Mt. Parnassus 



279 



sus, and past the little village of Chryso to the village of 

 Kastri. The latter now bears the ancient name of Delphi. 



We stopped at the little house of Paraskevas, which the 

 proprietor calls the "Hotel des Etrangers" and which com- 

 mands the best view of the gorge of the Phaedriadae. From 

 the modest balcony of the house we looked with wonder at 

 the magnificence which was spread before our eyes. Di- 

 rectly below our feet lay the narrow gorge through which 

 the waters of the Pleistos run whenever the storm breaks 

 over the majestic cliffs of reddish rock rising on either side. 

 The aspect here is wild and impressive. But the gorge grad- 

 ually widens into the pleasant plain with its red-earthen 

 fields, its green vineyards and silvery olive groves — the most 

 glorious olive groves in Greece, with the exception perhaps 

 of those covering the valley of Taygetus about ancient 

 Sparta. Beyond shone the sapphire waves of the Gulf, 

 carrying the glance across the waters to the Peloponnesian 

 mountains of Panachaicon and Erymanthus. To the west 

 the purple masses of Mt. Kiona and the ancient Korax 

 loomed against the sky, brilliant with the expiring colors 

 of the setting sun. Then indeed we saw and heard light 

 and music in waves eternally streaming from Apollo's an- 

 cient shrine. 



In the morning we went forth in the brilliant light of a 

 Grecian day and walked to the site of the ancient Delphi, 

 where were once the shrine and oracle of the Pythian Apollo. 

 VVe wondered whether we would be graciously received by 

 the god. In the old days a detachment of the army of 

 Xerxes, coming to take possession of the sacred treasures, 

 was overwhelmed by a terrific thunder-storm, that caused 

 two crags to split off from Parnassus and roll down, crush- 

 ing many and striking terror into the hearts of the sur- 

 vivors. Herodotus tells the tale in the eighth book. 



For us. however, the sky shone brighter than ever and 

 the whispers of the olive trees sounded propitious to our 

 ears. Thus we turned to the mouth of the cleft whence 

 the waters of the Fountain of Castalia gush forth, cold like 

 the snow of the mountain tops, as welcome to the traveler 

 today as they were to the pious pilgrims of old who flocked 



