t streets at the west of Athens....

We rose at the break of dawn to see whether our window would afford any
prospect to serve as a requital for angry sleeplessness. And there,
right opposite, stood the rock which of all rocks in the world's history
has done most for literature and art--the rock which poets, and orators,
and architects, and historians have ever glorified, and can not stay
their praise--which is ever new and ever old, ever fresh in its decay,
ever perfect in its ruin, ever living in its death--the Acropolis of
Athens.

When I saw my dream and longing of many years fulfilled, the first rays
of the rising sun had just touched the heights, while the town below was
still hid in gloom. Rock, and rampart, and ruined fanes--all were
colored in uniform tints; the lights were of a deep rich orange, and the
shadows of dark crimson, with the deeper lines of purple. There was no
variety in color between what nature and what man had set there. No
whiteness shone from the marble, no smoothness showed upon the hewn and
polished blocks; but the whole mass of orange and crimson stood out
together into the pale, pure Attic air. There it stood, surrounded by
lanes and hovels, still perpetuating the great old contrast in Greek
history, of magnificence and meanness--of loftiness and lowness--as well
in outer life as in inward motive. And, as it were in illustration of
that art of which it was the most perfect bloom, and which lasted in
perfection but a day of history, I saw it again and again, in sunlight
and in shade, in daylight and at night, but never again in this perfect
and singular beauty....

I suppose there can be no doubt whatever that the ruins on the Acropolis
of Athens are the most remarkable in the world. There are ruins far
larger, such as the Pyramids, and the remains of Karnak. There are ruins
far more perfectly preserved, such as the great Temple at Paestum. There
are ruins more picturesque, such as the ivy-clad walls of medieval
abbeys beside the rivers in the rich valleys of England. But there is no
ruin all the world over which combines so much striking beauty, so
distinct a type, so vast a volume of history, so great a pageant of
immortal memories. There is, in fact, no building on earth which can
sustain the burden of such greatness, and so the first visit to the
Acropolis is and must be disappointing.

When the traveler reflects how all the Old World's culture culminated in
Greece--all Greece in A