GREECE: DELOS
[Illustration]
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 Eub[oe]a
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 Ph[oe]bus 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.
[Illustration: DELOS, SHOWING GROTTO]
[Illustration: GROTTO OF APOLLO. DELOS]
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.
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