ON landing at Paroikia, the chief town of Paros, you immediately come in contact with the speciality of the place: the little jetty on which you land is made of marble, marble pillars for mooring boats to are jotted here and there, and you realise before long that Paros is nothing but one huge block of marble covered with a thin coating of soil.

In ages long gone by these central islands of the Cycladic group — Naxos, Paros, Antiparos, and the uninhabited islets of Despotiko and Strongylo — must have been united; in the straits between them are evidences of habitations, and in historical times from their proximity they have collectively been called Paronaxia; and Paros, with her excellent harbours and her rich vein of marble, was always considered the chief. In Turkish times the Kapitan Pasha always anchored off Cape Drio of Paros to receive the annual tribute of the neighbouring islands; Venetian fleets put into the harbours of Naoussa and Paroikia, and cut down all the wood that they found within reach; the coves and caves of Antiparos were the favourite haunts of pirates: and the result of all this has been to make of Paros one of the most dreary, desolate islands of the group.

The Athenians during their lordship levied from Paros twice as much tribute as they did from Naxos, Andros, and the other larger islands; and in travelling through I Paros I found traces of a vast population in former ages. Extensive graveyards of the prehistoric, or so-called Carian, period, and of the Hellenic and Roman periods, are dotted all over the island; so that we may safely presume that Paros was a great centre of life in ancient days, and that this activity was due mainly to its wealth in marble.

There can be no doubt whatsoever that Paroikia is built on the ruins of the ancient Pariote capital; the place is teeming with remains — inscriptions, scraps of sculpture, and decorations are let into almost every house — but as it is at present Paroikia is a horrid place, for it lies so low. An acre or more close to the landing - place is a salt marsh, called Plaka, productive of malarious fevers in the summer heats; and the town is filthy, though the sea occasionally comes in and washes the streets for the inhabitants. The valleys and hills around the town are dotted with tiny white churches, as is so often the case in unhealthy fever-stricken spots; one of these, which was erected by a grateful sailor in a niche by the coast, and dedicated to St. John the Theologian, rivals any I ever saw in smallness, being only about two yards square. Convents, too — for the most part disestablished and converted into granaries and stores — abound all over the island; there is one dedicated to St. John the Rainy, another to our Lady of the Lake, another to our Lady of the Unwholesome Place, another to St. George of the Gooseberry, a rare fruit in the East, and, most extraordinary name of all, there is a church dedicated to the Drunken St. George. Here, I thought, must be a true descendant of Bacchus; an instance of how the Greeks still love to deify the coarser passions; and on enquiry I was told that on November 3, the day of the anniversary of St. George’s death, the Pariotes usually tap their new-made wine and get drunk; they have a dance and a scene of revelry in front of this church, which is hallowed by the presence of the priests. Down by the coast is the sailors’ church of St. Nicholas the Seafarer (Thalassítis ^note). It was the eve of St. Nicholas on which we landed on Paros, and this little edifice was crowded to excess with worshippers, and was prettily decorated with flowers; on the floor were strewn sprigs of myrtle and sweet-smelling herbs, and as we wandered through the dirty streets we found the wineshops were gay with feasters.

Into one of these we entered, to hear four youths singing to the tune of an instrument which was new to us; they called it a vousóvkion ^gr. It was a long sort of guitar, with six strings and eighteen notes, and prettily inlaid. They sang us a love-song about its being forty-five Sundays and sixty-two Tuesdays since they had seen their dearly beloved, until she came to church on St. Nicholas’ Eve, with two smart handkerchiefs around her neck, and set their hearts beating fast. Greek love-songs are simplicity itself, some rather touching, but for the most part silly; yet these songs are nothing to the tameness of the jokes at which they laugh; and no island comes in for a larger share of puns than Paros, from the fact that paro, the patois for ‘I take,’ and Paro, the island, give ample scope. They are both pronounced as if they were written Baro, and they say, ‘From Paro I do not wish to take either fowl, or egg, or any female thing.’ This pun on Paro is repeated over and over again in the little distichs and trite sayings of the islands.

Another curious instance of insular wit is shown by a popular interpretation of the origin of the names of islands the which, though it begins well at first, gets excessively wild as the production goes on. It runs as follows: ‘Andros is derived from andreioméni ^gr (valiant), Tenos from timiméni ^gr (honoured), Paros from parousía ^gr (presence), Syra from pseíra ^gr (a louse), Mykonos from kasídha ^gr (scurf on the head), and Zea and Thermia from pollá ta étι ^gr (many years to you).’

We were lodged comfortably enough at Paroikia in a good house, with a balcony facing the sea, belonging to an old widow lady, whose husband had been a sea captain, and who took care to tell us that she was related to the great Mavrojenes of Paros, who had been hospodar of Wallachia. She apologised most humbly for not giving us her best room, but the fact was a sister of hers, a nun, had just arrived from the nunnery, and nothing could exceed the honour and respect paid to this old woman — poor thing! she had hip-disease. And though the nunnery was only two miles from Paroikia she had only twice paid a visit to the town since she was seven years old, and now she was sixty. No wonder that her advent quite eclipsed ours. She was propped up on the sofa and received visitors all the evening, amongst others ourselves; and the moment she saw us she begged for some English candle-grease, for, she said, nothing did her poor hip so much good as to rub it with that.

We had to superintend the cooking of our own dinner, and our supplies were not only exceedingly scanty, but were reduced by a foolish mistake of mine. Seeing a man staring at us as we ate I thought he must belong to the household, and asked him for another plate. This he interpreted into an invitation to share our meal, and accordingly arrived, not only with a plate, but with knife and fork and chair, ready to discuss with us our solitary woodcock. Perhaps he was a Mavrojenes and a descendant of the prince of Wallachia; at all events, we never had the satisfaction of knowing it. Ross, in his travels with King Otho, tells us an amusing story of this family forty years ago. When the king visited Paros two brothers Mavrojenes were deputed to receive the sovereign, being, as they were, of such illustrious descent. So accordingly they did what they thought to be the right thing — they hired two sturdy Pariotes and told them to prop up his majesty on either side as he walked. They performed this office with such zeal that poor King Otho could hardly get on at all, and with difficulty persuaded his subjects that in Europe kings are allowed to exercise their own limbs. King George has not been here yet, I believe, but I do not think he will find that much advance in civilisation has been made.

The great sight in Paros is the Church of Our Lady of the Hundred Gates (ékatontapylianí ^gr), about five minutes’ walk from Paroikia. It is by far the finest church in the Aegean Sea — in all Greece, I believe — for everyone asked us if we had seen it, as if it was St. Peter’s at Rome. Externally it does not present a very attractive appearance, being surrounded by a whitewashed wall with innumerable windows, so that I suspect the hundred gates refer to windows, for there are certainly only five gates; and it is just possible there may be so many windows, though I did not count them. Inside this wall is a garden, and round the garden a cloister; the celebrated church is opposite to you as you enter. On either side of the portal two ancient marble satyrs support the jambs, beyond these there is nothing outside of any attraction.

You enter a narthex with tombs of mediaeval worthies of Paros around it. Originally the narthex was intended for catechumens and the second order of penitents; by degrees, however, it was considered the befitting place for apostates, murderers, and women, individuals who were not supposed to be good enough to enter the church. This custom is now obsolete, except in monasteries, where the monks are supposed to be voluntary penitents. They say many of their ‘hours’ in the narthex, and naughty people who are late for church stay there so as not to disturb divine service.

The Church of the Hundred Gates is noted for its great number of adjoining chapels, unusual in Greek churches. One of these is constructed out of an old temple,^note the pillars from which are considerably older than the date assigned to the church, which, tradition says, the Empress St. Helena founded by roofing over these ruined pillars of the aforesaid temple. Since then numerous additions have been made, and tradition further tells us that the big church, nave, choir, and sanctuary were designed by a pupil of the architect who built St. Sophia at Constantinople; and later additions still, during the Frankish occupation, have made of this church a perfect Babel of architecture. The tempelon, or iconostasis, that is to say, the screen which in all Greek churches divides the choir from the sanctuary (víla ^gr), because the holy mysteries must be veiled from the eyes of the laity, is excessively elaborate with rich gilded work and intricate carving. Behind this the sanctuary is formed for the double purpose of divine worship and for a consistory. In the circular apse are eight rows of stone seats, like the seats of an ancient Greek theatre, with a stone throne (sýnthronos ^gr) for the bishop in the centre, approached by six steps. Here he sits when he presides at a synod, and just before this throne is an old fluted pillar on which the lamp burns when the bishop reads the liturgy, and by the side of each stone seat are holes where the priests place their processional lamps when sitting down.

Under the altar is kept an old heathen altar, with rams’ heads and garlands around it, and over the high altar is a massive marble badacchino with a dome made out of one huge block; this, they told me, the Saracens had once tried to take away and had broken it in their vain attempt; for it is six feet in diameter and a truly enviable piece of marble. Under this altar is the sacred spring (agíasma ^gr) which cures, they say, many invalid pilgrims on the annual festival day (August 15).

The choir and nave are fine, and are supported by some good specimens of Byzantine pillars. On a stone in the floor is the mark of a footstep said to have been made by St. Theoctista, and her spindle is also kept here as a sacred relic. Close to this spot is a chapel which was once set aside for Roman Catholic worship during the Latin occupation; but this ceased to be the case with the extinction of the Latin element. Some of the chapels, with their old frescoes fast decaying with damp and green mould, attest to the bygone glories of the place. In the dark baptistry there is a splendid cross-formed font for immersion, covered with mosaics (opus Alexandrinum)’ in the centre of which stands a pillar for the light, and there are three Greek crosses at the side; this font is now only used for adult baptisms. There are chapels dedicated to the worship of St. Anargyris, St. Philip, the Holy Ghost — all covered with weird frescoes. Such is the great Church of the Hundred Gates of Paros, an interesting though conglomerated relic of past ages, and still amongst the inhabitants of these islands it is an object of the greatest veneration, second only to the altar of the great miracle-working Madonna of Tenos. ‘By the Hundred Gates of Paros may I win him whom I love!’ says the love-sick maiden. Once, says a legend, a young man challenged the Lady of the Hundred Gates to a playing contest on the syravlion, and went accordingly to the church to play; but the Madonna took no notice of his challenge. Just as he was getting up to go he accidentally knocked over the candlestick, and broke his flute; in this way did the Madonna prove her superiority and humbled the man — a somewhat mild modern edition of Apollo and Marsyas.

Outside the gates of this church have been placed in rows some large marble sarcophagi, which were discovered by the lately established Paros Mining Company in making a tram-line down from the mine to their works by the harbour. In doing this they fortunately cut right through the old necropolis of Paros, just a little to the north-east of the Church of the Hundred Gates, and the products of a very casual excavation have resulted in many valuable ‘finds’ — epigraphs, sculptures, rings, and divers island gems. The sarcophagi have excellent workmanship on them — one, two yards and three-quarters long, has six beautiful plaques on one side only; one representing a horse, a tree with a serpent twined round it, a man, and a boy. The necropolis of Paros would undoubtedly repay a thorough excavation, considering the things they have found, the wealth of the island in former ages — for Paros, according to the list discovered on the acropolis, paid twice as much tribute as any other of the Cyclades — and the monopoly of marble which she had. Paros, moreover, we know, was the home of many celebrated sculptors, such as Agorakrites, the pupil of Phidias, who sculptured the Nemesis of Rhamontes. Archilochus, the poet, however, is perhaps the most celebrated Pariote. From Paros came the celebrated chronological monument, now at Oxford, which gives us so much information about Greek history from the time of Cecrops to 263 B.C. Consequently Paros ought to be the happiest of hunting-grounds for the archaeologist; enterprise and money is all that is wanted, and neither of them is to be found amongst the Greeks.

A walk through Paroikia as it is to-day gives ample proof of what the town once was. Part of the old city wall is now in the sea, for during the lapse of centuries sad havoc has been made by the encroachments of the waves; but the old acropolis, on a gentle eminence, is still a prominent object; and the mediaeval castle which crowns it is an everlasting monument of the Vandalism of the Prankish lords of Paros, for its walls have been built out of the drums of many pillars, placed with their circles outwards, in rows, alternately with flat black stones and the seats of the old theatre. The effect is curious, and certainly has the merit of originality; but to the archaeologist, who here sees temples, public buildings, and theatres destroyed and turned to so base a use, the sight is one of extreme anguish.

The old town of Paros must have been of considerable extent: all the flat space between the sea and the hills bears testimony to having been built over; there are the remains of an old aqueduct which brought water to the town; there are some half-dozen of the steps still left which formerly went down from the acropolis to the sea; and the schoolmaster of Paroikia, who was our guide, told me that thirty-five years ago he remembered that this flight of steps was intact. At the top of the steps now stands a little church, dedicated to St. Constantine, with a cross of brilliant yellow tiles over the door facing the sea, inside of which are several remnants of the past.

The flat space, or Plaka, on which the sea is making such inroads, must one day have extended beneath the acropolis right away to a black promontory called Kopteri, so called because it looks so sharp and knife-like. This Plaka was, of course, once the quay of Paros, the foundations of which, and the houses which once stood thereon, are now, in many cases, buried under the sea.

Our guide now conducted us along the sea-coast, past pretty houses with balconies and trailing vines, and past picturesque fishing-boats and nets prepared for the morrow; and at every step we came across some new relic of the past. Presently we ascended a gentle eminence, and saw all that is left of the temple of Aesculapius. Under the foundation is a reservoir of water, once doubtless the stream which was considered to have healing properties, and which was given to the suppliant sick. Unfortunately there are but few remains left — all one can see now is the size and extent of the foundations. Here they found a beautiful statue, our schoolmaster told us, just before the revolution, which the Turks appropriated. Into the wall of a neighbouring tenement was let a fine marble bas-relief representing a sheep being led to the slaughter. This tenement was inhabited for the time being by a party of gipsies, whose dancing bear was tied to a post close to the marble sheep, and formed a striking contrast.

Our energetic guide then led us round by a house, which had an inscription let into it about ‘fruit-bearing Demeter.’ ‘Here,’ said he, as he pointed to certain doubtful ruins around, ‘was the temple of Demeter, and here it was that Miltiades broke his leg.’ And as we stood there, gazing at some shapeless, ruins he gave us chapter and verse from Herodotus. I suspect every Pariote urchin who comes within the clutches of this schoolmaster is made to learn this passage by heart. His first remarks were explanatory:—

‘Paros, you must know, in those days showed shocking Asiatic tendencies, just as if, for the sake of example, Paros had favoured the Turks in the war of independence; but, by the holy St. George! Paros has had enough of Asiatics since those days, and knows better now. Well, Athens told Miltiades to go and lay siege to Paros, demanding a tribute of one hundred talents; and after laying siege to it for twenty days the general despaired of ever taking the town by force, so he had recourse to strategy. A certain woman, who held an inferior post in the temple of Demeter and Persephone, which was just on this spot here, sir, was a captive from the mainland, and she wished to get home; so she went secretly to Miltiades and bid him come to the temple of Demeter and speak to her there if he wished to take the city. At nightfall he went to the temple, which lay on the hillside outside the city wall, but he could not open the gate; so he climbed the wall and entered the temple, which, you know, sir, was like one of the ascetic nunneries they have to-day, and where men are never admitted. When he reached the temple door Miltiades was seized with a mighty dread lest he should see some Eleusinian mystery, which the gods forbade men to look upon, and be cursed for ever; so he, in his fear, ran off, and in leaping down from the wall broke his thigh, and with difficulty got back to his ship.’

The poor little man grew quite excited as he related this story. He evidently had no shade of doubt as to the veracity of the father of history; he had in his mind’s eye pictured Miltiades writhing in agony on this very spot; at all events, the facts of the case, as stated by Herodotus, are corroborated by the inscription, and by ruins being found on the hillside outside the city wall, where approach from the sea was easy.

The rest of the afternoon we spent in wandering through the somewhat uninteresting streets of Paroikia, admiring the little bits of carvings and bas-reliefs we saw at every turn, and more especially a fine tomb which was let into the wall over a doorway in a house in the main street. On the next morning early we started for Antiparos, a desolate ride of two hours to the point where the ferry boat takes passengers across. About half-way to this point we passed two good houses by the roadside with shady gardens — quite little oases in the surrounding barrenness — where live the descendants of two families once well known in these parts — the Crispis and the Veniers, both of Venetian origin, and both of which held princely sway at one time in these islands. Over the doors were the lozenges with the arms of each. And they say these Italians transplanted on to Greek soil are very haughty and proud still, but somehow the soil does not seem to suit them; generation after generation their resources become impoverished and their status diminished.

On our return from Antiparos we spent another night at Paroikia under the same roof, before commencing our researches in highland Paros. We accomplished our journey up to the marble quarries with the greatest of ease by the little mule railway they have made from the mountain to the shore, to facilitate the removal of their marble. So we sent on our mules and baggage before us, and drove up to the mines with the manager along the iron way, ipposidiródromos ^gr, as the inhabitants call it. It seems a formidable word to look at, but Greek scholars will recognise it sufficiently to heave a sigh at the base use to which the three classical words of which it is composed have been turned.

Every credit is due to the enterprise of the new Belgian company which have lately contracted to supply the world with Parian marble. Down by the harbour they have erected costly works, and have got all the latest improvements in machinery; but unfortunately at first when they attacked the marble quarries on Mount Marpessa they worked at a wrong vein, so that a new shaft had to be opened; and only now, after the expenditure of a vast amount of toil and money, have they at last got into the vein of genuine lychnites — that brilliant sparkling marble so prized by the ancients for statuary and sculpture of every sort.

It would have been a long ascent on muleback to the convent of St. Minas, close to which are the various holes into the bowels of Mount Marpessa; as it was, we were only an hour in making the ascent, and had a very pleasant journey. Not that Paros is in the least degree pretty — on this northern side it is almost the ugliest of the islands — but it was pleasant to sit and enjoy the ever-changing distant views, and see the shepherds run out of their mandras and gaze with eyes and mouth wide open at the terrible innovation which has actually found its way to the Cyclades. We saw quantities of beehives, too, constructed in the sloping ground — just rows of holes, lined with slabs, where the bees fix their combs; for there is no need here of straw hives or our cunning northern appliances for keeping them warm in winter. Yet it was cold enough up by the quarries: a biting wind was blowing from the north, which made us glad to dive into the shafts, and made us shiver when we came out again. There is much débris of marble before the mines, and there are several holes into the mountain side, all of which were opened in ancient times. Into one of these we descended by a steep shaft, by the aid of miners’ lamps. Very soon we were able to recognise the old chisel-marks, and in pursuing this shaft it was that the modern Parian Marble Company made their great mistake. To the right of us and to the left of us we passed various channels which the ancients had worked and exhausted the vein, and when we came to the depth of over two hundred feet we saw a huge block of marble just as they had left it ready to be hauled up. Their plan undoubtedly was to work all round the block they wished to get up, making it just small enough to pass up the shaft, and up which they must have dragged it by an arrangement of pulleys and props which we do not understand now. In many parts the shaft has fallen in, for the pillars left to support it have given way, owing to the weight above them. All these things were put to rights by the modern company at an outlay of much money, only to find when they reached the bottom, and got all the rubbish cleared away, that the vein they were following was all but exhausted; so they had to sink another shaft, and at length their efforts have been crowned with success. By a difficult passage lately constructed these two shafts have been joined; along this we crawled and came up by the other one. The manager told me that, according to his calculation, the vein of good marble extends one hundred and fifty metres into the mountain.

Thirty years ago, when Ross went down the mine with King Otho and Queen Amalia, he said they had to crawl on their hands and knees to get down a very little way, and his majesty had to take off his epaulettes to enable him to proceed at all; the queen, as she squeezed her way through, loosened some stones, which came upon her and terrified her exceedingly. On hearing her screams the king hurried back, and in this dark mine the bystanders were witnesses of a royal embrace of the tenderest nature.

There is a third shaft parallel to the other two which appears to have been of considerable importance in ancient times, for close to the entrance is the well-known bas-relief presented, as the inscription tells us, by Adamas to the nymphs: it is a wedding scene carved on the bare rock, the human banquet is going on below, whilst in an upper storey the gods are having another, at which Bacchus is presiding. Some Vandals, of — happily for themselves — unknown nationality, have removed the central figures from the lower banquet; so the manager of the mines, with commendable discretion, has had the whole bas-relief carefully covered over with wood to protect it, which he kindly ordered to be removed for our inspection.

The descent into the bowels of Mount Marpessa and the subsequent climb were productive of an appetite of considerable dimensions; so, before starting on our mule ride to Leukis, we lunched at a shanty the manager of the mines has built for himself close by — pleasant enough, I dare say, in summer, but miserable, with the four winds of heaven howling around, in winter.

Leukis is considered the gem of Paros, and before going there we heard glowing accounts of its beauty. It lies under the shadow of Mount Elias, the highest summit of Paros; there are plenty of olives, oranges, and lemons about it, and it is decidedly the largest place on the island; for, as in Naxos, these central valleys have escaped from the inroads of pirates and others in search of wood. The entrance to the valley at the top of which Leukis is situated was protected by two other villages with mediaeval fortresses, Kephalo and Kosto, the former of which was the last stronghold of the Venier family, and which Barbarossa only conquered by cutting off the water supply.

But Leukis is by no means a bright white place (levkós ^gr), as its name indicates; it is dirty and black in the extreme, the only white thing about it being a hideous new church with an elaborate marble tempelon, a marble throne, and a marble pulpit — not that they want pulpits one bit in Greek churches as far as I could see. In former days they used to read the prophets, epistle, and gospel from the ambon; now they do this on the soleas, or steps outside the sanctuary, and do nothing in the pulpit. Over the entrance door outside is a curious marble slab on which is sculptured a portrait of the worthy man who founded this edifice in 1830: he is depicted as a regular islander, with his wide baggy trousers and the skouphiá, or pointed fez, on his head; and in one corner of the slab is the hand of God pointing out of a cloud in the direction of the meek but beneficent-looking old man. From the churchyard the view over the sister isle of Naxos, with its lovely fantastic peaks, was very charming, far surpassing anything to be seen on Paros.

We had a pleasant walk that evening with the demarch, who showed us with pride the orange and lemon groves and the numerous wells of flowing water which make of Leukis the most favoured spot on Paros. No one dares to draw water after dark out of these wells, for the waters slumber, they think, like human beings, and if they are disturbed the genius of the place will bring evil on the intruder. In common with other Greeks of the mountainous districts, the people of Leukis are highly superstitious; witches they have in quantities amongst them, which haunt the caves and rocks on the mountain side: they are old men or women, past a hundred, who go by the name of stríglai ^gr, not unlike the Harpies of old, for they can turn into birds at will, and have sometimes women’s heads and the bodies of birds; and about these witches the people of Leukis have lots of legends (paramythía ^gr) which they tell, one of which relates how an evil woman haunts the neighbourhood, eating all the men she can find, until a prince shall come and conquer her, like Theseus and the Crommyonian sow. At night sometimes, says the legend, these witches come to houses, cut out the heart of a man, and have a feast; from dangers such as these the hero of the legend is generally saved by some extraordinary interference. Unbaptized babes are, however, their favourite food, and for this reason children wear phylacteries around their necks.

Here in Leukis we heard a good deal more about those Kalkagári of which Naxos had provided us with so much information; children born during the days between Christmas and Epiphany are generally supposed to grow into these unpleasant hobgoblins. It was close upon the time now, and expectant mothers were growing nervous lest their progeny should appear at this season. ‘We know of several Kalkagári in Leukis,’ said the demarch solemnly, ‘children who have been born at this unlucky epoch.’ And then he told us stories of how these unfortunate youngsters would walk in their sleep and torment their friends. ‘We know of them,’ he concluded, ‘but we do not talk about them; for their parents do not like to have the fact alluded to. The only way of averting the disaster is to place a blessed palm branch (vaía ^gr) over the door at the time of birth.’

That evening we had another of those festive gatherings which our island hosts loved to improvise for us, and a wild shepherd boy, clad in skins, came in to play music for the dancing. He was a primitive musician in very truth; his instrument, the much-loved sabouna, just a lamb’s skin fastened at the head and feet, a big reed with two smaller ones stuck inside at one end of the skin, and a cow’s horn to bring out the sound at the other; and to the music of this they danced the syrtos, with some local acrobatic variations, which made us realise why the island doctors recommended this dance for torpid livers and indigestion.

It was really a cold morning when we left Leukis, and our host, with the true hospitality so common to these mountain places, positively refused any remuneration for his kindness. Many of our hosts loftily refused any monetary present, but at the same time lead us to understand that their wives or children are more mercenary, and not above receiving a little remembrance; but the demarch of Leukis was different — all he would receive was a little black-handled knife which we gave him, saying, as he thanked us, that he should put it under his pillow when he slept to ward off nightmare. This is a common belief among the islanders, as also is another, that the white marks on finger-nails are signs of parental imprecations.

Our ride to-day led us over some of the highest mountains in Paros, over 2,000 feet above the sea-level. We ascended by a fertile gorge, and before leaving the region of olive trees we dismounted to visit an old convent which was dedicated to St. John the Rainy. The monks have long since been chased away, and there was no one there to satisfy our curiosity about the name, so we surmised that as it was on the slopes of Mount Prophet Elias, where they go in times of drought, there must be some connection between St. John and the prophet which is considered efficacious in producing rain in dry seasons. The convent buildings are now turned into a farm, where shepherds live, whose business leads them to the mountains, and the cultivators of the soil, who look after the adjoining patches of vegetation.

We now entered a rocky, windy district, and flakes of snow fell occasionally, to show us that even December in the Sunny South is not the paradise we imagine it in England; not that snow falls often in the Cyclades, and when it does the inhabitants affect surprise, and are at a loss what to call it, for, having called cold rain snow (kióna ^gr), they must needs have recourse to the word nefás ^gr to explain a snowflake.

Down on the other side of the mountain by the seashore is a spot known as the abyss (ávyssos ^gr); here, report says, sponge-fishers have seen buildings at the bottom of the sea, houses with windows and doors overgrown with seaweed, and often choked up with sand; pieces of pottery they affirm to have been brought up from the bottom of the sea. If this is the case it is another instance of the vast natural subsidences that have taken place in all ages in these islands; unfortunately the sea was not smooth enough for us to see anything; only our muleteer pointed out on the shore rocks of a easily split ironstone, which he said were the walls of the ancient town. True enough they resembled walls, but they were not. All about here the formation is similar, and it struck us as more than possible that the divers have been deceived, and that the name of the abyss is an unmerited one.

We had a weary ride that afternoon across an uninteresting country to the south of Paros; we passed by another church dedicated to St. John the Theologian made out of a cave with a wall built on to it. Why is St. John the Divine the tutelar deity of so many caves? — he protects the huge grotto of Antiparos and other caves. Is it because he was supposed to have lived in a cave at Patmos when he wrote his Revelation?

The shades of night came upon us before we reached Kypedos, a considerable village to the east of Paros. It is tolerably flat round here, and the country is a perfect mausoleum. We visited next day no less than three graveyards, and were shown lots more; some of them have Roman remains in them, some Hellenic, some prehistoric, embracing many centuries, and pointing to the constant going to and fro of nations at this spot in search doubtless of the precious marble.

The mediaeval fortress built on the summit of an isolated conical hill, close to the sea, and commanding the strait between Naxos and Paros, repays a visit: it must one day have been a large and commanding spot, and is covered with houses and churches of the Venetian epoch. At the top is a disused monastery and a lovely church, dedicated to St. Anthony, whither the people of Paros repair once a year on the saint’s feast-day. It is really too bad of the Greek Government when they disperse a monastery to leave no money with which the church and the objects of mediaeval art can be kept from destruction. Here is a most exquisitely carved iconostasis, or screen before the sanctuary, covered with pictures, in rich gilded niches, carved vine-tendrils, and finely executed borders; in short, a lovely piece of old carving which would be prized as a monument of the past anywhere in Western Europe; but now it is left to decay, so that one of our pious muleteers picked up a golden figure which belonged to it and nailed it on.

It is the same everywhere; these tempela are apparently considered beneath contempt in Greece, and everywhere are left in empty churches to rot and decay. In its wealthy days this castle church must have been rich in decoration, but the frescoes, too, are fast decaying with damp — those terribly realistic frescoes of the Byzantine School representing the tortures of the wicked. In those days they apparently recognised the stomach as the seat of the spirit, and this fact is recognised in these frescoes by representing the devil dragging the spirit out of an ill-doer’s mouth. I have actually heard the word spirit used for the stomach in ordinary parlance — poneí i psychi mou ^gr (my stomach aches). On the floor is a fine double-headed eagle of Constantine, a usual object in Greek churches. On this the bishop stands when at his ordination; he pronounces the confession of faith in the presence of the kneeling populace, thereby showing that he inherits from Constantine the right of ruling over his flock.

From the top of the castle we looked down upon an evidence of the failure of a Pariote marble company. Twenty years ago one was started up in the mountains, and blocks of white marble were brought down and laid by the seashore, but the company failed before they were shipped off, and now they are left there, looking from our eyrie above just like a flock of sheep.

We were again favoured by a warm sun for our journey from Kypedos through the plain of Marpessa with its villages. One of these, called Marmora, has lots of ruins about it, and drums of temples, one of which, we were told, was once dedicated to the goddess Marpessa, and recalled to our minds the legend of her husband Idas and the Caledonian hunt. Why her name lingers so long at Paros I cannot say. The marble mountain is called after her, and here apparently was her temple, some of the drums of which have been turned to an excellent use, for about half a dozen of them have been scooped out and placed around a well as troughs for water out of which the mules can drink. The Greek muleteers are generally kind to their beasts, and urge them on more by the hideous noise they make, than by actual beating; though in Paros we had little bits of wood, cut like pencils, with the points of which you can prick the beast if he is sluggish. But if you use this implement when the muleteers think it unnecessary you are sure of a reprimand.

Marmora is a wretched spot now, full of empty houses, for it is a fever-stricken spot, and the world seems to have migrated to the port of Naoussa (naús, naós ^gr), for if ever a town deserved to be called a haven it is Naoussa. In its gigantic harbour all the fleets of the world could be anchored in safe water; but, as it is, it is somewhat a dreary fishing village with the ruins of a mediaeval fort out in the sea, and some large buildings which the Russians erected when they proposed at the close of last century to make depôts for wide conquests in the archipelago.