Many the Bacchi that brandish the rod:
Few that be filled with the fire of the God.
I
In the days of King Attalus, before oracles had lost their credit, one
of peculiar reputation, inspired, as was believed, by Apollo, existed
in the city of Dorylseum, in Phrygia. Contrary to usage, its
revelations were imparted through the medium of a male priest. It was
rarely left unthronged by devout questioners, whose inquiries were
resolved in writing, agreeably to the method delivered by the pious
Lucian, in his work “Concerning False Prophecy.” [*] Sometimes, on
extraordinary occasions, a voice, evidently that of the deity, was
heard declaring the response from the innermost recesses of the shrine.
The treasure house of the sanctuary was stored with tripods and
goblets, in general wrought from the precious metals; its coffers were
loaded with coins and ingots; the sacrifices of wealthy suppliants and
the copious offerings in kind of the country people provided
superabundantly for the daily maintenance of the temple servitors;
while a rich endowment in land maintained the dignity of its guardians,
and of the officiating priest. The latter reverend personage was no
less eminent for prudence than for piety; on which account the Gods had
rewarded him with extreme obesity. At length he died, whether of excess
in meat or in drink is not agreed among historians.
*) _Pseudomantis_, cap. 19-21.
The guardians of the temple met to choose a successor, and, naturally
desirous that the sanctity of the oracle should suffer no abatement,
elected a young priest of goodly presence and ascetic life; the
humblest, purest, most fervent, and most ingenuous of the sons of men.
So rare a choice might well be expected to be accompanied by some
extraordinary manifestation, and, in fact, a prodigy took place which
filled the sacred authorities with dismay. The responses of the oracle
ceased suddenly and altogether. No revelation was vouchsafed to the
pontiff in his slumbers; no access of prophetic fury constrained him to
disclose the secrets of the future; no voice rang from the shrine; and
the unanswered epistles of the suppliants lay a hopeless encumbrance on
the great altar. As a natural consequence they speedily ceased to
arrive; the influx of offerings into the treasury terminated along with
them; the temple-courts were bare of worshippers; and the only victims
whose blood smoked within them were those slain by the priest himself,
in the hope of appeasing the displeasure of Apollo. The modest
hierophant took all the blame upon his own shoulders; he did not doubt
that he had excited the Deity’s wrath by some mysterious but heinous
pollution; and was confirmed in this opinion by the unanimous verdict
of all whom he approached.
One day as he sat sadly in the temple, absorbed in painful meditation,
and pondering how he might best relieve himself of his sacred
functions, he was startled by the now unwonted sound of a footstep,
and, looking up, espied an ancient woman. Her appearance was rather
venerable than prepossessing. He recognised her as one of the inferior
ministers of the temple.
“Reverend mother,” he addressed her, “doubtless thou comest to mingle
with mine thy supplications to the Deity, that it may please him to
indicate the cause, and the remedy of his wrath.”
“No, son,” returned the venerable personage, “I propose to occasion no
such needless trouble to Apollo, or any other Divinity. I hold within
mine own hand the power of reviving the splendour of this forsaken
sanctuary, and for such consideration as thou wilt thyself pronounce
equitable, I am minded to impart the same unto thee.” And as the
astonished priest made no answer, she continued:
“My price is one hundred pieces of gold.”
“Wretch!” exclaimed the priest indignantly, “thy mercenary demand alone
proves the vanity of thy pretence of being initiated into the secrets
of the Gods. Depart my presence this moment!”
The old woman retired without a syllable of remonstrance, and the
incident soon passed from the mind of the afflicted priest. But on the
following day, at the same hour, the aged woman again stood before him,
and said:
“My price is _two_ hundred pieces of gold.”
Again she was commanded to depart, and again obeyed without a murmur.
But the adventure now occasioned the priest much serious reflection. To
his excited fancy, the patient persistency of the crone began to assume
something of a supernatural character. He considered that the ways of
the Gods are not as our ways, and that it is rather the rule than the
exception with them to accomplish their designs in the most circuitous
manner, and by the most unlikely instruments. He also reflected upon
the history of the Sibyl and her books, and shuddered to think that
unseasonable obstinacy might in the end cost the temple the whole of
its revenues. The result of his cogitations was a resolution, if the
old woman should present herself on the following day, to receive her
in a different manner.
Punctual to the hour she made her appearance, and croaked out, “My
price is _three_ hundred pieces of gold.”
“Venerable ambassadress of Heaven,” said the priest, “thy boon is
granted thee. Relieve the anguish of my bosom as speedily as thou
mayest.”
The old woman’s reply was brief and expressive. It consisted in
extending her open and hollow palm, into which the priest counted the
three hundred pieces of gold with as much expedition as was compatible
with the frequent interruptions necessitated by the crone’s depositing
each successive handful in a leather pouch; and the scrutiny, divided
between jealousy and affection, which she bestowed on each individual
coin.
“And now,” said the priest, when the operation was at length completed,
“fulfil thy share of the compact.”
“The cause of the oracle’s silence,” returned the old woman, “is the
unworthiness of the minister.”
“Alas! ’tis even as I feared,” sighed the priest. “Declare now, wherein
consists my sin?”
“It consists in this,” replied the old woman, “that the beard of thy
understanding is not yet grown; and that the egg-shell of thy
inexperience is still sticking to the head of thy simplicity; and that
thy brains bear no adequate proportion to the skull enveloping them;
and in fine, lest I seem to speak overmuch in parables, or to employ a
superfluity of epithets, that thou art an egregious nincompoop.”
And as the amazed priest preserved silence, she pursued:
“Can aught be more shameful in a religious man than ignorance of the
very nature of religion? Not to know that the term, being rendered into
the language of truth, doth therein signify deception practised by the
few wise upon the many foolish, for the benefit of both, but more
particularly the former? O silly as the crowds who hitherto have
brought their folly here, but now carry it elsewhere to the profit of
wiser men than thou! O fool! to deem that oracles were rendered by
Apollo! How should this be, seeing that there is no such person? Needs
there, peradventure, any greater miracle for the decipherment of these
epistles than a hot needle? [*] As for the supernatural voice, it doth
in truth proceed from a respectable, and in some sense a sacred
personage, being mine own when I am concealed within a certain recess
prepared for me by thy lamented predecessor, whose mistress I was in
youth, and whose coadjutor I have been in age. I am now ready to
minister to thee in the latter capacity. Be ruled by me; exchange thy
abject superstition for common sense; thy childish simplicity for
discreet policy; thy unbecoming spareness for a majestic portliness;
thy present ridiculous and uncomfortable situation for the repute of
sanctity, and the veneration of men. Thou wilt own that this is cheap
at three hundred pieces.”
*) Lucian.
The young priest had hearkened to the crone’s discourse with an
expression of the most exquisite distress. When she had finished, he
arose, and disregarding his repulsive companion’s efforts to detain
him, departed hastily from the temple.