Buried Cities | Page 2

Candleholder
The Dancing Faun Hermes in Repose
The Arch of Nero
OLYMPIA
1. Two Winners of Crowns
2. How a City Was Lost
_Pictures of Olympia_:
Entrance to Stadion
Gymnasium
Boys in Gymnasium
Temple of Zeus
The Labors of Herakles
The Statue of Victory
The Hermes of Praxiteles
The Temple of Hera
Head of an Athlete
A Greek Horseman
MYCENÆ
1. How a Lost City Was Found
_Pictures of Mycenæ_:
The Circle of Royal Tombs
Doctor and Mrs. Schliemann at Work
The Gate of Lions
Inside the Treasury of Atreus
The Interior of the Palace
Gold Mask; Cow's Head
The Warrior Vase
Bronze Helmets; Gem
Bronze Daggers

Carved Ivory Head; Bronze Brooches
A Cup from Vaphio
Gold Plates; Gold Ornament
Mycenæ in the Distance
[Illustration: Line Art of Bronze Lamp. Caption: Bronze Lamps. The
bowl held olive oil. A wick came out at the nozzle. These lamps gave a
dim and smoky light.]

THE GREEK SLATE AND THE LITTLE ROMAN BOY
Ariston, the Greek slave, was busily painting. He stood in a little room
with three smooth walls. The fourth side was open upon a court. A little
fountain splashed there. Above stretched the brilliant sky of Italy. The
August sun shone hotly down. It cut sharp shadows of the columns on
the cement floor. This was the master's room. The artist was painting
the walls. Two were already gay with pictures. They showed the
mighty deeds of warlike Herakles. Here was Herakles strangling the
lion, Herakles killing the hideous hydra, Herakles carrying the wild
boar on his shoulders, Herakles training the mad horses. But now the
boy was painting the best deed of all--Herakles saving Alcestis from
death. He had made the hero big and beautiful. The strong muscles lay
smooth in the great body. One hand trailed the club. On the other arm
hung the famous lion skin. With that hand the god led Alcestis. He
turned his head toward her and smiled. On the ground lay Death,
bruised and bleeding. One batlike black wing hung broken. He scowled
after the hero and the woman. In the sky above him stood Apollo, the
lord of life, looking down. But the picture of the god was only half
finished. The figure was sketched in outline. Ariston was rapidly laying
on paint with his little brushes. His eyes glowed with Apollo's own fire.
His lips were open, and his breath came through them pantingly.
"O god of beauty, god of Hellas, god of freedom, help me!" he half
whispered while his brush worked.
For he had a great plan in his mind. Here he was, a slave in this rich
Roman's house. Yet he was a free-born son of Athens, from a family of
painters. Pirates had brought him here to Pompeii, and had sold him as
a slave. His artist's skill had helped him, even in this cruel land. For his
master, Tetreius, loved beauty. The Roman had soon found that his
young Greek slave was a painter. He had said to his steward:

"Let this boy work at the mill no longer. He shall paint the walls of my
private room."
So he had talked to Ariston about what the pictures should be. The
Greek had found that this solemn, frowning Roman was really a kind
man. Then hope had sprung up in his breast and had sung of freedom.
"I will do my best to please him," he had thought. "When all the walls
are beautiful, perhaps he will smile at my work. Then I will clasp his
knees. I will tell him of my father, of Athens, of how I was stolen.
Perhaps he will send me home."
Now the painting was almost done. As he worked, a thousand pictures
were flashing through his mind. He saw his beloved old home in lovely
Athens. He felt his father's hand on his, teaching him to paint. He gazed
again at the Parthenon, more beautiful than a dream. Then he saw
himself playing on the fishing boat on that terrible holiday. He saw the
pirate ship sail swiftly from behind a rocky point and pounce upon
them. He saw himself and his friends dragged aboard. He felt the tight
rope on his wrists as they bound him and threw him under the deck. He
saw himself standing here in the market place of Pompeii. He heard
himself sold for a slave. At that thought he threw down his brush and
groaned.
But soon he grew calmer. Perhaps the sweet drip of the fountain cooled
his hot thoughts. Perhaps the soft touch of the sun soothed his heart. He
took up his brushes again and set to work.
"The last figure shall be the most beautiful of all," he said to himself.
"It is my own god, Apollo."
So he