he sees is a revelation to him. The mountains are higher, more varied
and more beautiful than he had supposed, Lycabettus and the Acropolis
more imposing, Pentelicus farther away, and the plain larger, the gulf
narrower, and Egina nearer and more mountainous, than he had fancied.
He is astonished at the smallness of the harbor at Peiraeus, having
insensibly formed his conception of its size from the notices of the
mighty fleets which sailed from it in the palmy days when Athens was
mistress of the seas. He is not prepared to see the southern shore
of Salamis so near to the Peiraeus, though it explains the close
connection between that island and Athens, and throws some light upon
the great naval defeat of the Persians. In short, while every object
is recognized as it presents itself, yet a more correct conception is
formed of its relative position and aspect from a single glance of the
eye than had been acquired from books during years of study.

Arrived at the city, his experience is the same. He needs no guide to
conduct him to its antiquities, nor cicerone to explain in bad
French or worse English their names and history. Still, unexpected
appearances present themselves not unfrequently. Hastening toward the
Acropolis, he will first inspect the remains of the great theatre of
Dionysus, so familiar to him as the place where, in the presence
of all the people and many strangers, were acted the plays of his
favorite poets, Eschylus and Sophocles, and where they won many
prizes. Hurrying over the eastern brow of the hill, he comes suddenly
upon the spot, enters at the summit, as many an Athenian did in the
olden time, and is smitten with amazement at the first glance, and led
to question whether this be indeed the site of the ancient theatre. He
finds, it is true, the topmost seats cut in the solid rock, row above
row, stripped now of their marble lining and weather-worn, but yet the
genuine ancient seats of the upper tier. These he expected to find.