II

It was the young priest’s purpose, as soon as he became capable of

forming one, to place the greatest possible distance between himself

and the city of Dorylæum. The love of roaming insensibly grew upon him,

and ere long his active limbs had borne him over a considerable portion

of Asia. His simple wants were easily supplied by the wild productions

of the country, supplemented when needful by the proceeds of light

manual labour. By degrees the self-contempt which had originally stung

him to desperation took the form of an ironical compassion for the

folly of mankind, and the restlessness which had at first impelled him

to seek relief in a change of scene gave place to a spirit of curiosity

and observation. He learned to mix freely with all orders of men, save

one, and rejoiced to find the narrow mysticism which he had imbibed

from his previous education gradually yielding to contact with the

great world. From one class of men, indeed, he learned nothing—the

priests, whose society he eschewed with scrupulous vigilance, nor did

he ever enter the temples of the Gods. Diviners, augurs, all that made

any pretension whatever to a supernatural character, he held in utter

abhorrence, and his ultimate return in the direction of his native

country is attributed to his inability to persevere further in the path

he was following without danger of encountering Chaldean soothsayers,

or Persian magi, or Indian gymnosophists.

He cherished, however, no intention of returning to Phrygia, and was

still at a considerable distance from that region, when one night, as

he was sitting in the inn of a small country town, his ear caught a

phrase which arrested his attention.

“As true as the oracle of Dorylæum.” The speaker was a countryman, who

appeared to have been asseverating something regarded by the rest of

the company as greatly in need of confirmation. The sudden start and

stifled cry of the ex-priest drew all eyes to him, and he felt

constrained to ask, with the most indifferent air he could assume:

“Is the oracle of Dorylæum, then, so exceedingly renowned for

veracity?”

“Whence comest thou to be ignorant of that?” demanded the countryman,

with some disdain. “Hast thou never heard of the priest Eubulides?”

“Eubulides!” exclaimed the young traveller, “that is my own name!”

“Thou mayest well rejoice, then,” observed another of the guests, “to

bear the name of one so holy and pure, and so eminently favoured by the

happy Gods. So handsome and dignified, moreover, as I may well assert

who have often beheld him discharging his sacred functions. And truly,

now that I scan thee more closely, the resemblance is marvellous. Only

that thy namesake bears with him a certain air of divinity, not equally

conspicuous in thee.”

“Divinity!” exclaimed another. “Aye, if Phœbus himself ministered at

his own shrine, he could wear no more majestic semblance than

Eubulides.”

“Or predict the future more accurately,” added a priest.

“Or deliver his oracles in more exquisite verse,” subjoined a poet.

“Yet is it not marvellous,” remarked another speaker, “that for some

considerable time after his installation the good Eubulides was unable

to deliver a single oracle?”

“Aye, and that the first he rendered should have foretold the death of

an aged woman, one of the ministers of the temple.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Eubulides, “how was that?”

“He prognosticated her decease on the following day, which accordingly

came to pass, from her being choked with a piece of gold, not lawfully

appertaining to herself, which she was endeavouring to conceal under

the root of her tongue.”

“The Gods be praised for that!” ejaculated Eubulides, under his breath.

“Pshaw! as if there were Gods! If they existed, would they tolerate

this vile mockery? To keep up the juggle—well, I know it must be so;

but to purloin my name! to counterfeit my person! By all the Gods that

are not, I will expose the cheat, or perish in the endeavour.”

He arose early on the following morning and took his way towards the

city of Dorylæum. The further he progressed in this direction, the

louder became the bruit of the oracle of Apollo, and the more emphatic

the testimonies to the piety, prophetic endowments, and personal

attractions of the priest Eubulides; his own resemblance to whom was

the theme of continual remark. On approaching the city, he found the

roads swarming with throngs hastening to the temple, about to take part

in a great religious ceremony to be held therein. The seriousness of

worship blended delightfully with the glee of the festival, and

Eubulides, who at first regarded the gathering with bitter scorn, found

his moroseness insensibly yielding to the poetic charm of the scene. He

could not but acknowledge that the imposture he panted to expose was at

least the source of much innocent happiness, and almost wished that the

importance of religion, considered as an engine of policy, had been

offered to his contemplation from this point of view, instead of the

sordid and revolting aspect in which it had been exhibited by the old

woman.

In this ambiguous frame of mind he entered the temple. Before the high

altar stood the officiating priest, a young man, the image, yet not the

image, of himself. Lineament for lineament, the resemblance was exact,

but over the stranger’s whole figure was diffused an air of majesty, of

absolute serenity and infinite superiority, which excluded every idea

of deceit, and so awed the young priest that his purpose of rushing

forward to denounce the impostor and drag him from the shrine was

immediately and involuntarily relinquished. As he stood confounded and

irresolute, the melodious voice of the hierophant rang through the

temple:

“Let the priest Eubulides stand forth.”

This summons naturally caused the greatest astonishment in every one

but Eubulides, who emerged as swiftly as he could from the swaying and

murmuring crowd, and confronted his namesake at the altar. A cry of

amazement broke from the multitude as they beheld the pair, whose main

distinction in the eyes of most was their garb. But, as they gazed, the

form of the officiating priest assumed colossal proportions; a circle

of beams, dimming sunlight, broke forth around his head; hyacinthine

locks clustered on his shoulders, his eyes sparkled with supernatural

radiance; a quiver depended at his back; an unstrung bow occupied his

hand; the majesty and benignity of his presence alike seemed augmented

tenfold. Eubulides and the crowd sank simultaneously on their knees,

for all recognised Apollo.

All was silence for a space. It was at length broken by Phœbus.

“Well, Eubulides,” inquired he, with the bland raillery of an Immortal,

“has it at length occurred to thee that I may have been long enough

away from Parnassus, filling thy place here while thou hast been

disporting thyself amid heretics and barbarians?”

The abashed Eubulides made no response. The Deity continued:

“Deem not that thou hast in aught excited the displeasure of the Gods.

In deserting their altars for Truth’s sake, thou didst render them the

most acceptable of sacrifices, the only one, it may be, by which they

set much store. But, Eubulides, take heed how thou again sufferest the

unworthiness of men to overcome the instincts of thine own nature. Thy

holiest sentiments should not have been at the mercy of a knave. If the

oracle of Dorylæum was an imposture, hadst thou no oracle in thine own

bosom? If the voice of Religion was no longer breathed from the tripod,

were the winds and waters silent, or had aught quenched the everlasting

stars? If there was no power to impose its mandates from without,

couldst thou be unconscious of a power within? If thou hadst nothing to

reveal unto men, mightest thou not have found somewhat to propound unto

them? Know this, that thou hast never experienced a more truly

religious emotion than that which led thee to form the design of

overthrowing this my temple, the abode, as thou didst deem it, of fraud

and superstition.”

“But now, Phœbus,” Eubulides ventured to reply, “shall I not return to

the shrine purified by thy presence, and again officiate as thy

unworthy minister?”

“No, Eubulides,” returned Phœbus, with a smile; “silver is good, but

not for ploughshares. Thy strange experience, thy long wanderings, thy

lonely meditations, and varied intercourse with men, have spoiled thee

for a priest, while, as I would fain hope, qualifying thee for a sage.

Some worthy person may easily be found to preside over this temple; and

by the aid of such inspiration as I may from time to time see meet to

vouchsafe him, administer its affairs indifferently well. Do thou,

Eubulides, consecrate thy powers to a more august service than

Apollo’s, to one that shall endure when Delphi and Delos know _his_ no

more.”

“To whose service, Phœbus?” inquired Eubulides.

“To the service of Humanity, my son,” responded Apollo.