It was our purpose to land on Rhodes the isle, not at Rhodes the town. To visit the famous northern city where once stood the Colossus would have been highly agreeable had opportunity presented itself; but as it was we planned to coast along the southeasterly side of Rhodes and make our landing at the little less celebrated and probably even more picturesque site of Lindos. So in the morning we woke to find our vessel rolling merrily in a cross sea just off the entrance to the little bay that serves Lindos for a harbor,—a sea that stripped our breakfast table of its few dishes and converted the floor of the saloon into a sea of broken crockery. The waters of the bay proved calm enough when we had slid past the imposing promontory on which stood the acropolis of ancient Lindos, and felt our way across the rapidly shoaling waters to a safe anchorage. The water was of a wonderful clarity as well as of remarkable blueness, the bottom being visible for many fathoms and seeming much more shoal than was the case in fact. We were able to go quite close to shore before anchoring, and found ourselves in good shelter from the wind that was then blowing, although well outside the tiny inner port which lay at the foot of a steep bluff. Towering above the whole town stood the precipitous and seemingly inaccessible acropolis, its steep sides running down to the sea, the rich redness of the rock contrasting on the one hand with the matchless blue of the Ægean, and on the other with the pure whiteness of the buildings of the town. The summit of the promontory was crowned with the ruin of a castle of the Knights of Rhodes, who had once made this a famous stronghold in the Middle Ages. In fact the residence of the knights had obliterated the more ancient remnants of the classic period, which included a temple of Athena; and the work of exhuming the Greek ruins from under the dÉbris of the Crusaders’ fortress was only just beginning when we landed there.

From the ship, the most conspicuous object on the heights was the ruined castle of St. John, the portal of which, giving the sole means of access to the plateau on top of the promontory, was plainly to be seen as we sailed in. It gave the impression of yellowish-brown sandstone from below, a color which it shared with the goodly battlements that frowned down from all sides of the citadel, even where the abruptness of the declivity for something like three hundred feet made battlements a seeming work of supererogation. Nestling under the shadow of the mighty rock on the landward side lay the modern village of Lindos itself, apparently freshly whitewashed and gleaming in the sun wherever the rock failed to shelter it from the morning warmth. It was one of those marvelously brilliant days that have made the Greek atmosphere so famous—cloudless and clear, with that clearness that reveals distant objects so distinctly, yet so softly withal. As for the nearer prospects, they were almost trying to the eyes, under the forenoon glare beating down on that immaculate array of close-set white houses and shops.

Our boats set off shoreward across a placid sheet of water that varied from a deep indigo at the ship to the palest of greens as it surged among the fringes of slippery rock along the foot of the bluff. The landing stage was but a narrow shelf of pebbly beach, from which a rough paved way led steeply up to the town just above the sea. The contrast of the blue sky and the white purity of the town was dazzling in the extreme, and the glare accounted in a measure for the veiled women and sore-eyed children we met in the courtyards of the town. Our own eyes soon ached sufficiently to make us walk in single file along the shady side of the high-walled streets, looking chiefly at the shadow and only occasionally at the houses and shops as we wound along into the heart of the village. But even these occasional glimpses revealed the most fascinating of little details in the local architecture, curious Gothic and Moorish windows surviving from a bygone day and ornamented with the border of “rope” pattern worked in the stone. Almost everything had been covered with the dazzling whitewash, save here and there a relic of former days which was allowed to retain the natural color of the native rock.

In most of the cases the actual dwellings were set well back from the streets, which were extremely narrow and crooked. Between the highway and the house was invariably a tiny courtyard, screened from the view of passers by a lofty wall, always of white. The yards were occasionally to be peered into, however, through a gate left temptingly ajar. These diminutive courts were floored with pebble work in black and white designs throughout their extent, save where the matron of the house had a flower bed under cultivation. These beds and boxes of flowers were a riot of color and filled the air with fragrance, while the green foliage furnished a lively contrast with the dead white of the walls behind.

In the doorways of the dwellings within could be seen groups of bashful women, and shy children hiding in their mothers’ skirts, who looked furtively at us as we stopped hesitatingly before their gates. Growing bolder we finally ventured to set foot within the courtyards now and then, charmed with the sweetness of the tiny gardens; and at length we made bold to enter and to walk over the pleasant firmness of the pebbly pavements of white and black tracery to the doorways, where the women gave a timid but welcoming good-day and bade us come in. The absence of men was notable. We were later told that the male population of Lindos was temporarily away, being largely employed in the construction of the great dam at Assouan, on the Nile; and that in consequence the women had practically the sole charge in Lindos at the time, which may have accounted for the immaculateness of everything. We were likewise told that in the evening a certain hour was reserved for the sole use of the women, who might be free to wander at will through the streets, chiefly to get water for their households, without fear of molestation. Lindos for the time was an Adamless Eden, and as spick and span a town as it would be possible to find on earth.

The houses into which we were welcomed proved to be as clean within as without. The lower story apparently consisted as a general thing of a single great room, with possibly a smaller apartment back of it for cooking. This large room was the living room and sleeping room as well. The floor was scrubbed until its boards shone. The walls were of the universal white. On one side of the room—and occasionally on both sides—was to be seen a sort of dais, or elevated platform, which apparently served for the family bed. The bedding, including blankets and rugs of barbaric splendor, was neatly piled on the platform or hung over the railing of it. And it was here, according to all appearance, that the entire household retired to rest in a body at night, in harmonious contiguity.

What interested us most of all, however, was the decoration of the rooms. Nearly every one that we entered was adorned with numerous plates hung on the wall in great profusion, seldom more than two being of the same pattern, and including all sorts of designs, from the valuable Rhodian down to the common “willow” patterns of our own grandmothers’ collections at home. This heterogeneous array of plates puzzled us not a little at first. It was so universal among the householders, and representative of so wide a field of the ceramic art, that some explanation of the presence of these plates seemed necessary. Later it developed that the Rhodian custom has long been to mark the birth of each child by the addition of a plate to the family collection, the fewer duplicates the better. The agglomeration of these dishes that we saw represented the family trees for generations. Despite the connection presumably existing between the plates and the family history, however, we found the women not reluctant to part with specimens for a price, and we carried away not a few. The comparatively rare instances in which we found any of the genuine and celebrated Rhodian ware, however, proved that its great value was well known by the native women. Their prices in such cases proved prohibitive, especially in view of the risk of breakage involved in getting the plates home from so distant an island. These plates, notable for the beauty of their design and for the distinguishing rose pattern in the centre, are often to be found in museum collections, and their great rarity and consequent value unfits them for other uses than those of the collector. The few that we found in Lindos were to be had for prices equivalent to about eighty dollars apiece in our money, which seemed exorbitant until we were later told that even one hundred dollars would have been reasonable enough for some of the finer specimens. Indeed, it is getting to be rather unusual to find one of these for sale at all.

There are opportunities enough, as we discovered, to purchase the famous Rhodian embroidery; but we were cautioned to leave the bargaining to experts familiar with values, for the infrequent visitor is almost certain to be imposed upon in any such transaction. These embroideries, or at least the older ones, are very elaborate creations of colored wools on a background of unbleached linen, the colors being remarkably rich and fresh despite their age, an age that is eloquently testified to by the stains and worn places in the cloth. The subject of Rhodian embroidery is a most interesting one, but too intricate and technical to be gone into here. The study of the growth of certain well-defined groups of conventionalized figures might well furnish material for a considerable body of literature, if it has not already done so. We were informed that the wealth of Rhodian embroidery was due to the ancient custom—which may still exist among the Rhodian girls—to begin the preparation of the nuptial gear at a tender age, they plying their needles almost daily, until by the time they are marriageable they have accumulated a surprising amount of bizarre blankets, cloths, and bits of finery for their dower chests.

The leisurely progress through the town required some time, occupied as we were by frequent visits to the odd little houses in the quest of curious wares to carry away. And by the time we had reached the centre of the town, the hot sun made us glad indeed to step under a spacious arch, washed underneath with a sky-blue tint which was restful to our tired eyes, and thence to go into the cool and aromatic quiet of a very old Greek church, where the glare of the sun on the white buildings could be forgotten. Most notable of all the curious things shown us by the attendant priest was the quaintly carved roof, which, after so much excessive light out of doors, it was decidedly difficult to see at all in the grateful gloom of the church.

We delayed but a little while there, for the acropolis above was the ultimate goal of our visit to the spot. Thither we were conducted by the Danish gentleman who had charge of the investigations being prosecuted there. The way led out of the dense buildings of the town and along the base of the overhanging cliff to the side toward the open sea, always upward and above the flat roofs of the little town below, until we came to the foot of the stairway of stone leading up through a defile in the rock to the arched portal of the castle on the height. It was a long flight of steps, one side against the smooth face of the rock, the other unprotected. And at the foot of the impressive approach to the citadel was one of the most interesting of the discoveries made on the site. It was a gigantic sculpture in bas-relief hewn out of the face of the cliff itself and representing, in “life size,” so to speak, the stern of an ancient trireme. The relief was sufficiently high to give a flat space on what was intended to be the deck of the ship, supposably as a pedestal for some statue which has disappeared. The curved end of the trireme with its sustaining bolt, the seat of the helmsman, and a blade of one of the oars, were still intact, and as a large representation of a classic ship the sculpture is doubtless unique, To all intents and purposes it is as perfect to-day as when the artists first carved it.

In the grateful shade of the rock we sat and listened to the description of the archÆological work done on the spot by the Danes, which has not, at this writing, been officially published, and therefore seems not proper matter for inexpert discussion here. One interesting fact, however, which we were told, was that, by means of certain records deciphered from tablets found on the acropolis, it had been possible to fix definitely the date of the statue of the LaocoÖn as a work of the first century before Christ. This was established by the list of the names of the priests, and of the sculptors who worked for them, at periods which it proved possible to fix with a remarkable degree of exactness.

We ascended to the height above, where we were permitted to wander at will among the ruins. As from below, the chief features were those of the medieval period, which had so largely swallowed up the temple of Athena. Nevertheless the excavators had restored enough of the original site from its covering of dÉbris to reveal the vestiges of the old temple and an imposing propylÆa, with traces enough in fragmentary form to enable making drawings of the structures as they probably appeared to the ancient eye. For the rest the chief interest centred in the relics of the abode of the knights. Just at the head of the grand entrance stairway was the tower which defended the acropolis on its one accessible side. The arched portal is very nearly perfect still, and one passes under it, across a sort of moat, by means of an improvised bridge of planks, where once, no doubt, a drawbridge served to admit or to bar out at the will of the Grand Master of the ancient commandery. Beyond the entrance hall lay a succession of vaulted halls and chambers leading around to the open precincts of the acropolis, the most evidently well-preserved buildings being the chapel of St. John and the house once occupied by the Grand Master himself. All were of the brownish native rock, and were unmistakably medieval in their general style of architecture. On the open terraces above the entrance, little remained to be seen save the heaps of dÉbris and the faint traces of the classic temples. But most impressive of all was the sheer drop of the rock on all sides around the acropolis and the views off to sea and inland over Rhodes. The precipices everywhere, save at the entrance alone, fell away perpendicularly to the sea, which murmured two or three hundred feet below. Nevertheless, despite the evident hopelessness of ever scaling the height, the painstaking knights had built a wall with battlements all about, less serviceable as protecting the inhabitants against assault than for preserving them from falling over to a certain and awful death themselves. The drop on the landward side was considerably less, but quite as steep and quite as impregnable to would-be scaling parties. Even a few munitions of war, in the shape of rounded stones about the size of old-fashioned cannon balls seen in our modern military parks, were to be found about the summit.

The views from this elevated height were superb, not only off across the sea to the mountainous land of Asia Minor, but inland toward the rocky interior of Rhodes herself. The land just across the little depression in which the white town lay, rose to another though less commanding height, in the slopes of which the excavator said they had but recently unearthed some ancient rock tombs. Beyond, the country rolled in an undulating sea of green hills—a pleasant land as always, and doubtless as flowery as of old when she took her name from the rose (rhodos) and when the wild pomegranate flower gave Browning’s “Balaustion” her nickname. As a colony of the Athenian empire she stood loyal to the Attic city down to 412 B.C., in those troublous days of the Peloponnesian war, when the star of Athens waned and most of the Rhodians at last revolted. Those who still clung to Athens probably went away as Balaustion did, and returned, if at all, only after Athens had been laid waste to the sound of the flute. Under the Roman domination Rhodes enjoyed a return to high favor, and Tiberius selected the smiling isle as his place of banishment. For siding with CÆsar, Cassius punished the island by plundering it. For centuries after, it was overrun by the Arabs; and from them it was taken by the Byzantines, who turned it over to the Knights of St. John, who took the new name of the Knights of Rhodes, fortified the spot as we saw, and held it for a long time against all comers, down to 1522, when the Sultan Solyman II. reduced it. It is still Turkish territory, and of the finds made by the archÆologists on the site of Lindos, the great bulk have been sent to Constantinople, including several hundred terra cotta figurines. The zealous Turks, the excavators complained, had taken away their books on landing, with the result that they had led a lonely life of it, their only diversion being their labors on the acropolis.

We had no chance to inspect the interior of the island, which other visitors have described in glowing colors as most attractive in the profusion of its almost tropic verdure and its growths of cactus, oleander, myrtle, figs, and pomegranates. Like Cos, Rhodes was an ancient seat of culture, greatly favored by students, and the site of a celebrated university. Æschines founded here a famous school of oratory, and in later years the institution was honored by the patronage of no less a personage than the Roman Cicero. Of these, of course, we saw no trace.

Neither had we any opportunity to visit the ancient capital, “Rhodes the town,” which boasts the ruins of a very similar castle of the knights. As for the famous Colossus, which nearly everybody remembers first of all in trying to recall what were the wonders of the world, it no longer exists. But in passing one may remark that the notion that this gigantic statue bestrode the harbor has been exploded, destroying one of the most cherished delusions of childhood which the picture in the back of Webster’s Unabridged contributed not least of all in producing, in the past two generations.

There were three celebrated cities in Rhodes in its golden age—Lindos, Ialysos, and Kameiros—which, with Cos, Cnidos, and Halicarnassus, formed the ancient Dorian “hexapolis,” or six cities, four of which it had been our good fortune to visit within the past two days. The city of Rhodes was formed comparatively late by inhabitants from the three original cities of the island, and became a prosperous and influential port. The inhabitants were seafaring people and developed a high degree of skill in navigation, with an interesting corollary in their code of maritime law, from which a faint survival is found in the doctrine of “general average” in our own admiralty practice, sometimes referred to as the Rhodian law, and having to do with the participation of all shippers in such losses as may be occasioned by throwing a part of the cargo overboard to save the whole from loss. To visit Kameiros and the interior would have been interesting but impossible, and we found our consolation for the inability to visit other Rhodian sites in the loveliness of Lindos, with its acropolis above and its pure white walls below, its gardens, its courtyards, and its collections of plates. And we left it with regret—a regret which was shared no doubt by the lonely Danish explorer whom we left waving adieu to us from the shore as we pulled away across the shallow waters of the harbor to the steamer, and turned our faces once more toward the west and that Athens of which Balaustion dreamed.