It was a gray morning—for Greece. The sky was overcast, the wind blew chill from the north, and anon the rain would set in and give us a few moments of downpour, only to cease again and permit a brief glimpse ahead across the Ægean, into which classic sea our little steamer was thrusting her blunt nose, rising and falling on the heavy swell. We had borne around Sunium in the early dawn, and our course was now in an easterly direction toward the once famous but now entirely deserted island of Delos, the centre of the Cyclades. Ahead, whenever the murk lifted, we could see several of the nearer and larger islands of the group,—that imposing row of submerged mountain peaks that reveal the continuation of the Attic peninsula under water as it streams away to the southeast from the promontory of Sunium. The seeming chaos of the Grecian archipelago is easily reducible to something like order by keeping this fact in mind. It is really composed of two parallel submerged mountain ranges, the prolongations of Attica and of Euboea respectively, the summits of which pierce the surface of the water again and again, forming the islands which every schoolboy recalls as having names that end in “os.” Just before us, in a row looming through the drifting rain, we saw Kythnos, Seriphos, and Siphnos, while beyond them, and belonging to the other ridge, the chart revealed Andros, Tenos, Naxos, Mykonos, and Paros, as yet impossible of actual sight. This galaxy of islands must have proved highly useful to the ancient mariners, no doubt, since by reason of their numbers and proximity to each other and to the mainland, as well as by reason of their distinctive shapes and contours, it was possible always to keep some sort of landmark in sight, as was highly desirable in days when sailors knew nothing of compasses and steered only by the stars. Lovers of Browning will recall the embarrassment that overtook the Rhodian bark that set sail with Balaustion for Athens, only to lose all reckoning and bring up in Syracuse. No ancient ship was at all sure of accurate navigation without frequent landfalls, and even the hardy mariners of Athens were accustomed, when en route to Sicily, to hug the rugged shores of the Peloponnesus all the way around to the opening of the Corinthian Gulf, and thence to proceed to Corfu before venturing to strike off westward across the Adriatic to the “heel” of Italy, where one could skirt the shore again until Sicily hove in sight near the dreaded haunts of Scylla. Of course other considerations, such as food and water, added to the desirability of keeping the land in sight most of the time on so long a voyage; but not the least important of the reasons was the necessity of keeping on the right road.

We had set sail on a chartered ship, in a party numbering about forty, most of whom were bent on the serious consideration of things archÆological, while the inconsiderable remainder were unblushingly in search of pleasure only slightly tinged by scientific enthusiasm. In no other way, indeed, could such a journey be made in anything like comfort. The Greek steamers, while numerous, are slow and small, and not to be recommended for cleanliness or convenience; while their stated routes include much that is of no especial interest to visitors, who are chiefly eager to view scenes made glorious by past celebrity, and are less concerned with the modern seaports devoted to a prosaic traffic in wine and fruits. To one fortunate enough to be able to number himself among those who go down to the sea in yachts, the Ægean furnishes a fruitful source of pleasure. To us, the only recourse was to the native lines of freight and passenger craft, or to join ourselves to a party of investigators who were taking an annual cruise among the famous ancient sites. We chose the latter, not merely because of the better opportunity to visit the islands we had long most wished to see, but because of the admirable opportunity to derive instruction as well as pleasure from the voyage. So behold us in our own ship, with our own supplies, our own sailing master and crew, sailing eastward over a gray sea, through the spring showers, toward the barren isle where Phoebus sprung.

Delos is easy enough to find now, small as it is. It long ago ceased to be the floating island that legend describes. If we can permit ourselves a little indulgence in paganism, we may believe that this rocky islet was a chip, broken from the bed of the ocean by Poseidon, which was floating about at random until Zeus anchored it to afford a bed for Leto, that she might be comfortably couched at the birth of Apollo, despite the promise of Earth that the guilty Leto should have no place to lay her head. Thus the vow which the jealousy of Hera had procured was brought to naught, and in Delos was born the most celebrated of the sons of Zeus, together with his twin sister, Artemis.

Delos is in fact a double island, divided by a narrow strait into Greater and Lesser Delos. And it was with the lesser portion that we had to do, as also did ancient history. For despite its insignificant size and remoteness, Delos the Less was once a chief seat of empire and a great and flourishing city, as well as the repository of vast wealth. Distant as it seems from Athens, the island is really quite central with reference to the rest of the archipelago, and from its low summit may be seen most of the Cyclades on a clear day. The narrow strait before referred to furnishes about all the harbor that is to be found at Delos to-day. Into this sheltered bit of water we steamed and dropped anchor, happy in the favoring wind that allowed us a landing where it is occasionally difficult to find water sufficiently smooth for the small boats; for here, as in all Greek waters, small boats furnish the only means of getting ashore. There was a shallow basin just before what was once the ancient city, and doubtless it was considered good harborage for the triremes and galleys of small draught; but for even a small steamer like ours it was quite insufficient in depth, and we came to rest perhaps a quarter of a mile from the landing, while the clouds broke and the afternoon sun came out warm and bright as we clambered down to the dories and pulled for the shore.

There proved to be little or no habitation save for the French excavators and their men, who were completing a notable work in uncovering not only the ancient precincts of Apollo and of the headquarters of the Delian league, but the residence portion of the ancient city as well, which we later discovered to lie off to the east on the high ground. We landed on a sort of rocky mole erected along the edge of what was once the sacred harbor and picked our way along a narrow-gauge track used by the excavators, to the maze of ruins that lay beyond. It proved as bewildering a mass of fallen marbles as that at Olympia. The main part of the ruin is apparently a relic of the religious side of the place, dominated, of course, by the cult of Apollo. Centuries of reverence had contributed to the enrichment of the environs of the shrine. All about the visitor finds traces of porticoes and propylÆa, the largest of these being erected by Philip V. of Macedon, as is testified to by an extant inscription. Little remains standing of any of the buildings, but the bits of capital and entablature that lie strewn about serve to give a faint idea of the nature of the adornment that attended the temples in their prime. It is not difficult to trace the course of the sacred way leading from the entrance around the sacred precinct to the eastern faÇade of the main temples, lined throughout most of its course by the bases of statues, altars, and remnants of the foundations of small rectangular buildings which are supposed to have been treasuries, as at Delphi and Olympia. Not far away from the main temple of the god is still to be seen the base of his colossal statue, an inscription reciting that the Naxians made it, and that they carved statue and base from the same stone. Whether this means that the figure and base were actually a single block, or only that the figure and base were made of the same specific material, has caused some little speculation. As for the statue itself, there are at least two large fragments on the ground not far away, easily identified by the modeling as parts of the huge back and breast of the colossus. One of his feet is preserved in the British Museum, and a hand is at the neighboring island of Mykonos. The rest is either buried in the earth near by, or has been carried off by vandals. That the earth has many treasures still to yield up is evident by the occasional accidental discoveries recently made on the site by the diggers. When we were there the construction of a trench for the diminutive car-track had unearthed a beautifully sculptured lion deep in the soil; and since that time I have heard that several other similar finds have been made. So it may be that the lime burners have not made away with the great Apollo entirely.

There are three temples, presumably all devoted to the cult of Apollo, and one of them no doubt to the memory of his unfortunate mother, Leto, who bore him, according to tradition, on the shores of the sacred lake near by. Not far from the Apollo group are two other ruined shrines, supposed to have been sacred to Artemis. More interesting than either, however, to the layman is the famous “hall of the bulls,” which is the largest and best preserved of all the buildings, and which takes its name from the carved bullocks on its capitals. It is not saying much, however, to say that it is better preserved than the others. It is only so in the sense that its extent and general plan are easier to trace. Its altar, known as the “horned altar of Apollo,” from the rams’ heads with which it was adorned, was accounted by the ancients one of the seven wonders of the world. We were well content to leave the sacred precinct, and to wander along toward the north, past the Roman agora, in the general direction of the sacred lake. It proved to be a sorry pool, stagnant and unattractive compared with what it must have been when it was in its prime, with its banks adorned with curbing. Not far from its shores we were shown the remains of several ancient houses, also of the Roman period, in which the rooms were still divided by walls of a considerable height. These walls gave occasional evidence of having been adorned with stucco and frescoes, and the rooms revealed fragments of tessellated pavement, while under each house was a capacious cistern for the preservation of rain water. Of course these dwellings, while recalling Pompeii, were far less perfect in the way of artistic revelations, being so much older.

These houses, interesting as they were, did not compare with those which we were later shown on the hill above the precinct. These we passed on our way up to the theatre, and to those of us who were unskilled in archÆological science they proved to be the most absorbing of all the ruins on the little island. There are a good many of them, lining several old streets, as at Pompeii. Their walls are of sufficient altitude to give even an idea of the upper stories, and in one case, at least, we were able to mount, by a sadly ruined stone staircase, to what was once the upper landing. The general arrangement of the rooms was quite similar to that made familiar by the excavated houses at Pompeii, the great central court, or atrium, being adorned with a most remarkable mosaic representing Dionysos riding on a dragon of ferocious mien. It is kept covered, but a guard obligingly raised the heavy wooden door that shields it from the weather, and propped it up with a stick so that it resembled nothing so much as a huge piano lid. The coloring of the mosaic was lively in spite of its sombreness, and the eyes of the figures were admirably executed.

All around the atrium were traces of a colonnade, pieces of the columns remaining intact. The walls were apparently decorated with bits of stone set deep in a coating of mortar, and once adorned with a colored wash of red, yellow, and blue. Mural paintings naturally were wanting, for these houses were not only older than those of the Neapolitan suburb, but they perished by a slow weathering process instead of by a sudden overwhelming such as overtook Pompeii. What traces of painting there are left on the Delian walls are indistinct and rather unsatisfactory, and recall the childish scrawls of our own day. But the houses themselves, with their occasional pavements and the one admirable mosaic, leave little to be desired. Particularly interesting was the revelation of the drainage system. The houses were not only carefully provided with deep cisterns for preserving rain water; they had also well-designed channels for carrying waste water away. Every house in these streets had its drain covered with flat stones running out to the main sewer of the street, while those in turn converged in a trunk sewer at the foot of the slope. It is evident enough that Delos was a dry sort of place, both by nature and by artifice, and that in the period of the city’s greatest celebrity it would be impossible for the historian to refer to the muddy condition existing at that period of the month just before the streets underwent their regular cleaning.

We had passed well up toward the theatre on the slopes of the height called Kythnos before we cleared the ancient dwellings. The theatre itself proved to be roomy, but largely grass-grown and exceedingly steep to clamber over. The portion devoted to seats was chiefly notable for occupying considerably more than the traditional semicircle, and for having its ends built up with huge walls of masonry. Only the lower seats are preserved. The colonnaded proskenion, which may have supported a stage, is, however, highly unusual and interesting.

Sundry venturesome spirits climbed to the summit of Kythnos, but it was no day for the view for which that eminence is celebrated. On a clearer day a great many of the Cyclades could be seen, no doubt, because of the central location of the island and the marvelous clarity of the Greek atmosphere, when it is clear at all. We were unfortunate enough to meet with a showery April day, which promised little in the way of distant prospects. Halfway down the side of Kythnos, however, was easily to be seen the grotto of Apollo. In fact, it is the most constantly visible feature of the island. It is a sort of artificial cave in the side of the hill toward the ruins, and here was the earliest of the temples to the god. Ancient hands added to what natural grotto there was by erecting a primitive portal for it. Two huge slabs of stone seem to have been allowed to drop toward one another until they met, forming a mutual support, so that the effect is that of a gable. Other slabs have been arranged to form a pitch roof over the spot, and a marble lintel and gate posts have also been added,—presumably much later than the rest. It is even probable that this venerable shrine was also the seat of an oracle, for certain of the internal arrangements of the grotto bear a resemblance to those known to have existed at Delphi; but if there was one in Delos, it never attained to the reputation that attended the later chief home of the far-darting god.

The births of Apollo and Artemis appear to have been deemed quite enough for the celebrity of Delos; for in after years, when the Athenians felt called upon to “purify” the city, they enacted that no mortal in the future should be permitted to be born or to die on the island. In consequence, temporary habitations were erected across the narrow strait on the shores of Greater Delos for the use of those in extremis or those about to be confined. Aside from this fact, the larger island has little or no interest to the visitor.

There is, of course, a museum at Delos. Some day it will be a very interesting one indeed. At the time of our visit it was only just finished, and had not been provided with any floor but such as nature gave. In due season it will probably rank with any for its archÆological value, although it will be infinitely less interesting than others to inexpert visitors, who generally prefer statues of fair preservation to small fragments and bits of inscription. Of the notable sculptures that must have abounded in Delos once, comparatively little remains; certainly nothing to compare with the charioteer and the Lysippus at Delphi, or with the Hermes and pedimental figures at Olympia. The great charm of Delos to the unskilled mind is to be found in its history and in its beautiful surroundings. As a birthplace of one of the major gods of high Olympus, the seat of the Delian league against the Persians, and the original treasury of the Athenian empire, Delos has history enough to satisfy an island many times her size. Traces still remain of the dancing place where the Delian maidens performed their wonderful evolutions during the annual pilgrimage, which was a feature during the Athenian supremacy; and the temples and treasuries, ruined as they are, forcibly recall the importance which once attached to the spot. The memory still survives of the so-called “Delian problem” of the doubling of the cube, a task that proved a poser for the ancient mathematicians when the oracle propounded, as the price of staying a plague, that the Delians should double the pedestal of Parian marble that stood in the great temple. But it is almost entirely a place of memories, deserted by all but the excavators and an occasional shepherd. To-day it is little more than the bare rock that it was when Poseidon split it from the bed of the sea. Apollo gave it an immortality, however, which does not wane although Apollo himself is dead. Athens and Corinth gave it a worldly celebrity, which proved but temporary so far as it depended on activity in the world of affairs. Delos, washed by the Ægean, has little to look forward to but to drowse the long tides idle, well content with her crowded hour of glorious life, and satisfied that her neighbors should have the age without a name.