“What else have the Romans done besides conquer nations?” added Alcmaeon, stirred by Gannon’s enthusiasm. “The Iliad that appeared at the dawn of our history is still the dew that nourishes the very radicles of our souls. Have the Romans produced a Homer? Art became plastic in the quick fingers of the Greeks. Have the Romans produced a Praxiteles or a Scopas? Greek painting deceived human eyes. Have the Romans produced an Apelles? Where is the Roman Phidias, the Roman Demosthenes, the Roman Aeschylus, Sophocles, or Euripides? Where are the Roman counterparts of the greatest men who ever reflected on human minds the light of the other world? Where, O my children, where is the Roman Socrates, the Roman Plato and Aristotle?” “I understand thee now, my father! I understand thee now!” cried Gannon, carried to a higher plane of conception by his father’s superb climax. “I have fought my companions and have been beaten. Of a truth, words and thoughts are more powerful than brute force. My companions may ridicule my lack of physical strength, but they have become my friends. They now respect me.” “Ay. The Romans understand not the finer and purer instincts, my son,” said Alcmaeon, flushed with indignation. “They are a coarse, vulgar, and brutal people; the Greeks are refined, elegant, and humane.” With an effort to calm her father’s agitation, Psyche now interposed in a voice that seemed to sing rather than to speak: “But, my father, beauty is understood by both nations. Is it not so?” “Ay, my Psyche; but there are two kinds of beauty,--the pure beauty of the Greeks and the corrupt beauty of the Romans.” “Tell us of Livilla’s beauty, my brother,” begged Psyche, somewhat weary of this discussion, and with a natural and innocent curiosity to know more about the daughter-in-law of the emperor. “So beautiful, stately, and majestic is she, my sister, that I feel, when I stand before her, as if I stood in a temple, beholding a living goddess.” “Has she not one fault?” asked Hera, doubtfully. “To Greek eyes,” replied the youth, “her lips may seem too thick, her eyes too dreamy.” “Few women possess the exquisite beauty of our daughter, my son,” said Hera, weaving the fingers of her daughter’s hand into those of her own. “Would that her figure could be reproduced in marble!” said Gannon, with an admiring glance at his sister. “Psyche’s dancing, my son, leaves an impression that a sculptured form could not produce,” replied Hera. “True, O mother,” said Gannon; “but the veil of age dims loveliness. A statue of Psyche would preserve her beauty forever.” “My son, hast thou watched the attentive faces of the spectators when Psyche dances?” asked Alcmaeon. “Hast thou noticed the mouths firmly compressed or half open, the foreheads contracted or expanded? Hast thou noticed the light of joy and the shadow of sorrow alternate on their faces? Memories of Psyche’s impersonations may be perishable, but to me they are preferable to a figure in marble.”