It didn't look very imposing as we came to it evening, for, like almost all Athenian houses, it showed only a blank wall to the street, and the walls are only of sun-dried brick, set in wooden frames, and covered with stucco. The Athenians keep their splendour for their great public buildings, and even a famous man like Pericles lives in quite a simple and unpretending house. The open court where we are standing is the favourite gathering place for the family and its friends, for in this fine climate we all live, as much as possible, in the open air, and the lighter meals, breakfast and lunch, are served in the court. Dinner, in the evening, takes place in the large dining-room, which opens off the court on one side. Round the court runs a covered veranda, whose tiled roof is supported by pillars about ten feet high. In the centre stands the family altar, dedicated to Zeus of the Home, where Aristodemus gathers his family and slaves for family worship. The floor of the court is of cement, patterned in different colours. On either hand, doors, covered with hanging curtains, open into our little bedrooms. These are quite simply furnished, with bedsteads of olive-wood or bronze, the legs inlaid with ivory. The flock mattresses are supported by leather thongs laced through the framework of the bedstead, and the coverlets are wool, or else skins dyed purple. One or two light folding chairs and a tall bronze lampstand complete the furnishings, which, though very plain, are very gracefully designed. We must not forget the wardrobes, however, which are big wooden chests, carved and exquisitely inlaid with ivory and colour.

On one side of the court opens the door into the women's side of the house; but that we shall not see, for though Praxinoë, Aristodemus's wife, may perhaps come to breakfast or lunch, with the children, in the courtyard, when we have become more at home in the house, the Athenian women keep very much to their own quarters. In fact, the saying goes in Athens that "that woman is best who is least spoken of among men, whether for good or for evil," and wise men say that a woman's chief duty is "to see as little as possible, to hear as little as possible, and to ask as few questions as possible." So Praxinoë, who is a model wife, keeps herself pretty much to the women's side of the house, where she looks after the slaves, and manages household affairs. All the same the Athenian ladies manage to get a good deal of their own way, and perhaps the children get even more. Indeed, our great man, Themistocles, once jokingly said that his child was the real ruler of Greece: "For Athens rules Greece, and I rule Athens, and my wife rules me, and the child rules her." So perhaps we need not be too sorry for Praxinoë, with her spinning and weaving behind the curtain, or for little Megacles and his sisters, whose toys are lying about the courtyard, and whose swing is hanging under the veranda, between two pillars.

Now comes breakfast, and after it we shall go down town with Aristodemus. First of all we shall go to the Agora, for the fish-bell has just rung to let the town know that the new catch is up from Peiræus, and when that sound is heard everybody runs to the market, for the Athenians eat a good deal of fish, and very little meat. As we go down, with two slaves behind us to bring back our purchases, Aristodemus tells us the last joke about the fish-bell. Charicles, the famous harpist, was giving a recital the other day in a hall near the market, when suddenly the bell rang. Up jumped all the company and ran off to the fishmongers' stalls—all except one man—leaving poor Charicles in despair. He came up to his one listener. "Thank you, sir," he said, "for being the only man to have the manners to stay when the fish-bell rang." "What?" said the good-mannered one, "did you say the fish bell? I am too deaf to hear it. Thanks very much for telling me. Good-bye." So he took to his heels like the others, and Charicles was left lamenting.

The market-place is as busy this morning as it was empty last night. It is full of wooden stalls and wicker-work booths, which will all be cleared away after noonday, and everyone is making the most of the "full-market" from nine to twelve. All the merchants seem to be shouting at once—"Buy vinegar—buy oil—buy charcoal," till your ears are deafened. But the fishmongers are the worst. They know they are indispensable, and their impertinence is beyond bearing. Just listen to this rascal talking to that decent citizen, who could buy him and his booth fifty times over. "How much for these two mullets?" A grunt from the fishmonger—"Might be half-a-crown." "Rather dear, isn't it," (for we never buy in Athens without haggling), "won't you take two shillings?" "M—yes, for one of them." "Now, my good man, stop joking, and take two shillings." His highness gives the fish an indignant slap—"Prices is fixed," he shouts, "if you won't give the half-crown get out of this."

Nearly everybody who is anybody in Athens is in the market-place, for the Athenian loves to be sociable, and to know what is going on. Of course, the poorer citizens have their work to attend to; but as every well-to-do Athenian owns a fair number of slaves, there is plenty of leisure among the upper classes, and life is a very pleasant and unhurried affair to them. Most of the quiet dignified gentlemen with whom Aristodemus exchanges salutations are dressed very much like himself, in white tunic and mantle, with purple border. Nearly all are bareheaded, and while a good many wear sandals or shoes, red or white, nearly as many go barefoot. It is no hardship in such a delightful climate. Some of the younger men, however, are as gay as a flower-garden, in cloaks of purple, red, or green, and wear broad-brimmed hats, and very gorgeous boots laced high up the calf, while they have a fine taste in knobbed sticks, with rings of gold or silver round them. Young men, of course, have a kind of special licence to make themselves splendid; but on the whole your Athenian rather laughs at extravagance in dress. There is Meidias the Ionian, bustling through the Agora, with four slaves behind him (no well-bred man would have more than two), and wearing a long purple mantle, whose gold fringe comes right down to his heels. As he swaggers along, with much waving of heavily beringed hands, everybody smiles behind his back, and Aristodemus grumbles something about "the town not being big enough to hold these outsiders."

In one corner of the Agora, where a rather shabby side-street opens off the market-place, a noisy discussion is going on, round the door of a dirty-looking shop. Half a dozen tall Scythian archers, with their bows slung over their shoulders, are standing by the door, and their officer is saying sharp things to the shop-keeper. In fact, he is telling the man that if he doesn't keep better order in his wine shop the magistrates will shut it up altogether. The worthy sergeant speaks his Greek with a most pronounced Scythian brogue; but he manages all the same to make his meaning quite clear to the tavern-keeper, who looks very uncomfortable. Not more so, however, than one or two citizens, who ought to have known better than to be in such a place, especially at such an hour. One of these puts his head out at the door, but, seeing the crowd, draws back, looking very shamefaced. As he vanishes, Aristodemus gives him a parting hit. "You had better come out, Kallias; the more you draw back, the more you will be inside the shop."

These Scythian archers are the Athenian policemen. There are 1,200 of them, and the force was set up by Speusinos. So we call them Speusinioi, just as the British barbarians 2,200 years hence will call their police "Peelers" after their great Archon, Sir Robert Peel. They keep order, or try to keep it, at the public meetings, attend the magistrates, and carry out their orders, as we have seen them doing. And we all laugh at them and their brave attempts to speak Attic Greek—laughter seems to be the fate of policemen in all lands and ages.

Unfortunately the chances are that we shan't see the man whom we would have wished to see above all others. Pericles is not a snob—no well-bred Athenian is—but he keeps himself pretty much to himself, has the reputation of being rather distant and cold in his manner, and, above all, hates the gossip which his fellow townsmen so dearly love. Everybody, for instance, haunts the barber's shop, and when you are there you are sure to hear all the latest news, true or otherwise, from the gentleman who trims your hair or beard. But the last time Pericles was at the barber's, he mortally offended that useful newsmonger. "How will you have your hair cut?" said the barber to the great man. "In silence," was Pericles' grim answer; and now the barber is sure that Pericles is not the man to govern Athens.

But perhaps we have dawdled long enough in the Agora. Aristodemus has made his purchases and sent them home, and now we may take a stroll up to the Acropolis, and have a look at least at the outside of the great Parthenon, before its dedication. On your left hand, as we go out of the Agora, and a little north of the great rock, you will see the Prytaneum, the meeting-place of the fifty senators who form the senate's committee for public affairs. Each of the ten tribes has its fifty representatives, making a council of five hundred, and each fifty holds office for a month. The Archons, our chief magistrates, and a few of the most distinguished citizens, always dine in the Prytaneum together, and a citizen who has done special service to the State may have that privilege granted to him for the rest of his life. There is no higher honour than to be promoted to a seat at the Prytaneum dining-table.