CHAPTER III.

THE RIBBON-DEALER FROM HALIMUS.

When Pericles and Anaxagoras left the house, they went down the street leading from the great theatre of Dionysus to the foot of the southern declivity of the Acropolis, and then turned northward to enter the one which ran between the western slope of the Acropolis and the hill of the Areopagus to the Agora.

They had now reached their goal, and were standing on the Agora.

This central point of Athenian life and intercourse covered a wide space in the district of the Cerameicus. It lay as if sheltered under the protection of the hills of Athens; on the southern side it had the rugged rocks of the Areopagus and Acropolis, on the western the Hill of the Nymphs, joined in a southerly direction by the more famous summit of the Pnyx, to the north was the moderately high hill that bore the temple of Theseus, and on the northwest appeared the slopes of the famous Colonus.

Thus all the famed and hallowed hills of Athens looked down upon the Agora.

In its midst rose the altar of the twelve great Olympian gods. Here, too, stood the bronze statues of the ten legendary ancestral heroes of the Attic nation and country. Opposite to these statues was allotted to each of the nine Archons, the chief magistrates of Athens, the place of his public activity within the limits of the Agora. Here, too, were most of the courts of justice; the spot where the Council of the Five Hundred assembled, the Bouleuterion and the domed rotunda of the Tholus.

The throng of people surged more densely than usual around these meeting-places to-day. In the Tholus, many were hastening to the prytanes, the men who belonged to the division of magistrates then officiating. Many other members of the magistracy were seen on the square, but attracted little notice. Then Pericles arrived, and all eyes instantly turned towards him. He took leave of his companion Anaxagoras, entered the Tholus and went to the prytanes. He had several matters to discuss with these men, who consulted together about the subjects to be brought before the popular assembly, and presided over it.

Stately temples towered around the magnificent Agora of the Athenians, and its long porticos were adorned with all the noblest beauty of art.

Most refreshing to the eye, amid this vast number of pinnacles and colonnades, glittering in the sunlight, was the green foliage of the plane-trees, which, a grateful heritage from Cimon, subdued the sultry heat of the Agora and afforded a pleasant shade to its fierce tumult.

Under woven branches, that afforded protection from sun and rain, was displayed in countless booths the bright, fragrant, manifold wealth of the Athenian market.

Leeks and lettuce, caraway seeds and cresses, thyme and honey, bullocks and fish, poultry and game—do they deserve a glance because found in the market-place of ancient Athens? Why not? All that ripened under the sky of Attica was of noble species, and the Greek sun spiced it with more delicate juices.

Besides, neighboring countries sent their best products to Athens. These dainty succulent vegetables came from Megara; this goose, these choice coots and sand-snipes from the rich land of Bœotia.

But the greatest throng in the market-place gathered around the scaly tribe. Everything eatable and delicious that swarmed in the hundred bays of the deeply-indented Grecian coast was offered here, from the cheap salt-fish, the cheapest of these commodities, yet which, when covered with oil, wrapped in aromatic leaves, and roasted in the hot ashes, tasted admirably, to the most praised and costliest dainty of its kind, the Bœotian eel. The anchovies from the neighboring harbor of Phalerum were so delicate, that they only, so to speak, required to see the fire, to be thoroughly fried.

Whoever did not feel disposed to carry home the raw material for a meal, could satisfy his hunger on the spot. Judging from the odor, even the juicy roast donkey was not to be despised, at least the seller praised the belly-portion as a dainty morsel. True, his neighbor in a clear, loud voice expended all the eloquence of the Greeks to prove that his goat-meat deserved the preference, that it was the most nourishing of any kind of flesh, and real “athlete’s food.”

If one desired to escape the smell of flesh and blood—which, however, the Olympians enjoyed—and sought more delicate and subtle perfumes, he betook himself to the spot where the merry glances of some young girl or rosy boy, weaving garlands, invited customers. The Athenian was extravagantly fond of garlands. They accompanied him from his mother’s lap to the tomb. In Athens not only fame, love, death, joy, and every kind of festal gayety adorned itself with flowers; not only did the reveller twine his brow, nay his whole body with garlands at the symposium, but even the dignitary wore a wreath while performing his official duties, and the orator did the same when preparing to speak to the assembled populace on the Pnyx. Athens wound her garlands of roses and ivy, and did not even disdain the foliage of the silver-poplar; hyacinths too blended with the green of the myrtle; but she seems to have best loved the modest violet, for her poets called her the “violet-wreathed.”

There was also the pottery market, the pride of Athenian art-manufactures. From ancient times this whole portion of the city took its name from the potters, and the productions of the Attic clay, so blessed by the gods, went from here on ships to all parts of the world. The Athenian shaped this beautiful clay of his native soil, like his Attic marble, with that delicate sense of the plastic art the gods considerately bestowed on him with his admirable clay and marble.

From the small, flat, handless, and footless phial, to the gigantic pithos, that contained a hundred amphoræ of wine, yet was made of clay, everything was perfectly proportioned. The round, double-handled amphoræ, the hydria, the perfume-bottles with narrow necks, from which the liquid could only flow drop by drop with a gurgling sound, the huge mixing vessels, jars for water, and goblets of a hundred different shapes—all were beautiful.

Not a single article was shapeless, or made solely for use. Even the vessels for daily service, even the jar in which the Greek kept his wine, his honey, his oil or his perfume, was beautiful. It never lacked the charm of graceful proportions, harmonious outlines.

While walking here, one would not have supposed himself in a market and among merchandise, for beauty does not belong solely to him who pays for it, but delights every passer-by, and where the things with which men are surrounded bear the elevating impress of loveliness, all have a share in everything, and the ideal of community in property is realized in its loftiest sense.

One might also walk through the perfume-market, and the clothes-mart, where with the native costume, foreign garments, mantles from Megara, Thessalian hats, Amyclæan and Sicyonian shoes, found admirers and purchasers. But moderns would doubtless have most enjoyed the books offered in holders of cylindrical shape, and gladly unrolled the broad sheets of papyrus, wrapped about round sticks, ornamented at both ends with ivory or metal knobs, and fastened by red or yellow bands of parchment.

Yet the noise of the hawkers, the bustle of the market-place, was too great to allow one to become absorbed in the literary wisdom of the Athenians.

A charcoal-burner from Acharnæ, and a ribbon-dealer from Halimus, were vying with each other in praising their wares. A third person joined them, calling upon the Athenians to buy his excellent lamp-wicks, made from the pith of rushes. Soon shouts rose on all sides: “Buy my oil!” “buy my vinegar!” “buy my wood!” while public criers announced that such and such a ship had arrived in the harbor, that such and such merchandise had been discharged, or proclaimed the reward offered for the discovery of a thief or the restoration of a runaway slave.

The only thing missed in the market-place was the presence of women. No Athenian sent his wife or daughters there. He sent slaves or—went himself and made the purchases for the family meal.

Yet were there not numbers of oddly-dressed women moving about near the temple of Aphrodite Pandemos? They did not belong to the ranks of the buyers, but the sellers, and were at once venders and merchandise. Among them were flute-players and dancing-girls, waiting to be hired to amuse the merry revellers at the symposia of the wealthy. Exchangers’ tables also stood in the Agora, as well as at the Piræeus, and the Athenian gave these bankers his ready money, to be received again in small sums as he required.

The Athenian had numberless reasons for visiting the Agora at least once a day, and if by accident he lacked a cause, went there without one. His temperament was extremely social. Constant intercourse with his equals was a necessity. This loquacity and sociability found vent everywhere: in the porticos, the baths, the barber’s shops, the booths, even in the workshops of the artisan, everywhere except in taverns; of these the Athenians had little knowledge, or left them to the lowest dregs of the people.

What was the purpose of the large, well-armed throng encamped just in the centre of the almost boundless Agora? They were the Scythian bowmen, mercenaries who, according to ancient custom, guarded the market-place, a sort of city and police guard, ready to execute the orders of the Council of Five Hundred. These sons of distant Scythia delighted the Athenian by the barbarous jargon into which they mangled the Greek language and—by their unquenchable thirst.

They were snub-nosed, and had expressionless faces, which contrasted disadvantageously with the elegantly-formed heads and expressive features of the native Greeks. The foreigners were coarse and clumsy in their appearance, the Greeks, on the contrary, were delicately-formed and full of spirit and energy. The movements of the former were sometimes sluggish and heavy, sometimes awkwardly hurried, while those of the latter were imbued with noble grace. Even the coal-burner from Acharnæ held himself erect, and the ribbon-dealer from Halimus, who had, with difficulty, given a little new lustre to his shabby linen garment, by the aid of chalk, in honor of the popular assembly, glanced proudly around him, while selling his wares. He swayed to and fro from his hips in crossing the market-place, but the upper portion of his body maintained a dignified repose. The proverbial “Attic glance,” dwelt in the eyes of all the men assembled. What was the meaning of this glance? It is hard to say. The “Attic glance,” like the whole nature of the Athenians, was a mirror of very different qualities, both amiable and unamiable. The Attic glance was ready at any moment to transform itself into a sharp Attic jest. The Athenian seemed grave, but a sarcastic idea sprung and sparkled suddenly from his seriousness, as fire flashes from a stone. He had mother-wit and knew how to use it.

A man, whose dress and stately bearing betokened comfortable circumstances, but who evidently looked about him with a stranger’s eyes, had been wandering for some time through the crowded Agora. He entered the booths of the dealers, inquired the price of this and of that article of merchandise, but always seemed to make objections.

The ribbon-dealer from Halimus was slowly passing him.

“I don’t understand,” said the stranger, perhaps encouraged by the look of curiosity or interest the latter cast at him. “I don’t understand the prices of these dealers. I believe they are trying to cheat me.”

“Are you a stranger?” asked the ribbon-dealer.

“Of course,” replied the other. “I came here with my family from Sicyon and only arrived a few days ago. I intend to settle here. I would rather be a foreign resident in Athens than a citizen of Sicyon, where my enemies abused me.”

When the other heard that the man who accosted him was no citizen of Athens, but merely a foreign resident—he had supposed him to be a magistrate—he drew himself up somewhat more stiffly and answered with a sort of condescension:

“Friend, if you are ignorant of the value of our coins and the prices of our wares, you must try to learn them, and, if possible, from an honest man. Look,” he continued, drawing out a very small, thin piece of silver, and laying it on the palm of his hand, “look, this is Attic silver, which we dig yonder in Laurium. You’ll find no such fine, pure metal in the whole world. This is our smallest silver coin, a half obolus; with it you can buy a common cheese, or a small sausage with some liver, or even a tolerably large piece of meat, as much as you alone can eat. If you pay a whole obolus, you will get a dish of meat admirably dressed. For four such obols you can carry home a dainty sea fish. If you have six obols, they make a drachm and you can change them for a larger silver coin, with the head of Athena on one side and the laurel-wreathed Athenian owl on the other. For a drachm you can get a dish of echinüs; for two drachmæ a whole bushel of barley, for three a bushel of wheat, and for ten a chiton, provided it is not of specially fine quality. When you have a hundred drachmæ, it is equal to a mina, and for one-and-a-half such minæ you can buy a slave; three minæ will purchase a horse, or a very small house; if you want a larger and finer one you must give sixty, or one talent. You see in this way you can buy many dainties, many fine things in Athens for little money. But if you lack this little, you must do like the rest of us poor people—support yourself modestly on our native barley cakes, and chew the spicy native garlic.”

At this moment, the speaker was interrupted by the sound of a powerful voice, that echoed through the market-place. It was the herald, who now verbally repeated the invitation addressed in writing before the Bouleuterion to the Athenians, to assemble on the Pnyx, adding that the meeting would be opened in an hour. At the same time a large banner was raised on the summit of the Pnyx, which fluttered in the air over the city in token of the approaching council.

The throng pressed around the herald, and a sort of ferment spread through the dense crowd. The men of Athens had been on foot since early morning, and wherever people gathered together, eager, and not unfrequently quarrelsome, conversation was heard. The herald’s proclamation fanned the warmth of political discussion to new and brighter flames.

“The treasure brought from Delos by the government ship is said to amount to eighteen hundred talents!” exclaimed some one in the midst of a group of citizens.

“Three thousand talents!” cried a second.

“Six thousand!” eagerly chimed in a third. “Six thousand, I tell you, have come from Delos—six thousand talents in ready money.”

“Hurrah!” shouted a fourth, fairly jumping for joy. “Where there is money, says the proverb, the oars move and the wind blows.”

“As for the new buildings,” thoughtfully remarked a fifth in the group, “especially the new temple of Pallas, I’ll consent; but the judges’ pay and the money for plays—”

“What? Won’t you grant the people that?” cried one of the poorer citizens standing near.

“Why, yes,” replied the other, “but I don’t think the proposal will go through. The oligarchs won’t allow it to pass. Money to pay for plays for the people? The numerous friends of Laconia will never allow it. No, indeed.”

“On the contrary,” replied another, “I think the motion for the plays will be easily carried, for the masses of the people on the Pnyx have a majority against the oligarchs. But with regard to the buildings, and especially the new temple of Pallas Athena—”

“What?” several persons eagerly interrupted; “do you think we ought not to build?”

“No,” replied the other. “I only mean—”

“Wait!” some one interrupted, “let us first hear Pericles!”

“Yes, let us first hear Pericles!” echoed around the circle. But Pamphilus, the sausage-maker, turned up his nose, saying:

“Pericles, always Pericles! Must we always listen to him?”

“Why not?” was the reply; “Pericles is wise—Pericles is well-meaning—Pericles is the man to whom we Athenians owe the fat on the broth—Pericles is the only person here in Athens, of whom his fellow-citizens can say no evil—”

“What?” cried his opponent; “no evil? Don’t all the older people say that his features bear a certain resemblance to those of Pisistratus, the tyrant?”

“That’s true,” observed Pamphilus. “Besides he has—what every-body doesn’t know—a so-called onion-head.”

“What? an onion-head?” cried the listeners.

“An onion-head!” replied the other. “Know,” he continued mysteriously, “know that the handsome, stately Pericles has a lump on the top of his head, so that it runs up to a point, not unlike an onion—”

“Nonsense!” cried the rest of the party. “Did anybody ever see this onion-head of Pericles?”

“No one,” replied Pamphilus, “no one. That’s certain. But how could any person see it? In the field Pericles wears his helmet, and even in peace wherever it is suitable, you will see his head covered with this same helmet. Where it won’t do, he tries other ways. For instance, on the Bema he wears the usual myrtle wreath of the orator; and in the street he is generally seen in the broad brimmed Thessalian hat, so no one has ever beheld Pericles’ head distinctly; but for that very reason, the supposition that he has an onion-head is probable; if it were not so, why should he so anxiously conceal it?”

“Of course, of course,” said many of his hearers, nodding assent; “there’s no doubt that Pericles’ head is an onion-head—”

“If that is so,” remarked one of the oligarchist party, who was in the group, casting a sarcastic glance at some poorly-dressed men, who were listening to the conversation; “if Pericles, the friend of the people, has an onion-head, he ought to guard himself from the love of his best friends and adherents, the onion and garlic eaters—”

Some laughed at the oligarch’s jest, but among the men, on whom the scornful side-glance had rested, was the ribbon-dealer from Halimus. He answered it with a flash of his dark eyes, clenched his fist and was on the point of sending back a sharp reply.

But at this moment a man approached, carrying his purchases in the folds draped over his breast.

“Ah, Pheidippides!” cried one; “you’ve been bargaining for half an hour, you niggard, haven’t you?”

“To be sure!” replied Pheidippides, “the quean asked two obols for these two little fish.”

“And at last you bought them?”

“For one,” replied Pheidippides smiling, but instantly added. “They’re probably good for nothing, or the old woman wouldn’t have let me have them so cheap. One is always getting cheated.”

His hearers laughed. “Pheidippides, you are a man who understands economy. What do you say to the extravagance of Pericles, who now wants us to spend the allies’ treasure in all kinds of salaries and plays, and for a magnificent temple of Pallas on the Acropolis. Have you no objections, Pheidippides?”

“Pallas Athena forbid!” cried Pheidippides. “May the blessing of all the gods rest on the head of our great and wise Pericles. I have no objections to make; on the contrary, I say: ‘we must build, we must have the magnificent temple of Athena on the Acropolis, though it should swallow all the treasure of the allies—’”

“What? are you, who are so miserly in your own house, that you split the caraway seed for daily use, thus generous with the public money,” asked several.

“Why,” replied Pheidippides, “at home it isn’t worth while to be generous and manage lavishly. When are we in the house? When does an Athenian citizen’s business allow him to be at home? He must go to the market, to the assembly of the people, the assembly of the members of his family, the assembly of the members of his district, to this or that court of justice, to this or that club, now to the Piræeus, now into the country to look after his fields and sheep—when, I ask, is the Athenian citizen at home? He belongs to the public, and the public to him; so my motto is always: ‘saving at home, but generous and lavish for the community.’ Why should I adorn my own house, it would please me only a short time, and then perhaps be squandered by my son and heir. But what I help build on the Acropolis will last, and that I can bequeath to my remotest descendant.”

“Pheidippides is right!” said the men, looking at each other and nodding.

But the member of the oligarchist party, who had formerly ventured the offensive jest, now raised his voice again. “Moderation in everything,” said he. “We must sow with the hand and not the bag. If we don’t preserve moderation, the community will decline, and the proud structure of Athenian power and grandeur fall into shameful ruin.”

“May it strike you on the nose!” cried the angry ribbon-dealer from Halimus, shaking his fist at the oligarch.

The bystanders laughed, but Pheidippides continued: “Look at the richest men in Athens. You doubtless know how they obtained most of their renown—not by erecting magnificent dwellings for themselves, but by equipping ships for the commonwealth, training choruses for the public plays at their own expense, and doing other things of this kind which the law compelled, but in which they showed praiseworthy zeal in giving more than was required. Is there anything for which they would rather spend their wealth than these objects, although they thereby merely enhance the splendor of the nation, while almost plunging themselves into poverty?”

“Ah,” replied the oligarch, “such is the conduct of the rich. But, unfortunately, people are now paying more regard to splendor and display, than to what is really substantial and useful. The trierarchs often go on board their ships without providing the crews with anything except meal, onions, and cheese, while those who endow and train a tragic chorus at their own expense, feed these singers with all sorts of sweets and dainties for the development and preservation of their voices, and if their chorus is outdone by another must submit to be jeered at and insulted. These customs are making us effeminate. If we would only pay a little more heed to the example of the manly Lacedemonians—”

“A friend of Laconia!” cried several derisively.

“Yes, a friend of Laconia!” said the oligarch. “I repeat, we must follow the example of the Spartans, or our splendor won’t last long, especially if we continue to let the guidance of the commonwealth fall more and more into the hands of the poor, hungry, corruptible class—”

The ribbon-dealer from Halimus, hearing these words, again clenched his fist at the oligarch. One of his companions, with much difficulty, soothed him.

“I had a strange dream last night,” one of the men in the group now began, “and should like to know what it means. I first saw great darkness spread around; then a man came—he wore the features of Pericles—and set up a torch, which grew larger and larger till at last it shone like a scorching sun in the sky, and everything glittered in the broad light of day. But the gigantic sun-torch, by the very intensity of its heat, began to again draw vapors from the earth, which grew denser and gathered into clouds, until at last the torch vanished behind them, and it was as dark as before. It was a strange circle of light and gloom. Does not this dream portend some misfortune?”

“All dreams are not sent by the gods!” replied one of his listeners.

“You are mistaken!” said the oligarch. “Dreams are always significant. I myself was once saved by a warning dream, when I intended to embark on a ship, which was afterwards lost with all on board. The gods did not will that I should perish in such a way—”

“Perhaps it is their will that you should be hanged,” cried the ribbon-dealer, no longer repressing his indignation.

The oligarch looked sullenly at the man, as if he meant to call the insolent jester to account.

But, glancing around the circle, he saw only faces smiling approval, and as the pedler approached belligerently, as if longing to attack him, preferred to vanish in the throng, which was beginning to move towards the Pnyx, for the hour of the assembly had arrived.

The pedler from Halimus, still enraged with the oligarch, joined the crowd. The Sicyonian was near him. “Did you hear,” asked the former, joining him, “what that rascal of an oligarch still ventures to do in Athens? Despise the common people! Despise one of us because he is poor—as if that made a man any less an Athenian citizen. True, I’m a ribbon-dealer, and my wife, under pressure of necessity, has been obliged to go out several times as a wet-nurse. But the law expressly forbids, that an Athenian citizen should be reproached for pursuing a trade to which he is compelled by poverty. And, by Pallas, I’m as much an Athenian citizen as anybody else, though I don’t live in the street of Tripods, but in a little suburb down by the harbor of Phalerum. Nay, I believe it is better to seek a living with a bundle on one’s back, than be like those who would rather starve than work, but don’t consider it beneath their dignity to lick other people’s plates clean as parasites, or lurk about watching for some man, who intentionally or ignorantly breaks one of the numberless laws of Athens, in order to accuse him and pocket his appointed portion of the fine he is condemned to pay. If they consider it an honor to live as parasites or sycophants, much good may it do them! I think myself their superior, and if anybody wants to jeer at me, let him—I fear nobody. I perform my duties as a citizen as well as anyone, put some bread and onions in my knapsack, and then stand good-naturedly all day on the Pnyx in the service of my native land. I thank the gods for having allowed me to be born a citizen of Athens; and when I walk from Halimus to the city early in the morning, and see the Acropolis glittering before me in the sunlight, while the mighty Athena seems to beckon to me, saying: You too are one of my sons! my heart swells, and I secretly thank the old hero Theseus, for having united all us children of Attica into one commonwealth, whether we live in the city or the country districts. You other Hellenes must admit, that our Athens differs from all the rest of the Greek cities, as widely as they differ from villages. We Athenians are aborigines, and recognized as the purest, most unmixed Hellenic blood. But you can understand that it is no trifling matter to help rule and govern a community like this. I’ve been fairly racking my brain, during the last few days, to decide how far the proposals made by Pericles are justified. Pericles is wise, very wise, and I entirely agree with him concerning the removal of the treasure from Delos to Athens, applying the money to national uses, and building the new temple of Pallas Athena. But, on the other hand, we citizens can’t consent to everything at once, as if it were obligatory—we must let it be seen that we are the masters, that we have the deciding voice, we, the people, and that we have a democracy in Athens.”

The pedler from Halimus, as an Athenian citizen, uttered these words very impressively to the new-comer from Sicyon. Then he entered the shop of his friend Sporgilos, the barber, to have his cheeks and chin shaved, in order to appear with becoming dignity among the other citizens in the popular assembly, leaving his pack with Sporgilos until his return. Meantime a number of the Scythian archers, under the command of a lexiarch, had stretched a rope around the Agora in such a manner, that only the street leading to the hill of Pnyx was left free—an old custom, whose sole object was to remind the Athenians, who liked to linger gossipping in the market-place, what way they were to take. As the rope was smeared with vermillion, to make a red mark on those who attempted to jump over it, a deserter would fear to expose himself to the laughter of the quizzing throng.

The pedler took his way towards the Pnyx with the rest of the citizens. The Sicyonian remained by his side, curious to learn more from him, for he could accompany him as far as the place of assembly. The hill of the Pnyx was the central one of the three peaks on the western side of the city. A ravine on the northwest divided it from the so-called Hill of the Nymphs, and on the south a deeper gully, through which ran a carriage road, separated it from the Museium. Towards the north and in the opposite direction, the hill sloped in a tolerably gentle declivity towards the plain; but on the eastern slope, towards the Acropolis, a rugged terrace of masonry supported the earth, widened the upper part of the hill, and smoothed its inequalities. Steps cut in the rock, and paths made by art, led to this lofty plateau, formed partly by human hands, and which in more ancient times bore the rock-altar of the supreme God.

The pedler from Halimus and his companion had reached the height. The barriers were open, but at the entrance stood the lexiarchs, six in number, official personages, in whose hands were placed the lists of Athenian citizens, and who saw that no unauthorized person stole into the assembly. Thirty assistants were with them.

The crowd flocked into the wide enclosed space, whose sole covering was the blue sky, but the pedler remained a short time with the Sicyonian, who was obliged to stay outside of the barriers. The latter gazed with curious eyes at the space beyond, now filled with dense masses of the Athenian populace. He saw the rear of the plateau bounded by a cliff, from which projected a high, dice-shaped stone. This was the stage, from which the orator addressed the people. A narrow flight of steps led up to it on both sides. In ancient times this place had been a sanctuary, this stone the altar of the supreme Zeus. Opposite the orator’s platform were ranged a number of stone benches, on which part of the assembly could sit down.

After the stranger had noticed these things he turned back, letting his glance wander from the hill-top towards the city. He saw before him the whole of Athens, sweeping in a circle around the hallowed rock of the Acropolis, which towered a short distance off, directly opposite to the Pnyx. The mica in its strata of stone, piled one above another, glittered in the sunlight. At the left of the Acropolis, but much lower, rose the Hill of Ares, the sacred abode of the Areopagus, a single gigantic, riven block of stone, around which still hovered the shades of the Eumenides.

The throng around the point where the lexiarchs were stationed constantly grew denser. Here, as in the Agora, the vivacity of the Athenian temperament showed itself. Every moment the lexiarchs were heard shouting: “Forward, Eubulides! Don’t stand gossipping here so long before the barriers.—Be quiet, Charondos! don’t loiter so in the crowd! Make way for those behind.”

The pedler from Halimus moved aside that, unobserved by the strict officials, he might point out to his companion some persons in the throng, on whom he made various comments.

“You see,” said he, “the two men yonder with the long rough beards, pale, gloomy faces, short coarse woollen cloaks and thick staffs? They want to look like athletes, who have conquered at least once in the Olympia. Those are the people we call friends of Laconia, who enthusiastically praise Sparta and would like to have everything here just as it is there—”

Again the pedler nudged his companion. “That man yonder is Phidias—Phidias the sculptor, who made the great statue of Athena on the Acropolis—those who surround him are his followers, his pupils and assistants—they will all vote with Pericles.”

The prytanes now came up, and the pedler pointed them out to his companion. But he soon nudged the latter still more vehemently: “Look—there’s Pericles; the strategus Pericles!”

“And his companions?” asked the Sicyonian.

“Strategi also!” replied the pedler.

“What are their names?” asked the other.

“The gods know,” answered the pedler. “There are ten strategi in Athens, I believe, but we know only Pericles.”

“And the venerable men approaching with such dignified bearing?” continued the Sicyonian.

“Those are the nine archons!”

“Are not they the persons, who enjoy the most honor among you of all the magistrates?”

“Honor perhaps,” replied the ribbon-dealer, “but we really value the strategi higher—”

“How so?”

“Because we choose them from our best brains,” replied the pedler with a crafty look. “In the archons we want age, stainless character, and venerable appearance. An archon enjoys great honor, very great honor, that isn’t to be denied; his person is almost held sacred. Yet he fares badly, when his term of office has expired, if we are not perfectly satisfied with him. We condemn him—guess to what? To give to Delphi a statue the size of life, of pure gold—”

“A statue of pure gold the size of life?” cried the Sicyonian in amazement; “surely no one can pay that—”

“That’s the very reason,” replied the pedler. “A debtor to the community, who cannot pay, is by our law deprived of his rights as a citizen. So such an archon is deprived of his rights all his life. And with good reason. If he formerly enjoyed great honor, he must now endure the more disgrace.”

“Who is that lame, crippled, ragged man, with the beggar’s pouch on his shoulders, pressing yonder with frantic gestures towards the entrance?”

“Do you mean the beggar grinning so maliciously?” replied the pedler. “He is known to all the city as a slave, who, in a law-suit concerning his master, was tortured until he became crippled, and half lost his wits, and now wandering about as a beggar, he is seized with a desire to force his way in wherever Athenian citizens gather, in the market-place, or on the Pnyx. He is always thrust back by the lexiarchs, and then answers with abuse, reviling the whole Athenian nation, for which he is often beaten or even stoned, unless the young stone-cutter Socrates draws him away. He pities Mad Menon—as he is called—you can see him now near him.”

The flag, which from the summit of the Pnyx had announced the approaching assembly to the Athenians, was now lowered. This was the sign for the opening of the council. The pedler from Halimus hastened to enter the enclosure, taking leave with mingled pride and compassion of the Sicyonian, who was obliged to remain outside of the barrier. The voices of the Athenians, who thronged the vast space, seemed like the twittering of a nest full of birds.

A herald now ordered silence. His clear shout rang far over the hill. Stillness ensued. The Sicyonian remained standing where he had been conversing with the pedler, watching as well as was possible, at this distance, the course of events within the densely crowded assembly. His position was a little elevated, so that he could look over the heads of the multitude.

He saw, after perfect quiet was established, a sucking pig, slaughtered as a sacrifice, borne through the throng under the direction of a priest, the space and benches being sprinkled with its blood. Then he beheld a bright fire kindled, and the real burnt sacrifice offered. He saw some one rise from the group of prytanes, and the Athenians listen to the reading of a paper, which doubtless contained the propositions made to the people by Pericles and the preliminary resolutions of the magistrates. Then the herald again rose to ask who desired to speak on the subject, the orators ascended the stage, and, according to old custom, put on myrtle-wreaths and addressed the people. He saw the populace express their approval or disapproval, listen breathlessly, or more uneasily, at first sway gently, like a field of corn stirred by a light breeze, then impetuously, like a storm-shaken mountain forest, till the herald, at a sign from the chief prytane, was forced to command silence. He saw how the strife of opinions amid the throng sometimes threatened to degenerate into a hand to hand fight, how here a man of the people shook his fist at an oligarch, yonder a friend of Laconia, with loud imprecations, raised his gnarled staff against the common people; he saw the great mass of the people break into exultant applause, while the oligarchs were sullenly silent, then beheld the latter express their satisfaction by looks, gestures and shouts, while the former noisily gave vent to their indignation.

Thus several hours elapsed in an excited whirl of opinions and votes.

The Sicyonian now saw Pericles, who had already addressed the people, but only in a few words, ascend the orator’s stage. Again perfect stillness pervaded the throng of Athenians. With quiet dignity the figure of the man, surnamed the Olympian, towered above the crowd. He made no animated gestures. His hand was concealed in his upper garment, but his voice echoed with impressive, marvellous melody over the heads of the listeners. The Sicyonian heard the tone, and even without understanding the words, seemed spellbound by the sounds, which were as caressing as the murmuring west wind, and yet as strong as the distant rolling of thunder in the air.

Suddenly the Sicyonian saw Pericles withdraw his right hand from the upper garment, in which he hitherto had kept it concealed, and extend it straight before him, pointing to the neighboring height of the Acropolis towering directly opposite.

At this gesture all the thousands of Athenians turned their heads, and following the direction of the orator’s outstretched hand, gazed at the sacred height, glowing in the bright light of day. The Sicyonian did the same. It seemed as if the consecrated hill glittered more brightly, shimmered with a new, prophetic lustre. It was as if, at the sound of Pericles’ words, they saw something, not yet visible to their bodily eyes, rise before those of their minds, as if the mountain wished to adorn itself with a magic crown, that would outlast many imperial ones, see many generations of men pass away, and shine calmly on in its pure splendor to the end of time—

The listening Sicyonian heard the thunder of Pericles’ words die away, saw the orator take the wreath from his head, as he descended from the stage amid the shouts of the Athenian populace, saw the presiding prytane call upon the people to vote, saw them do so, by raising their hands, beheld the decision announced and lastly, at a sign from the prytane, the herald proclaim the close of the council.

The crowd streamed back through the open barriers, and flowed in an impetuous torrent down the declivity of the Pnyx. The Sicyonian, meeting his friend from Halimus, asked:

“How did it result?”

“We have granted everything!” cried the pedler with sparkling eyes. “We voted down the oligarchs and friends of Laconia,” he continued, “and granted the soldiers’ pay, the judges’ pay, and the money for the plays. Just imagine the joy of the poor people, when, in spite of the oligarchs, we granted ourselves all these fine things. As for the magnificent new temple of Pallas on the Acropolis, with the building in the rear for the public treasure, the great statue of Pallas, and the triple portico, through which the Panathenaic procession will henceforth march around the Acropolis, and whose plan has been sketched by Phidias, there was not one Athenian citizen, of all the crowd gathered within the barriers, who would not give everything he calls his, if the superb edifice could already stand there completed, as Pericles described and fairly showed it with his finger. Only some of those fellows with long beards and thick Laconian canes—you know—made objections:—there had already been a great deal of building; the new wrestling school and the Odeium were already commenced; we might wait a little for the great marble temple on the Acropolis; the structure would devour immense sums. Then came Pericles:—‘if you Athenians,’ he said, ‘do not wish to erect this superb work according to the plans of Phidias and Ictinus at the public expense, Hippias, Hipponicus, Dionysidorus, Pyrilampes, and many other of the richest men in Athens have vowed to carry on the building with their own means, and these men, not the Athenian nation, will then have the glory of it forever.’ That was enough. You can imagine how we hastened, with loud shouts, to hold up our hands and grant what Pericles and Phidias desired. Then, just as we were in the greatest eagerness to grant consent, Phidias, summoned by Pericles, came forward to explain the cost of the building and statue, and said: ‘made of ivory and gold, my Pallas Athena will cost so much; of marble or bronze only so much.’ Shouts resounded on all sides: ‘ivory and gold! Only don’t be niggardly, Phidias, and go to work at once.’”

Such was the story the Athenian, with eager gestures, told the Sicyonian. All Athens was in a sort of excitement, spread in every direction by those who came down from the Pnyx.

Proud as a king, dreaming of plays, public games, magnificent temples, treasure-houses, ivory and gold statues, rejoicing over all these things as if they were already completed, and the ornaments of his own house, the ribbon-dealer from Halimus walked through the southern gate towards his home. He told every one he met of the transactions on the Pnyx, and on reaching his house, greeted even his brown-skinned wife, who holding a child in her arms, met him on the threshold, with the words: ‘We have granted everything!’