On the conclusion of the comedy, the rest of the evening was devoted to feasting, while Justinian and his guests returned to the Acropolis, well pleased with the success of the performances. “Well, what do you think of my sermons from the stage?” asked Crispin, as he strolled along beside Maurice. “I think very highly of them,” answered the Englishman. “It is a pity we dare not be so out-spoken in our own land. But if you set forth the foibles of Londoners as plainly as you did in ‘The Honey Bees,’ I am afraid you would have half a dozen libel cases.” “It would be impossible to transplant the Aristophanic comedy to England, for modern civilization is too complicated to admit of such free speaking. Besides, the average Briton is too serious and too practical to relish the truth, even when uttered by the comic muse, and only the light-hearted Athenians could have appreciated and enjoyed such plain speaking. The French are more given to open criticism, and I daresay a political comedy constructed on these lines would appeal greatly to their sense of humor.” “When one is in Rome one must not speak evil of the Pope!” “And every nation has its pope of conventionality. I agree with you there. After all, it is impossible to revive the past, and even a new Shakespeare would be as out of place in these post-revolutionary days as a new Aristophanes. The modern world deals with the drama of little things, and the individual idiosyncrasy is caricatured instead of the national policy. We have only one plain-speaking Aristophanes nowadays, and his name is _Punch_.” CHAPTER XXV. OLYMPIAN. Like statues fair the naked runners stand, Poised for the start on Elis’ sacred plain, Their limbs resplendent shine with fragrant oil, And every eager athlete is fain To win the wreath of olives for his toil, In honor of his laud. Like flying arrows from a stretchèd bow, They onward speed with every muscle strained. A breathless pause—then shouts to heaven go In token of the victory hardly won. A triple cry of “Hail, Victorious!” sounds; With dance and choral song the victor goes To bend before the statue of the god. Then one with glad rejoicing proudly throws A robe of triumph o’er his shoulders broad, And with wild olives crowned, The athlete unconquered, in his state Waits silent in the awful god’s abode To hear, with pride of victory elate, The rushing splendor of Pindaric ode.