Remembering that we are endeavouring to account for the rise of one of the great arts of all time, let us call to mind the scene on the plain between the Alpheus and the Cladeus on one of the five days during which the festival lasted. With one exception—the Priestess of Demeter—there is no woman in the vast assembly. It is the fourth day of the games. The judges can be seen, clad in the purple robes of their office. Near by, in the brilliant sunshine, his naked form standing out in clear outline, is one of the competitors in the Pentathlon. This comprises leaping, running, wrestling, and hurling the spear and discus. All who enter must excel in each. Victory is not certain until three of the five events have been won. The most famous Pentathli are light men—not bulky wrestlers. Of all the competitions, this needs the finest physique and is most calculated to develop that elasticity and harmonious balance which the Greek prizes in his youth. Well might Aristotle call the Pentathli “the most handsome of all athletes.” The youthful figure, on a space raised slightly above the ground, is of pure Hellenic blood. He rests on his right foot, his knee bent and his body leaning forward. In his hand is the stone discus, ten or twelve inches in diameter, which reaches half way up his forearm. In front, in the distance, stands a friend ready to mark the spot where the stone falls. The eyes of Greece are upon the discobolus. His only reward is the right to lay the crown of leaves in the shrine of the god of his native town. Can it be wondered that the artists of Greece were inspired to their grandest achievements by such sights? It would have been strange indeed if their finest works had not included the representations of the winners of the garland of wild olive. But the truth goes deeper than this. Without such inspirations Greek sculpture would never have risen to the heights it did attain. And without the achievements of the Hellene, can we be sure that Michael Angelo would have ever been more than a struggler? He might have painted the Sistine ceiling, but would he have modelled the David or carved the monuments in the Medici Chapel? The festival at Olympia and the gymnasia in every Greek city were surely necessary if the art which depends upon “the passion for naked male beauty” was to come to its own. In no other way could “every limb present”—we are quoting from Schopenhauer—“its plastic significance to criticism and to comparison with the ideal which lay undeveloped” in the imaginations of men. Under circumstances less strenuous the dull anticipation of bodily beauty would never have been raised “to such distinct consciousness that men would have become capable of objectifying it in works of art.”