The valley of the Plistus lies in full sight after the Crisæan plain and the gulf beyond it have been blotted out by a turn in the road which leads sharply around a large, rocky ridge, the barrier between the new town and the old. This ridge formed the western wall that isolated Delphi in lonely remoteness between the bare steep rocks of Cirphis and the cliffs of massive Parnassus, which spreads its huge buttresses over the surrounding country. Rising two thousand feet above the level of the sea, these cliffs present a magnificent expanse of gray and red limestone, and still reflect the brilliant morning sun, true to their ancient name of the “Shining Rocks.” Where they bend around, in their long course, a deep gorge is formed from which the storied spring of Castalia still issues. Above the gorge, invisible when one stands under the cliffs but conspicuous from lower levels, rise twin peaks, seeking a proud supremacy. Superb mountains, precipitous cliffs, deep ravines, lonely valley, all are here. But here too, softening, transfiguring, some unforeseen influence is at work. Over the mountains a friendly, familiar sunshine casts a gentle glamour. Olive trees fearlessly silver the long slopes that stretch from the shining rocks to the glistening river. In jocund profusion, tripping through the valley and climbing up the steep places, pink and white almond trees flower like blushing dryads. The Far-Darter has chosen this hour to lay aside his bow. No longer does he come,— “angered in heart, with his bow on his shoulders and close-covered quiver, while in his anger the shafts on his shoulders are clanging, and like to the Night is his coming,”— but he lifts the “golden lyre” that quencheth even the lightning spear, the bolt of Zeus’s immortal fire. Or perhaps Apollo has abdicated for a time and it is Dionysus who is concealing the terror of the oracle beneath the sparkling audacity of spring. For the worship of this multiform god had a strong hold on Delphi, and the “beat of his unseen feet” as he was wont to lead his Mænads in furious dance among the uplands of Parnassus echoes through Greek poetry. According to one set of legends, Dionysus was the first to hold the oracle. According to another, Apollo regularly departed for three months each year, leaving the more fiery god of inspiration in charge of the sacred tripod. In any case the relation between the divine brothers seems to have been very amicable. An old vase-painting represents them as affectionately shaking hands under a palm tree.