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:

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.

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

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.

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?

Is it their sculpture that we question? At once the incomparable Venus of Melos makes reply; that statue found (alas! in partial ruin) on one of the islands that are scattered broadcast on this classic sea, like disentangled pearls, and hence a fitting emblem of those treasures of antiquity cast on the shores of time after a long-continued and disastrous storm.

Is it their language? It was the most perfect and elastic tongue in which men's lips have ever fashioned speech. It seems more than chance that caused it, at the birth of Christ, to be the leading literary language of the world, that it might thus receive, embody, and perpetuate the truths of the New Testament. Even now we turn to that old tongue to find exact expression for our terms of science, and in it we name all our new inventions such as heliotypes and photographs, the telegraph and the telephone.

Is it poetry? At once there seems to rise before us from these waters, which encircled him at birth and death, the face of Homer,—the father of poetry. To whom has he not been a joy and inspiration? Virgil was but the pupil and imitator of Homer. And the Iliad and Odyssey are still such storehouses of eloquence and beauty, that such statesmen as Gladstone and the Earl of Derby have sharpened their keen intellects in making their translations.

Is it philosophy? "Out of Plato," says Emerson, "come all things that are still written and debated among men of thought."

The lesson, then, which Athens teaches us is this: not to regard past men, past deeds, and ruined shrines as dead and useless limbs upon the Tree of Time. The Past has made the Present, just as the Present is now fashioning Futurity. Moreover, since one lofty sentiment begets another; one valiant deed inspires a second; and one sublime achievement is a stepping-stone to loftier heights; what portion of our earth can give to us more inspiration than Athens,—birthplace of the earliest masterpieces of the human race, the mother of imperishable memories, and of an art that conquers time.