celebrated fifteen hundred years ago, the games were renewed in 1896 as the first of a series of international athletic contests, which will hereafter take place every four years in various portions of the world. The first was given, of course, to Greece, the mother of athletics as she was of art. The next will be seen at Paris in 1900, during the Exposition there.

For the great occasion referred to, the old Greek Stadium was partially re-excavated and furnished with hundreds of new marble seats. This was done not alone at the expense of a few rich Athenians, but also through the generosity of wealthy Greeks in Alexandria, Smyrna, London, and Marseilles. The Stadium, as it now exists, can accommodate about sixty thousand people; and on the closing day of the recently revived festival, fully that number were assembled in it, while forty thousand more were grouped outside the walls or on the road between Athens and the battlefield of Marathon. Among the contesting athletes were several manly specimens of "Young America." In every way they did us honor. Those with whom we talked on the subject spoke in the highest terms of the courtesy and kindness shown them by every one in Athens, from king to peasant. Nor was this strange. It was due, first, to their own fine qualities; second, to the popularity which America enjoys in Greece, and third, to the fact that they themselves soon proved the heroes of the Stadium.

After each contest, the flag of the victorious country was displayed above the arena, and the American emblem was the first to go up. And it kept going up! The first three races were all won by Americans. Then came the "long jump," which Americans also gained. Then Garrett, of Princeton, beat the Greeks themselves at their old classic sport of "throwing the disk." Even on the second day "Old Glory" shook out its starry folds three times, till presently Denmark gained a victory, and then England.

It is hard to single out for special notice any one individual among these heroes; but no American gained more popularity on the historic race-course, than the man who for swift running carried off so many prizes in Old Athens,—that lithe citizen of the "Athens of America," Thomas Burke. Over his speed and skill the Greeks were wildly enthusiastic. Some of them showed him proofs of personal affection. One asked him, through an interpreter, on what food he had been trained. Burke, like a true Bostonian, replied, "Beans!" After one of his brilliant victories, when the Americans had gained in swift succession four first prizes, one old Athenian stood up in the Stadium, and raising his hands in mock despair, exclaimed: "O, why did Columbus ever discover that country!"

Finally, on the last day, there came a contest which the Greeks had been awaiting with alternating hope and fear. It was the long run from the battlefield of Marathon to Athens,—a distance of twenty-five miles.

Besides the Greeks, there entered for this race Americans, Australians, Frenchmen, Germans, and Hungarians. Secretly, however, almost every one of the spectators hoped that a Greek would win. History and sentiment alike seemed to demand that the coveted honor should be gained by a descendant of the men of Marathon, for this was the same road traversed by the historic Greek, who ran to announce to the Athenians the triumph of the Greeks over the Persians at Marathon, and as he entered the Arena, dropped dead, gasping the word, "Victory!"

Instinctively that scene rises before the reader's imagination, as it must have done before the minds of the thousands gathered on the course to witness the issue of the race. It was half-past four in the afternoon when a cannon-shot announced that the leading runner was in sight. Two or three minutes passed in breathless silence. No one moved or spoke. Suddenly, a far-off cry was heard, "It is a Greek—a Greek!" These words were taken up and ran the whole length of the Stadium as electricity leaps from point to point. A moment more, and a hundred thousand voices rent the air with cheers and acclamations. The king himself almost tore the visor from his cap, waving it frantically round his head; for, in truth, the victor _was a Greek_,—a young peasant named Loues, twenty-four years of age. Before entering the contest, he had partaken of the sacrament and had invoked the aid of Heaven; and apparently the gods had come to his assistance, for he had made the run of twenty-five miles over a hard, rough country in _two hours and forty-five minutes_! To show the feeling the victor entertained for the American athletes, it may be said that when Loues crossed the line, notwithstanding the tremendous excitement and enthusiasm that prevailed, he ran to Tom Burke, and, throwing his arms around him, kissed the American flag which the Bostonian was holding in his hand.

At the king's palace, Loues and the other competing athletes were entertained in royal style by the crowned head of the kingdom. The joy and pride of the young peasant's father, as he saw him universally fêted and admired, is said to have been extremely beautiful and touching; for Loues was treated almost as a demigod by his delighted countrymen. The strangest gifts were showered upon him. A café, for example, offered him _carte blanche_ at its hospitable table for the rest of his life; a barber-shop promised him free shaves so long as he lived; and even a boot-black coveted the honor of polishing his shoes for an indefinite period, expecting nothing in return. Large sums of money also were offered him; but these, with the true spirit of the athlete, Loues declined. "The only reward I crave," he exclaimed, "is the wreath of laurel from Olympia, such as my ancestors received two thousand years ago. I am poor, but I ran, not for money, but for the glory of my native land."

The pleasantest route in taking leave of the Hellenic kingdom is to embark upon a steamer and sail through the Grecian Archipelago. It is the same route taken by the old Greek colonists when they went forth to civilize the world,—the same path followed by the Trojan exiles when they sailed to Italy to build upon her seven hills the walls of Rome. To coast along the shores of the Ægean, after a tour in Athens, is one of the most exquisite enjoyments this life can give. To the student of history in particular, the scene recalls events so glorious that he is lost in admiration, not only of the marvelous country as a whole, but of what the ancient Greeks accomplished for humanity. In what department did they not excel?