mountebank was babbling forth his ribaldries, and then looking round the circle with a greasy smile, just as though he had done something to be proud of.
Heraclius.
Alas, my Emperor, I am most unhappy
Julian.
That you may well be; for this is, in truth, no trifling matter. Think you the legends of the gods have not a serious and weighty purpose? Are they not destined to lead the human spirit, by an easy and pleasant path, up to the mystic abodes where reigns the highest god,—and thereby to make our souls capable of union with him? How can it be otherwise? Was it not with that view that the old poets invented such legends, and that Plato and others repeated them, and even added to their number? Apart from this purpose, I tell you, these stories would be fit only for children or barbarians,—and scarcely for them. But was it children and barbarians, pray, that you had before you yesterday? Where do you find the audacity to address me as if I were a child? Do you think yourself a sage, and entitled to a sage's freedom of speech, because you wear a ragged cloak, and carry a beggar's staff in your hand?
A Courtier.
How true, my Emperor! No, no, it needs more than that
Julian.
Ay? Does it indeed? And what? To let your hair grow, perhaps, and never clean your nails? Oh hypocritical Cleon! I know you, one and all.
