No More Learning

We
live in prosperity and plenty; in the esteem of mankind we are second to
none but the God himself. So it was in the beginning: so it is now: and
so may it ever be!

But who has ever heard before of our putting an offering to the vote, or
hindering men from paying sacrifice? No one; and herein, as I maintain,
is the secret of our temple's greatness, and of the abundant wealth of
its offerings. Then let us have no innovations now, no new-fangled
institutions, no inquiries into the origin and nature and nationality and
pedigree of a gift; let us take what is brought to us, and set it in the
store-chamber without more ado. In this way we shall best serve both the
God and his worshippers. I think it would be well if, before you
deliberate further on the question before you, you would consider how
great and how various are the issues involved. There is the God, his
temple, his sacrifices and offerings, the ancient customs and ordinances,
the reputation of the oracle; again, our city as a whole, our common
interests, and those of every individual Delphian among us; lastly--and I
know not what consideration could seem of more vital importance to a
well-judging mind--, our own credit or discredit with the world at large.

I say, then, we have to deal not with Phalaris, not with a single tyrant,
not with this bull, not with so much weight of bronze,--but with every
king and prince who frequents our temple at this day; with gold and
silver and all the precious offerings that should pour in upon the God;
that God whose interests claim our first attention. Say, why should we
change the old-established usage in regard to offerings? What fault have
we to find with the ancient custom, that we should propose innovations?
Never yet, from the day when Delphi was first inhabited, and Apollo
prophesied, and the tripod gave utterance, and the priestess was
inspired, never yet have the bringers of gifts been subjected to
scrutiny. And shall they now? Consider how the ancient custom, which
granted free access to all men, has filled the temple with treasures; how
all men have brought their offerings, and how some have impoverished
themselves to enrich the God. My mind misgives me that, when you have
assumed the censorship of offerings, you will lack employment: men may
refuse to submit themselves to your court; they may think it is enough to
spend their money, without having to undergo the risk of a rejection for
their pains. Would life be worth living, to the man who should be judged
unworthy to offer sacrifice?




ALEXANDER THE ORACLE-MONGER


You, my dear Celsus, possibly suppose yourself to be laying upon me quite
a trifling task: _Write me down in a book and send me the life and
adventures, the tricks and frauds, of the impostor Alexander of
Abonutichus_. In fact, however, it would take as long to do this in
full detail as to reduce to writing the achievements of Alexander of
Macedon; the one is among villains what the other is among heroes.
Nevertheless, if you will promise to read with indulgence, and fill up
the gaps in my tale from your imagination, I will essay the task. I may
not cleanse that Augean stable completely, but I will do my best, and
fetch you out a few loads as samples of the unspeakable filth that three
thousand oxen could produce in many years.

I confess to being a little ashamed both on your account and my own.
There are you asking that the memory of an arch-scoundrel should be
perpetuated in writing; here am I going seriously into an investigation
of this sort--the doings of a person whose deserts entitled him not to be
read about by the cultivated, but to be torn to pieces in the
amphitheatre by apes or foxes, with a vast audience looking on. Well,
well, if any one does cast reflections of that sort upon us, we shall at
least have a precedent to plead. Arrian himself, disciple of Epictetus,
distinguished Roman, and product of lifelong culture as he was, had just
our experience, and shall make our defence. He condescended, that is, to
put on record the life of the robber Tilliborus. The robber we propose to
immortalize was of a far more pestilent kind, following his profession
not in the forests and mountains, but in cities; _he_ was not content to
overrun a Mysia or an Ida; _his_ booty came not from a few scantily
populated districts of Asia; one may say that the scene of his
depredations was the whole Roman Empire.

I will begin with a picture of the man himself, as lifelike (though I am
not great at description) as I can make it with nothing better than
words. In person--not to forget that part of him--he was a fine handsome
man with a real touch of divinity about him, white-skinned, moderately
bearded; he wore besides his own hair artificial additions which matched
it so cunningly that they were not generally detected. His eyes were
piercing, and suggested inspiration, his voice at once sweet and
sonorous. In fact there was no fault to be found with him in these
respects.

So much for externals. As for his mind and spirit--well, if all the kind
Gods who avert disaster will grant a prayer, it shall be that they bring
me not within reach of such a one as he; sooner will I face my bitterest
enemies, my country's foes. In understanding, resource, acuteness, he was
far above other men; curiosity, receptiveness, memory, scientific
ability--all these were his in overflowing measure. But he used them for
the worst purposes. Endowed with all these instruments of good, he very
soon reached a proud pre-eminence among all who have been famous for
evil; the Cercopes, Eurybatus, Phrynondas, Aristodemus, Sostratus--all
thrown into the shade. In a letter to his father-in-law Rutilianus, which
puts his own pretensions in a truly modest light, he compares himself to
Pythagoras. Well, I should not like to offend the wise, the divine
Pythagoras; but if he had been Alexander's contemporary, I am quite sure
he would have been a mere child to him. Now by all that is admirable, do
not take that for an insult to Pythagoras, nor suppose I would draw a
parallel between their achievements. What I mean is: if any one would
make a collection of all the vilest and most damaging slanders ever
vented against Pythagoras--things whose truth I would not accept for a
moment--, the sum of them would not come within measurable distance of
Alexander's cleverness. You are to set your imagination to work and
conceive a temperament curiously compounded of falsehood, trickery,
perjury, cunning; it is versatile, audacious, adventurous, yet dogged in
execution; it is plausible enough to inspire confidence; it can assume
the mask of virtue, and seem to eschew what it most desires. I suppose no
one ever left him after a first interview without the impression that
this was the best and kindest of men, ay, and the simplest and most
unsophisticated. Add to all this a certain greatness in his objects; he
never made a small plan; his ideas were always large.

While in the bloom of his youthful beauty, which we may assume to have
been great both from its later remains and from the report of those who
saw it, he traded quite shamelessly upon it. Among his other patrons was
one of the charlatans who deal in magic and mystic incantations; they
will smooth your course of love, confound your enemies, find you
treasure, or secure you an inheritance. This person was struck with the
lad's natural qualifications for apprenticeship to his trade, and finding
him as much attracted by rascality as attractive in appearance, gave him
a regular training as accomplice, satellite, and attendant. His own
ostensible profession was medicine, and his knowledge included, like that
of Thoon the Egyptian's wife,

Many a virtuous herb, and many a bane;

to all which inheritance our friend succeeded. This teacher and lover of
his was a native of Tyana, an associate of the great Apollonius, and
acquainted with all his heroics. And now you know the atmosphere in which
Alexander lived.

By the time his beard had come, the Tyanean was dead, and he found
himself in straits; for the personal attractions which might once have
been a resource were diminished. He now formed great designs, which he
imparted to a Byzantine chronicler of the strolling competitive order, a
man of still worse character than himself, called, I believe, Cocconas.
The pair went about living on occult pretensions, shearing 'fat-heads,'
as they describe ordinary people in the native Magian lingo. Among these
they got hold of a rich Macedonian woman; her youth was past, but not her
desire for admiration; they got sufficient supplies out of her, and
accompanied her from Bithynia to Macedonia. She came from Pella, which
had been a flourishing place under the Macedonian kingdom, but has now a
poor and much reduced population.

There is here a breed of large serpents, so tame and gentle that women
make pets of them, children take them to bed, they will let you tread on
them, have no objection to being squeezed, and will draw milk from the
breast like infants. To these facts is probably to be referred the common
story about Olympias when she was with child of Alexander; it was
doubtless one of these that was her bed-fellow. Well, the two saw these
creatures, and bought the finest they could get for a few pence.

And from this point, as Thucydides might say, the war takes its
beginning. These ambitious scoundrels were quite devoid of scruples, and
they had now joined forces; it could not escape their penetration that
human life is under the absolute dominion of two mighty principles, fear
and hope, and that any one who can make these serve his ends may be sure
of a rapid fortune. They realized that, whether a man is most swayed by
the one or by the other, what he must most depend upon and desire is a
knowledge of futurity. So were to be explained the ancient wealth and
fame of Delphi, Delos, Clarus, Branchidae; it was at the bidding of the
two tyrants aforesaid that men thronged the temples, longed for fore-
knowledge, and to attain it sacrificed their hecatombs or dedicated their
golden ingots. All this they turned over and debated, and it issued in
the resolve to establish an oracle. If it were successful, they looked
for immediate wealth and prosperity; the result surpassed their most
sanguine expectations.

The next things to be settled were, first the theatre of operations, and
secondly the plan of campaign. Cocconas favoured Chalcedon, as a
mercantile centre convenient both for Thrace and Bithynia, and accessible
enough for the province of Asia, Galatia, and tribes still further east.
Alexander, on the other hand, preferred his native place, urging very
truly that an enterprise like theirs required congenial soil to give it a
start, in the shape of 'fat-heads' and simpletons; that was a fair
description, he said, of the Paphlagonians beyond Abonutichus; they were
mostly superstitious and well-to-do; one had only to go there with some
one to play the flute, the tambourine, or the cymbals, set the proverbial
mantic sieve [Footnote: I have no information on Coscinomancy or sieve-
divination. 'This kind of divination was generally practised to discover
thieves . . . They tied a thread to the sieve, by which it was upheld, then
prayed to the Gods to direct and assist them. After which they repeated
the names of the person suspected, and he at whose name the sieve whirled
round or moved was thought to have committed the fact' _Francklin's
Lucian. _] a-spinning, and there they would all be gaping as if he were
a God from heaven.

This difference of opinion did not last long, and Alexander prevailed.
Discovering, however, that a use might after all be made of Chalcedon,
they went there first, and in the temple of Apollo, the oldest in the
place, they buried some brazen tablets, on which was the statement that
very shortly Asclepius, with his father Apollo, would pay a visit to
Pontus, and take up his abode at Abonutichus. The discovery of the
tablets took place as arranged, and the news flew through Bithynia and
Pontus, first of all, naturally, to Abonutichus. The people of that place
at once resolved to raise a temple, and lost no time in digging the
foundations. Cocconas was now left at Chalcedon, engaged in composing
certain ambiguous crabbed oracles. He shortly afterwards died, I believe,
of a viper's bite.

Alexander meanwhile went on in advance; he had now grown his hair and
wore it in long curls; his doublet was white and purple striped, his
cloak pure white; he carried a scimetar in imitation of Perseus, from
whom he now claimed descent through his mother. The wretched
Paphlagonians, who knew perfectly well that his parentage was obscure and
mean on both sides, nevertheless gave credence to the oracle, which ran:

Lo, sprung from Perseus, and to Phoebus dear,
High Alexander, Podalirius' son!

Podalirius, it seems, was of so highly amorous a complexion that the
distance between Tricca and Paphlagonia was no bar to his union with
Alexander's mother. A Sibylline prophecy had also been found:

Hard by Sinope on the Euxine shore
Th' Italic age a fortress prophet sees.
To the first monad let thrice ten be added,
Five monads yet, and then a triple score:
Such the quaternion of th' alexic name.

[Footnote: In 1. 2 of the oracle, the Italic age is the Roman Empire; the
fortress prophet is one who belongs to a place ending in--tichus (fort).
11>> 3-5 mean: Take 1, 30, 5, 60 (the Greek symbols for which are the
letters of the alphabet A, L, E, X), and you will have four letters of
the name of your coming protector (alexic). ]

This heroic entry into his long-left home placed Alexander conspicuously
before the public; he affected madness, and frequently foamed at the
mouth--a manifestation easily produced by chewing the herb soap-wort,
used by dyers; but it brought him reverence and awe. The two had long ago
manufactured and fitted up a serpent's head of linen; they had given it a
more or less human expression, and painted it very like the real article;
by a contrivance of horsehair, the mouth could be opened and shut, and a
forked black serpent tongue protruded, working on the same system. The
serpent from Pella was also kept ready in the house, to be produced at
the right moment and take its part in the drama--the leading part,
indeed.

In the fullness of time, his plan took shape. He went one night to the
temple foundations, still in process of digging, and with standing water
in them which had collected from the rainfall or otherwise; here he
deposited a goose egg, into which, after blowing it, he had inserted some
new-born reptile. He made a resting-place deep down in the mud for this,
and departed. Early next morning he rushed into the market-place, naked
except for a gold-spangled loin-cloth; with nothing but this and his
scimetar, and shaking his long loose hair, like the fanatics who collect
money in the name of Cybele, he climbed on to a lofty altar and delivered
a harangue, felicitating the city upon the advent of the God now to bless
them with his presence. In a few minutes nearly the whole population was
on the spot, women, old men, and children included; all was awe, prayer,
and adoration. He uttered some unintelligible sounds, which might have
been Hebrew or Phoenician, but completed his victory over his audience,
who could make nothing of what he said, beyond the constant repetition of
the names Apollo and Asclepius.

He then set off at a run for the future temple. Arrived at the excavation
and the already completed sacred fount, he got down into the water,
chanted in a loud voice hymns to Asclepius and Apollo, and invited the
God to come, a welcome guest, to the city. He next demanded a bowl, and
when this was handed to him, had no difficulty in putting it down at the
right place and scooping up, besides water and mud, the egg in which the
God had been enclosed; the edges of the aperture had been joined with wax
and white lead. He took the egg in his hand and announced that here he
held Asclepius. The people, who had been sufficiently astonished by the
discovery of the egg in the water, were now all eyes for what was to
come. He broke it, and received in his hollowed palm the hardly developed
reptile; the crowd could see it stirring and winding about his fingers;
they raised a shout, hailed the God, blessed the city, and every mouth
was full of prayers--for treasure and wealth and health and all the other
good things that he might give. Our hero now departed homewards, still
running, with the new-born Asclepius in his hands--the twice-born, too,
whereas ordinary men can be born but once, and born moreover not of
Coronis [Footnote: Coronis was the mother of Asclepius; 'corone' is Greek
for a crow. ] nor even of her namesake the crow, but of a goose! After him
streamed the whole people, in all the madness of fanatic hopes.

He now kept the house for some days, in hopes that the Paphlagonians
would soon be drawn in crowds by the news. He was not disappointed; the
city was filled to overflowing with persons who had neither brains nor
individuality, who bore no resemblance to men that live by bread, and had
only their outward shape to distinguish them from sheep. In a small room
he took his seat, very imposingly attired, upon a couch. He took into his
bosom our Asclepius of Pella (a very fine and large one, as I observed),
wound its body round his neck, and let its tail hang down; there was
enough of this not only to fill his lap, but to trail on the ground also;
the patient creature's head he kept hidden in his armpit, showing the
linen head on one side of his beard exactly as if it belonged to the
visible body.

Picture to yourself a little chamber into which no very brilliant light
was admitted, with a crowd of people from all quarters, excited,
carefully worked up, all a-flutter with expectation. As they came in,
they might naturally find a miracle in the development of that little
crawling thing of a few days ago into this great, tame, human-looking
serpent. Then they had to get on at once towards the exit, being pressed
forward by the new arrivals before they could have a good look. An exit
had been specially made just opposite the entrance, for all the world
like the Macedonian device at Babylon when Alexander was ill; he was
_in extremis_, you remember, and the crowd round the palace were
eager to take their last look and give their last greeting. Our
scoundrel's exhibition, though, is said to have been given not once, but
many times, especially for the benefit of any wealthy new-comers.

And at this point, my dear Celsus, we may, if we will be candid, make
some allowance for these Paphlagonians and Pontics; the poor uneducated
'fat-heads' might well be taken in when they handled the serpent--a
privilege conceded to all who choose--and saw in that dim light its head
with the mouth that opened and shut. It was an occasion for a Democritus,
nay, for an Epicurus or a Metrodorus, perhaps, a man whose intelligence
was steeled against such assaults by scepticism and insight, one who, if
he could not detect the precise imposture, would at any rate have been
perfectly certain that, though this escaped him, the whole thing was a
lie and an impossibility.

By degrees Bithynia, Galatia, Thrace, came flocking in, every one who had
been present doubtless reporting that he had beheld the birth of the God,
and had touched him after his marvellous development in size and in
expression. Next came pictures and models, bronze or silver images, and
the God acquired a name. By divine command, metrically expressed, he was
to be known as Glycon. For Alexander had delivered the line:

Glycon my name, man's light, son's son to Zeus.

And now at last the object to which all this had led up, the giving of
oracular answers to all applicants, could be attained. The cue was taken
from Amphilochus in Cilicia. After the death and disappearance at Thebes
of his father Amphiaraus, Amphilochus, driven from his home, made his way
to Cilicia, and there did not at all badly by prophesying to the
Cilicians at the rate of threepence an oracle. After this precedent,
Alexander proclaimed that on a stated day the God would give answers to
all comers. Each person was to write down his wish and the object of his
curiosity, fasten the packet with thread, and seal it with wax, clay, or
other such substance. He would receive these, and enter the holy place
(by this time the temple was complete, and the scene all ready), whither
the givers should be summoned in order by a herald and an acolyte; he
would learn the God's mind upon each, and return the packets with their
seals intact and the answers attached, the God being ready to give a
definite answer to any question that might be put.

The trick here was one which would be seen through easily enough by a
person of your intelligence (or, if I may say so without violating
modesty, of my own), but which to the ordinary imbecile would have the
persuasiveness of what is marvellous and incredible. He contrived various
methods of undoing the seals, read the questions, answered them as seemed
good, and then folded, sealed, and returned them, to the great
astonishment of the recipients. And then it was, 'How could he possibly
know what I gave him carefully secured under a seal that defies
imitation, unless he were a true God, with a God's omniscience? '

Perhaps you will ask what these contrivances were; well, then--the
information may be useful another time. One of them was this. He would
heat a needle, melt with it the under part of the wax, lift the seal off,
and after reading warm the wax once more with the needle--both that below
the thread and that which formed the actual seal--and re-unite the two
without difficulty. Another method employed the substance called
collyrium; this is a preparation of Bruttian pitch, bitumen, pounded
glass, wax, and mastich. He kneaded the whole into collyrium, heated it,
placed it on the seal, previously moistened with his tongue, and so took
a mould. This soon hardened; he simply opened, read, replaced the wax,
and reproduced an excellent imitation of the original seal as from an
engraved stone. One more I will give you. Adding some gypsum to the glue
used in book-binding he produced a sort of wax, which was applied still
wet to the seal, and on being taken off solidified at once and provided a
matrix harder than horn, or even iron. There are plenty of other devices
for the purpose, to rehearse which would seem like airing one's
knowledge. Moreover, in your excellent pamphlets against the magians
(most useful and instructive reading they are) you have yourself
collected enough of them--many more than those I have mentioned.

So oracles and divine utterances were the order of the day, and much
shrewdness he displayed, eking out mechanical ingenuity with obscurity,
his answers to some being crabbed and ambiguous, and to others absolutely
unintelligible. He did however distribute warning and encouragement
according to his lights, and recommend treatments and diets; for he had,
as I originally stated, a wide and serviceable acquaintance with drugs;
he was particularly given to prescribing 'cytmides,' which were a salve
prepared from goat's fat, the name being of his own invention. For the
realization of ambitions, advancement, or successions, he took care never
to assign early dates; the formula was, 'All this shall come to pass when
it is my will, and when my prophet Alexander shall make prayer and
entreaty on your behalf. '

There was a fixed charge of a shilling the oracle. And, my friend, do not
suppose that this would not come to much; he made something like L3,000
_per annum_; people were insatiable--would take from ten to fifteen
oracles at a time. What he got he did not keep to himself, nor put it by
for the future; what with accomplices, attendants, inquiry agents, oracle
writers and keepers, amanuenses, seal-forgers, and interpreters, he had
now a host of claimants to satisfy.

He had begun sending emissaries abroad to make the shrine known in
foreign lands; his prophecies, discovery of runaways, conviction of
thieves and robbers, revelations of hidden treasure, cures of the sick,
restoration of the dead to life--all these were to be advertised. This
brought them running and crowding from all points of the compass; victims
bled, gifts were presented, and the prophet and disciple came off better
than the God; for had not the oracle spoken? --

Give what ye give to my attendant priest;
My care is not for gifts, but for my priest.

A time came when a number of sensible people began to shake off their
intoxication and combine against him, chief among them the numerous
Epicureans; in the cities, the imposture with all its theatrical
accessories began to be seen through. It was now that he resorted to a
measure of intimidation; he proclaimed that Pontus was overrun with
atheists and Christians, who presumed to spread the most scandalous
reports concerning him; he exhorted Pontus, as it valued the God's
favour, to stone these men. Touching Epicurus, he gave the following
response. An inquirer had asked how Epicurus fared in Hades, and was
told:

Of slime is his bed,
And his fetters of lead.

The prosperity of the oracle is perhaps not so wonderful, when one learns
what sensible, intelligent questions were in fashion with its votaries.
Well, it was war to the knife between him and Epicurus, and no wonder.
What fitter enemy for a charlatan who patronized miracles and hated
truth, than the thinker who had grasped the nature of things and was in
solitary possession of that truth? As for the Platonists, Stoics,
Pythagoreans, they were his good friends; he had no quarrel with them.
But the unmitigated Epicurus, as he used to call him, could not but be
hateful to him, treating all such pretensions as absurd and puerile.
Alexander consequently loathed Amastris beyond all the cities of Pontus,
knowing what a number of Lepidus's friends and others like-minded it
contained. He would not give oracles to Amastrians; when he once did, to
a senator's brother, he made himself ridiculous, neither hitting upon a
presentable oracle for himself, nor finding a deputy equal to the
occasion. The man had complained of colic, and what he meant to prescribe
was pig's foot dressed with mallow. The shape it took was:

In basin hallowed
Be pigments mallowed.

I have mentioned that the serpent was often exhibited by request; he was
not completely visible, but the tail and body were exposed, while the
head was concealed under the prophet's dress. By way of impressing the
people still more, he announced that he would induce the God to speak,
and give his responses without an intermediary. His simple device to this
end was a tube of cranes' windpipes, which he passed, with due regard to
its matching, through the artificial head, and, having an assistant
speaking into the end outside, whose voice issued through the linen
Asclepius, thus answered questions. These oracles were called
_autophones_, and were not vouchsafed casually to any one, but reserved
for officials, the rich, and the lavish.

It was an autophone which was given to Severian regarding the invasion of
Armenia. He encouraged him with these lines:

Armenia, Parthia, cowed by thy fierce spear,
To Rome, and Tiber's shining waves, thou com'st,
Thy brow with leaves and radiant gold encircled.

Then when the foolish Gaul took his advice and invaded, to the total
destruction of himself and his army by Othryades, the adviser expunged
that oracle from his archives and substituted the following:

Vex not th' Armenian land; it shall not thrive;
One in soft raiment clad shall from his bow
Launch death, and cut thee off from life and light.

For it was one of his happy thoughts to issue prophecies after the event
as antidotes to those premature utterances which had not gone right.
Frequently he promised recovery to a sick man before his death, and after
it was at no loss for second thoughts:

No longer seek to arrest thy fell disease;
Thy fate is manifest, inevitable.

Knowing the fame of Clarus, Didymus, and Mallus for sooth-saying much
like his own, he struck up an alliance with them, sending on many of his
clients to those places. So

Hie thee to Clarus now, and hear my sire.

And again,

Draw near to Branchidae and counsel take.

Or

Seek Mallus; be Amphilochus thy counsellor.

So things went within the borders of Ionia, Cilicia, Paphlagonia, and
Galatia. When the fame of the oracle travelled to Italy and entered Rome,
the only question was, who should be first; those who did not come in
person sent messages, the powerful and respected being the keenest of
all. First and foremost among these was Rutilianus; he was in most
respects an excellent person, and had filled many high offices in Rome;
but he suffered from religious mania, holding the most extraordinary
beliefs on that matter; show him a bit of stone smeared with unguents or
crowned with flowers, and he would incontinently fall down and worship,
and linger about it praying and asking for blessings. The reports about
our oracle nearly induced him to throw up the appointment he then held,
and fly to Abonutichus; he actually did send messenger upon messenger.
His envoys were ignorant servants, easily taken in. They came back having
really seen certain things, relating others which they probably thought
they had seen and heard, and yet others which they deliberately invented
to curry favour with their master. So they inflamed the poor old man and
drove him into confirmed madness.

He had a wide circle of influential friends, to whom he communicated the
news brought by his successive messengers, not without additional touches
of his own. All Rome was full of his tales; there was quite a commotion,
the gentlemen of the Court being much fluttered, and at once taking
measures to learn something of their own fate. The prophet gave all who
came a hearty welcome, gained their goodwill by hospitality and costly
gifts, and sent them off ready not merely to report his answers, but to
sing the praises of the God and invent miraculous tales of the shrine and
its guardian.

This triple rogue now hit upon an idea which would have been too clever
for the ordinary robber. Opening and reading the packets which reached
him, whenever he came upon an equivocal, compromising question, he
omitted to return the packet; the sender was to be under his thumb, bound
to his service by the terrifying recollection of the question he had
written down. You know the sort of things that wealthy and powerful
personages would be likely to ask. This blackmail brought him in a good
income.

I should like to quote you one or two of the answers given to Rutilianus.
He had a son by a former wife, just old enough for advanced teaching. The
father asked who should be his tutor, and was told,

Pythagoras, and the mighty battle-bard.

When the child died a few days after, the prophet was abashed, and quite
unable to account for this summary confutation. However, dear good
Rutilianus very soon restored the oracle's credit by discovering that
this was the very thing the God had foreshown; he had not directed him to
choose a living teacher; Pythagoras and Homer were long dead, and
doubtless the boy was now enjoying their instructions in Hades. Small
blame to Alexander if he had a taste for dealings with such specimens of
humanity as this.

Another of Rutilianus's questions was, Whose soul he had succeeded to,
and the answer:

First thou wast Peleus' son, and next Menander;
Then thine own self; next, a sunbeam shalt be;
And nine score annual rounds thy life shall measure.

At seventy, he died of melancholy, not waiting for the God to pay in
full.

That was an autophone too. Another time Rutilianus consulted the oracle
on the choice of a wife. The answer was express:

Wed Alexander's daughter and Selene's.

He had long ago spread the report that the daughter he had had was by
Selene: she had once seen him asleep, and fallen in love, as is her way
with handsome sleepers. The sensible Rutilianus lost no time, but sent
for the maiden at once, celebrated the nuptials, a sexagenarian
bridegroom, and lived with her, propitiating his divine mother-in-law
with whole hecatombs, and reckoning himself now one of the heavenly
company.

His finger once in the Italian pie, Alexander devoted himself to getting
further.
Sacred envoys were sent all over the Roman Empire, warning the
various cities to be on their guard against pestilence and
conflagrations, with the prophet's offers of security against them. One
oracle in particular, an autophone again, he distributed broadcast at a
time of pestilence. It was a single line:

Phoebus long-tressed the plague-cloud shall dispel.

This was everywhere to be seen written up on doors as a prophylactic. Its
effect was generally disappointing; for it somehow happened that the
protected houses were just the ones to be desolated. Not that I would
suggest for a moment that the line was their destruction; but,
accidentally no doubt, it did so fall out. Possibly common people put too
much confidence in the verse, and lived carelessly without troubling to
help the oracle against its foe; were there not the words fighting their
battle, and long-tressed Phoebus discharging his arrows at the pestilence?

In Rome itself he established an intelligence bureau well manned with his
accomplices. They sent him people's characters, forecasts of their
questions, and hints of their ambitions, so that he had his answers ready
before the messengers reached him.

It was with his eye on this Italian propaganda, too, that he took a
further step. This was the institution of mysteries, with hierophants and
torch-bearers complete. The ceremonies occupied three successive days. On
the first, proclamation was made on the Athenian model to this effect:
'If there be any atheist or Christian or Epicurean here spying upon our
rites, let him depart in haste; and let all such as have faith in the God
be initiated and all blessing attend them. ' He led the litany with,
'Christians, avaunt! ' and the crowd responded, 'Epicureans, avaunt! ' Then
was presented the child-bed of Leto and birth of Apollo, the bridal of
Coronis, Asclepius born. The second day, the epiphany and nativity of the
God Glycon.

On the third came the wedding of Podalirius and Alexander's mother; this
was called Torch-day, and torches were used. The finale was the loves of
Selene and Alexander, and the birth of Rutilianus's wife. The torch-
bearer and hierophant was Endymion-Alexander. He was discovered lying
asleep; to him from heaven, represented by the ceiling, enter as Selene
one Rutilia, a great beauty, and wife of one of the Imperial procurators.
She and Alexander were lovers off the stage too, and the wretched husband
had to look on at their public kissing and embracing; if there had not
been a good supply of torches, things might possibly have gone even
further. Shortly after, he reappeared amidst a profound hush, attired as
hierophant; in a loud voice he called, 'Hail, Glycon! ', whereto the
Eumolpidae and Ceryces of Paphlagonia, with their clod-hopping shoes and
their garlic breath, made sonorous response, 'Hail, Alexander! '

The torch ceremony with its ritual skippings often enabled him to bestow
a glimpse of his thigh, which was thus discovered to be of gold; it was
presumably enveloped in cloth of gold, which glittered in the lamp-light.
This gave rise to a debate between two wiseacres, whether the golden
thigh meant that he had inherited Pythagoras's soul, or merely that their
two souls were alike; the question was referred to Alexander himself, and
King Glycon relieved their perplexity with an oracle:

Waxes and wanes Pythagoras' soul: the seer's
Is from the mind of Zeus an emanation.
His Father sent him, virtuous men to aid,
And with his bolt one day shall call him home.

I will now give you a conversation between Glycon and one Sacerdos of
Tius; the intelligence of the latter you may gauge from his questions. I
read it inscribed in golden letters in Sacerdos's house at Tius. 'Tell
me, lord Glycon,' said he, 'who you are. ' 'The new Asclepius. ' 'Another,
different from the former one? Is that the meaning? ' 'That it is not
lawful for you to learn. ' 'And how many years will you sojourn and
prophesy among us? ' 'A thousand and three. ' 'And after that, whither will
you go? ' 'To Bactria; for the barbarians too must be blessed with my
presence. ' 'The other oracles, at Didymus and Clarus and Delphi, have
they still the spirit of your grandsire Apollo, or are the answers that
now come from them forgeries? ' 'That, too, desire not to know; it is not
lawful. ' 'What shall I be after this life? ' 'A camel; then a horse; then
a wise man, no less a prophet than Alexander. ' Such was the conversation.
There was added to it an oracle in verse, inspired by the fact that
Sacerdos was an associate of Lepidus:

Shun Lepidus; an evil fate awaits him.

As I have said, Alexander was much afraid of Epicurus, and the solvent
action of his logic on imposture.

On one occasion, indeed, an Epicurean got himself into great trouble by
daring to expose him before a great gathering. He came up and addressed
him in a loud voice. 'Alexander, it was you who induced So-and-so the
Paphlagonian to bring his slaves before the governor of Galatia, charged
with the murder of his son who was being educated in Alexandria. Well,
the young man is alive, and has come back, to find that the slaves had
been cast to the beasts by your machinations. ' What had happened was
this. The lad had sailed up the Nile, gone on to a Red Sea port, found a
vessel starting for India, and been persuaded to make the voyage. He
being long overdue, the unfortunate slaves supposed that he had either
perished in the Nile or fallen a victim to some of the pirates who
infested it at that time; so they came home to report his disappearance.
Then followed the oracle, the sentence, and finally the young man's
return with the story of his absence.

All this the Epicurean recounted. Alexander was much annoyed by the
exposure, and could not stomach so well deserved an affront; he directed
the company to stone the man, on pain of being involved in his impiety
and called Epicureans. However, when they set to work, a distinguished
Pontic called Demostratus, who was staying there, rescued him by
interposing his own body; the man had the narrowest possible escape from
being stoned to death--as he richly deserved to be; what business had he
to be the only sane man in a crowd of madmen, and needlessly make himself
the butt of Paphlagonian infatuation?

This was a special case; but it was the practice for the names of
applicants to be read out the day before answers were given; the herald
asked whether each was to receive his oracle; and sometimes the reply
came from within, To perdition! One so repulsed could get shelter, fire
or water, from no man; he must be driven from land to land as a
blasphemer, an atheist, and--lowest depth of all--an Epicurean.

In this connexion Alexander once made himself supremely ridiculous.
Coming across Epicurus's _Accepted Maxims_, the most admirable of
his books, as you know, with its terse presentment of his wise
conclusions, he brought it into the middle of the market-place, there
burned it on a fig-wood fire for the sins of its author, and cast its
ashes into the sea. He issued an oracle on the occasion:

The dotard's maxims to the flames be given.

The fellow had no conception of the blessings conferred by that book upon
its readers, of the peace, tranquillity, and independence of mind it
produces, of the protection it gives against terrors, phantoms, and
marvels, vain hopes and inordinate desires, of the judgement and candour
that it fosters, or of its true purging of the spirit, not with torches
and squills and such rubbish, but with right reason, truth, and
frankness.

Perhaps the greatest example of our rogue's audacity is what I now come
to. Having easy access to Palace and Court by Rutilianus's influence, he
sent an oracle just at the crisis of the German war, when M. Aurelius was
on the point of engaging the Marcomanni and Quadi. The oracle required
that two lions should be flung alive into the Danube, with quantities of
sacred herbs and magnificent sacrifices. I had better give the words:

To rolling Ister, swoln with Heaven's rain,
Of Cybelean thralls, those mountain beasts,
Fling ye a pair; therewith all flowers and herbs
Of savour sweet that Indian air doth breed.
Hence victory, and fame, and lovely peace.

These directions were precisely followed; the lions swam across to the
enemy's bank, where they were clubbed to death by the barbarians, who
took them for dogs or a new kind of wolves; and our forces immediately
after met with a severe defeat, losing some twenty thousand men in one
engagement. This was followed by the Aquileian incident, in the course of
which that city was nearly lost. In view of these results, Alexander
warmed up that stale Delphian defence of the Croesus oracle: the God had
foretold a victory, forsooth, but had not stated whether Romans or
barbarians should have it.

The constant increase in the number of visitors, the inadequacy of
accommodation in the city, and the difficulty of finding provisions for
consultants, led to his introducing what he called _night oracles_.
He received the packets, slept upon them, in his own phrase, and gave
answers which the God was supposed to send him in dreams. These were
generally not lucid, but ambiguous and confused, especially when he came
to packets sealed with exceptional care. He did not risk tampering with
these, but wrote down any words that came into his head, the results
obtained corresponding well enough to his conception of the oracular.
There were regular interpreters in attendance, who made considerable sums
out of the recipients by expounding and unriddling these oracles. This
office contributed to his revenue, the interpreters paying him L250 each.

Sometimes he stirred the wonder of the silly by answers to persons who
had neither brought nor sent questions, and in fact did not exist. Here
is a specimen:

Who is't, thou askst, that with Calligenia
All secretly defiles thy nuptial bed?
The slave Protogenes, whom most thou trustest.
Him thou enjoyedst: he thy wife enjoys--
The fit return for that thine outrage done.
And know that baleful drugs for thee are brewed,
Lest thou or see or hear their evil deeds.
Close by the wall, at thy bed's head, make search.
Thy maid Calypso to their plot is privy.

The names and circumstantial details might stagger a Democritus, till a
moment's thought showed him the despicable trick.

He often gave answers in Syriac or Celtic to barbarians who questioned
him in their own tongue, though he had difficulty in finding compatriots
of theirs in the city. In these cases there was a long interval between
application and response, during which the packet might be securely
opened at leisure, and somebody found capable of translating the
question. The following is an answer given to a Scythian:

Morphi ebargulis for night
Chnenchicrank shall leave the light.

Another oracle to some one who neither came nor existed was in prose.
'Return the way thou earnest,' it ran; 'for he that sent thee hath this
day been slain by his neighbour Diocles, with aid of the robbers Magnus,
Celer, and Bubalus, who are taken and in chains. '

I must give you one or two of the answers that fell to my share. I asked
whether Alexander was bald, and having sealed it publicly with great
care, got a night oracle in reply:

Sabardalachu malach Attis was not he.

Another time I did up the same question--What was Homer's birthplace? --in
two packets given in under different names. My servant misled him by
saying, when asked what he came for, a cure for lung trouble; so the
answer to one packet was:

Cytmide and foam of steed the liniment give.

As for the other packet, he got the information that the sender was
inquiring whether the land or the sea route to Italy was preferable. So
he answered, without much reference to Homer:

Fare not by sea; land-travel meets thy need.

I laid a good many traps of this kind for him; here is another. I asked
only one question, but wrote outside the packet in the usual form, So-
and-so's eight Queries, giving a fictitious name and sending the eight
shillings. Satisfied with the payment of the money and the inscription on
the packet, he gave me eight answers to my one question. This was, When
will Alexander's imposture be detected? The answers concerned nothing in
heaven or earth, but were all silly and meaningless together. He
afterwards found out about this, and also that I had tried to dissuade
Rutilianus both from the marriage and from putting any confidence in the
oracle; so he naturally conceived a violent dislike for me. When
Rutilianus once put a question to him about me, the answer was:

Night-haunts and foul debauch are all his joy.

It is true his dislike was quite justified. On a certain occasion I was
passing through Abonutichus, with a spearman and a pikeman whom my friend
the governor of Cappadocia had lent me as an escort on my way to the sea.
Ascertaining that I was the Lucian he knew of, he sent me a very polite
and hospitable invitation. I found him with a numerous company; by good
luck I had brought my escort. He gave me his hand to kiss according to
his usual custom. I took hold of it as if to kiss, but instead bestowed
on it a sound bite that must have come near disabling it. The company,
who were already offended at my calling him Alexander instead of Prophet,
were inclined to throttle and beat me for sacrilege. But he endured the
pain like a man, checked their violence, and assured them that he would
easily tame me, and illustrate Glycon's greatness in converting his
bitterest foes to friends. He then dismissed them all, and argued the
matter with me: he was perfectly aware of my advice to Rutilianus; why
had I treated him so, when I might have been preferred by him to great
influence in that quarter? By this time I had realized my dangerous
position, and was only too glad to welcome these advances; I presently
went my way in all friendship with him. The rapid change wrought in me
greatly impressed the observers.

When I intended to sail, he sent me many parting gifts, and offered to
find us (Xenophon and me, that is; I had sent my father and family on to
Amastris) a ship and crew--which offer I accepted in all confidence. When
the passage was half over, I observed the master in tears arguing with
his men, which made me very uneasy. It turned out that Alexander's orders
were to seize and fling us overboard; in that case his war with me would
have been lightly won. But the crew were prevailed upon by the master's
tears to do us no harm. 'I am sixty years old, as you can see,' he said
to me; 'I have lived an honest blameless life so far, and I should not
like at my time of life, with a wife and children too, to stain my hands
with blood. ' And with that preface he informed us what we were there for,
and what Alexander had told him to do.

He landed us at Aegiali, of Homeric fame, and thence sailed home. Some
Bosphoran envoys happened to be passing, on their way to Bithynia with
the annual tribute from their king Eupator. They listened kindly to my
account of our dangerous situation, I was taken on board, and reached
Amastris safely after my narrow escape. From that time it was war between
Alexander and me, and I left no stone unturned to get my revenge. Even
before his plot I had hated him, revolted by his abominable practices,
and I now busied myself with the attempt to expose him; I found plenty of
allies, especially in the circle of Timocrates the Heracleot philosopher.
But Avitus, the then governor of Bithynia and Pontus, restrained me, I
may almost say with prayers and entreaties. He could not possibly spoil
his relations with Rutilianus, he said, by punishing the man, even if he
could get clear evidence against him. Thus arrested in my course, I did
not persist in what must have been, considering the disposition of the
judge, a fruitless prosecution.

Among instances of Alexander's presumption, a high place must be given to
his petition to the Emperor: the name of Abonutichus was to be changed to
Ionopolis; and a new coin was to be struck, with a representation on the
obverse of Glycon, and, on the reverse, Alexander bearing the garlands
proper to his paternal grandfather Asclepius, and the famous scimetar of
his maternal ancestor Perseus.

He had stated in an oracle that he was destined to live to a hundred and
fifty, and then die by a thunderbolt; he had in fact, before he reached
seventy, an end very sad for a son of Podalirius, his leg mortifying from
foot to groin and being eaten of worms; it then proved that he was bald,
as he was forced by pain to let the doctors make cooling applications to
his head, which they could not do without removing his wig.

So ended Alexander's heroics; such was the catastrophe of his tragedy;
one would like to find a special providence in it, though doubtless
chance must have the credit. The funeral celebration was to be worthy of
his life, taking the form of a contest--for possession of the oracle. The
most prominent of the impostors his accomplices referred it to
Rutilianus's arbitration which of them should be selected to succeed to
the prophetic office and wear the hierophantic oracular garland. Among
these was numbered the grey-haired physician Paetus, dishonouring equally
his grey hairs and his profession. But Steward-of-the-Games Rutilianus
sent them about their business ungarlanded, and continued the defunct in
possession of his holy office.

My object, dear friend, in making this small selection from a great mass
of material has been twofold. First, I was willing to oblige a friend and
comrade who is for me the pattern of wisdom, sincerity, good humour,
justice, tranquillity, and geniality. But secondly I was still more
concerned (a preference which you will be very far from resenting)
to strike a blow for Epicurus, that great man whose holiness and divinity
of nature were not shams, who alone had and imparted true insight into the
good, and who brought deliverance to all that consorted with him. Yet I
think casual readers too may find my essay not unserviceable, since it is
not only destructive, but, for men of sense, constructive also.




OF PANTOMIME
[Footnote: 'Pantomime' has been chosen as the most natural translation of
_orchaesis_, which in this dialogue has reference for the most part to the
ballet-dancer (_pantomimus_) of imperial times. On the other hand,
Lycinus, in order to establish the antiquity and the universality of an
art that for all practical purposes dates only from the Augustan era, and
(despite the Greek artists) is Roman in origin, avails himself of the
wider meaning of _orchaesis_ to give us the historic and prehistoric
associations of _dance_ in Greece and elsewhere; and in such passages it
seemed advisable to sacrifice consistency, and to translate _orchaesis_
dance. ]


_Lycinus. Crato_

_Ly_. Here are heavy charges, Crato; I suppose you have been getting
up this subject for some time. You are not content with attacking the
whole pantomimic art, practical and theoretic; we too, the pleased
spectators thereof, come in for our share: we have been lavishing our
admiration, it seems, on effeminate triflers. And now let me show you how
completely you have been mistaken; you will find that the art you have
been maligning is the greatest boon of our existence. There is some
excuse for your strictures: how should you know any better, confirmed
ascetic that you are, believing that virtue consists in being
uncomfortable?

_Cr_. Now, my dear sir, can any one who calls himself a man, and an
educated man, and in some sort a student of philosophy,--can such a one
leave those higher pursuits, leave communing with the sages of old, to
sit still and listen to the sound of a flute, and watch the antics of an
effeminate creature got up in soft raiment to sing lascivious songs and
mimic the passions of prehistoric strumpets, of Rhodopes and Phaedras and
Parthenopes, to the accompaniment of twanging string and shrilling pipe
and clattering heel? It is too absurd: these are not amusements for a
gentleman; not amusements for Lycinus. When I first heard of your
spending your time in this way, I was divided betwixt shame and
indignation, to think that you could so far forget Plato and Chrysippus
and Aristotle, as to sit thus having your ears tickled with a feather. If
you want amusements, are there not a thousand things _worth_ seeing
and hearing? Can you not hear classical music performed at the great
festivals? Are there not lofty tragedy and brilliant comedy,--things that
have been deemed worthy of state recognition? My friend, you have a long
reckoning to settle with men of learning, if you would not be repudiated
altogether, and expelled from the congregation of the wise. I think your
best course will be a point-blank denial: declare flatly that you never
did anything of the kind. Anyhow, you must watch your conduct for the
future: we do not want to find that our Lycinus has changed his sex, and
become a Bacchante or a Lydian damsel. That would be as much to our
discredit as to yours: for ours should be Odysseus's part,--to tear you
from the lotus, and bring you back to your accustomed pursuits; to save
you from the clutches of these stage Sirens before it is too late. The
Sirens, after all, did but plot against men's ears; it needed but a
little wax, and a man might sail past them uninjured: but yours is a
captivity of ear and eye, of body and soul.

_Ly_. Goodness gracious! All the Cynic in you is loose, and snarls
at me. At the same time, I think your Lotus-and-Siren simile is rather
off the point: you see, the people who ate the Lotus and listened to the
Sirens paid for the gratification of ear and palate with their lives:
whereas I not only have a great deal more enjoyment than they had, but am
all the better for it. I have experienced no oblivion of my domestic
affairs, nor blindness to my own interests; in fact--if I may venture to
say so--you will find my penetration and practical wisdom considerably
increased by my theatrical experiences. Homer has it exactly: the
spectator

Returns a gladder and a wiser man.

_Cr_. Dear, dear! Yours is a sad case, Lycinus. You are not even ashamed;
you seem quite pleased with yourself. That is the worst of it: there seems
no hope of your recovery, while you can actually commend the mire in which
you wallow.

_Ly_. Now, Crato,--you talk of pantomimes and theatres,--have you seen
these performances yourself, that you are so hard on them? or do you
decide that they are 'foul mire' without personal experience? If you have
seen them, you are just as bad as I am; and if not, are you justified in
censuring them? does it not savour of over-confidence, to condemn what
you know nothing about?

_Cr_. Truly that would be the climax: that I should show my long beard and
white hairs amid that throng of women and lunatics; and clap and yell in
unseemly rapture over the vile contortions of an abandoned buffoon.

_Ly_. I can make allowance for you. But wait till I have prevailed on you
to give it a fair trial, to accept the judgement of your own eyes: after
that you will never be happy till you have secured the best seat in the
theatre, where you may hear every syllable, mark every gesture.

_Cr_. While this beard is yet unplucked, these limbs unshaven, God forbid
that I should ever find happiness in such things. As it is, my poor
friend, I see that _you_ are wholly possessed.

_Ly_. Now suppose you were to abstain from further abuse, and hear what I
have to say of the merits of Pantomime; of the manner in which it combines
profit with amusement; instructing, informing, perfecting the intelligence
of the beholder; training his eyes to lovely sights, filling his ears with
noble sounds, revealing a beauty in which body and soul alike have their
share. For that music and dancing are employed to produce these results is
no disparagement of the art; it is rather a recommendation.

_Cr_. I have not much time for listening to a madman's discourse in praise
of his own madness. However--if you must deluge me with nonsense--I am
prepared to do you that friendly office. My ears are at your service: they
need no wax to render them deaf to foolishness. Henceforth I will be
silent: speak on;--no one is listening.

_Ly. _ Thank you, Crato; just what I wanted. As to 'foolishness,' that
remains to be seen. Now, to begin with, you seem to be quite ignorant of
the antiquity of the pantomimic art. It is not a new thing; it does not
date from to-day or yesterday; not, that is to say, from our grandfathers'
times, nor from _their_ grandfathers' times. The best antiquarians, let me
tell you, trace dancing back to the creation of the universe; it is coeval
with that Eros who was the beginning of all things. In the dance of the
heavenly bodies, in the complex involutions whereby the planets are
brought into harmonious intercourse with the fixed stars, you have an
example of that art in its infancy, which, by gradual development, by
continual improvements and additions, seems at length to have reached its
climax in the subtle harmonious versatility of modern Pantomime.

The first step, we learn, was taken by Rhea, who was so pleased with the
art that she introduced it among the Corybantes in Phrygia and the
Curetes in Crete. She was richly rewarded: for by their dancing they
saved her child Zeus, who owes it to them (nor can he with decency deny
it) that he escaped the paternal teeth.