Chapter IX: Part 9

Fortune had favored Timoleon again. If he hoped for success this was the moment to attack. The enemy was divided and in disorder. With cheery words he bade his men to charge. The cavalry dashed on in front. Seizing a shield, Timoleon sprang to the front and led on his footmen, rousing them to activity by exultant words and bidding the trumpets to sound. Rushing down the hill and through the line of chariots, the charging mass poured on the Carthaginian infantry. These fought bravely and defied the Grecian spears with the strength of their armor. The assailants had to take to their swords, and try and hew their way through the dense ranks of the foe.

The result was in serious doubt, when once more the gods--as it seemed--came to Timoleon's aid. A violent storm suddenly arose. Darkness shrouded the hill-tops. The wind blew a hurricane. Rain and hail poured down in torrents, while the clouds flashed with lightning and roared with thunder. And all this was on the backs of the Greeks; in the faces of the Carthaginians. They could not hear the orders of their officers. The ground became so muddy that many of them slipped and fell: and once down their heavy armor would not let them rise again. The Greeks, driven forward by the wind, attacked their foes with double energy. At length, blinded by the driving storm, distracted by the furious assault, and four hundred of their front ranks fallen, the white shield battalion turned and fled.

But flight was not easy. They met their own troops coming up. The stream had become suddenly swollen with the rain. In the confused flight numbers were drowned. The panic spread from rank to rank until the whole host was in total rout, flying wildly over the hills, leaving their camp and baggage to the victors, who pursued and slaughtered them in thousands as they fled.

Such a complete victory had rarely been won. Ten thousand Carthaginians were killed and fifteen thousand made prisoners, their war chariots were captured, and the spoil found in the camp and on the track of the flying army was prodigiously great. As for the Sacred Band, it was annihilated. The story is told that it was slain to a man. The broken remnants of the flying army hastened to their ships, which they were half afraid to enter, for fear the gods that helped Timoleon would destroy them on the seas. And thus was Sicily freed.

The thousand deserters who had left Timoleon's army on its march were ordered by him to leave the island at once. They did so, crossed the Strait of Messina, and took possession of a site in southern Italy, where they were attacked by the people and every man of them slain. As regards the concluding events of our story, it will suffice to say that Timoleon had other fighting to do, with Carthaginians and despots; but his wonderful fortune continued throughout, and before long Sicily held not an enemy in arms.

And now came the greatest triumph of the Corinthian victor. One master alone remained in Sicily,--himself. Despotic power was his had he said the word. The people warmly requested him to retain his control. But no; he had come to free them from tyranny, and free they should be. He laid down at once all his power, gave up the command of the army, and went to live as a private citizen of Syracuse, without office or power.

A single dominion yet remained to him,--that of affection. The people worshipped him. His voice was law. As he grew older his sight failed, until he became totally blind. Yet still, when any difficult question arose, the people trusted to their sightless benefactor to tell them what to do. On such occasions Timoleon would be brought in his car, drawn by mules across the market-place, and then by attendants into the hall of assembly. Here, still seated in his car, he would listen to the debate, and in the end give his own opinion, which was usually accepted by nearly the whole assembly. This done, the car would be drawn out again amid shouts and cheers, and the blind "father of his country" return to his modest home.

Such liberty and prosperity as now ruled in Sicily had not for a century been known, and when, three or four years after the great victory of the Crimesus, Timoleon suddenly died, the grief of the people was universal and profound. His funeral obsequies were splendidly celebrated at the public cost, his body was burned on a vast funeral pile, and as the flames flashed upward a herald proclaimed,--

"The Syracusan people solemnize, at the cost of two hundred minae, the funeral of this man, the Corinthian Timoleon, son of Timodemus. They have passed a vote to honor him for all future time with festival matches in music, horse and chariot races, and gymnastics; because, after having put down the despots, subdued the foreign enemy, and recolonized the greatest among the ruined cities, he restored to the Sicilian Greeks their constitution and laws."

And thus died one of the noblest and most successful men the world has ever known. The fratricide of his earlier years was for the good of mankind, and his whole life was consecrated to the cause of human liberty, while not a thought of self-aggrandizement seems to have ever disturbed his noble soul.

_THE SACRED WAR._

There were two places in Greece which had been set aside as sacred,--Plataea, the scene of the final defeat of the Persian invaders, and Delphi, the seat of the great temple of Apollo, in whose oracles all Greece placed faith. We have already seen how little the sacredness of Plataea protected it from ruin. We have next to see how the sacredness of Delphi was condemned, and how all Greece suffered in consequence.

The temple of Apollo at Delphi had long been held so inviolate that it became a rich reservoir of treasures, gathered throughout the centuries. Croesus, the rich king of Lydia, sent thither the overflow of his wealth, and hundreds of others paid liberally for the promises of the priestess, until the treasures of Delphi became a by-word in Greece. This vast wealth was felt to be safe. The god would protect his own. Men's voices were deep with awe when they told how the wrath of Apollo had overthrown the Persian robbers who sought to rifle his holy fane. And yet the time came when a horde of bandit Greeks made the temple their prey and the hand of the god was not lifted in its defence, nor did outraged Greece rise to punish the sacrilegious robbers. This is the tale that we have next to tell, that of the so-called Sacred War, with all it meant to Greece.

There was a great Greek council, centuries old, called the Amphictyonic. It met twice every year, usually for religious purposes, rarely for political. But in the time we have now reached this Amphictyonic Council ventured to meddle in politics, and made mischief of the direst character. Its first political act was to fine Sparta five hundred talents for seizing the citadel of Thebes in times of peace. The fine was to be doubled if not paid within a certain time. But as Sparta sneered at the fine, and neither paid it nor its double, the action of the council proved of little avail.

This was of small importance; it was to the next act of the council that the mischief was due. The people of the small state of Phocis, adjoining Delphi, had been accused of cultivating a part of the Cirrhaean plain, which was consecrated to Apollo. This charge, like the former, was brought by Thebes, and the Amphictyonic Council, having fined Sparta, now, under Theban influence, laid a fine on the Phocians so heavy that it was far beyond their means of payment. But Sparta had not paid; why should they? The sentence troubled them little.

At the next meeting of the council severer measures were taken. Sparta was strong; Phocis weak. It was resolved to seize all its territory and consecrate it to Apollo. This unjust sentence roused the Phocians. A bold citizen, Philomelus by name, told them that they must now face war or ruin. The district of Delphi had once been theirs, and had been taken from them wrongfully. "Let us assert our lost rights and seize the temple," he said. "The Thebans want it; let us anticipate them and take back our own."

His words took fire. A strong force was raised, the town and temple were attacked, and both, being practically undefended, were quickly captured. Phocis had regained her own, for Delphi had been taken from her during an older "Sacred War."

Philomelus now announced that the temple and its oracles would not be meddled with. Its treasures would be safe. Visitors would be free to come and go. He would give any security that Greece required that the wealth of Apollo should be safe and all go on as before. But he fortified the town, and invited mercenary soldiers till he had an army of five thousand men. As for the priestess of Apollo, from whose lips the oracles came, he demanded that she should continue to be inspired as before, and should give an oracle in his favor. The priestess refused; whereupon he seized her and sought to drag her to the holy tripod on which she was accustomed to sit. The woman, scared by his violence, cried out, "You may do what you choose!"

Philomelus at once proclaimed this as an oracle in his favor, and published it widely. And it is interesting to learn that many of the superstitious Greeks took his word for it. He certainly took the word of the priestess,--for he did what he chose.

War at once began. Many of the Greek states rose at the call of the condemned Amphictyonic Council. The Phocians were in imminent peril. They were far from strong enough for the war they had invoked. Mercenary troops--"soldiers of fortune"--must be hired; and to hire them money must be had. The citizens of Delphi had already been taxed; the Phocian treasury was empty; where was money to be obtained?

Philomelus settled this question by _borrowing_, with great reluctance, a sum from the temple treasures,--to be paid back as soon as possible. But as the war went on and more money was needed, he borrowed again and again,--now without reluctance. And the practice of robbery once started, he not only paid his troops, but enriched his friends and adorned his wife from Apollo's hoarded wealth.

By this means Philomelus got together an army of ten thousand men,--reckless, dissolute characters, the impious scum of Greece, for no pious Greek would enlist in such a cause. The war was ferocious. The allies put their prisoners to death. Philomelus followed their example. This was a losing game, and both sides gave it up. At length Philomelus and his army were caught in an awkward position, the army was dispersed, and he driven to the verge of a precipice, where he must choose between captivity or death. He chose the latter and leaped from the beetling crags.

The Thebans and their allies foolishly believed that with the death of Philomelus the war was at an end, and marched for their homes. Onomarchus, another Phocian leader, took the opportunity thus afforded to gather the scattered army together again, seized the temple once more, and stood in defiance of all his foes.

In addition to gold and silver, the treasury contained many gifts in brass and iron. The precious metals were melted and converted into money; of the baser metals arms were made. Onomarchus went farther than Philomelus; he not only paid his troops with the treasure, but bribed the leaders of Grecian states, and thus gained powerful friends. He was soon successfully at war, drove back his foes, and pressed his conquests till he had captured Thermopylae and invaded Thessaly.

Here the Phocians came into contact with a foe dangerous to themselves and to all Greece. This foe was the celebrated Philip of Macedonia, a famous soldier who was to play a leading part in the subsequent game. He had long been paving the way to the conquest of Greece, and the Sacred War gave him just the opportunity he wanted.

Macedonia lay north of Greece. Its people were not Greeks, nor like Greeks in their customs. They lived in the country, not in cities, and had little or none of the culture of Greece. But they were the stuff from which good soldiers are made. Hitherto this country had been hardly thought of as an element in the Grecian problem. Its kings were despots who had been kept busy with their foes at home. But now a king had arisen of wider views and larger mould. Philip had spent his youth in Thebes, where he had learned the art of war under Epaminondas. On coming to the throne he quickly proved himself a great soldier and a keen and cunning politician. By dint of war and trickery he rapidly spread his dominions until all his home foes were subdued, Macedonia was greatly extended, and Thessaly, the most northern state of Greece, was overrun.

Therefore the invasion of Thessaly by the Phocians brought them into contact with the Macedonians. At first Onomarchus was successful. He won two battles and drove Philip back to his native state. But another large army was quickly in the field, and this time the army of Onomarchus was utterly beaten and himself slain. As for Philip, although he probably cared not an iota for the Delphian god, he shrewdly professed to be on a crusade against the impious Phocians, and drowned all his prisoners as guilty of sacrilege.

A third leader, Phayllus by name, now took command of the Phocians, and the temple of Apollo was rifled still more freely than before. The splendid gifts of King Croesus had not yet been touched. They were held too precious to be meddled with. But Phayllus did not hesitate to turn these into money. One hundred and seventeen ingots of gold and three hundred and sixty golden goblets went to the melting-pot, and with them a golden statue three cubits high and a lion of the same precious metal. And what added to the horror of pious Greece was that much of the proceeds of these precious treasures was lavished on favorites. The necklaces of Helen and Eriphyle were given to dissolute women, and a woman flute-player received a silver cup and a golden wreath from the temple hoard.

All this gave Philip of Macedonia the desired pretence. He marched against the Phocians, who held Thermopylae, while keeping his Athenian enemies quiet by lies and bribes. The leader of the Phocian garrison, finding that no aid came from the Athenian fleet, surrendered to Philip, and that astute monarch won what he had long schemed for, the Pass of Thermopylae, the Key of Greece.

The Sacred War was at an end, and with it virtually the independence of Greece. Phocis was in the hands of Philip, who professed more than ever to be the defender and guardian of Apollo. All the towns in Phocis were broken up into villages, and the inhabitants were ordered to be fined ten talents annually till they had paid back all they had stolen from the temple. Philip gave back the temple to the Delphians, and was himself voted into membership in the Amphictyonic assembly in place of the discarded Phocians. And all this took place while a treaty of peace tied the hands of the Greeks. The Sacred War had served as a splendid pretext to carry out the ambitious plans of the Macedonian king.

We have now a long story to tell in a few words. Another people, the Locrians, had also made an invasion on Delphian territory. The Amphictyonic Council called on Philip to punish them, He at once marched southward, but, instead of meddling with the Locrians, seized and fortified a town in Phocis. At once Athens, full of alarm, declared war, and Philip was as quick to declare war in return. Both sides sought the support of Thebes, and Athens gained it. In August, 338 B.C., the Grecian and Macedonian armies met and fought a decisive battle near Chaeronea, a Boeotian town. In this great contest Alexander the Great took part.

It was a hotly-contested fight, but in the end Philip triumphed, and Greece was lost. Thebes was forced to yield. Athens, to regain the prisoners held by Philip, acknowledged him to be the head of Greece. All the other states did the same except Sparta, which defied him. He ravaged Laconia, but left the city untouched.

Two years afterwards Philip, lord and master of Greece, was assassinated at the marriage feast of his daughter. His son Alexander succeeded him. Here seemed an opportunity for Greece to regain her freedom. This untried young man could surely not retain what his able father had won. Demosthenes, the celebrated orator, stirred up Athens to revolt. Thebes sprang to arms and attacked the Macedonian garrison in the citadel.

They did not know the man with whom they had to deal. Alexander came upon Thebes like an avalanche, took it by assault, and sold into slavery all the inhabitants not slain in the assault. The city was razed to the ground. This terrible example dismayed the rest of Greece. Submission--with the exception of that of Sparta--was universal. The independence of Greece was at an end. More than two thousand years were to pass before that country would again be free.

_ALEXANDER THE GREAT AND DARIUS._

In the citadel of Gordium, an ancient town of Phrygia in Asia Minor, was preserved an old wagon, rudely built, and very primitive in structure. Tradition said that it had originally belonged to the peasant Gordius and his son Midas, rustic chiefs who had been selected by the gods and chosen by the people as the primitive kings of Phrygia. The cord which attached the yoke of this wagon to the pole, composed of fibres from the bark of the cornel tree, was tied into a knot so twisted and entangled that it seemed as if the fingers of the gods themselves must have tied it, so intricate was it and so impossible, seemingly, to untie.

An oracle had declared that the man who should untie this famous knot would become lord and monarch of all Asia. As may well be imagined, many ambitious men sought to perform the task, but all in vain. The Gordian knot remained tied and Asia unconquered in the year 333 B.C., when Alexander of Macedon, who the year before had invaded Asia, and so far had swept all before him, entered Gordium with his victorious army. As may be surmised, it was not long before he sought the citadel to view this ancient relic, which contained within itself the promise of what he had set out to accomplish. Numbers followed him, Phrygians and Macedonians, curious to see if the subtle knot would yield to his conquering hand, the Macedonians with hope, the Phrygians with doubt.

While the multitude stood in silent and curious expectation, Alexander closely examined the knot, looking in vain for some beginning or end to its complexity. The thing perplexed him. Was he who had never yet failed in any undertaking to be baffled by this piece of rope, this twisted obstacle in the way of success? At length, with that angry impatience which was a leading element in his character, he drew his sword, and with one vigorous stroke severed the cord in two.

At once a shout went up. The problem was solved; the knot was severed; the genius of Alexander had led him to the only means. He had made good his title to the empire of Asia, and was hailed as predestined conqueror by his admiring followers. That night came a storm of thunder and lightning which confirmed the belief, the superstitious Macedonians taking it as the testimony of the gods that the oracle was fulfilled.

Had there been no Gordian knot and no oracle, Alexander would probably have become lord of the empire of Asia all the same, and this not only because he was the best general of his time and one of the best generals of all time, but for two other excellent reasons. One was that his father, Philip, had bequeathed to him the best army of the age. The Greeks had proved, nearly two centuries before, that their military organization and skill were far superior to those of the Persians. During the interval there had been no progress in the army of Persia, while Epaminondas had greatly improved the military art in Greece, and Philip of Macedon, his pupil, had made of the Macedonian army a fighting machine such as the world had never before known. This was the army which, with still further improvements, Alexander was leading into Asia to meet the multitudinous but poorly armed and disciplined Persian host.

The second reason was that Alexander, while the best captain of his age, had opposed to him the worst. It was the misfortune of Persia that a new king, Darius Codomannus by name, had just come to the throne, and was to prove himself utterly incapable of leading an army, unless it was to lead it in flight. It was not only Alexander's great ability, but his marvellous good fortune, which led to his immense success.

The Persians had had a good general in Asia Minor,--Memnon, a Greek of the island of Rhodes. But just at this time this able leader died, and Darius took the command on himself. He could hardly have selected a man from his ranks who would not have made a better commander-in-chief.

Gathering a vast army from his wide-spread dominions, a host six hundred thousand strong, the Persian king marched to meet his foe. He brought with him an enormous weight of baggage, there being enough gold and silver alone to load six hundred mules and three hundred camels; and so confident was he of success that he also brought his mother, wife, and children, and his whole harem, that they might witness his triumph over the insolent Macedonian.

Darius took no steps to guard any of the passes of Asia Minor. Why should he seek to keep back this foe, who was marching blindly to his fate? But instead of waiting for Alexander on the plain, where he could have made use of his vast force, he marched into the defile of Issus, where there was only a mile and a half of open ground between the mountains and the sea, and where his vanguard alone could be brought into action. In this defile the two armies met, the fighting part of each being, through the folly of the Persian king, not greatly different in numbers.

The blunder of Darius was soon made fatal by his abject cowardice. The Macedonians having made a sudden assault on the Persian left wing, it gave way and fled. Darius, who was in his chariot in the centre, seeing himself in danger from this flight, suddenly lost his over-confidence, and in a panic of terror turned his chariot and fled with wild haste from the field. When he reached ground over which the chariot could not pass, he mounted hastily on horseback, flung from him his bow, shield, and royal mantle, and rode in mortal terror away, not having given a single order or made the slightest effort to rally his flying troops.

Darius had been sole commander. His flight left the great army without a leader. Not a man remained who could give a general order. Those who saw him flying were infected with his terror and turned to flee also. The vast host in the rear trampled one another down in their wild haste to get beyond the enemy's reach. The Macedonians must have looked on in amazement. The battle--or what ought to have been a battle--was over before it had fairly begun. The Persian right wing, in which was a body of Greeks, made a hard fight; but these Greeks, on finding that the king had fled, marched in good order away. The Persian cavalry, also, fought bravely until they heard that the king had disappeared, when they also turned to fly. Never had so great a host been so quickly routed, and all through the cowardice of a man who was better fitted by nature to turn a spit than to command an army.

But Alexander was not the man to let his enemy escape unscathed. His pursuit was vigorous. The slaughter of the fugitives was frightful. Thousands were trodden to death in the narrow and broken pass. The camp and the family of Darius were taken, together with a great treasure in coin. The slain in all numbered more than one hundred thousand.

The panic flight of Darius and his utter lack of ability did more than lose him a battle: it lost him an empire. Never was there a battle with more complete and great results. During the next two years Alexander went to work to conquer western Persia. Most of the cities yielded to him. Tyre resisted, and was taken and destroyed. Gaza, another strong city, was captured and its defenders slain. These two cities, which it took nine months to capture, gave Alexander the hardest fighting he ever had. He marched from Gaza to Egypt, which fell without resistance into his hands, and where he built the great city of Alexandria, the only existing memento of his name and deeds. Thence he marched to the Euphrates, wondering where Darius was and what he meant to do. Nearly two years had passed since the battle of Issus, and the kingly poltroon had apparently contented himself with writing letters begging Alexander to restore his family. But Alexander knew too well what a treasure he held to consent. If Darius would acknowledge him as his lord and master he could have back his wife and children, but not otherwise.

Finding that all this was useless, Darius began to collect another army. He now got together a vaster host than before. It was said to contain one million infantry, forty thousand cavalry, and two hundred chariots, each of which had a projecting pole with a sharp point, while three sword-blades stood out from the yoke on either side, and scythes projected from the naves of the wheels. Darius probably expected to mow down the Macedonians in swaths with these formidable implements of war.

The army which Alexander marched against this mighty host consisted of forty thousand foot and seven thousand horse. It looked like the extreme of foolhardiness, like a pigmy advancing against a giant; yet Darius commanded one army, Alexander the other, and Issus had not been forgotten.

The affair, in fact, proved but a repetition of that at Issus. The chariots, on which Darius had counted to break the enemy's line, proved useless. Some of the horses were killed; others refused to face the Macedonian pikes; some were scared by the noise and turned back; the few that reached the Greek lines found the ranks opened to let them pass.

The chariots thus disposed of, the whole Macedonian line charged. Alexander, at the head of his cavalry, pushed straight for the person of Darius. He could not get near the king, who was well protected, but he got near enough to fill his dastard soul with terror. The sight of the serried ranks of the Macedonian phalanx, the terrific noise of their war-cries, the failure of the chariots, all combined to destroy his late confidence and replace it by dread. As at Issus, he suddenly had his chariot turned round and rushed from the field in full flight.

His attendants followed. The troops around him, the best in the army, gave way. Soon the field was dense with fugitives. So thick was the cloud of dust raised by the flying multitude that nothing could be seen. Amid the darkness were heard a wild clamor of voices and the noise of the whips of the charioteers as they urged their horses to speed. The cloud of dust alone saved Darius from capture by the pursuing horsemen. The left of the Persian army fought bravely, but at length it too gave way. Everything was captured,--camp, treasure, the king's equipage, everything but the king himself. How many were killed and taken is not known, but the army, as an army, ceased to exist. As at Issus, so at Arbela, it was so miserably managed that three-fourths of it had nothing whatever to do with the battle. Its dispersal ended the Persian resistance; the empire was surrendered to Alexander almost without another blow.

Great a soldier as Alexander unquestionably was, he was remarkably favored by fortune, and won the greatest empire the world had up to that time known with hardly an effort, and with less loss of men than often takes place in a single battle. The treasure gained was immense. Darius seemed to have been heaping up wealth for his conqueror. Babylon and Susa, the two great capitals of the Persian empire, contained vast accumulations of money, part of which was used to enrich the soldiers of the victorious army. At Persepolis, the capital of ancient Persia, a still greater treasure was found, amounting to one hundred and twenty thousand talents in gold and silver, or about one hundred and twenty-five million dollars. It took five thousand camels and a host of mules to transport the treasure away. The cruel conqueror rewarded the Persians for this immense gift, kept through generations for his hands, by burning the city and slaughtering its inhabitants, in revenge, as he declared, for the harm which Xerxes had done to Greece a century and a half before.

What followed must be told in a few words. The conqueror did not feel that his work was finished while Darius remained free. The dethroned king was flying eastward to Bactria. Alexander pursued him with such speed that many of his men and animals fell dead on the road. He overtook him at last, but did not capture him, as the companions of the Persian king killed him and left only his dead body to the victor's hands.

For years afterwards Alexander was occupied in war, subduing the eastern part of the empire, and marching into India, where he conquered all before him. War, incessant war, was all he cared for. No tribe or nation he met was able to stand against his army. In all his career he never met a reverse in the field. He was as daring as Darius had been cowardly, exposed his life freely, and was more than once seriously wounded, but recovered quickly from his hurts.

At length, after eleven years of almost incessant war, the conqueror returned to Babylon, and here, while preparing for new wars in Arabia and elsewhere, indulged with reckless freedom in that intoxication which was his principal form of relaxation from warlike schemes and duties. As a result he was seized with fever, and in a week's time died, just at the time he had fixed to set out with army and fleet on another great career of conquest. It was in June, 323 B.C., in his thirty-third year. He had reigned only twelve years and eight months.

_THE WORLD'S GREATEST ORATOR._

During the days of the decline of Athens, the centre of thought to Greece, there roamed about the streets of that city a delicate, sickly lad, so feeble in frame that, at his mother's wish, he kept away from the gymnasium, lest the severe exercises there required should do him more harm than good. His delicate clothing and effeminate habits were derided by his playmates, who nicknamed him Batalus, after, we are told, a spindle-shanked flute-player. We do not know, however, just what Batalus means.

As the boy was not fit for vigorous exercise, and never likely to make a hardy soldier or sailor, it became a question for what he was best fitted. If the body could not be exercised, the mind might be. At that time Athens had its famous schools of philosophy and rhetoric, and the art of oratory was diligently cultivated. It is interesting to know that outside of Athens Greece produced no orators, if we except Epaminondas of Thebes. The Boeotians, who dwelt north of Attica, were looked upon as dull-brained and thick-witted. The Spartans prided themselves on their few words and hard blows.

The Athenians, on the contrary, were enthusiastically fond of oratory, and ardently cultivated fluency of speech. It was by this art that Themistocles kept the fleet together for the great battle of Salamis. It was by this art that Pericles so long held control of Athens. The sophists, the philosophers, the leaders of the assembly, were all adepts in the art of convincing by eloquence and argument, and oratory progressed until, in the later days of Grecian freedom, Athens possessed a group of public speakers who have never been surpassed, if equalled, in the history of the world.

It was the orators who particularly attracted the weakly lad, whose mind was as active as his body was feeble. He studied grammar and rhetoric, as did the sons of wealthy Athenians in general. And while still a mere boy he begged his tutors to take him to hear Callistratus, an able public speaker, who was to deliver an oration on some weighty political subject. The speech, delivered with all the eloquence of manner and logic of thought which marked the leading orators of that day, deeply impressed the susceptible mind of the eager lad, who went away doubtless determining in his own mind that he would one day, too, move the world with eloquent and convincing speech.

As he grew older there arose a special reason why he should become able to speak for himself. His father, who was also named Demosthenes, had been a rich man. He was a manufacturer of swords or knives, in which he employed thirty-two slaves; and also had a couch or bed factory, employing twenty more. His mother was the daughter of a rich corn-dealer of the Bosphorus.

The father died when his son was seven years old, leaving his estate in the care of three guardians. These were rich men, and relatives and friends, whom he thought he could safely trust; the more so as he left them legacies in his will. Yet they proved rogues, and when Demosthenes became sixteen years of age--which made him a man under the civil law of Athens--he found that the guardians had made way with nearly the whole of his estate. Of fourteen talents bequeathed him there were less than two left. The boy complained and remonstrated in vain. The guardians declared that the will was lost; their accounts were plainly fraudulent; they evidently proposed to rob their ward of his patrimony.

This may seem to us to have been a great misfortune. It was, on the contrary, the greatest good fortune. It forced Demosthenes to become an orator. Though he never recovered his estate, he gained a fame that was of infinitely greater value. The law of Athens required that every plaintiff should plead his own cause, either in person or by a deputy speaking his words. Demosthenes felt that he must bring suit or consent to be robbed. That art of oratory, towards which he had so strong an inclination, now became doubly important. He must learn how to plead eloquently before the courts, or remain the poor victim of a party of rogues. This determined the young student of rhetoric. He would make himself an orator.

He at once began an energetic course of study. There were then two famous teachers of oratory in Athens, Isocrates and Isaeus. The school of Isocrates was famous, and his prices very high. The young man, with whom money was scarce, offered him a fifth of his price for a fifth of his course, but Isocrates replied that his art, like a good fish, must be sold entire. He then turned to Isaeus, who was the greatest legal pleader of the period, and studied under him until he felt competent to plead his own case before the courts.

Demosthenes soon found that he had mistaken his powers. His argument was formal and long-winded. His uncouth style roused the ridicule of his hearers. His voice was weak, his breath short, his manner disconnected, his utterance confused. His pronunciation was stammering and ineffective, and in the end he withdrew from the court, hopeless and disheartened.

Fortunately, his feeble effort had been heard by a friend who was a distinguished actor, and was able to tell Demosthenes what he lacked. "You must study the art of graceful gesture and clear and distinct utterance," he said. In illustration, he asked the would-be orator to speak some passages from the poets Sophocles and Euripides, and then recited them himself, to show how they should be spoken. He succeeded in this way in arousing the boy to new and greater efforts. Nature, Demosthenes felt, had not meant him for an orator. But art can sometimes overcome nature. Energy, perseverance, determination, were necessary. These he had. He went earnestly to work; and the story of how he worked and what he achieved should be a lesson for all future students of art or science.

There were two things to do. He must both write well and speak well. Delivery is only half the art. Something worth delivering is equally necessary. He read the works of Thucydides, the great historian, so carefully that he was able to write them all out from memory after an accident had destroyed the manuscript. Some say he wrote them out eight separate times. He attended the teachings of Plato, the celebrated philosopher. The repulse of Isocrates did not keep the ardent student from his classes. His naturally capable mind became filled with all that Greece had to give in the line of logical and rhetorical thought. He not only read but wrote. He prepared orations for delivery in the law courts for the use of others, and in this way eked out his small income.

In these ways he cultivated his mind. That was the lightest task. He had a great mind to begin with. But he had a weak and incapable body. If he would succeed that must be cultivated too. There was his lisping and stammering voice, his short breath, his low tones, his ungraceful gesture,--all to be overcome. How he did it is a remarkable example of what may be done in self-education.

To overcome his stammering utterance he accustomed himself to speak with pebbles in his mouth. His lack of vocal strength he overcame by running with open mouth, thus expanding his lungs. To cure his shortness of breath he practised the uttering of long sentences while walking rapidly up-hill. That he might be able to make himself heard above the noise of the assembly, he would stand in stormy weather on the sea-shore at Phalerum, and declaim against the roar of the waves. For two or three months together he practised writing and speaking, day and night, in an underground chamber; and that he might not be tempted to go abroad and neglect his studies he shaved the hair from one side of his head. Dread of ridicule kept him in till his hair had grown again. To gain a graceful action, he would practise for hours before a tall mirror, watching all his movements, and constantly seeking to improve them.

Several years passed away in this hard and persistent labor. He tried public speaking again and again, each time discouraged, but each time improving,--and finally gained complete success. His voice became strong and clear, his manner graceful, his delivery emphatic and decisive, the language of his orations full of clear logic, strong statement, cutting irony, and vigorous declamation, fluent, earnest, and convincing. In brief, it may be said that he made himself the greatest orator of Greece, which is equal to saying the greatest orator of the world.

It was not only in delivery that he was great. His speeches were as convincing when read as when spoken. Fortunately, the great orators of those days prepared their speeches very carefully before delivery, and so it is that some of the best of the speeches of Demosthenes have come down to us and can be read by ourselves. The voice of the whole world pronounces these orations admirable, and they have been studied by every great orator since that day.

Demosthenes had a great theme for his orations. He entered public life at a critical period. The states of Greece had become miserably weak and divided by their jealousies and intrigues. Philip of Macedon, the craftiest and ablest leader of his time, was seeking to make Greece his prey, and using gold, artifice, and violence alike to enable him to succeed in this design. Against this man Demosthenes raised his voice, thundering his unequalled denunciations before the assembly of Athens, and doing his utmost to rouse the people to the defence of their liberties. Philip had as his advocate an orator only second to Demosthenes in power, AEschines by name, whom he had secretly bribed, and who opposed his great rival by every means in his power. For years the strife of oratory and diplomacy went on. Demosthenes, with remarkable clearness of vision, saw the meaning of every movement of the cunning Macedonian, and warned the Athenians in orations that should have moved any liberty-loving people to instant and decisive action. But he talked to a weak audience. Athens had lost its old energy and public virtue. It could still listen with lapsed breath to the earnest appeals of the orator, but had grown slow and vacillating in action. AEschines had a strong party at his back, and Athens procrastinated until it was too late and the liberties of ancient Greece fell, never to rise again, on the fatal field of Chaeronea.

"If Philip is the friend of Greece we are doing wrong," Demosthenes had cried. "If he is the enemy of Greece we are doing right. Which is he? I hold him to be our enemy, because everything he has hitherto done has benefited him and hurt us."

The fall of Greece before the sword of its foe taught the Athenians that their orator was right. They at length learned to esteem Demosthenes at his full worth, and Ctesiphon, a leading Athenian, proposed that he should receive a golden crown from the state, and that his extraordinary merit and patriotism should be proclaimed in the theatre at the great festival of Dionysus.

AEschines declared that this was unconstitutional, and that he would bring action against Ctesiphon for breaking the laws. For six years the case remained untried, and then AEschines was forced to bring his suit. He did so in a powerful speech, in which he made a bitter attack on the whole public life of Demosthenes. When he ceased, Demosthenes rose, and in a speech which is looked upon as the most splendid master-piece of oratory ever produced, completely overwhelmed his life long opponent, who left Athens in disgust. The golden crown, which Demosthenes had so nobly won, was his, and was doubly deserved by the immortal oration to which it gave birth, the grand burst of eloquence "For the Crown."

In 323 B.C. Alexander the Great died. Then like a trumpet rang out the voice of Demosthenes, calling Greece to arms. Greece obeyed him and rose. If she would be free, now or never was the time. The war known as the Lamian war began. It ended disastrously in August, 322, and Greece was again a Macedonian slave. Demosthenes and others of the patriots were condemned to death as traitors. They fled for their lives. Demosthenes sought the island of Calauri, where he took refuge in a temple sacred to Poseidon, or Neptune. Thither his foes, led by Archias, formerly a tragic actor, followed him.

Archias was not the man to hesitate about sacrilege. But the temple in which Demosthenes had taken refuge was so ancient and venerable that even he hesitated, and begged him to come out, saying that there was no doubt that he would be pardoned.

Demosthenes sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the ground. At length, as Archias continued his appeals, in his most persuasive accents, the orator looked up and said,----

"Archias, you never moved me by your acting. You will not move me now by your promises."

At this Archias lost his temper, and broke into threats.

"Now you speak like a real Macedonian oracle," said Demosthenes, calmly. "Before you were acting. Wait a moment, then, till I write to my friends."

With these words Demosthenes rose and walked back to the inner part of the temple, though he was still visible from the front. Here he took out a roll of paper and a quill pen, which he put in his mouth and bit, as he was in the habit of doing when composing. Then he threw his head back and drew his cloak over it.

The Thracian soldiers, who followed Archias, began to gibe at his cowardice on seeing this movement. Archias went in, renewed his persuasions, and begged him to rise, as there was no doubt that he would be well treated. Demosthenes sat in silence until he felt in his veins the working of the poison he had sucked from the pen. Then he drew the cloak from his face and looked at Archias with steady eyes.

"Now," he said, "you can play the part of Creon in the tragedy as soon as you like, and cast forth my body unburied. But I, O gracious Poseidon, quit thy temple while I yet live. Antipater and his Macedonians have done what they could to pollute it."

He walked towards the door, calling on those surrounding to support his steps, which tottered with weakness. He had just passed the altar of the god, when, with a groan, he fell, and died in the presence of his foes.

So died, when sixty-two years of age, the greatest orator, and one of the greatest patriots and statesmen, of ancient times,--a man whose fame as an orator is as great as that of Homer as a poet, while in foresight, judgment, and political skill he had not his equal in the Greece of his day. Had Athens possessed any of its old vitality he would certainly have awakened it to a new career of glory. As it was, even one as great as he was unable to give new life to that corpse of a nation which his country had become.

_THE OLYMPIC GAMES._

The recent activity of athletic sports in this country is in a large sense a regrowth from the ancient devotion to out-door exercises. In this direction Greece, as also in its republican institutions, served as a model for the United States. The close relations between the athletics of ancient and modern times was gracefully called to attention by the reproduction of the Olympic Games at Athens in 1896, for which purpose the long abandoned and ruined Stadion, or foot-race course, of that city was restored, and races and other athletic events were conducted on the ground made classic by the Athenian athletes, and within a marble-seated amphitheatre in which the plaudits of Athens in its days of glory might in fancy still be heard.

These modern games, however, differ in character from those of the past, and are attended with none of the deeply religious sentiment which attached to the latter. The games of ancient Greece were national in character, were looked upon as occasions of the highest importance, and were invested with a solemnity largely due to their ancient institution and long-continued observance. Their purpose was not alone friendly rivalry, as in modern times, but was largely that of preparation for war, bodily activity and endurance being highly essential in the hand to hand conflicts of the ancient world. They were designed to cultivate courage and create a martial spirit, to promote contempt for pain and fearlessness in danger, to develop patriotism and public spirit, and in every way to prepare the contestants for the wars which were, unhappily, far too common in ancient Greece.

Each city had its costly edifices devoted to this purpose. The Stadion at Athens, within whose restored walls the modern games took place, was about six hundred and fifty feet long and one hundred and twenty-five wide, the race-course itself being six hundred Greek feet--a trifle shorter than English feet--in length. Other cities were similarly provided, and gymnastic exercises were absolute requirements of the youth of Greece,--particularly so in the case of Sparta, in which city athletic exercises formed almost the sole occupation of the male population.

But the Olympic Games meant more than this. They were not national, but international festivals, at whose celebration gathered multitudes from all the countries of Greece, those who desired being free to come to and depart from Olympia, however fiercely war might be raging between the leading nations of the land. When the Olympic Games began is not known. Their origin lay far back in the shadows of time. Several peoples of Greece claimed to have instituted such games, but those which in later times became famous were held at Olympia, a town of the small country of Elis, in the Peloponnesian peninsula. Here, in the fertile valley of the Alpheus, shut in by the Messenian hills and by Mount Cronion, was erected the ancient Stadion, and in its vicinity stood a great gymnasium, a palaestra (for wrestling and boxing exercises), a hippodrome (for the later chariot races), a council hall, and several temples, notably that of the Olympian Zeus, where the victors received the olive wreaths which were the highly valued prizes for the contests.

This temple held the famous colossal statue of Zeus, the noblest production of Greek art, and looked upon as one of the wonders of the world. It was the work of Phidias, the greatest of Grecian sculptors, and was a seated statue of gold and ivory, over forty feet in height. The throne of the king of the gods was mostly of ebony and ivory, inlaid with precious stones, and richly sculptured in relief. In the figure, the flesh was of ivory, the drapery of gold richly adorned with flowers and figures in enamel. The right hand of the god held aloft a figure of victory, the left hand rested on a sceptre, on which an eagle was perched, while an olive wreath crowned the head. On the countenance dwelt a calm and serious majesty which it needed the genius of a Phidias to produce, and which the visitors to the temple beheld with awe.

The Olympic festival, whose date of origin, as has been said, is unknown, was revived in the year 884 B.C., and continued until the year 394 A.D., when it was finally abolished, only to be revived at the city of Athens fifteen hundred years later. The games were celebrated after the completion of every fourth year, this four year period being called an "Olympiad," and used as the basis of the chronology of Greece, the first Olympiad dating from the revival of the games in 884 B.C.

These games at first lasted but a single day, but were extended until they occupied five days. Of these the first day was devoted to sacrifices, the three following days to the contests, and the last day to sacrifices, processions, and banquets. For a long period single foot-races satisfied the desires of the Eleans and their visitors. Then the double foot-race was added. Wrestling and other athletic exercises were introduced in the eighth century before Christ. Then followed boxing. This was a brutal and dangerous exercise, the combatants' hands being bound with heavy leather thongs which were made more rigid by pieces of metal. The four-horse chariot-race came later; afterwards the pancratium (wrestling and boxing, without the leaded thongs); boys' races and wrestling and boxing matches; foot-races in a full suit of armor; and in the fifth century, two-horse chariot-races. Nero, in the year 68 A.D., introduced musical contests, and the games were finally abolished by Theodosius, the Christian emperor, in the year 394 A.D.

Olympia was not a city or town. It was simply a plain in the district of Pisatis. But it was so surrounded with magnificent temples and other structures, so adorned with statues, and so abundantly provided with the edifices necessary to the games, that it in time grew into a locality of remarkable architectural beauty and grandeur. Here was the sacred grove of Altis, where grew the wild olive which furnished the wreaths for the victors, a simple olive wreath forming the ordinary prize of victory; in the four great games the victor was presented with a palm branch, which he carried in his right hand. Near this grove was the Hippodrome, where the chariot-races took place. The great Stadion stood outside the temple enclosure, where lay the most advantageous stretch of ground.