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were changed into Christian places of worship, of which no less a number than 174 could, in 1820, be pointed out in the city and its immediate neighborhood. How true, then, is the apostle's remark, that the Athenians were "exceedingly religious!"* With this prospect before him-in the very sight of these templesunder the very frown of the colossal statue of Minerva, the intrepid apostle hesitated not to tell the vain, and elegant, and religious Athenians, that "GOD dwelleth not in temples made with hands;" and that they ought not to think him like unto gold, or silver, or stone, graven by art and man's device. He hesitated not to speak of their state as a state of ignorance; and, in the very place which derived its celebrity from the far-famed wisdom and authority of their supreme tribunal, he was not afraid to declare that "GOD now commandeth all men everywhere to repent, because he hath appointed a day in the which he will judge the world in righteousness, by that man whom he hath ordained; whereof he hath given assurance unto all men, in that he hath raised him from the dead."

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Ancient Athens was divided into the Acropolis or upper, and the Catapolis or lower city. The former contained the most splendid works of art, of which Athens could boast. Its chief ornament, however, was the PARTHENON, or temple of Minerva. Originally this was an elegant structure, supported by one hundred and twenty-eight marble pillars! and having, over its great gate

* See Doddridge on Acts xvii. 22.

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two horses, sculptured by Praxiteles. This magnificent building, which even in ruins has been the wonder of the world, was 217 feet long, 98 broad, and 65 high. Destroyed by the Persians, it was rebuilt in a noble manner by Pericles, 444 years before CHRIST. Here stood the statue of Minerva, formed of ivory, 46 feet high, and richly decorated with gold to the value of more than $520,000.

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The Propylæum, built of white marble, formed the entrance to the Parthenon. This building lay on the north side of the Acropolis, close to the Erectheum, also of white marble, consisting of two temples; beside another remarkable building, called the Pandroseum. In the circle of Minerva's temple stood the olivetree, sacred to that goddess.

On the front part of the Acropolis, and on each end, were two theatres, built with extraordinary splendor.

In the lower city were the Poikile, or the gallery of historical paintings, the temple of the Winds, and the monuments of celebrated men. But the greatest pieces of architecture were without the city. These were the temples of Theseus and Jupiter Olympus; one on the north, and the other on the south side of the city.

The temple of Theseus resembled the Parthenon. On this temple, the famous deeds of old heroes and kings were represented. The temple of Jupiter Olympus surpassed all the other buildings of Athens in splendor and beauty. Incalculable sums were spent on it. It was finished by Adrian. The outside of this temple was adorned by 120 fluted columns, 60 feet high and 6 in diameter. The inside was more than half a league in circumference. Here stood the statue of the god made by Phydias, of gold and ivory.

In the fifth century, the Parthenon was turned into a church of

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the Virgin Mary. In 1456, when Athens fell into the hands of the Turks, it became a mosque.

This is a brief account of Athens, as it once was. Now, under the dominion of the Turks, and after 2,300 years of war and devastation, how changed! Still its ruins excite astonishment.

We might fill many pages in dilating upon the ruins of POMPEII and HERCULANEUM, concealed so many years beneath their covering of lava. Strange event-the cities preserve the same form, the same appearance, after a lapse of eighteen hundred years, as when inhabited by the Romans.

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POMPEII.-View up the street of Tombs, looking to the gates.

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We have only room here to give a very brief description of Pompeii, and the calamitous event, by which it was overwhelmed.

The entrance into Pompeii is through what is now called the

street of Tombs, of which a view is given in the preceding engraving. The part which was first cleared is supposed to have been the main street of Pompeii; but this is much to be doubted, as the houses on both sides, with the exception of a few, were evidently the habitations of common citizens, and were small, and provided with booths. The street itself likewise is narrow: two carriages only could go abreast; and it is very uncertain whether it ran through the whole of the town; for, from the spot where the moderns discontinued digging, to that where they recommenced, and where the same street is supposed to have been again found, a wide tract is covered with vineyards, which may very well occupy the place of the most splendid streets and markets, still concealed underneath.

The fate of the Pompeians must have been dreadful. It was not a stream of fire which encompassed their abodes: they could then have sought refuge in flight. Neither did an earthquake swallow them up: sudden suffocation would then have spared them the pangs of a lingering death. A rain of ashes buried them alive BY DEGREES!

Pliny the younger, who was an eyewitness of the memorable explosion of Vesuvius by which Pompeii was overwhelmed, has given an animated description of the scene, in a letter addressed to Tacitus, from which we extract the following passage:—

"A darkness suddenly overspread the country; not like the darkness of a moonless night; but like that of a closed room, in which the light is on a sudden extinguished. Women screamed, children moaned, men cried. Here, children were anxiously calling their parents; and there, parents were seeking their children, or husbands their wives: all recognised each other only by their cries. The former lamented their own fate, and the latter that of those dearest to them. Many wished for death, from the fear of dying: many called on the gods for assistance: others despaired of the existence of the gods, and thought this the last eternal night of the world. Actual dangers were magnified by unreal terrors. The earth continued to shake; and men, half-distracted, reeled about, exaggerating their own fears, and those of others, by terrifying predictions."

RUINS! they possess a peculiar power. They afford subjectmatter for pleasing and instructive thought to all those who have the taste to feel the beauty and sublimity which they so profluently exhibit, and the mind necessary to appreciate their importance. It is astonishing how perfectly the remains of past ages prove the universality of character which God has impressed upon the soul of man. Wherever there has been the seat of extensive power, there we invariably find a similarity of extent in the products of the people; and in some we find the more perfect exhibition of one trait of mind, and in some of another, yet for grade of spirit there seems to be no difference. Nor is there any region on the wide world's surface, which appears to be without these traces of

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times bygone, in which the giants of intellect walked the earth.
The savage
wilderness of what we deemed untrodden America,
the sandy deserts of Syria, and the wild inlands of Africa, all attest
powers of soul, in their architectural remains, unequalled since
the days when their lofty and majestic constructions were erected,
until, perhaps, the present time. In some the grand, in some the
sublime prevails, in others the varied and the beautiful are ap-
parent. But whatever be their peculiar characters, every place
appears to have that as its treasure-house of thought, and maga-
zine of interest, which is most appropriately adapted to the spot
in which it is placed. Over many the rank grass now waves, and
in others, but little is left to indicate the nature of the place, which
once filled the then present scene; but, with all, sufficient is left,
either in romance or traditionary record, to indicate its peculiarity.
Man's noblest labors have vanished, and now only
66 can adorn a
tale." We look back with admiration, awe, and astonishment, at
the colossal architecture of former days. We view with reverence
the mighty achievements of our great progenitors, and the won-
drous perfection to which they carried the refinements of art
through that mighty and ever-working engine-MIND. We trace its
rise, fall, and decay. We linger for a time to take a last glimpse
of the mighty deeds of man, and then come to the humiliating con-
clusion, that all his best, his noblest works, are but vanity; that
all his labors, like himself, are mortal and perishable; that all
around is subject to decay, for only ONE can brave the eternity
of
ages,
and look serene on the ever-varying mutations of nature.
RUINS! Why, what is our world but one vast Carthage, and what
are we who inhabit it, but the Marius sitting amid the evidences
of its decay? And what is the language of these Ruins? They
tell us of stupendous piles, all-glorious as the hand of the most
sublime artist could make them; and they speak of buildings
whose domes courted heaven, and drank in the golden flood of
living light from the sky; they tell us of oracles, but they give
forth no response; of temples, but they ring with no chant; of
the palace, but the shout of revelry is hushed there; of the hall,
but the warrior's voice hath not left an echo. Yet a hollow sound
comes from the chambers of the grave, and it peals over the
crumbled stone, and the triumphal arch, the 'bust, and the pillar,
the frieze, and the relief, the pillared obelisk, and the proud sar-
cophagus, declaring "vanities of vanities!" The chart of time
is before me-I stand amid the dateless tombs of thousands of
years, the dynasties of all time rush on my vision. I turn a back-
ward glance, and I see all the world's mighty empires; they
crowd on each other, each in its own sepulchral grandeur, the
world's melancholy funeral procession; the sceptre is snapped,
the throne is prostrate, the power is gone.

The cloud-capt towers, and gorgeous palaces,
The soleının temples,

must all dissolve,

And, like the baseless fabric of a vision,

Leave not a wreck behind.

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