Greece and the Ægean Islands

by Philip Sanford Marden

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?

THE AREOPAGUS

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 Trœzen. 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.

THE THESEUM

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.