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Tlasiadis memor ecce Menecrates hoc monumentum, Ortum OEantheus, populus statuebat at illi, Quippe benignus erat populo patronus, in alto Sed periit ponto, totam et dolor obruit urbem. Praximenes autem patriis huc venit ab oris Cum populo et fratris monumentum hoc struxit adempti.
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Americans are accused of cherishing an inordinate love for the superlative--the longest river, the highest mountain, the deepest mine in the world, the largest diamond in the world; there must always be that tag
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to interest us. When ancient objects are in question we are said to rush from one to the next, applying our sole test; and we drop at any time a tomb or a temple, no matter how beautiful, if there comes a rumor that another has been discovered a little farther on which is thought to be a trifle more venerable. Thus they chaff us--pilgrims from a land where Nature herself works in superlatives, and where there is no antiquity at all. In Italy our mania, exercising itself upon smaller objects than temples, brings us nearer the comprehension (or non-comprehension) of the contemptuous natives.
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What hideous (she called it hee-dee us)
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I heard an Italian lady exclaim with conviction some years ago, as she happened to meet three of her American acquaintances returning from a hunt through the antiquity-shops of Naples, loaded with a battered lamp, a square of moth-eaten tapestry with an indecipherable inscription, and a nondescript broken animal in bronze, without head, tail, or legs, who might have been intended for a dragon, or possibly for a cow. After a while we pass this stage of antiquity-shops. But we never pass the Etruscans, or, rather, I should speak for myself, and say that I never passed them; I was perpetually haunted by them. There was one road in particular, a lonely track which led from Bellosguardo (at Florence) up a steep hill, and I was forever climbing this stony ascent because, forsooth, it was set down on an Italian map as
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two strongholds of this mysterious people. I was sure that there were tombs with strangely painted walls close at hand, and when there was no one in sight I made furtive archæological pokes with my parasol. In Italy an Etruscan tomb seems the oldest thing
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And at Corfu the unearthed Greek cemetery became doubly interesting when I learned that among the relics discovered there was a lioness couchant, concerning which the highest authorities have said,
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After the lions of the gates of Mycenæ, there is no Greek sculpture older than this. (The lioness is now in the vestibule of the palace in the esplanade.) This was exciting, for Mycenæ is a name to conjure with still, in spite of the refusal of the learned to accept, in all their extent, Dr. Schliemann's splendidly romantic theories and dreams. But when one goes on to Egypt, to have searched at all for that enticing