believed, as all other nations have done, in a multitude of invisible
beings, intermediate between the Supreme and man in dignity and faculty,
and having more or less influence over human fortunes. These, whether
supposed good or bad, the people gradually came to think it worth while
to propitiate by various services and honors, very much as they were
accustomed to do to the various grades of powerful officials under the
Pharaohs; and in process of time the services and honors given to these
minor but nearer deities grew to overshadow those of _Amun Re_ himself.
This secondary worship, too, found symbols natural and convenient. Its
objects were invisible beings hard to be conceived of and realized. In
this case the familiar animals of the country were taken as symbols.
Foreigners have sometimes wondered at this, and perhaps with some reason;
but there are not wanting philosophers who say that even the humblest
_living_ creature is a more wonderful object than any dead statue can be,
though of the most precious material and exquisite workmanship; and that
it better represents the wisdom and power of a living spiritual being.
Whatever one may think of the propriety of this animal symbolism, it
was certainly general in Egypt at a very early period. And men went as
naturally from such a symbolism to a worship of the symbols themselves as
they did to sin and death.
But where, meanwhile, was the priesthood of _Amun Re_? Through all these
changes among the lower orders the higher Egyptian priesthood held fast
the original theory of religion. To them there was still but one God
to whom religious worship should be paid, and He should be worshipped
without symbol. So they resisted the downward drift—resisted it strongly.
But the popular current was too strong for them. And, after long
struggling against it unsuccessfully, they came by degrees to feel that
the lower orders are incapable of worthily grasping and appropriating a
strictly spiritual religion—that the gross thoughts and cares and toils
amid which their lives are necessarily spent make a grosser form of
religion a necessity to them. The heavens are best read and understood
from eminences—how can the stars of the higher truth be seen to advantage
save from the eminences of human life with their culture and leisure
and broad outlook? They cannot. It must not be expected. A spiritual
religion is not for the vulgar. It is too high and sacred for common
handling. It were a profanation of the lofty and holy to put them into
such hands as hold our plows, work our quarries, and embalm our dead.
These views at first tolerated, then favored, next embraced and
justified, and finally established as a policy and institution, made two
worlds in Egypt, with a great abyss between them, which have continued
down to the present time. On the one hand has been the world of Pharaohs,
priests and philosophers holding fast the primitive religion of Egypt
as a sacred Mystery: on the other hand has been a world of peasants and
idolaters judged unfit for such high knowledge and carefully excluded
from it.
“Such,” continued Seti, “was the Egypt which I found. Such was the
policy, solid and venerable with the approval and practice of thousands
of years, that I inherited. It was an ungrateful inheritance. I came
early to doubt its wisdom and righteousness; and by the time when power
came into my hands I had made up my mind to resist and forsake it just
as far and fast as possible. I knew that a sudden change was not wisely
possible. I realized that reforms of ancient evils that have become
intertwined with the whole structure of society must be carefully and
gradually made. Else social convulsions will follow. More damage would
come from violent and precipitate measures than would come from the
evil they attack. With the power of an emperor I could not have wisely
abolished the old order of things by edict.
“All this I felt profoundly. And so when the supreme priesthood came
to me, while I determined to proceed at once and thoroughly to the
great problem of restoring our religion to its primitive purity among
the lower classes, I also determined to proceed cautiously. I labored
to change the views of the priesthood already on the stage. As director
of all the schools for young priests, I sought to shape their education
toward the original order of things. I enlarged as much as possible the
number of the initiated in the higher classes. I took pains (how much
some of you well know) to impress my views on the young men gathered here
for education from all parts of the world—hoping that the truth would
filter down through the upper strata into the lower and the lowest. And,
further, I have persuaded and instructed the priests who deal directly
with the common people to push into the background, more and more, the
secondary deities—to bring to the front, more and more, the Supreme One;
and to insist upon it that there be no worship of the symbols of even
Him, only of the Being symbolized; all to prepare the way for withdrawing
the symbols themselves.
“I may have been too lingering and indirect in my action. Some of my
friends think as much. It is not easy to judge in such matters. I would
be glad if we could have a Divine Teacher, such as Plato craved, to tell
us with authority exactly what to do. But until He comes (if indeed He
has not already come) we must take the course that seems to promise the
most good with the least harm. Unsuccessful violence on the traditional
religious habits of the people would be likely to give us political and
social convulsions which would be bad enough: successful violence would
be likely to give us general atheism which would be worse. Young men
(and his voice grew graver and more emphatic as his eye went searchingly
around among the earnest faces), Young men, remember that there is
something worse than worshipping Nilus, or the ibis: it is _the not
worshipping at all_.”
The students now supposed the lecture finished; but after a silence of a
few moments Seti added:
“Some of you may feel like asking how this course of mine can consist
with the position I hold as head of the Egyptian religion. If an answer
to this is not sufficiently implied in what I have said already, let
me add that I regard myself as being the high-priest of the original
religion of Egypt, according to our ancient institutions; and do not feel
bound to the variations from it that have been mistakenly introduced by
others. Further, in the course I am pursuing I have the approval of most
of those who have always had in charge the religious concerns of the
country—the higher priesthood. And still further, I am not chargeable
with double-dealing—for, as you will bear me witness, I make no secret of
my views and purposes; and my position does not require me to officiate
at the worship of any secondary deity, but only at that of Amun Re
Himself. Even the symbols of Him under the name of Serapis I do not now
use either in public or private. The statue of Him belonging to this
temple has not been before the public for a number of years.”
This concluded the lecture. But the young men, too much interested in
both the manner and the matter of their teacher to be in any hurry to
get away, were still lingering in their seats, when a young man appeared
at the door and politely asked their attention. He said that he had
been deputed by the Museum to lay a certain complaint before them. It
appeared that a stranger had been received to student matriculation by
the Serapeum without actual testing in athletics. This step was certainly
very unusual, if not wholly unprecedented; and the Museum felt obliged to
complain of it after a fraternal and gentlemanly fashion, and to ask that
the ancient usage of the University may not be violated.
Publius Cornelius sprang to his feet. “It is, I believe, according to the
ancient usage of the University that the examination which satisfies one
of its departments shall satisfy the other also. I beg to inform Quintius
Metellus that we examined the candidate to whom he refers as to athletic
matters, and were abundantly satisfied with the examination.”
“Still it appears,” blandly returned the somewhat foppish and fast
looking young Metellus, “that no actual trial of strength and skill was
made; and the Museum cannot but think that if the new-comer is really
deserving of such exceptional treatment he will be willing to content
us with an actual instead of an imaginary testing in the more advanced
athletics. The Museum has presumed on his willingness, and is at this
moment present in a body in your gymnasium awaiting his appearance.”
“This seems to me,” began P. Cornelius in a tone just a little tinged
with indignation—but Aleph, making a sign to him, interposed:
“I beg,” said he, “that our president will not press his view. I am quite
willing to content the Museum, and should be sorry to have any feel that
an ancient usage of the University has been unreasonably set aside in my
favor. I hope, therefore, that the Serapeum will yield to the wishes of
the Museum.”
“This is very satisfactory,” returned Q. Metellus. “But I am also
instructed to say that inasmuch as the social standing of the new student
is unknown to us, it seems to us that the testing should be on the more
gentlemanly accomplishments. This will throw some light on whether he is
entitled to mingle on equal terms with the representatives of the best
families of the empire.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed P. Cornelius. “Use your eyes, Metellus!”
But Aleph gravely said, “I do not object to the new proposition of the
Museum.”
“One more particular, and I have finished my mission. The Museum also
requests that the testing may be by our professional teachers of
equestrianism and fence. The testing is likely to be more scientifically
done; and if well sustained will be more creditable to the candidate. I
hope he will gratify us also in this particular.”
“In this particular also,” said Aleph quietly—“assuming that nothing
unfair is intended, and that I shall not be asked to attempt anything
which the trainer is not willing to attempt himself.”
“This condition is reasonable—do you accept it?” demanded Cornelius.
Receiving a nod of assent, he continued. “Then we will proceed to the
gymnasium—_under protest_. I demur to the whole proceeding. Our new
associate is too compliant. The Museum is extravagant and unreasonable.
It will bear watching—Gentlemen of the Serapeum!” he exclaimed, after
a moment’s pause, “I move you that we invite the venerable Seti to
accompany us to the gymnasium. It will conduce to order and fairness.”
The suggestion was heartily ratified.
The gymnasium was near. The fair occupants of the latticed gallery
already mentioned, and of whose presence some faint signs had appeared
during the lecture, had only to remove to the opposite side of the same
large room to command as good a view and almost as good a hearing of what
might pass in the gymnasium as they had been having of the lecture room.
Did they remove? Who knows? Was the Gem of Alexandria, with her lofty
brow and shining eyes, among them? Who knows? Certainly not Aleph the
Chaldean.
The large court of the temple had been fitted up for athletic exercises.
We need only say in regard to it that it was large enough to inclose a
small hippodrome at the centre; that on the right and left of a broad
passage leading down to this from the main entrance were tiers of movable
seats rising one above another. Those on the left were already occupied
by the Museum in full force when the Serapeum came crowding in and took
the seats on the right. Then appeared Seti and took the seat of honor
in the middle of the passage. Last of all came P. Cornelius and our two
friends. These walked down at once to the edge of the hippodrome, when
Cimon took a seat on the right, and Aleph and Cornelius remained standing—
Before a man, who, a long whip in hand, was holding at full length the
rein of a superb looking horse with a riding cloth strapped upon him.
“What do you wish?” said Aleph to the trainer in equestrianism.
“Handle this Arabian in all ways—mount, trot around the course, canter
and gallop, maintain your seat under shouts and the hissing of this whip.”
“Has this horse any peculiarities?” asked Cornelius.
“This the stranger is to find out for himself,” said the trainer gruffly.
“The animal has the eye of a demon,” continued Cornelius; “and it is
agreed between the Museum and us that you, Beco, are not to ask my friend
to do what you are not willing to undertake yourself. So I now ask you to
mount—in short, do yourself what you ask from him.”
“I am here to examine, not to be examined,” and the man shrugged his
shoulders and tried, unsuccessfully, to look amused.
“Do you refuse?” demanded Cornelius.
“I refuse to be tested myself; I am not a candidate for matriculation,”
was the surly reply.
Cornelius looked anxiously around, and seeing the trainer of the Serapeum
standing not far away, he beckoned to him; and on his approach conferred
with him in a low voice for a moment.
“It is as I thought,” he then cried out so that all could hear;
“our own equestrian trainer judges this animal to be vicious and
dangerous—evidently so dangerous that he would not himself venture to
attempt mounting him. I appeal to the University against such unfairness!”
No notice was taken of this appeal; for by this time both Serapeum and
Museum were watching with breathless interest the proceedings of Aleph.
After his first words to the trainer he seemed to take no notice of what
others were doing. His whole attention was absorbed by the formidable
animal before him. Soon he stepped forward to the side of Beco, and stood
there for a few moments looking steadily into the flaming eyes of the
horse. Then he silently took the rein into his hand and motioned Beco
with his whip into the background. There they stood alone for a while,
confronting each other—the soul of the man looking out of his eyes,
and the soul of the brute looking out of his—the one calm, confident,
masterful; the other brimful of willfulness, resistance, determination,
passion, and malignity. Each of them seemed to be asking the other,
_Which of us shall be master?_
Aleph began to draw gently on the rein. The horse showed his teeth,
champed his bit, struck the ground fiercely with his forefoot, seemed on
the point of springing on his enemy. But Aleph gave not the slightest
sign of apprehension. Not the smallest movement that looked toward
self-protection was apparent. On the contrary, he advanced a step, and,
if possible, his attitude grew firmer, his port more commanding, and his
eyes shot out their rays into the brute eyes with a still more confident
majesty. He saw the fierce eyes before him beginning to soften, to waver.
He advanced another step. He laid his hand softly on the thin, quivering
nostrils. He began to speak—meanwhile caressing with a gentle hand the
soft nostril, the long forelock, the tapering ears.
“You are one of ten thousand—finely formed, powerfully built, full of
grace and strength and spirit. A steed for a warrior! But you are not an
Arabian. Parthia was your mother. And you are as wild as the wildest of
the Parthians. I do not think that you have ever felt the weight of a
man. You have been bitted, but never ridden. You have been mismanaged and
abused till you think every man an enemy. It is a mistake. You have at
last found a friend. Now we understand each other—do we not?”
The noble head had begun to droop toward the soothing tones when Aleph,
putting both arms with the rein over it, drew it gently still lower,
patted it, patted the heavy mane, patted the proud arch of the neck,
patted the shapely flank, patted the royal curve of the back, patted that
royal curve with both hands—a moment more was _seated_ upon it, rein in
hand.
What a bound there was then! The demon that had been cast out came back
seven-folded. But the horse seemed to think that he had a demon on his
back instead of within him. He sprang into the air with such suddenness
and violence that one would have thought him thunderstruck into a
resolution to forsake the earth at once and forever in favor of a higher
sphere. Then followed a rapid succession of pyrotechnic struggles, in
which was tried every sort of device and movement, save that of falling,
known to a horse, to free himself from his burden. Such mighty wrath;
such desperate and frenzied exertions; such shakings and strikings and
kickings and rearings and plungings, and at last such runnings away, had
not been seen since the days of Bucephalus. But during it all Aleph sat
as if a part of the animal, with no strain whatever on the rein, merely
watchfully accommodating himself to the various movements of which he
seemed to have some secret intelligence in advance: and when the running
began he only used the rein to guide it according to the round of the
arena. This was no easy matter—the speed was so great and the round so
small. Whether he would be able to prevent the headlong courser from
dashing through the seats occupied by the Museum was so doubtful to
those in the front seats that they instinctively made a great outcry and
flourish of canes at the flying centaur. This added, if possible, new
wings to the flight: but Aleph so skillfully combined the use of the rein
with limb-pressure and flexions that the round was safely made three
times. The quadruped hurricane then stopped of his own accord at the
starting point—all in a tremble and covered with foam.
Aleph sprang from his back, caught up a large cloth that lay near, gently
wiped off the sweat from the trembling animal, patted and stroked and
soothed him with hand and voice till he ceased to tremble.
Then taking his stand a little in front, he beckoned and called. The
horse instantly walked up to him. He laid his hand on the mane, both
hands; they grew heavier and heavier, and still the animal stood
motionless. A moment more and Aleph was again mounted and pacing slowly
around the course. Arrived at the starting point, he again dismounted,
tightened the band that confined the riding cloth, and then in a very
leisurely way resumed his seat.
“Now, friend Parthia, shall we trot?” A gentle shake of the rein and
Parthia trotted around the course with a free and stately action.
“Now, friend Parthia, shall we see what you can do in the way of the
ornamental?” By this time the steed had recovered his strength and
spirit; and in perfect obedience to rein and foot he curveted and pranced
and caracoled about the arena after a most wonderful fashion. But the
greatest wonder was not the horse, but the horseman. Such unaffected
simplicity, ease, and repose of manner! With what grace and even majesty
he carried himself! As he went his last round with the sunshine on his
royal face and the steed stepping as proudly under him as if he knew that
he carried a royal burden—ah, _such_ a shout went up from Serapeum and
Museum both! Aleph happened to look up and lo, on one side of the arena,
high up in the Serapeum, latticed windows were all open and bright faces
and forms were leaning out waving snowy veils. The ladies of Alexandria,
relying on the absorption of the students, and perhaps forgetting
themselves in the intense interest of the scene, had gradually pushed the
lattice aside for the sake of a better view: and when Aleph looked up and
saw them he saw also a bouquet of flowers in the air, and a fair hand
that had just parted with it, and a glorious face that he knew behind the
hand. The horse sprang to meet the descending token; and as Aleph caught
it in his hand, he, as gallant knights should always do, bowed low, even
to the horse’s mane.
“Who owns this animal, thou villain?” exclaimed Cornelius, with some fire
in his voice and more in his eyes, to the trainer.
The man tapped the ground uneasily with his whip, and was silent.
Turning to the students, Cornelius cried, “Whoever was the owner of
this horse when he came here has forfeited his claim. Let us declare
it forfeited to the University, and present the animal to Aleph, the
Chaldean, to be kept at our expense; and if the original owner dares to
claim him let us prosecute the wretch before the courts for intent to
kill one of us.”
Said Metellus, “I approve of that. It seems to me that it would be a
crime against society to reward the man for his crime by replacing a
horse worth considerably less than nothing by one worth a thousand gold
staters. May I ask what the venerable Seti thinks?”
The venerable Seti thought that under the circumstances the horse had a
right to choose his own master—that in fact he had already chosen, and
chosen well. He should have free keeping in the stalls of the Serapeum as
long as his master should choose.
The students ratified lustily.
In the meantime Aleph had dismounted and stood holding the rein over one
arm, while the other was thrown caressingly over the arched neck of the
horse. As he gave the rein to a servant of the Serapeum who now presented
himself he said:
“I am glad if the Museum regards the trial thus far as satisfactory. But
there remains another trial to which they have asked me to submit—that by
their teacher of fence. For this I am now ready”—and the flowers which
till now he had held in his hand he secured under his girdle.
Then up spake Cornelius again. “I cannot but think that the Museum is
thoroughly satisfied already with the justice of our matriculation. And
to ask a young man after such exertions as we have seen to pit himself
against a fresh man and a famous professional seems to me wonderfully
unreasonable. Besides, what has occurred suggests the idea of bad faith
somewhere. Of course the Museum does not mean anything of the sort; but
in my opinion they are being made tools of by somebody who has a deadly
purpose to serve. Unless Draco of Rhodes is a better and fairer man than
Beco the Roman, he can be hired to commit a murder.”
“It must be confessed,” said Q. Metellus, who had come forward and was
now standing by the side of Cornelius, “that the Museum has made but a
sorry show here to-day, either as a tool or worse; and I should not much
blame P. Cornelius if he had taken a worse view of us than he does. We
have had a most instructive time, but no thanks to the Museum for it. We
were trapped into it. For my part I disclaim all fellowship with Beco
and his proceedings; and if I could think it possible that another such
scoundrel could be found attached to the Museum I should be tempted to
forsake it for cleaner quarters. If I should wish the examination to
proceed further it would be solely for the purpose of vindicating our
good name and showing that Beco is the only devil among us.”
On this arose another young man among the benches of the Museum who
commended in a general sort of way the remarks of Metellus; but then said
that the Museum had formally taken the ground that it was not proper to
take any accomplishment for granted, saving as the higher includes the
lower. It would not only be inconsistent but an unfortunate precedent
should they leave the testing incomplete. To be sure, the young man who
calls himself Aleph the Chaldean has borne himself well thus far; still
he might wholly fail under the remaining test. Certainly the Museum,
however well satisfied at present, would be better satisfied if the whole
plan agreed upon should be carried out. He did not anticipate another
Beco in Draco. No doubt Draco would be forbearing with the young man, and
would only tax him enough to make a reasonable trial of his skill in the
gentlemanly art of fence. For this purpose no dangerous weapons need be
used—only the open hands. As the candidate did not seem to be at all worn
by what he had done, let him have a chance to win new laurels from Draco
of Rhodes.
Some of the Museum applauded.
“But Euphemes of Corinth should consider,” began P. Cornelius; but Aleph
laid his hand on his arm and said, “Excuse me, my friend.”
Then turning toward the Museum, he added in a voice that had in it a
touch of humor as well as several touches of decision, “I beg that
the Museum may be gratified by the complete carrying out of the plan
they have proposed. I do not ask for exceptions in my favor, either
from my fellow students or from your teacher of fence. Let him do his
best—provided he deal fairly and honorably.”