Such were among the amusements of Nero’s evenings, and part of the pleasure consisted in knowing that he and his guests were enjoying at their leisure a near view of the unequalled genius which enraptured the shouting myriads of Rome when witnessed from a distance after long hours of waiting to secure a place. Further, they had the advantage of watching the speaking faces of the mimists, which in the theatre were hidden by a mask. It is needless to add that Nero rewarded with immense donations the artists whose skill he so passionately admired. And yet for Paris it had been happier if, instead of dazzling the multitude, he had remained the humble slave of Domitia. For in later days Nero, envying him the tumults of applause he won, tried to emulate his skill. Paris did his best to teach him, but the attempt was hopeless. Nothing could then make the obese form of the Emperor graceful, or his thin legs agile. And since he could not rival him, he made the poor wretch pay the penalty by putting him to death. But no such dread foreboding was in the happy actor’s mind as he witnessed the spell which he cast over the minds of his audience--and audience it might fitly be called, for the actor had _spoken to_ them in the eloquence of rhythmic gesture. The conversation turned naturally on the art of dancing. ‘Paris,’ said Petronius, whose æsthetic sympathies had been intensely gratified, ‘I know not whether you missed the usual accompaniments of pipes and flutes, and still more the thundering reverberations of applause from the enraptured myriads, but I never heard you to greater advantage.’ ‘Heard me? _Saw_ me, you mean,’ said Paris, with a pleasant smile. ‘No!’ said Petronius, ‘we have heard, not seen, you. You have not spoken a word, but your feet and your hands have surpassed the eloquence even of lips “tinct with Hyblean honeycombs.”’ ‘You remind me of what Demetrius the Cynic said to me,’ answered Paris. ‘What was that?’ ‘Do not think me vain if I tell the story,’ said the actor. ‘I do not tell it in my own honour, but only for the glory of my art. Demetrius had been railing and snarling at us poor pantomimes, and said that the only pleasure of the spectators was derived, not from our dancing, but from the flutes and songs. I asked him to let me show him a specimen of what I could do.’ ‘Happy Demetrius!’ said Lucan. ‘He was fair-minded enough to consent, and I danced to him the story of Mars and Venus. I tried to bring before him their love, their betrayal by Helios, the rage and jealousy of Vulcan, their capture in the golden net, their confusion, the entreaties of Venus, the intercession of the gods. Demetrius was fairly conquered, and he said to me, “Fellow!” (you observe that he was anything but civil!), “I don’t merely see but I hear your acting, and you seem to me to speak with your very hands.”’