As we wandered thoughtfully down the marble-paved length of this stately

temple, the scene about us was strangely impressive. Here and there, in

lavish profusion, were gleaming white statues of men and women, propped

against blocks of marble, some of them armless, some without legs, others

headless--but all looking mournful in the moonlight, and startlingly

human! They rose up and confronted the midnight intruder on every side

--they stared at him with stony eyes from unlooked-for nooks and recesses;

they peered at him over fragmentary heaps far down the desolate

corridors; they barred his way in the midst of the broad forum, and

solemnly pointed with handless arms the way from the sacred fane; and

through the roofless temple the moon looked down, and banded the floor

and darkened the scattered fragments and broken statues with the slanting

shadows of the columns.

What a world of ruined sculpture was about us! Set up in rows--stacked

up in piles--scattered broadcast over the wide area of the Acropolis

--were hundreds of crippled statues of all sizes and of the most exquisite

workmanship; and vast fragments of marble that once belonged to the

entablatures, covered with bas-reliefs representing battles and sieges,

ships of war with three and four tiers of oars, pageants and processions

--every thing one could think of. History says that the temples of the

Acropolis were filled with the noblest works of Praxiteles and Phidias,

and of many a great master in sculpture besides--and surely these elegant

fragments attest it.

394

The Innocents Abroad