The pilgrimage to Delphi, which used to be fraught with considerable hardship and inconvenience, is happily so no longer. It is still true that the Greek steamers plying between the PirÆus and Itea, the port nearest the ancient oracular shrine, leave much to be desired and are by no means to be depended upon to keep to their schedules; but aside from this minor difficulty there is nothing to hinder the ordinary visitor from making the journey, which is far and away the best of all ordinary short rambles in Greece, not only because of the great celebrity of the site itself, but because of the imposing scenic attractions Delphi has to show. The old-time drawback, the lack of decent accommodation at Delphi itself, or to be more exact, at the modern village of Kastri, has been removed by the presence of two inns, of rather limited capacity, it is true, but still affording very tolerable lodging. Indeed, hearsay reported the newer of these tiny hostelries to be one of the best in Greece outside of Athens, while the other quaint resort, owned and operated by the amiable Vasili Paraskevas, one of the “local characters” of the place, has long been esteemed by Hellenic visitors. Vasili, in appearance almost as formidable as the ancient Polyphemus, but in all else as gentle as the sucking dove, has felt the force of competition, and his advertisements easily rival those of the Hotel Cecil. As a matter of fact, the establishment is delightfully primitive, seemingly hanging precariously to the very edge of the deep ravine that lies just under lofty Delphi, boasting several small rooms and even the promise of a bath-tub, although Vasili was forced to admit that his advertisement in that respect was purely prospective and indicative of intention rather than actuality.

The truly adventurous may still approach Delphi over the ancient road by land from the eastward, doubtless the same highway that was taken by old King Laios when he was slain on his way to the oracle, all unwitting of the kinship, by his own son Œdipus,—possibly because of a dispute as to which should yield the road. For the old road was a narrow one, with deep ruts, suitable for a single chariot, but productive of frequent broils when two such haughty spirits met on the way. To come to Delphi over this road and to depart by sea is doubtless the ideal plan. That we elected not to take the land voyage was due to the early spring season, with its snows on the shoulder of Parnassus, around which the path winds. For those less hindered by the season, it is said that the journey overland from LivadiÀ to Delphi, passing through the tiny hamlet of ArÁkhova and possibly spending a night in the open air on Parnassus, is well worth the trouble, and justifies the expense of a courier and horses, both of which are necessary.

The way which we chose, besides being infinitely easier, is far from being devoid of its interesting features. We set sail in the early afternoon from the PirÆus, passing over a glassy sea by Psyttalea, and the famous waters in front of Salamis, to Corinth, where the canal proved sufficiently wide to let our little craft steam through to the gulf beyond. It was in the gathering dusk that we entered this unusual channel, but still it was light enough to see the entire length of the canal, along the deep sides of which electric lamps glimmered few and faint as a rather ineffectual illuminant of the tow-path on either hand. The walls towered above, something like two hundred feet in spots, and never very low, making this four-mile ribbon of water between the narrow seas a gloomy cavern indeed. It was wide enough for only one craft of the size of our own, therein resembling the land highway to Delphi; but fortunately, owing to the system of semaphore signals, no Œdipus disputed the road with us, and we shot swiftly through the channel, between its towering walls of rock, under the spidery railroad bridge that spans it near the Corinth end, and out into the gulf beyond. It is rather a nice job of steering, this passage of the canal. Everybody was ordered off the bow, three men stood nervously at the wheel, and the jack staff was kept centred on the bright line that distantly marked the opening between the precipitous sides of the cleft, a line of light that gradually widened, revealing another sea and a different land as we drew near and looked out of our straight and narrow path of water into the Corinthian Gulf beyond. The magnificence of the prospect would be hard indeed to exaggerate. On either side of the narrow gulf rose billowy mountains, the northern line of summits dominated by the snowy dome of Parnassus, the southern by Cyllene, likewise covered with white. They were ghostly in the darkness, which the moon relieved only a little, shining fitfully from an overcast sky. The Corinthian Gulf is fine enough from the railway which skirts it all the way to Patras, but it is finer far from the sea, whence one sees both sides at once in all the glory of their steep gray mountains. Happily the night was calm, and the gulf, which can be as bad as the English Channel at its worst, was smooth for once as we swung away from the little harbor of modern Corinth and laid our course for the capes off Itea, something like forty miles away. And thus we went to rest, the steamer plowing steadily on through the night with Parnassus towering on the starboard quarter.

A vigorous blowing of the whistle roused the ship’s company at dawn. The vessel was at anchor off Itea, a starveling village not at all praised by those who have been forced to sample its meagre accommodations for a night. Fortunately it is no longer necessary to rely on these, for one may drive to Delphi in a few hours, and on a moonlight night the ride, while chilly, is said to be most delightful. Arriving as we did at early dawn, we were deprived of this experience, and set out from the village at once on landing to cover the nine miles to Kastri, some riding in carriages or spring carts,—locally called "sustas,"—some on mules, and others proceeding on foot. From afar we could already see the village, perched high on the side of the foothills of Parnassus, which rise abruptly some three miles away across a level plain. The plain proved to be delightful. Walled in on either hand by rocky cliffs, its whole bottom was filled with olive trees, through which vast grove the road wound leisurely along. Brooks babbled by through the grass of the great orchard, and the green of the herbage was spangled with innumerable anemones and other wild-flowers in a profusion of color. Far behind us in the background towered the Peloponnesian mountains, and before rose the forbidding cliffs that shut in Delphi. Above the distant Kastri, there was always the lofty summit of Parnassus, somewhat dwarfed by proximity and therefore a trifle disappointing to one whose preconceived notions of that classic mountain demanded splendid isolation, but still impressive.

Naturally on this long, level plain the carriages soon passed us, and disappeared in the hills ahead, while the footpath left the highway and plunged off boldly into the olive grove in the general direction of Delphi. When it attained the base of the sharp ascent of the mountain-side, it went straight up, leaving the road to find its more gradual way by zigzags and dÉtours,—windings so long that it soon developed that the carriages which so long ago had distanced us were in turn displaced and were later seen toiling up the steep behind us! The prospect rearward was increasingly lovely as we climbed and looked down upon the plain. It resembled nothing so much as a sea of verdure, the olive trees pouring into it from the uplands like a river, and filling it from bank to bank. No wonder this plain was deemed a ground worth fighting for by the ancients.

Despite the fact that the snows of Parnassus were apparently so near, the climb was warm. The rocky hillside gave back the heat of the April sun, although it was cloudy, and progress became necessarily slow, in part because of the warmth and in larger part because of the increasing splendor of the view. The path bore always easterly into a narrow gorge between two massive mountains, a gorge that narrowed and narrowed as the climb proceeded. Before very long we passed through a wayside hamlet that lies halfway up the road, exchanged greetings with the inhabitants, who proved a friendly people anxious to set us right on the way to Delphi, and speedily emerged from the nest of buildings on the path again, with Kastri always ahead and above, and seemingly as distant as ever. It was Palm Sunday, we discovered, and the populace of the tiny village all bore sprigs of greenery, which they pressed upon us and which later turned out to be more political than religious in their significance, since it was not only the day of the Lord’s triumphal entry but the closing day of the general elections as well.

Admiration for the green and fertile valley far behind now gave place to awe at the grim gorges before and the beetling cliffs towering overhead, up through which, like dark chimney flues, ran deep clefts in the rock, gloomy and mysterious, and doubtless potent in producing awe in the ancient mind by thus adding to the impressiveness of god-haunted Delphi. On the left the mountain rose abruptly and loftily to the blue; on the right the cliff descended sharply from the path to the dark depths of the ravine, while close on its other side rose again a neighboring mountain that inclosed this ever-narrowing gulch.

At last after a three-hour scramble over the rocks we attained Kastri, and found it a poor town lined with hovels, but, like Mount Zion, beautiful for situation. A brawling brook, fed by a spring above, dashed across the single street and lost itself in the depths of the ravine below. On either hand towered the steep sides of the surrounding cliffs, while before us the valley wound around a shoulder of the mountain and seemingly closed completely. Kastri did not always occupy this site, but once stood farther along around the mountain’s sharp corner, directly over the ancient shrine itself; and it was necessary for the French excavators who laid bare the ancient sites to have the village moved bodily by force and arms before any work could be done,—a task that was accomplished with no little difficulty, but which, when completed, enabled the exploration of what was once the most famous of all Pagan religious shrines. Curiously enough the restoration of the temples at Delphi fell to the hands of the French, the descendants of those very Gauls who, centuries before, had laid waste the shrines and treasuries of Loxias. We stopped long enough at Vasili’s to sample some "mastika,"—a native liqueur resembling anisette, very refreshing on a warm day,—and then walked on to the ruins which lie some few minutes’ walk farther around the shoulder of the mountain.

Nothing could well be more impressive than the prospect that opened out as we came down to the famous site itself. No outlet of the great vale was to be seen from this point, for the gorge winds about among the crags which rise high above and drop far below to the base of the rocky glen. Human habitation there is none. Kastri was now out of sight behind. On the roadside and in the more gradual slopes of the ravine below one might find olive trees, and here and there a plane. Beyond, through the mysterious windings of the defile runs the road to Arakhova. It was on this spot that Apollo had his most famous shrine, the abode of his accredited priestesses gifted with prophecy; and no fitter habitation for the oracle could have been found by the worshipers of old time than this gloomy mountain glen where nature conspires with herself to overawe mankind by her grandeur.

The legend has it that Apollo, born as all the world knows in far-off Delos, transferred his chief seat to Delphi just after his feat of slaying the Python. He is said to have followed that exploit by leaping into the sea, where he assumed the form of a huge dolphin (delphis), and in this guise he directed the course of a passing Cretan ship to the landing place at Itea, or Crissa. There, suddenly resuming his proper shape of a beautiful youth he led the wondering crew of the vessel up from the shore to the present site of Delphi, proclaimed himself the god, and persuaded the sailors to remain there, build a temple and become his priests, calling the spot “Delphi.” Tradition also asks us to believe that there then existed on the spot a cavern, from which issued vapors having a peculiar effect on the human mind, producing in those who breathed them a stupor in which the victim raved, uttering words which were supposed to be prophetic. Over this cave, if it existed, the temple was erected; and therein the priestess, seated on a tripod where she might inhale the vapors, gave out her answers to suppliants, which answers the corps of priests later rendered into hexameter verses having the semblance of sense, but generally so ambiguous as to admit of more than one interpretation. All sorts of tales are told of the effect of the mephitic gas on the pythoness—how she would writhe in uncontrollable fury, how her hair would rise on her head as she poured forth her unintelligible gibberish, and so forth; stories well calculated to impress a credulous race “much given to religion” as St. Paul so sagely observed. If there ever was any such cavern at all, it has disappeared, possibly filled with the dÉbris of the ruins or closed by earthquake. Perhaps there never was any cave at all. In any event the wonders of the Delphic oracle were undoubtedly explicable, as such phenomena nearly always are, by perfectly natural facts. It has been pointed out that the corps of priests, visited continually as they were by people from all parts of the ancient world, were probably the best informed set of men on earth, and the sum total of their knowledge thus gleaned so far surpassed that of the ordinary mortal and so far exceeded the average comprehension that what was perfectly natural was easily made to appear miraculous. To the already awed suppliant, predisposed to belief and impressed by the wonderful natural surroundings of the place, it was not hard to pass off this world-wide information as inspired truth. Nor was it a long step from this, especially for clever men such as the priests seem to have been, to begin forecasting future events by basing shrewd guesses on data already in hand—these guesses being received with full faith by the worshiper as god-given prophecy. As an added safeguard the priests often handed down their predictions in ambiguous form, as, for example, in the famous answer sent to Croesus, when he asked if he should venture an expedition against Cyrus—“If Croesus shall attack Cyrus, he will destroy a great empire.” Such answers were of course agreeable to the suppliant, for they admitted of flattering interpretation; and it was only after trial that Croesus discovered that the “great empire” he was fated to destroy was his own. At other times the guesses, not in ambiguous form, went sadly astray—as in the case where the Pythian, after balancing probabilities and doubtless assuming that the gods were always on the side of the heaviest battalions, advised the Athenians not to hope to conquer the invading Persians. This erroneous estimate was the natural one for informed persons to make,—and it is highly probable that it was influenced in part by presents from the Persian king, for such corruption of the oracle was by no means unknown. In fact it led to the ultimate discrediting of the oracle, and it was not long before the shrine ceased to be revered as a fountain of good advice. Nevertheless for many hundred years it was held in unparalleled veneration by the whole ancient world. Pilgrims came and went. Cities and states maintained rich treasuries there, on which was founded a considerable banking system. Games in honor of Pythian Apollo were celebrated in the stadium which is still to be seen high up on the mountain-side above the extensive ruins of the sacred precinct. Temple after temple arose about the great main shrine of the god. Even distant Cnidus erected a treasury, and victorious powers set up trophy after trophy there for battles won by land or sea—the politeness of the time preventing the mention of any Hellenic victim by name.

All these remains have been patiently uncovered and laboriously identified and labeled, with the assistance of the voluminous writings of that patron saint of travelers, Pausanias. The work was done under the direction of the erudite French school, and the visitor of to-day, provided with the plan in his guide-book and aided by the numerous guide-posts erected on the spot, will find his way about with much ease. One of the buildings, the “treasury of the Athenians,” a small structure about the size of the NikÉ Apteros temple, is being “restored” by the excavators, but with rather doubtful success. Aside from this one instance, the ruins are mainly reconstructible only in the imagination from the visible ground-plans and from the fragments lying all about. In the museum close by, however, some fractional restorations indoors serve to give a very excellent idea of the appearance of at least two of the ancient buildings.

Space and the intended scope of this narrative alike forbid anything like a detailed discussion of the numerous ruins that line the zigzag course of the old “sacred way.” The visitor, thanks to the ability of the French school, is left in no doubt as to the identity of the buildings, and the wayfaring man, though no archÆologist, need not err. One may remark in passing, however, the curious polygonal wall of curved stones still standing along a portion of the way and still bearing the remnant of a colonnade, with an inscription indicating that once a trophy was set up here by the Athenians,—possibly the beaks of conquered ships. Of course the centre and soul of the whole precinct was the great temple of Apollo, now absolutely flat in ruins, but once a grand edifice indeed. The AlcmÆonidÆ, who had the contract for building it, surprised and delighted everybody by building better than the terms of their agreement demanded, providing marble ends for the temple and pedimental adornment as well, when the letter of the contract would have been satisfied with native stone. Thus shrewdly did a family that was in temporary disfavor at Athens win its way back to esteem!

However easy it may be to explain with some plausibility the ordinary feats of the oracle at Delphi as accomplished by purely natural means, there was an occasional tour de force that even to-day would pass for miraculous—supposing that there be any truth in the stories as originally told. The most notable instance was one in which Croesus figured. That wealthy monarch was extremely partial to oracles, and generally consulted them before any considerable undertaking. On the occasion in question he contemplated an expedition against Cyrus—the same which he eventually undertook because of the enigmatic answer before referred to—and made extraordinary preparations to see that the advice given him was trustworthy. For Croesus, with all his credulity, was inclined to be canny, and proposed to test the powers of the more famous oracular shrines by a little experiment. So he sent different persons, according to Herodotus, to the various oracles in Greece and even in Libya, "some to Phocis, some to Dodona, others to Amphiaraus and Trophonius, and others to BranchidÆ of Milesia, and still others to Ammon in Libya. He sent them in different ways, desiring to make trial of what the oracle knew, in order that, if they should be found to know the truth, he might send a second time to inquire whether he should venture to make war on the Persians. He laid upon them the following orders: That, computing the days from the time of their departure from Sardis, they should consult the oracles on the hundredth day by asking what Croesus, the son of Alyattes, was then doing. They were to bring back the answer in writing. Now what the answers were that were given by the other oracles is mentioned by none; but no sooner had the Lydian ambassadors entered the temple at Delphi and asked the question than the Pythian spoke thus, in hexameter verse: 'I know the number of the sands and the measure of the sea; I understand the dumb and hear him that does not speak; the savor of the hard-shelled tortoise boiled in brass with the flesh of lambs strikes on my senses; brass is laid beneath it and brass is put over it.' Now of all the answers opened by Croesus none pleased him but only this. And when he had heard the answer from Delphi he adored it and approved it, and was convinced that the pythoness of Delphi was a real oracle because she alone had interpreted what he had done. For when he sent out his messengers to the several oracles, watching for the appointed day, he had recourse to the following contrivance, having thought of what it was impossible to discover or guess at. He cut up a tortoise and a lamb and boiled them himself together in a brazen caldron, and laid over it a cover of brass."^[1]

Thus, on one occasion, the oracle is supposed to have performed a feat of what we should now set down as telepathy, and which, if it really happened, would be explicable in no other way. It sufficed to establish Delphi as a shrine to be revered, in the mind of Croesus, and to propitiate the god he sent magnificent gifts. And as these may serve to give some idea of the vast riches of the spot in bygone ages, it may be well to relate here what Croesus is supposed to have sent. Herodotus relates that he made a prodigious sacrifice, in the flames of which he melted down an incredible amount of gold and silver. "Out of the metal thus melted down he cast half-bricks, of which the longest was six palms in length, the shortest three; and in thickness, each was one palm. Their number was one hundred and seventeen. Four of these, of pure gold, weighed each two talents and a half. The other bricks, of pale gold, weighed two talents each. He made also the figure of a lion, of fine gold, weighing ten talents. This lion, when the temple at Delphi was burned down, fell from its pedestal of half-bricks, for it was placed upon them. It now lies in the treasury of the Corinthians, weighing only six talents and a half,—for three talents and a half were melted from it in the fire. Croesus, having finished these things, sent them to Delphi, and with them the following: two large bowls, one of gold and one of silver. The golden one was placed on the right as one enters the temple, and that of silver on the left; but they were removed when the temple was burning, and the gold bowl was set in the treasury of the ClazomenÆ; while the silver one, which contains six hundred amphorae, lies in a corner of the PropylÆa, and is used for mixing wine on the Theophanian festival. The Delians said it was the work of Theodorus the Samian, which was probably true, for it was no common work. He sent also four casks of silver, which also stand in the Corinthian treasury; and he dedicated two lustral vases, one of gold and the other of silver. The Spartans claim that the golden one was their offering, for it bears an inscription, ‘From the LacedÆmonians;’ but this is wrong, for Croesus gave it. He sent many other offerings, among them some round silver covers, and also a golden statue of a woman, three cubits high, which the Delphians say is the image of Croesus’s baking-woman. And to all these things he added the necklaces and girdles of his wife."^[2]

Such is the account given by Herodotus of the gifts bestowed by the king regarded as the richest of all the ancient monarchs. In return for his gifts he got the answer that “if Croesus shall make war on the Persians he will destroy a mighty empire.” Croesus was so delighted at this that he sent more gifts, “giving to each of the inhabitants of Delphi two staters of gold.” A further question as to how long he was destined to rule elicited the response, “When a mule shall become king of the Medes, then, tender-footed Lydian, flee over the pebbly Hermus; nor delay, nor blush to be a coward.” There is even less of apparent enigma about that statement; yet nevertheless Croesus lived to see the day when a man, whom he deemed a “mule,” did become ruler of the Medes, and he likewise saw his own mighty empire destroyed. The case of Croesus is typical in many ways of the attitude of the ancients toward the oracle,—their belief in it as inspired, and their frequent attempts to predispose it to favor by gifts of great magnificence. Not everybody could give such offerings as Croesus, to be sure. But the presents piled up in the buildings of the sacred precinct must have been of enormous value, and the contemplation of them somewhat overpowering. By the way, recent estimates have been published showing that the wealth of Croesus, measured by our modern standards, would total only about $11,000,000.

Doubtless the awe felt for the spot sufficed in the main to protect the treasures from theft. When Xerxes came into Greece and approached the shrine, the inhabitants proposed that the valuables be buried in the earth. Phoebus, speaking through the priestess, forbade this, however, saying that “he was able to protect his own.” And, in fact, he proved to be so, for the approaching host were awed by the sight of the sacred arms of the god, moved apparently by superhuman means from their armory within the temple to the steps outside. And moreover while the invaders were approaching along the vale below, where the temple of Athena Pronoia still stands, a storm broke, and two great crags were dashed from the overhanging cliffs above, killing some and demoralizing the rest. A war shout was heard from the temple of Athena, and the Delians, taking heart at these prodigies, swept down from the hills and destroyed many of the fleeing Medes.

The most successful attempt to prejudice and corrupt the oracle seems to have been that of the AlcmÆonidÆ, who have been referred to as the builders of the great temple after its destruction by fire. They had been driven out of Athens by the PisistratidÆ, and during their exile they contracted with the Amphictyons to rebuild the great shrine of Apollo. That they imported Parian marble for the front of the edifice when the contract would have been amply satisfied with Poros stone seems to have been less a disinterested act than an effort to win the favor of the god. The Athenians long maintained that the builders still further persuaded the oracle by gifts of money to urge upon the Spartans the liberation of Athens from the tyrants; and in the end the PisistratidÆ were driven out, in obedience to this mandate, while the AlcmÆonidÆ came back in triumph, as had been their design from the first.

It was rather a relief at last to turn from the bewildering array of ruins to the museum itself. It is not large, but it contains some wonderfully interesting things, and chief of all, no doubt, the bronze figure of the charioteer. I cannot bring myself to believe that he surpasses the bronze “ephebus” at Athens, whom he instantly recalls both from the material and from the treatment of the eyes; but he is wonderful, nevertheless, as he stands slightly leaning backward as one might in the act of driving, the remnants of a rein still visible in one hand. His self-possession and rather aristocratic mien have often been remarked, and a careful examination will reveal what is doubtless the most curious thing about the whole statue—namely, the little fringe of eye-lashes, which those who cast the image allowed to protrude around the inlaid eye-ball. They might easily be overlooked by a casual observer, but their effect is to add a subtle something that gives the unusual naturalness to the eyes. One other statue, a marble replica of an original bronze by Lysippus, deserves a word of comment also, because it is held by good authorities to be a better example of the school of Lysippus than the far better known “Apoxyomenos” in the Braccio Nuovo at Rome. Each of the figures is the work of a pupil of Lysippus, but the claim is made that the copy of a youth at Delphi was doubtless made by a pupil working under the master’s own supervision, while the Apoxyomenos was carved after Lysippus had died. From this it is natural enough to infer that the Delphi example is a more faithful reproduction than the Vatican’s familiar figure. In this museum also is a carved stone which is known as the “omphalos,” because of its having marked the supposed navel of the earth. The legend is that Zeus once let fly two eagles from opposite sides of the world, bidding them fly toward one another with equal wing. They met at Delphi, which therefore shares this form of celebrity with Dodona in Epirus.

Of course we visited the Castalian spring, which still gushes forth from a cleft in the rock, as it did in the days when suppliants came thither first of all to purify themselves. After a long journey one is not loath to rest beside this ancient fount after washing and drinking deep of its unfailing supply, for the water is good and the chance to drink fresh water in Greece is rare enough to be embraced wherever met. The cleft from which the spring emerges is truly wonderful. It is narrow and dark enough for a colossal chimney, running far back into the bowels of the mountain heights behind. An old stone trough hewn out of the side of the cliff was once filled by this spring, but the flow has now been diverted and it runs off in a babbling stream over the pebbles. Not the least inspiring thing at Delphi is to stand here and reflect, as one enjoys the Castalian water, how many of the great in bygone ages stood on this very spot and listened to the same murmur of this brook which goes on forever.

Hard by the spring, under two great plane trees that we fondly believed were direct descendants of those planted on the spot by Agamemnon, we sat down to lunch, a stone khan across the way affording shelter and fire for our coffee. And in the afternoon we rambled among the ruins below on the grassy slopes of the lower glen, where are to be seen a ruined gymnasium, a temple of Athena Pronoia, and a fascinating circular “tholos,” all of which, though sadly shattered, still present much beauty of detail. If the site were devoid of every ruined temple it would still be well worth a visit, not merely from the importance it once enjoyed as Apollo’s chief sanctuary, but also for the grandeur and impressiveness of its setting, so typical of Greece at her best. Fortunate indeed are those who may tarry here awhile, now that local lodging has been robbed of its ancient hardships. To-day, as in the days of the priests, Delphi is in touch with the uttermost parts of the earth by means of the telegraph, the incongruous wires of which accompany the climber all the way from Itea, so that details of arrival, departure, or stay may be arranged readily enough from afar. Long sojourn, however, was not to be our portion, and we were forced to depart, though with reluctant steps, down along the rough side of the mountain, through the vast and silent olive groves, back into the world of men, to sordid Itea and our ship.