nobility of these proud and peaceful citizens. Celts, Germans, and
Slavs appeared as conscientious but scarcely civilised Scythians. Our
own Middle Ages seemed to me devoid of elegance and style, disfigured
by misplaced pride and pedantry, Charlemagne was nothing more than an
awkward German stableman; our chevaliers louts at whom Themistocles
and Alcibiades would have laughed. But here you had a whole people
of aristocrats, a general public composed entirely of connoisseurs,
a democracy which was capable of distinguishing shades of art so
delicate that even our most refined judges can scarcely appreciate
them. Here you had a public capable of understanding in what consisted
the beauty of the Propylon and the superiority of the sculptures of
the Parthenon. This revelation of true and simple grandeur went to
my very soul. All that I had hitherto seen seemed to me the
awkward effort of a Jesuitical art, a rococo mixture of silly pomp,
charlatanism, and caricature.

These sentiments were stronger as I stood on the Acropolis than
anywhere else. An excellent architect with whom I had travelled would
often remark that to his mind the truth of the gods was in proportion
to the solid beauty of the temples reared in their honour. Judged by
this standard, Athens would have no rival. What adds so much to the
beauty of the buildings is their absolute honesty and the respect
shown to the Divinity. The parts of the building not seen by the
public are as well constructed as those which meet the eye; and
there are none of those deceptions which, in French churches more
particularly, give the idea of being intended to mislead the
Divinity as to the value of the offering. The aspect of rectitude and
seriousness which I had before me caused me to blush at the thought
of having often done sacrifice to a less pure ideal. The hours which
I passed on the sacred eminence were hours of prayer. My whole life