IT is a happy thing that the Greek race came into being, because they showed the world once at least what is meant by a man. The ideal Greek virtue s?f??s??? means, that all parts and faculties of the man are in proportion, each trained to perfection and all under control of the will: body, mind, and spirit, each has its due place. Elsewhere we see one of these in excess. Thus the Indian philosopher soars in the highest regions of speculation, and sees great truths, but they intoxicate him: he does not bring them to the test of daily life, nor does he check them by reason. The Hebrew prophet has his vision of one God, and in rapt devotion prostrates himself below the dignity of manhood. The Roman deals with practical politics and material civilisation; he has a genius for organizing, and for combining the rule of the best with the freedom and direct influence of all: he, however, despises the spirit and the imagination. In our own day, what is called science arrogates almost divine honours to the faculty for measuring and observing, and neglects both the religious instinct and the philosopher’s theoric; nor is this ideal less deadly than the Roman’s to imagination and the sense of beauty. In modern times also, each person strives to excel in some one specialty, mental or bodily; and if there is any feeling at all for proportion it is the proportion of a group, while the members of the group are pe??tt??, excessive in one way and defective in the others. But the Greek aimed at perfect proportion for the man; and his ideal was, that the man’s will should use all the faculties to some worthy end. His body is to be trained by music and gymnastic: the aim of the first being grace and beauty; of the second, strength; of the whole, health and joy in all bodily uses. His mind is to be trained by poetry, oratory, and philosophy; his spirit by the worship of the gods, in which all that was best in his life is concentrated into a noble ritual. Such would be the life of the ordinary Greek; the greater intellects would look beyond the ritual to the essence; and we have ample evidence to show that their ideals were as high as any that have been known to other peoples. Aeschylus dealt with the same problems that baffled the Hebrew prophets, divine justice Nowhere is the Greek s?f??s???, their sense of restraint and proportion, shown better than in their architecture: and this both in the method of growth and in the final results. The Doric style has grown out of a wooden building. When and how the first steps were taken, we do not know, nor whether the Doric be directly descended from the MycenÆan style, as Perrot and Chipiez will have it. There is this great difference: that the MycenÆan and Cretan columns are like a Doric column reversed, the thick end upmost, and they show none of the Greek refinements to which we shall come later. A simpler origin is possible: for to-day the traveller may see, in the verandah of some wayside cottage (Homer’s a’????sa ???d??p??) a primitive Doric column, some bare tree-trunk with a chunk of itself for capital, supporting a primitive architrave of the same sort. In the Doric order, other traces of woodwork are left in the stone, such as the triglyphs, or beam-ends, with round pegs beneath, or the gouged flutings of the column itself. And we have direct evidence in the history of the Olympian HerÆum; where we are told that the columns were once of wood, and that stone columns were put in place of these as they decayed, one of the ancient oak columns being preserved down to the time of Pausanias. The early architects would seem to have been nervous as to how much weight stone would bear, so that their columns are very thick and set close together; in fact, less than one diameter apart. By degrees they learnt from experience, but the changes were slow and careful. The plan of the temple always remained the same, and there is little variation in the number of pillars at each end, or in any of the general features. As in statuary, here also they kept to their tradition as much as they could, and got their effects with the least possible change. But what effects! Compare the heavy masses of Corinth or PÆstum with the airy grace of the Parthenon, and measure the infinite delicacy of the changes which produce this effect. The builders found out But we must remember also that the stones that remain are only ruins. Even in these we may trace many of the perfections of the ancient artist; but if we could see them as they were, we should see, not stones bleached and weathered, but buildings resplendent with colour and gold. Columns, capitals, architraves, all were a blaze of colour, decorated with graceful patterns and painted to match the blue sea and the golden sunlight. And now for us Sunium is a white ghost like the light of the moon, the Parthenon a rose in decay. We may not now feel the want of what is lost. The hills once covered with forest trees are bare, the countryside is untilled and empty, and these ruins are invested with a sentimental charm in the thought of what has been lost. The traveller is in the mood of Sulpicius as he consoles Cicero for his daughter’s death. “Returning from Asia, as my voyage took me from Aegina towards Megara, I began to survey the regions round about: behind me was Aegina, before me Megara, to the right Peiraeus, to the left Corinth, all cities at one time prosperous and flourishing, but now they lay prone and ruined before my eyes. And I began thus to ponder within myself: ‘Ah! shall we frail creatures resent the death of one of ourselves, seeing that our life must needs be full short, when in one place so many dead cities lie before us?’” Indeed the Greek cities are most aptly compared to humanity. There never was anything grandiose about them, nothing monstrous like the empire of China, no desire to thrust Greek manners or religions upon the rest of the world, no attempt to monopolize trade even by honest methods. They wished to live and let live, loved and hated fiercely, but like men; and if they must die they did not whine about it—indeed, for their country’s sake they held it glorious to die. And now they are gone, and their place knows them no more, no one can feel that touch of triumph that Shelley felt over his Ozymandias. They have left behind them everywhere a poignant regret, such as one feels for a very dear friend gone for ever. Most strong is this feeling when our steps wander over some desolate spot, once a populous city, such as PÆstum or Myndos. I mention Myndos because there the contrast is most The pictures in this volume follow roughly the history of the Doric style. In Olympia lies the floor of the HerÆum, most ancient of all existing Greek temples, built before 1000 B.C. Unhappily this view tells us nothing of what it looked like: earthquake and flood, and the hand of man, have done all they could to destroy. The temples in Sicily and Magna GrÆcia, with Corinth, belong to the earliest stage known to us. Corinth was built about 650; the temples of Athena at Syracuse, now the cathedral, and of Zeus at Selinus (which are not represented here) are as old or older. Segesta comes next, in the early sixth century; and in the same century temples at Girgenti (Agrigentum), Aegina, and PÆstum. The temple of Zeus at Olympia was built between 469 and 457, the Parthenon 454-438, Sunium and Eleusis about the same time, and two buildings at PÆstum. The theatres belong to a later date, and the Corinthian temple of Zeus Olympian at Athens, begun by Peisistratus, was not finished until the time of Hadrian. Olympia is the epitome of the Greek race, as the forum is of the Roman dominion: the Roman ideal being law, order, and government; the Greek, all the powers of man at their best, used and enjoyed in the holy precinct of their great God. The difference is shown at once, in that the Olympian assembly was The picture is taken from the small hill of Kronos: we look over the site of Hera’s temple to the great temple of Zeus. To the left, out of sight, is the entrance to the racecourse. Just beneath us, under the hill, is a row of small shrines called Treasuries, which mighty states and monarchs had built to contain their own chief offerings. In the distance is the river Alpheius. We cannot imagine how this plain looked when it was the encampment of thousands, covered with booths, and full of goodly men and horses; the crowds, the processions, the feastings, litany and sacrifice; but every man must feel the same thrill as when he stands in Westminster Hall, or St. Sophia at Constantinople: for here have passed all the great men of the Greek race. If the games show the physical side of the Greeks, the theatre above all shows the intellectual. While they invented, and perfected, nearly all kinds of literary art, it is the theatre that touched their life most closely, and most fully gave scope for their genius. This also grew out of religion, and was always a part of their religion. But the Greek gods were no puritans. It is proper to say this, but the onlooker will think little now of the stage, or indeed of the actors and the play, in view of one of those scenes which can never be forgotten. The sight of Etna over the stage, with his rolling steam, absorbs the whole force of imagination. Etna is tremendous. Beneath Etna Hephaistos had one of his forges, as at Lipara, Imbros, and Lemnos; and that smoke you see shows that his workmen are forging the thunder-bolts of Zeus. The very name of Volcano is Hephaistos himself. Or is it the giant Typhoeus, defeated by Zeus in the battle of gods and giants, and buried beneath the mountain, who by his struggles causes the earth thus to heave, and these fiery streams to pour forth? What wonder that the pious made offerings of incense at the top! Was it really true that Empedocles, that great philospher and healer, whose intellectual pride seems almost to claim divine honours, cast himself into the crater, that he might seem to have been swept away by the gods? Probably it was not true: but the story shows how the mountain worked on men’s imaginations. If the theatre of Segesta has no Etna behind it, the surroundings to the eye are in other ways grand. It is seated upon the acropolis hill, whence a view can be taken at once of that corner of Sicily which was held by the mysterious Elymians, with their citadel and sanctuary of Eryx. Segesta was founded by a people who wanted protection, and feared the sea. But, like the rest of Sicily, it came under Greek influence; and its buildings, the two temples and the theatre, are Greek. This small town has played a part in history: it was the bone of contention which led Athens to interfere with Syracuse, and so on to her ruin. The columns of the temple are unfinished, the fluting has never been done. There is something that moves the sympathy in these unfinished places. No doubt the city was overwhelmed in some catastrophe, which perhaps left it quite desolate in the old cruel way. So the blocks of the Pinacotheca on the Athenian acropolis still keep the knobs which were used in mounting them; they were never cut off, for Athens fell. So, most striking of all, there lies in the quarry near Baalbek an enormous block of stone, seventy-seven feet long by fifteen and fourteen, squared and ready, one end tilted for moving; but it was never moved: there it has lain perhaps for three thousand years, and there it will lie till the world ends. Girgenti, Agrigentum, Akragas, called by Pindar ?a???sta ??te?? p?????, fairest of mortal cities; lofty Akragas, in Virgil’s words, spreading her walls so wide, mother of high-spirited horses— “Arduus inde Acragas ostentat maxima longe Moenia, magnanimum quondam generator equorum”— although late founded in Greek history (B.C. 582), is set on a hilltop like some primaeval acropolis. Two rocky hills, with a space of level land between, were enclosed within a wall six miles round; below this the land slopes gently to the sea; the whole lies between two rivers. The existing remains, and the modern town, lie on one of the two hills. Akragas calls up only one name from the memory. Phalaris the Tyrant and his brazen bull. But Empedocles was born here. The great temple of Zeus Polieus, which Phalaris was said to have built, has perished, and those that remain cannot be certainly identified. One is called after Concord, but the Latin name cannot have properly belonged to it. The pictures here show some of the wonderful effects, which vary PÆstum, the Greek Poseidonia, is one of those cities that have no history; at least, this city played no great part in ancient history and gave the world no great men. But PÆstum was not happy. It had its day, from the foundation in the seventh century for some two hundred years; but it fell early into the hands of the barbaric Lucanians. After this it existed, but it never became great. We know PÆstum for its roses, biferi rosaria PÆsti, which flower twice a year in May and November; and until lately, for its loneliness and desolation. Not a living soul was there in the circuit of the city walls, nothing but a bare plain with hundreds of flowering grasses, and the great temples in their grandeur. All its charm is gone now: a factory stains the sky with its smoke, and the modern world, whose god is its belly, has put its foul mark upon the quietude of PÆstum. Those who saw PÆstum when it was one of the most impressive sights in the world, will be careful not to go thither again. Corinth, on the other hand, takes us back to the heart of the ancient world. From time immemorial Corinth was a great place. It lay on the high-road of the seas, in the time when voyagers hugged the coasts. Traders from Asia and Phoenicia would not ply to Italy and Spain along the open sea when they could go from island to island and along the sheltered waters of the two gulfs: all these must ship their goods across the Isthmus, and the Isthmus was dominated by the impregnable rock of Corinth. Thus the masters of Corinth could levy tolls on all commerce: they grew rich, as in older days Troy did, and later Constantinople, because they lay across a trade route. Here was built the first Greek navy of war-ships: here were the rich and powerful tyrants; here was worshipped Poseidon, with his famous Isthmian games, and Phoenician Aphrodite. A few years ago, the precinct of Poseidon was dug out, and there appeared a mass of votive tablets, on which we may see the daily life of Corinth in the seventh century The Acrocorinthus is one of the most magnificent sights in the world: it has the common quality of the Greek mountains, grandeur without excessive size; but standing as it does isolated from other hills, and visible everywhere, from Athens to Parnassus, its effect on the imagination is never to be forgotten. Its height is not far short of 2000 feet, and it is crowned with a fortress as it has been all through history. From the summit we see the whole centre of Greece; even the Parthenon itself, the centre of Greek artistic achievement. Here too is the sacred spring Peirene, struck out by the hoof of Pegasus. The view here given towards the gulf shows Parnassus in the distance, like a ghost. Athens is the heart of Greece, and Greece is the soul of mankind. No man who loves what is beautiful, or who admires what is noble, can fail to feel at home in Athens. Here in this little plain, girt with purple mountains, lived those men who discovered human reason, who showed how to express man’s greatest ideas, who pitted courage and intellect against brute force, who for a few short years lived the fullest life possible for mankind: we have lived on their thoughts ever since. The beauties of the place have been often sung: they are summed up in one immortal phrase, “city of the violet crown.” The continued changes of colour, especially towards evening, in that clear air, with sea and cloud and mountain, make the Up this slope, once in every four years, after the games, came the great procession of the PanathensÆ, which is portrayed for us on the frieze of the Parthenon itself. Was there ever such a picture of beauty and strength and life? There went the victors, crowned and rejoicing; the flower of the Athenian cavalry, such men and such horses as the world can show no finer (see them on the Parthenon frieze!), all the chief soldiers and statesmen, elders bearing branches of olive, the fairest of Athenian women with baskets upon their heads, and the sacred robe to be offered to the most ancient and reverend image of Pallas, borne as the sail of the Panathenaic ship. The whole scene is portrayed upon the sculptured frieze of the Parthenon. One of the plates in this book represents the modern idea of a religious festival, and the hundreds of dotted figures give a far-away notion what this great day must have looked like. But how faint! These dark-clad forms have not a hint of the gorgeous colour of the ancient world. On the Acropolis, too, was held the feast of Brauronian Artemis, when the little Athenian maidens dressed up in bearskins for some mysterious ceremony. Here was the mark of Poseidon’s trident, under the Erechtheum; here was Athena’s sacred olive-tree, and her snakes. And the whole place crowded with statues and offerings, and inscriptions carved on stone, treaties of peace, and records of honour—the history of Athens open for all to read. The story of the Athenian Acropolis is unique amongst its fellows, while at the same time it sums up the history of the Greek states. It is unique, because here alone, it seems, a state existed from the beginning to the end without violent interference. Many Greek sites were occupied in the Pelasgian age, when Crete was mistress of the Aegean, and later when its place was taken by MycenÆ and the cities of the mainland: but the country was swept later by the Achaeans, and after them by the Dorians, who naturally chose the more fertile and wealthy places to stay in. So the Acropolis was Fair and goodly in life, the Athenians were also fair in death. Without the gate, on the sacred road to Eleusis, lies the place of From this place led forth the Sacred Way, over the hills to Eleusis, where perhaps more than anywhere else in the Greek world those higher emotions were aroused which we associate with religion. In the ritual these were lacking; and philosophy was sceptical rather than religious, except with a rare soul now and then, a Socrates or a Plato, with whom feeling and intellect seem to be fused into one force. But the Eleusinian mysteries gave what both philosophy and ritual lacked. They were mysteries in so far that no one might reveal them unlawfully; but not in the sense of a riddle or a concealment, for all Greeks might qualify for admission. The ancient mysteries recall more the Freemasons than anything else we know. Their origin is lost in darkness, and they lasted long after all else in Greece was dead, when Alaric the Goth in 396 did what Goths do in all ages—destroyed, but built not up. There were rites of purification, and two stages of initiation; first, usually as a child, and later into the higher grades as a man or woman. There were two Mysteries: the Lesser, celebrated by the Ilissos bank and close under the Acropolis, being usually a preliminary to the Greater at Eleusis. What the mysteries were, we know not: the secret has been kept, although Clement of Alexandria was initiated before he became a Christian, and he tells us whatever he thinks will discredit them. Undoubtedly, they included dramatic Aegina, like all else in Greece, is small, only about forty square miles; yet Aegina has left her mark on history. Here, according to the tradition, Pheidon, tyrant of Argos, first struck coins in Greece. Whether it was so or not, Aegina was a centre of trade very early, and founded a famous city, Naucratis, in North Africa, Cydonia in Crete, and another in Umbria: the Aeginetan tortoise, the Athenian owl, and the Corinthian horse were the three types of coins best known to the Greek world, passing everywhere as good. Aegina was also famous for the arts, especially sculpture. Before the Persian wars Aegina came into conflict with Athens: Pericles called it the eyesore of the Peiraeus, before it was conquered and colonised by Athenian settlers. The temple which still remains, was not in the chief town, but in a lonely spot amidst the wild woods. It was sacred to Aphaia, not to Zeus—so FurtwÄngler infers from inscriptions found there—but we know nothing of its building. The pediments, which appear to represent scenes from the Trojan wars, are remarkable in the history of sculpture; they are now at Munich. Close by the beach at which we land is a small rocky islet, upon which lives a lonely hermit in a hut made with his own hands. If at Eleusis we think of exalted religious emotion, Delphi puts every man in awe. Well was the spot chosen for the most famous oracle of antiquity: it needs no help of man to show the powrer of God. But here, as everywhere in Greece, the awe is not too great for humanity to bear: it is not the crushing sense of impotence in the face of natural forces that one feels in the Alps or the Himalayas, it is the awe that may be felt for a being both mighty and kindly. Human beings may live here and be happy; they may mount above the cleft and the shining rocks, and still live and be happy—indeed, those uplands were the scene of many a merry revel when the Greeks worshipped their gods. But the great black rocks above Delphi, themselves only the foot of the approach to Parnassus, are awful enough to make them a fit Pausanias gives a description of the chief things to be seen in this holy place. Before the excavations, a Greek village covered the site; but now this has been removed, we can tread on the ancient pavement, and see the places where many of the objects once stood. Here, as at Olympia, the great states had their treasuries, one of which has been built up out of its fragments. High above Delphi, on a mountain that rises out of the uplands, not far from the peaks of Parnassus, is the Corycian cave, famous in legend, sacred to Pan and the Nymphs; here and hereabouts were celebrated the revels of Dionysus, which readers of the Ion will remember. The temple of Olympian Zeus at Athens was begun by Peisistratus, and partly built, but it was never finished in its original Doric style. Antiochus Epiphanes planned it afresh, and a Roman architect, Cossutius, partly built it in the Corinthian style. Probably the columns that now stand were put up by him; some of the remains of this earlier building are used as foundations for these. When Antiochus died (B.C. 164), it was left again unfinished, until Hadrian finished it. These columns are regarded as the finest specimens of the Corinthian style. Rich as the effect of this style is, it does not satisfy eye and mind as the Doric does, or indeed the Ionic: of all things, leaves are least suitable to the nature of stone. Sunium, founded in the Peloponnesian War to protect the corn-ships, was near the silver-mines; it was an important fortress, but its prosperity did not last long. The temple was dedicated to Athena. Here the salt sea winds have made the columns white, in contrast to the rose-pink of the Parthenon. |