There are two favorite ways whereby those leaving the Acropolis are wont to descend to the modern city. One lies around to the right as you leave the gates, passing between the Acropolis and Mars Hill to the north side of the former, where steps will be found leading down to the old quarter and thence past Shoe Lane to Hermes Street and home. The other passes to the south of the Acropolis along its southerly slopes, finally emerging through an iron gate at the eastern end, whence a street leads directly homeward, rather cleaner and sweeter than the other route but hardly as picturesque. Since, however, this way leads to some of the other notable remains of classic Athens, for the present let us take it.

Immediately on leaving the avenue in front of the gates of the Acropolis, one finds a path leading eastward directly behind and above the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, which is made conspicuous in the landscape by the lofty stone arches remaining at its front. These arches are blackened and bear every ear-mark of the later Roman epoch. Moreover they strike the beholder as rather unstable, as if some day they might fall unless removed. But their loss would be a pity, nevertheless, for they certainly present a striking and agreeable feature to the sight despite their lack of harmony with the received ideas of pure Greek architecture. It hardly repays one to descend to the pit of this commodious theatre, or rather concert hall, since one gets a very accurate idea of it from above looking down into its orchestra over the tiers of grass-grown seats. For more detailed inspection of ancient theatrical structures, the Dionysiac theatre farther along our path is decidedly more worth while, besides being much more ancient and more interesting by association.

On the way thereto are passed several remnants of a long “stoa,” or portico, called that of Eumenes, curiously intermingled with brick relics of the Turkish times, and the non-archÆological visitor will hardly care to concern himself long with either. But he will doubtless be interested to turn aside from the path and clamber up to the base of the steeper rock to inspect the damp and dripping cave where once was an important shrine of Asklepios, with the usual “sacred spring” still flowing, and still surrounded with remains of the customary porticoes, in which the faithful in need of healing once reposed themselves by night, awaiting the cure which the vision of the god might be hoped to bestow. The cave is now a Catholic shrine, with a picture of its particular saint and an oil lamp burning before it. It is dank and dismal, and for one to remain there long would doubtless necessitate the services of Asklepios himself, or of some skillful modern disciple of his healing art—of which, by the way, Athens can boast not a few. The Greek seems to take naturally to the practice of medicine, and some of the physicians, even in remote country districts, are said to possess unusual talent.

Not far below the shrine lies the theatre of Dionysus, scooped out of the hillside as are most Greek theatres, with a paved, semi-circular “orchestra,” or dancing place, at its foot. Much of the original seating capacity is concealed by the overgrowth of grass, so that one is likely greatly to underestimate its former size. Once the seats rose far up toward the precinct of Asklepios, and the path that to-day traverses the slope passes through what was once the upper portion of the amphitheatre. It is only in the lower portions that the stones still remain in a fair state of preservation and serve to show us the manner of theatre that the Athenians knew—the same in which the earlier generations saw for the first time the tragedies of that famous trio of playwrights, Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. This theatre has undergone manifold changes since its first construction, as one will discover from his archÆological books. It is idle for us here to seek to recall the successive alterations which changed the present theatre from that which the ancients actually saw, or to point out the traces of each transformation that now remain, to show that the “orchestra” was once a complete circle and lay much farther back. It will, however, be found interesting enough to clamber down over the tiers of seats to the bottom and inspect at leisure the carved chairs once allotted to various dignitaries, and bearing to this day the names of the officers who used them. Particularly fine is the chief seat of all, the carved chair of the high priest of Dionysus, in the very centre of the row, with its bas-relief of fighting cocks on the chair-arms still plainly to be seen. It is well to remember, however, that most of what the visitor sees is of a rather recent period as compared with other Athenian monuments, for it is stated that very little of the present visible theatre is of earlier date than the third century B.C., while much is of even a more recent time and is the work of the Romans. This is true, especially, of the conspicuous carved screen that runs along behind the orchestra space, and which may have supported the stage—if there was a stage at all. The paved orchestra will also strike one as unusual, contrasting with the greensward to be seen in other similar structures, such as the theatre at Epidaurus.

The vexed question of the use of any elevated stage in Greek theatres so divides the skilled archÆologists into warring camps even to-day that it ill becomes an amateur in the field to advance any opinion at all, one way or the other, upon the subject. There are eminent authorities who maintain that the use of a raised stage in such a theatre was utterly unknown by the ancients, and that any such development can only have come in comparatively modern times, under Roman auspices. Others insist, and with equal positiveness, that some sort of a stage was used by the more ancient Greeks. The arguments pro and con have waxed warm for several years, without convincing either side of its error. It is safe to say that American students generally incline to the view that there was no such raised stage, agreeing with the Germans, while English scholars appear generally to believe that the stage did exist and was used. As just remarked, the views of mere laymen in such a case are of small account, and I shall spare the reader my own, saying only that in the few reproductions of Greek plays that I myself have seen, there has been no confusion whatever produced by having the principal actors present in the “orchestra” space with the chorus—and this, too, without the aid of the distinguishing cothurnos, or sandal, to give to the principals any added height. From this it seems to me not unreasonable to contend that, if a stage did exist, it was hardly called into being by any pressing necessity to avoid confusion, as some have argued; while, on the contrary, it does seem as if the separation of the chief actors to the higher level would often mar the general effect. Such a play as the “Agamemnon” of Æschylus would, it seems to me, lose much by the employment of an elevated platform for those actors not of the chorus. In fact, there was no more need of any such difference in level, to separate chorus from principal, in ancient times than there is to-day. The ancients did, however, seek to differentiate the principals from the chorus players, by adding a cubit unto their stature, so to speak, for they devised thick-soled sandals that raised them above the ordinary height. Besides this they employed masks, and occasionally even mechanism for aerial acting, and also subterranean passages.

Whatever we may each conclude as to the existence or non-existence of an elevated stage at the time of Pericles, we shall all agree, no doubt, that our modern stagecraft takes its nomenclature direct from the Greek. The “orchestra,” which in the old Greek meant the circle in which the dancing and acting took place, we have taken over as a word referring to the floor space filled with the best seats, and by a still less justifiable stretch of the meaning we have come to apply it to the musicians themselves. Our modern “scene” is simply the old Greek word s???? (skÈnÉ), meaning a “tent,” which the ancient actors used as a dressing-room. The marble or stone wall, of varying height, and pierced by doors for the entrance and exit of actors, was called by the Greeks the “proskenion,” or structure before the skÈnÉ, serving to conceal the portions behind the scenes and add background to the action. The word is obviously the same as our modern “proscenium,” though the meaning to-day is entirely different. In ancient times the proskenion, instead of being the arch framing the foreground of a “scene,” was the background, or more like our modern “drop” scene. Being of permanent character and made of stone, it generally represented a palace, with three entrances, and often with a colonnade. At either side of the proskenion were broad roads leading into the orchestra space, called the “parodoi,” by means of which the chorus entered and departed on occasion, and through which chariots might be driven. Thus, for instance, in the “Agamemnon,” that hero and Cassandra drove through one of the parodoi into the orchestra, chariots and all—a much more effective entrance than would have been possible had they been forced to climb aloft to a stage by means of the ladder represented on some of the vases as used for the purpose. The side from which the actor entered often possessed significance, as indicating whether he came from the country or from the sea. As for disagreeable scenes, such as the murders which form the motif of the Oresteian trilogy, it may not be out of place to remark that they were almost never represented on the stage in sight of the orchestra or spectators, but were supposed always to take place indoors, the audience being apprized of events by groans and by the explanations of the chorus. The ordinary theatrical performance was in the nature of a religious ceremony, the altar of the god being in the centre of the orchestra space, and served by the priest before the play began. And in leaving the subject, one may add that many Greek plays required sequels, so that they often came in groups of three, each separate from the other, but bearing a relation to each other not unlike our several acts of a single piece. So much for Greek theatres in general, and the theatre of Dionysus in particular.

Leaving it by the iron gate above and plunging into a labyrinthine mass of houses just outside, one will speedily come upon an interesting monument called the “choragic monument of Lysicrates.” This is the only remaining representative of a series of pedestals erected by victors in musical or dancing fÊtes to support tripods celebrating their victories. This one, which is exceedingly graceful, has managed to survive and is a thing of beauty still, despite several fires and vicissitudes of which it bears traces. The street is still called the “Street of the Tripods.”

A few steps farther, and one emerges from the narrower lanes into the broader avenues of the city, and is confronted at once by the arch of Hadrian, which stands in an open field across the boulevard of Amalia. It is frankly and outspokenly Roman, of course, and does not flatter the Latin taste as compared with the Greek. It need delay nobody long, however, for the tall remaining columns of the temple of Olympian Zeus are just before, and are commanding enough to inspire attention at once. To those who prefer the stern simplicity of the Doric order of columns, the Corinthian capitals will not appeal. But the few huge, weathered pillars, despite the absence of roof or of much of the entablature, are grand in their own peculiar way, and the vast size of the temple as it originally stood may serve to show the reverence in which the father of the gods was held in the city of his great daughter, Athena. The more florid Corinthian capital seems to have appealed to the Roman taste, and it is to be remembered that this great temple, although begun by Greeks, was completed in the time of Hadrian and after the dawn of the Christian era: so that if it disappoints one in comparison with the more classic structures of the Acropolis, it may be set down to the decadent Hellenistic taste rather than to a flaw in the old Hellenic. As for the Corinthian order of capital, it is supposed to have been devised by a Corinthian sculptor from a basket of fruit and flowers which he saw one day on a wall, perhaps as a funeral tribute. The idea inspired him to devise a conventionalized flower basket with the acanthus leaf as the main feature, and to apply the same to the ornamentation of the tops of marble columns, such as these.

On the northern side of the Acropolis, down among the buildings and alleys of the so-called “Turkish” quarter, there exist several fragmentary monuments, which may be passed over with little more than a word. The most complete and at the same time the most interesting of these relics is unquestionably the “Tower of the Winds,” an octagonal building not unlike a windmill in shape and general size, but devoted originally to the uses of town clock and weather bureau. On its cornices, just below the top, are carved eight panels facing the different points of the compass, the figures in high relief representing the several winds. The appropriate general characteristics of each wind are brought out by the sculpture—here an old man of sour visage brings snow and storms; another, of more kindly mien, brings gentle rain; others bring flowers and ripening fruits. A weather-vane once surmounted the structure. Near by, scattered among the houses, are bits of old porticoes, sometimes areas of broken columns, and at others quite perfect specimens still bearing their pedimental stones, testifying to the former presence of ancient market places, or public meeting places, in large part belonging to the later, or Roman, period. It was in this general vicinity that the original agora, or market place, stood, no doubt. In some of the porticoes were often to be found teachers of one sort or another, and in one “stoa” of this kind, we are told, taught those philosophers who, from the location of their school, came to be called "stoics"—giving us an adjective which to-day has lost every vestige of its derivative significance. Nothing remains of the other famous structures that are supposed to have been located in this vicinity, or at least nothing has been unearthed as yet, although possibly if some of the congested and rather mean houses of the quarter could be removed, some vestiges of this important section of the classic city might be recovered. Nothing remains of the ancient “agora,” or market place, in which St. Paul said he saw the altar with this inscription, “To the unknown god.” But the Areopagus, or Mars Hill, where Paul is supposed to have stood when he made his noble speech to the men of Athens, is still left and well repays frequent visitation. Its ancient fame as the place where the god Ares, or Mars, was tried for his life, and as the place of deliberation over the gravest Athenian affairs, has been augmented by the celebrity it derived from the apostle’s eloquent argument, in which he commented on the activity of the Athenian mind and its fondness for theology, a characteristic rather inadequately brought out by the Bible’s rendering, “too superstitious.” The Areopagus to-day is a barren rock devoid of vegetation or of any trace of building, although rough-hewn steps here and there and a rude leveling of the top are visible. Of the great events that have passed on this rocky knoll not a trace remains. With reference to the Acropolis towering above and close at hand, Mars Hill seems small, but the ascent of it from the plain is long and steep enough. It is apparently no more than an outlying spur of the main rock of the Acropolis, from which it is separated by a slight depression; but it shares with the holy hill of Athena a celebrity which makes it the object of every thoughtful visitor’s attention. From its top one may obtain almost the best view of the afterglow of sunset on the temples and the PropylÆa of the Acropolis, after the custodians of the latter have driven all visitors below; and sitting there as the light fades one may lose himself readily in a reverie in which the mighty ones of old, from Ares himself down to the mortal sages of later days, pass in grand review, only to fade away from the mind and leave the eloquent apostle of the newer religion saying to the citizens gathered around him, “Whom, therefore, ye ignorantly worship, Him declare I unto you.” Let us, if we will, believe that it was “in the midst of Mars Hill” that Paul preached his sonorous sermon, despite a tendency among scholars to suggest that he probably stood somewhere else, “close by or near to” rather than “in the midst of” the spot. If we paid undue heed to these iconoclastic theories of scientists, what would become of all our cherished legends? The traveler in Greece loses half the charm of the place if he cannot become as a little child and believe a good many things to be true enough that perhaps can hardly stand the severe test of archÆology. And why should he not do this?

Peopled with ghostly memories also is the long, low ridge of rocky ground to the westward, across the broad avenue that leads from the plain up to the Acropolis, still bearing its ancient name of the “Pnyx.” In the valley between lie evidences of a bygone civilization, the crowded foundations of ancient houses, perhaps of the poorer class, huddled together along ancient streets, the lines of which are faintly discernible among the ruins, while here and there are traces of old watercourses and drains, with deep wells and cisterns yawning up at the beholder. Thus much of the older town has been recovered, lying as it does in the open and beyond the reach of the present line of dwellings. Above this mass of ruin the hill rises to the ancient assembling place of the enfranchised citizens—the “Bema,” or rostrum, from which speeches on public topics were made to the assembled multitude. The Bema is still in place, backed by a wall of huge “Cyclopean” masonry. Curiously enough the ground slopes downward from the Bema to-day, instead of upward as a good amphitheatre for auditors should do, giving the impression that the eloquence of the Athenian orators must literally have gone over the heads of their audiences. That this was anciently the case appears to be denied, however, and we are told that formerly the topography was quite the reverse of modern conditions, made so artificially with the aid of retaining walls, now largely destroyed. Until this is understood, the Bema and its neighborhood form one of the hardest things in Athens to reconstruct in memory. It is from the rocky platform of this old rostrum that one gets the ideal view of the Acropolis, bringing out the perfect subordination of the PropylÆa to the Parthenon, and giving even to-day a very fair idea of the appearance of the Acropolis and its temples as the ancients saw them. Fortunate, indeed, is one who may see these in the afternoon light standing out sharply against a background of opaque cloud, yet themselves colored by the glow of the declining sun. Of all the magnificent ruins in Greece, this is the finest and best,—the Acropolis from the Bema, or from any point along the ridge of the Pnyx.

Of course that temple which is called, though possibly erroneously, the Theseum, is one of the best preserved of all extant Greek temples of ancient date, and is one of the most conspicuous sights of Athens, after the Acropolis and the temples thereon. And yet, despite that fact, it somehow fails to arouse anything like the same enthusiasm in the average visitor. Just why this is so it may be rash to attempt to say, but I suspect it is chiefly because the Theseum is, after all, a rather colorless and uninspiring thing by comparison with the Parthenon, lacking in individuality, although doubtless one would look long before finding real flaws in its architecture or proportions. It simply suffers because its neighbors are so much grander. If it stood quite alone as the temple at Segesta stands, or as stand the magnificent ruins at PÆstum, it would be a different matter. As it is, with the Parthenon looking down from the Acropolis not far away, the Theseum loses immeasurably in the effect that a specimen of ancient architecture so obviously perfect ought, in all justice, to command. It seems entirely probable that the failure of this smaller temple to inspire and lay hold on Athenian visitors is due to the overshadowing effect of its greater neighbors, which it feebly resembles in form without at all equaling their beauty, and in part also, perhaps, to the uncertainty about its name. That it was really a temple of Theseus, an early king of Athens, seems no longer to be believed by any, although no very satisfactory substitute seems to be generally accepted. It will remain the Theseum for many years to come, no doubt, if not for all time. Theseus certainly deserved some such memorial as this, and it is not amiss to believe that the bones of the hero were actually deposited here by Cimon when he brought them back from Scyros. The services of Theseus to the city were great. If we may, in childlike trust, accept the testimony of legend, Theseus was the son of King Ægeus and Æthra, but was brought up in the supposition that he was a son of Poseidon, in the far city of Troezen. When he grew up, however, he was given a sword and shield and sent to Athens, where his father, Ægeus, was king. Escaping poisoning by Medea, he appeared at the Athenian court, was recognized by his armor, and was designated by Ægeus as his rightful successor. He performed various heroic exploits, freed Athens of her horrid tribute of seven boys and seven girls paid to the Cretan Minotaur, came back triumphant to Athens only to find that Ægeus, mistaking the significance of his sails, which were black, had committed suicide by hurling himself in his grief from the Acropolis; and thereupon, Theseus became king. He united the Attic cities in one state, instituted the democracy and generously abdicated a large share of the kingly power, devised good laws, and was ever after held in high esteem by the city—although he died in exile at Scyros, to which place he withdrew because of a temporary coolness of his people toward him. Cimon brought back his bones, however, in 469 B.C., and Theseus became a demi-god in the popular imagination. The Theseum owes its splendid preservation to the fact that it was used, as many other temples were, as a Christian church, sacred to St. George of Cappadocia.

Infinitely more pregnant with definite interest is the precinct of the Ceramicus, near the Dipylon, or double gate, of the city, which gave egress to the Eleusis road on the western side of the town, the remains of which are easily to be seen to-day. The excavations at this point have recently been pushed with thoroughness and some very interesting fragments have come to light, buried for all these centuries in the “Themistoclean wall” of the city. It will be recalled that the Spartans, being jealous of the growing power of Athens, protested against the rebuilding of the walls. Themistocles, who was not only a crafty soul but in high favor at Athens at the time, undertook to go to Sparta and hold the citizens of that town at bay until the walls should be of sufficient height for defense. Accordingly he journeyed down to Sparta and pleaded the non-arrival of his ambassadorial colleagues as an excuse for delaying the opening of negotiations on the subject of the wall. Days passed and still the colleagues did not come, much to the ostensible anxiety and disgust of Themistocles, who still asserted they must soon arrive. Meantime every man, woman, and child in Athens was working night and day to build those walls, heaping up outworks for the city from every conceivable material, sparing nothing, not even the gravestones of the Ceramicus district, in their feverish anxiety to get the walls high enough to risk an attack. The Roman consul worked no more assiduously at hewing down the famous bridge, nor did Horatius labor more arduously at his task, than did Themistocles in diplomatic duel with the men of Sparta. At last the news leaked out—but it was too late. The walls were high enough at last, and all further pretense of a delayed embassy was dropped. The diplomacy of the wily Themistocles had triumphed—and by no means for the first time. Out of this so-called Themistoclean wall there have recently been taken some of the grave “stelae,” or flat slabs sculptured in low relief, from the places where the harassed Athenians cast them in such haste more than four centuries before Christ. They are battered and broken, but the figures on them are still easily visible, and while by no means sculpturally remarkable the relics possess an undoubted historical interest.

The tombs of the Ceramicus district, which form an important part of the sculptural remains of Athenian art, are still numerous enough just outside the Dipylon Gate, although many examples have been housed in the National Museum for greater protection against weather and vandals. Of those that fortunately remain in situ along what was the beginning of the Sacred Way to Eleusis, there are enough to give a very fair idea of the appearance of this ancient necropolis, while the entire collection of tombstones affords one of the most interesting and complete exhibits to be seen in Athens. The excellence of the work calls attention to the high general level of skill achieved by the artisans of the time, for it is hardly to be assumed that these memorials of the dead were any more often the work of the first Athenian artists of that day than is the case among our own people at present.

The whole question of the Greek tomb sculpture is a tempting one, and a considerable volume of literature already exists with regard to it. The artistic excellence of the stelae in their highest estate, the quaintness of the earlier efforts, the ultimate regulation of the size and style by statute to discourage extravagance, the frequent utilization of an older stone for second-hand uses, and a score of other interesting facts, might well furnish forth an entire chapter. As it is, we shall be obliged here briefly to pass over the salient points and consider without much pretense of detail the chief forms of tomb adornment that the present age has to show, preserved from the day when all good Athenians dying were buried outside the gates on the Eleusinian way. Not only carved on the stelae themselves, but also placed on top of them, are to be seen reliefs or reproductions of long-necked amphorae, or two-handled vases, in great numbers. These are now known to have had their significance as referring to the unmarried state of the deceased. They are nothing more nor less than reproductions of the vases the Greek maidens used to carry to the spring CallirrhoË for water for the nuptial bath, and the use of them in the tomb sculpture, on the graves of those who died unmarried, is stated to have grown out of the idea that “those who died unwed had Hades for their bridegroom.” These vases come the nearest to resembling modern grave memorials of any displayed at Athens, perhaps. The rest of the gravestones are entirely different both in appearance and in idea from anything we are accustomed to-day to use in our cemeteries, and it is likely to be universally agreed that they far eclipse our modern devices in beauty. The modern graveyard contents itself in the main with having its graves marked with an eye to statistics, rather than artistic effect, save in the cases of the very rich, who may invoke the aid of eminent sculptors to adorn their burial plots. In Athens this seems not to have been so. There is very little in the way of inscription on the stones, save for the name. The majority are single panels containing bas-reliefs, which may or may not be portraits of the departed.

The usual type of tomb relief of this sort seems to be a group of figures, sometimes two, sometimes three or four, apparently representing a leave-taking, or frequently the figure of a person performing some characteristic act of life. Of the latter the well-known tomb of Hegeso, representing a woman attended by her maid fingering trinkets in a jewel casket, is as good a type as any, and it has the added merit of standing in its original place in the street of the tombs. Others of this kind are numerous enough in the museum. The aversion to the representation of death itself among the ancient Greeks is well understood, and many have argued from it that these tomb reliefs indicate an intention to recall the deceased as he or she was in life, without suggestion of mourning. Nevertheless, the obvious attitudes of sorrowful parting visible in many of the tomb stelae seem to me to do violence to this theory in its full strength. Among those which seem most indicative of this is a very well-executed one showing three figures,—an old man, a youth, and a little lad. The old man stands looking intently, but with a far-away gaze, at a splendidly built but thoughtful-visaged young man before him, while the lad behind is doubled up in a posture plainly indicating extreme grief, with his face apparently bathed in tears. The calm face of the youth, the grave and silent grief of the paternal-looking man, and the unbridled emotion of the boy, all speak of a parting fraught with intense sorrow. It might be any parting—but is it not more reasonable to assume that it means the parting which involves no return?

The more archaic gravestones are best typified by the not unfamiliar sculpture, in low relief, of a warrior leaning on a spear, or by the well-known little figure of Athena, similarly poised, mourning beside what appears to be a gravestone of a hero. It was one of the former type that we saw exhumed from the Themistoclean wall, with the warrior’s figure and portions of the spear still easily discernible.

It remains to speak, though very briefly and without much detail, of the National Museum itself, which is one of the chief glories of Athens, and which divides with the Acropolis the abiding interest and attention of every visitor. It is in many ways incomparable among the great museums of the world, although others can show more beautiful and more famous Greek statues. The British Museum has the Elgin marbles from the Parthenon, which one would to-day greatly prefer to see restored to Athens; the Vatican holds many priceless and beautiful examples of the highest Greek sculptural art; Munich has the interesting pedimental figures from the temple at Ægina; Naples and Paris have collections not to be despised; but nowhere may one find under a single roof so wide a range of Greek sculpture, from the earliest strivings after form and expression to the highest ultimate success, as in the Athenian National Museum, with its priceless treasures in marble and in bronze. The wealth of statues, large and small, quaintly primitive or commandingly lovely, in all degrees of relief and in the round, is stupendous. And while it may be heresy to pass over the best of the marbles for anything else, it is still a fact that many will turn from all the other treasures of the place to the “bronze boy” as we will call him for lack of a better name. This figure of a youth, of more than life size and poised lightly as if about to step from his pedestal, with one hand extended, and seemingly ready to speak, is far less well known than he deserves to be, chiefly because it is but a few years since the sponge divers found him in the bed of the ocean and brought him back to the light of day. At present nobody presumes to say whether this splendid figure represents any particular hero. He might be Perseus, or Paris, or even Hermes. His hand bears evidence of having at one time clasped some object, whether the head of Medusa, the apple, or the caduceus, it is impossible to say. But the absence of winged sandals appears to dismiss the chance that he was Hermes, and the other identifications are so vague as to leave it perhaps best to refer to him only as an “ephebus,” or youth. The bronze has turned to a dark green, and such restorations as had to be made are quite invisible, so that to all outward seeming the statue is as perfect as when it was first cast. The eyes, inlaid with consummate skill to simulate real eyes, surpass in lifelike effect those of the celebrated bronze charioteer at Delphi. That a more detailed description of this figure is given here is not so much that it surpasses the other statues of the museum, but because it is so recent in its discovery that almost nothing has been printed about it for general circulation.

It would be almost endless and entirely profitless to attempt any detailed consideration of the multitude of objects of this general sculptural nature which the museum contains, and volumes have been written about them all, from the largest and noblest of the marbles to the smallest of the island gems. It may not be out of place, however, to make brief mention of the spoils of MycenÆ which are housed here, and which reproductions have made generally familiar, because later we shall have occasion to visit MycenÆ itself and to discuss in more detail that once proud but now deserted city, the capital which Agamemnon made so famous. In a large room set apart for the purpose are to be seen the treasures that were taken from the six tombs, supposed to be royal graves, that were unearthed in the midst of the MycenÆan agora, including a host of gold ornaments, cups, rosettes, chains, death masks, weapons, and human bones. Whether Dr. Schliemann, as he so fondly hoped and claimed, really laid bare the burial place of the conqueror of Troy, or whether what he found was something far less momentous, the fact remains that he did exhume the bodies of a number of personages buried in the very spot where legend said the famous heroes and heroines were buried, together with such an array of golden gear that it seems safe to assert that these were at any rate the tombs of royalty. If one can divest his mind of the suspicions raised by the ever-cautious archÆologist and can persuade himself that he sees perhaps the skeleton and sword of the leader of the Argive host that went to recapture Helen, this MycenÆan room is of literally overwhelming interest. Case after case ranged about the room reveals the cunningly wrought ornaments that gave to MycenÆ the well-deserved Homeric epithet “rich-in-gold.” From the grotesque death masks of thin gold leaf to the heavily embossed Vaphio cups, everything bears testimony to the high perfection of the goldsmith’s art in the pre-Homeric age. Of all this multitude of treasures, the chief objects are unquestionably the embossed daggers and the large golden cups, notably the two that bear the exceedingly well-executed golden bulls, and the so-called “Nestor” cup, which, with its rather angular shape and its double handle, reproduces exactly the cup that Homer describes as belonging to that wise and reverend counselor.

As has been hinted, the scientific archÆologists, less swept away by Homeric enthusiasm than was Schliemann, have proved skeptical as to the identification of the tombs which Schliemann so confidently proclaimed at first discovery. The unearthing of a sixth tomb, where the original excavator had looked for only five, is supposed to have done violence to the Agamemnonian theory. But what harm can it do if we pass out of the MycenÆan room with a secret, though perhaps an ignorant, belief that we have looked upon the remains and accoutrements of one who was an epic hero, the victim of a murderous queen, the avenger of a brother’s honor, and the conqueror of a famous city? It is simply one more of those cases in which one gains immeasurably in pleasure if he can dismiss scientific questionings from his mind and pass through the scene unskeptical of the heroes of the mighty past, if not of the very gods of high Olympus themselves. It may be wrong; to a scientific investigator such guileless trust is doubtless laughable. But on our own heads be it if therein we err!