oo, sat at the feet of some of the philosophers in the Museum, and
still uphold the teachings of Straton, which your fellow-pupil, King
Ptolemy, outgrew long ago. Yet he, also, recognised in philosophy, first
of all, the bond which unites the widely sundered acquisitions of the
intellect, the vital breath which pervades them, the touchstone which
proves each true or false. If the praise of Alexandria is to be sung, we
must not forget the library to which the most precious treasures of
knowledge of the East and West are flowing, and which feeds those who
thirst for knowledge with the intellectual gains of former ages and other
nations. Honour, too, to our King, and, that I may be just, to his
illustrious wife; for wherever in the Grecian world a friend of the Muses
appears, whether he is investigator, poet, architect, sculptor, artist,
actor, or singer, he is drawn to Alexandria, and, that he may not be
idle, work is provided. Palaces spring from the earth quickly enough."

"Yet not like mushrooms," Hermon interrupted, "but as the noblest, most
carefully executed creations of art-sculpture and painting provide for
their decoration both without and within."

"And," Proclus went on, "abodes are erected for the gods as well as for
men, both Egyptian and Hellenic divinities, each in their own style, and
so beautiful that it must be a pleasure for them to dwell under the new
roof."

"Go to the gardens of the Paneum, friends!" cried young Philotas; and
Hermon, nodding to Thyone, added gaily: "Then you must climb the mountain
and keep your eyes open while you are ascending the winding path. You
will find enough to do to look at all the new sights. You will stand
there with dry feet, but your soul will bathe in eternal, imperishable,
divine beauty."

"The foe of beauty!" exclaimed Proclus, pointing to the sculptor with a
scornful glance; but Daphne, full of joyous emotion, whispered to Hermon
as he approached her: "Eternal, divine beauty! To hear it thus praised by
you makes me happy."

"Yes," cried the artist, "what else should I call what has so often
filled me with the deepest rapture? The Greek language has no more
fitting expression for the grand and lofty things that hovered before me,
and which I called by that chameleon of a word. Yet I have a different
meaning from what appears before you at its sound. Were I to call it
truth, you would scarcely understand me, but when I conjure before my
soul the image of Alexandr