Now we pass through the valley between the Areopagus and the great Temple-rock, and, turning to the left, we have the stairway and the great gates in front of us. By the way, Pericles has given the town a new Hall of Song, the Odeum, which stands below the rock at the farther end. It has a high, conical, domed roof, the only one of the kind in the city. Now, Pericles himself has rather a cone-shaped crown to his head—in fact, in his portrait-busts he likes to be sculptured wearing a helmet to hide that too prominent development; and a rude joker can always raise a laugh as the great man passes, by calling his head his Odeum. The Athenians are not what you would call a reverent people, and even when they think no end of a man they can't help poking fun at him all the same.

Here is the great stairway, then, with its towers and gates. We pass through an outside gate, between two square towers, almost plain, but of fine masonry, and before us a flight of marble steps, 70 feet broad, leads up to the main entrance gate, the Propylæa. Mnesicles, who designed the gate, has only got his work half-finished as yet, but already it is magnificent, and quite justifies the pride with which all Athenians regard it. It is going to cost them about a million and a half before it is complete; but they don't grudge it, because they feel that such a building is a greater honour to the city than any amount of wealth. It is fronted with a noble triple colonnade of huge marble columns, and on either side of the entrance passage there will be picture-galleries with paintings by Polygnotus, Panainos, and others.

We pass through the gates and colonnade, and come out on a wide paved platform. Before us, a little to the left, towers the great bronze figure of Athene the Champion, lifting the gilded point of her spear high above all the buildings on the rock. But the great sight is the splendid temple that stands on the right hand—the Parthenon, the Shrine of the Maiden-Goddess. Nowhere in all the world will you see so beautiful and magnificent a building. It is not that the size is so very great, for you may see far larger temples in Egypt; but nothing that the Egyptian builders ever reared can compare for a moment with the beauty and dignity of this wonder of the world. The temple is a great oblong, 228 feet from east to west, 101 from north to south. The eastern front, at which we are looking, has a double row of Doric pillars of golden-white Pentelic marble, supporting the triangular gable, which rises 65 feet above the base. Each pillar is more than 34 feet in height, and the two longer sides of the building are faced with single rows of similar columns, while the west front has a double row to match the east. But the glory of the whole building is its sculpture. Look up to the great triangular gable. It is filled with figures hewn out of the lovely Pentelic marble, which stand out clear and sharp upon a background of deep crimson. The subject of the whole scene is the birth of Athene from the head of Zeus. The great father-god sits majestically on his throne in the centre. Beside him stands the new-born goddess, who has just sprung full-grown and fully armed from his head, and close to them is Hephæstus, the artificer-god, whose hammer has just struck the blow that set Athene free. Iris, the swift-footed messenger of the gods, hastens to give to mortals the news of the glorious birth; while in one corner of the scene the chariot of the Sun, with its fiery horses, is rising out of the sea, and the chariot of the Moon sinks to rest in the waters at the opposite corner. All the great figures are delicately touched with colour to give them life-likeness, and the whole pediment is a hymn of praise to the glory of Athene. If we go round to the western front we shall find its gable filled with another sculptured scene, representing the contest between Athene and Poseidon, the god of the deep, and the triumph of the virgin-goddess.

Below the triangular gable, and between it and the great marble beams that cross from pillar to pillar, holding up the whole roof, is a series of square panels running round the whole temple, and separated from one another by alternate breadths of deep fluting. On the panels are sculptured in high relief scenes from ancient Greek legend, the Battle of the Centaurs and the Lapithæ, of the Greeks and the Amazons, the Gods and the Giants, and so forth. There are ninety-two of them in all, each standing out upon its background of softly glowing colour.

Now let us mount the steps and pass within the colonnade. Look up, as you walk round between the pillars and the inner wall of the temple, to the frieze of sculpture that runs right round the wall just below the roof. It is well worth craning your neck to see, for here Pheidias has put forth all his skill, and no temple on earth has such a glory on its walls as this 524-feet-long ribbon of the Panathenaic Procession.

It begins on the eastern front of the wall. Here sit the immortal gods and goddesses, quietly at home in their good city of Athens. Hera, holding aside her veil, turns to speak to great Zeus, her husband, who sits a little apart. Athene talks quietly with Hephæstus; and even Ares, the dreadful God of War, has forgotten spear and shield, and lounges at his ease, with hands clasped round his right knee. Close behind Athene, a priest takes the old robe of the goddess, which is to be replaced by a new one, folds it up, and hands it to a lad. Elders and maidens stand around, waiting for the arrival of the great procession.

Pass round the corner, and, as you move along, the procession seems to advance to meet you. Young men lead up the oxen and sheep for sacrifice; flute-players and harpers marshal in war-chariots, palm-bearing victors, and heavy-armed infantry with spear and shield. Behind them come the knights—gallant young men of the best blood of Athens, sitting their fiery barebacked steeds with ease and grace, their mantles flying in the wind. Farther back still are others, just getting ready to join the march, attendants holding the impatient horses, a young knight stooping to tie the thong of his sandal, which has got loosened. The whole thing is of the most exquisite simplicity and grace—just the actual scene as it will be witnessed in a few days, and now fixed for ever on the walls of Athene's house.

If we may enter the eastern shrine, we shall see the glory of glories. For here, in silent, lonely state, stands the great ivory and gold statue of the goddess that Pheidias has wrought to dwell in the midst of her own city. Thirty-nine feet high she towers, from her carven sandal to the peak of her triple-crested golden helmet. The face, with its lovely ground tint of creamy-white, is coloured to the life—blue eyes, red lips, golden locks escaping from beneath the shadowing helmet. She bears £150,000 worth of pure gold on shield and helm and breastplate, all so fastened that it can be detached and weighed if need be. So Pericles has ordered Pheidias to make it, lest base men should say that we have cheated the gods. Athene, for all her vastness and splendour, is not terrible; she looks down with quiet benignity upon her worshippers, as though satisfied with their devotion. And well she may be, for never since men have worshipped the gods has so splendid a temple and so costly and beautiful a statue been set up, and scarcely ever shall there be seen such another as long as the world stands.