from going to Pergamus, maintaining more fully than before that he had
spoken with many to whom the god had revealed prescriptions and that
there was nothing divine in them: “for to some,” said he, “being of a
melancholy temperament the god prescribes the hearing of odes, hymns
and other music, or sometimes even farces; to others riding on horses;
to others bathing in cold water; to others walking or leaping; to
others frequent rubbing and careful diet; thus the god gives in each
case wise and exact prescriptions such as a skilful physician would
use; but in all these, and the cures at issue, there is nothing of the
power of a god.” Philemon listened patiently enough, but replied (not
without sense as it appeared to me) that if this were so, or were not
so, in either case one of two good results might be expected; for if
it were a god that prescribed, then he should receive benefit from a
god’s prescriptions, but if it were not a god, but only the priests,
even then he should have the prescriptions of physicians so skilful
that they obtained the praises of Artemidorus and were esteemed by
the multitude to have the wisdom of a god. So it was settled that to
Pergamus we should go, and in the autumn of that year we came thither.
There was much in the place to delight a youth such as I was then;
first the town itself fenced in on two sides by rushing streams and
on the north side by rocks scarcely to be scaled; also the stately
buildings and especially the library; and as I had the charge of
Philemon’s books I took pleasure in learning here the art of preparing
parchments and smoothing and adorning them; for the place is very full
of transcribers of books and the banks of the river (which is called
Selinus) are covered with the shops of those who tan skins and prepare
them for the use of booksellers. Thus passed seven days, pleasantly
enough; and all this time I saw not Philemon, for he spent almost every
hour apart from his friends in the temple, engaged in processions and
purifications and the like.
But on the eighth day he came to me with a cheerful countenance saying
that after he had thrice gone in the sacred processions, and had daily
heard solemn music and been present at the thanksgivings of those
who each day had departed whole from the temple, a sweet sleep had
fallen upon him wherein he had seen a vision, namely, a chasm round
and not very large, about five or six cubits in diameter, and himself
on the point of going down into it, and behold, one prevented him and
went down in his stead. When he recounted the vision to the priests,
they bade him be of good cheer, saying that the interpretation of the
dream was this, that he himself should not die nor go down to Hades
(which was signified by the round pit) but that he should recover and
some other should die in his place; and for the rest they bade him
bathe daily in cold water, and walk often and hear cheerful music and
abstain from overmuch study. So we returned to Colossæ with lightened
hearts; and already Philemon began to shake off his melancholy and to
recover apace. But in the second month after we were come back, Apphia
fell sick and was nigh unto death. And hereupon Philemon’s distemper
returned on him worse than before; and as his wife became better, he
became worse, insomuch that he began to despair of his life. Then
Oneirocritus of Ephesus came a second time to visit him; and he, when
he had heard the account of Philemon’s vision, how he had seen a round
chasm and one descending into it, affirmed that the meaning of the
god was that Philemon should go to the cave of Trophonius in Lebadea
in Greece, where there is even such a chasm, the same in shape and
dimensions also, and men go down to it to learn things to come, and
this, he said, was without doubt the intention of the vision; but the
ministers of the temple had interpreted it amiss. Now therefore nothing
would serve but we must needs go to Lebadea.
§ 6. HOW I WENT DOWN INTO THE CAVE OF TROPHONIUS.
As soon as the season of the year came round for a sea voyage, we
sailed across to Athens, and thence to Lebadea, where we were to make
ready for descending beneath the earth. When the day approached,
Philemon was advised by some of his friends (and also by the ministers
of the god) not himself to go down, because of his age and infirmities,
lest the suddenness of some voice or apparition in the darkness beneath
the earth, should affright him and drive him out of his wits or even
slay him outright. For although no one that had at any time consulted
the oracle had ever suffered anything fatal (save only one Macedonian
of the body-guard of Antigonus who had descended for sacrilegious
purpose, and in despite of the sacred ministers, with intent to seek
for hid treasure, and he had been cast forth dead by some other passage
and not by the way he went down) yet did all, whether strangers or
natives, look upon the descent as a matter of some peril not to be
lightly taken in hand. So when I perceived that Philemon desired me to
go down in his place but would not urge nor so much as ask me, lest
I should think myself enforced to consent, I willingly adventured to
descend.
But I found it was no such short and simple matter as I had supposed.
For on presenting my petition to the priests I was caused to wait
many days, first of all in a kind of House of Purification, which
was dedicated to Good Fortune, and during all these days I offered
up several sacrifices, not only to Trophonius, and to his children,
but also to Apollo and to Cronus, and to Zeus the King, and to Hera
the Driver of Chariots, and to Demeter called Europa; and even when
all these sacrifices had been inspected by the priests and pronounced
propitious, yet my good fortune must needs still depend upon one last
sacrifice of all. This was to be a ram offered on the last night,
whose blood was caused to flow into a trench while invocation was made
to Agamedes; which, if it had been unpropitious, would have made all
the other sacrifices of no effect, and all my master’s money and my
pains would have been spent for naught. Although I was in no humor
for scoffing at that time, yet on that last evening, while I awaited
the report concerning the entrails, I could not but marvel that any
god should desire mortals to approach him by paths so costly and so
tedious. For had I been a poor man, I had long ago spent all and more
than all my substance in the sacrifices which I had offered, and the
purifications I had undergone, and the fees I had paid to the ministers
of the god. During the period of purification I had abstained from warm
baths, and had bathed only in the cold waters of the stream called
Hercyna; but on the last night of all, I was bathed with a special
solemnity in the same stream by two priests called Hermæ. Then I was
made to drink of two fountains flowing forth, one on either hand,
whereof the former was called the fountain of Forgetfulness, the other
the fountain of Remembrance. All this was done, they told me, that I
might forget the past and remember the future and in particular the
response of the god. Last of all they took out of a veil a certain
very ancient image of the god, said to have been wrought by Dædalus;
and on this they bade me look very reverently and intently even till
my eyes were weary. This done, I was clad in a white linen tunic,
curiously girt round with garlands, and led towards the cavern.
This was a pit, round at the top, but inside in shape not so much like
a cylinder as rather a cone whereof the summit has been cut off; for
the base was somewhat larger than the opening, the circumference at the
top being about a score of cubits, and the depth, as I should judge,
fifteen cubits; but of the circumference at the bottom I cannot speak
exactly. The way to go down into the pit was by a ladder. Before I
went down the priest told me that when I had touched the bottom I was
to feel about for two small round holes in the side, a handbreadth
or so from the bottom and near the foot of the ladder, each large
enough to hold the foot and the lower part of the leg. Laying myself
on my back I was to place my feet in these two holes, “and thereon,”
said the priest, “though the openings be never so small, yet through
these will the god draw inwards the whole of your body, as with the
irresistible force of some whirlpool, and then in an inner recess, if
he be so pleased, he will hold converse with you either by voice or by
apparition, or perchance by both. But be of good cheer, bearing in mind
that, except that sacrilegious Macedonian of whom I spoke to you, there
was never any one yet that was harmed by the god.”
When I lay down, and the lights above had been taken away, my mind
was all astir, not dizzy nor faint, nor disposed to torpor, but more
active than my wont, tossing a multitude of thoughts to this side and
that, neither believing nor disbelieving in the god. Then it came into
my thoughts that Artemidorus had explained the wondrous pool of Cybele,
fatal to cattle, by saying that some kind of creeping vapors adhered to
the surface of the water, and he bade me take note at Lebadea, whether
any kind of vapor could be seen or felt in the pit. So I drew a long
breath or two but could neither feel aught nor taste aught, save only
that my mind seemed still busier than before, tossing and retossing
thoughts without end. Next, falling on a different course of thinking,
I considered with myself whether perchance I was playing a sacrilegious
part in thus coming into the midst of the god’s mysteries in order to
spy them out and reveal them to Artemidorus; and I resolved that I
would submit myself to the god and think only of the image of Dædalus,
even as the priest had bidden me. Now all this takes indeed some time
to set down, but to think the thoughts needed scarce a moment, and
countless other fancies and imaginations and resolutions passed through
my mind; but the last determination of all was that I would rebel
against the god and not suffer myself to be drawn through the crevices;
and scarce had I conceived this rebellious fancy, when lo, my chest
began to heave and my heart to beat more and more violently, and I felt
the throbbing of the veins in my temples; and then whether my body was
indeed carried into an inner recess, or whether my spirit alone was
carried, being separated from the body, or whatever else happened, I
know not for certain; but there was as it were the clapping-to of a
great door shut with a loud jar, parting me off from all things, and
then a singing in mine ears, and a bright light that grew brighter, and
then methought I lay as it were living, and yet beyond life, and not
able to move hand or foot, yet able to think and hear; and there was
a voice from the depths of the cave in the Bœotian dialect “Philemon
must go first”; and presently I felt myself drawn upwards and heard
the voices of the priests saying that “the man will soon come to
himself,” and behold I was being carried to a throne called the throne
of Recollection; whereon they placed me and straightway questioned
me concerning the things that I had seen or heard while I was still
staring and groping about me like one distraught. When I had made reply
according to my ability, they wrote down my words on a tablet and gave
me back to my friends who led me away, being still unable to guide
myself and ignorant both of myself and them. But not many minutes had
passed before I recovered my mind; and then a spirit of lightness and
mirth possessed me, insomuch that I laughed loud and long and this
without cause, and could not restrain myself from laughing; but when I
was ashamed thereat and even Philemon was fain to rebuke me, one of the
priests that stood by, said that there was no cause either for my shame
or for his rebuke, for laughter after this fashion was ever wont to
seize those with whom Trophonius had held converse.
§ 7. HOW ARTEMIDORUS SPOKE AGAINST THE BELIEF IN GODS.
That I had received a vision none doubted; but concerning the
meaning of the vision there was much dispute. For the priests of
Trophonius (though it was not their special duty to interpret the
visions vouchsafed by the god, but only to prepare the way for them
by introducing those that desired to consult the god) interpreted the
words of the voice and the shutting of the gates as meaning evil for my
master, namely, that he should enter Hades first, and that the gates
should then be shut, so that I should not follow him till afterwards.
But I thought, and so did some others, friends of my master that were
with us, that the meaning rather was, that Philemon should enter into
happiness first, but that I should be shut out; and even now methinks
that was the truer interpretation; for Philemon indeed entered first
into the Kingdom of Light, and I followed after. Notwithstanding at
this time, between these two interpretations, we knew not what to
think; and my master returned to Colossæ even more melancholy than
before. Artemidorus said, scoffing, that we had a goodly time with
the gods, only that they were slow of speech or fond of circuits; for
Oneirocritus had sent us to Asclepius, and behold, that god had given
us a dream but not the interpretation of the dream; and afterwards we
had gone to Trophonius, and he had given us a vision, and an oracle in
broad Bœotian to be the interpretation of the dream; and now nothing
remained but we should go to Delphi to obtain some oracle that might
serve as the interpretation of the dream; or last of all, if the son
of Zeus should answer, like the rest, doubtfully and darkly, then must
we go to Zeus himself in Dodona that the Father might enlighten for us
whatever the Son might have left too obscure. I was not greatly moved
by the gibes of Artemidorus; for the vision that I had seen, or seemed
to have seen, weighed with me more than his mockery; nor did I then
believe the word of the Epicurean, who constantly affirmed that the fit
which had befallen me had arisen from the vapor of the cave, aided by
the trickery of the priests and the force of imagination. But another
scruple (so the Lord willed it) troubled me much more, coming into
my mind again and again; I mean that all these rites and ceremonies,
purifications, sacrifices, and the like were only possible for the
rich, not for the poor; wherefore the religion that required these
things was for the few and for the free-born and not for the many, and
the miserable and the oppressed.
Yet can I not deny that Artemidorus also had a great share in loosening
me by degrees from the worship of false gods. For as Philemon grew
more and more melancholy, and I may almost say morose, he shunned all
company and mine with the rest, and so left Artemidorus and myself to
hold discourse together. At such times, when our speech naturally fell
on the metamorphosis (for we could not call it otherwise) of my master,
Artemidorus would speak at great length concerning the miseries of
religion, and how great evils it had wrought on mankind, leading them
to wicked sacrifices, and orgies, and to self-torturings and agonies
of soul, and all to no purpose; and how much more beautiful it was
to believe that all the universe is bound together by one fixed and
unchangeable order which gives life and decay to all things according
to law. And oftentimes he quoted to me the verses of the Latin poet
Lucretius, praising those who with a discerning eye can look upon all
apparent wonders in heaven and earth, perceiving that there is a cause
of each. When I alleged on the other side such wonders as Philemon had
spoken of, as being abundant in our own land—the burning mountains,
hot wells, fatal vapors, and rivers and cataracts that changed into
stone,—concerning all these he had causes and explanations to set
forth, as also concerning the thunder and the lightning and many
other supernatural things; and when he perceived that some of his
explanations convinced me, then he would always add that there was no
place left for the gods in the Universe, but that when men had learnt
entirely to give up all thought of gods and Elysium and Tartarus, and
had attained to seek and expect happiness in naught save a life of
virtue upon earth, then all things would go well with us on earth, or
at least much better than at present.
Now as for the immortality of the soul and the life beyond the grave,
to these things I adhered, mainly because I loved to think of Chrestus
as still existing; and as touching the existence of a god also,
Artemidorus himself could not make it clear to me how the beginnings of
the world came to pass without some Mind; so that as to these matters,
though I was somewhat moved by him, I was not greatly shaken. But as
for the myths and fables of the wondrous deeds and transformations of
the gods he quite overthrew all my faith in any such things; urging
that the order of the world testified against them, and that our often
experience of the invention and refutation of like marvels showed
that they were necessary for the vacant truth-contemning minds of the
multitude, but none the less false and to be discarded by the seekers
after truth.
Even to this day do I call to mind the time and place of that
particular discourse of Artemidorus which most moved me. We were
walking near the city of Hierapolis (which lies close upon Colossæ)
amid the hills covered with the snow-like marble made out of water,
whereof I wrote above, and I had taken him to see some of the vaporous
springs which Philemon had shown me, inferring from such wonders the
existence of the gods. Then Artemidorus spoke his mind to me freely,
after his cynical manner, concerning these and other so called
metamorphoses and miracles. For after he had with very great clearness
and not a little cogency of words and reasons set forth his theory
concerning the marble cataracts, finding me obstinate against his
conclusion that all things are according to order and that all the
stories of the metamorphoses are false, he suddenly changed his humor
and said mirthfully, “But come now, most devout of mankind, lest
perchance I should seem to you unfair, pressing unduly the argument on
the one side but neglecting what might be said on the other side, see,
I will take the part of Socrates and will maintain the truth of the
ancient stories. At Philemon’s supper last night, you heard how stoutly
the pious Nicostratus supported our most excellent host in affirming
that it was possible that the loving Halcyone was translated into the
sea-bird of that name, which is said ever to mourn for her husband.
Now mark how far inferior is the devout Nicostratus to the more devout
Artemidorus.” Then, adjusting his cloak and speaking in a pompous
fashion with a sonorous voice after the manner of some philosophers of
our acquaintance, “Alas,” he said, “blind creatures that we mortals
are! Alas, purblind judges of the possible and impossible! For we,
deluded ones, pronounce according to the ignorant and dull abilities of
faithless men. And therefore many things, in themselves easy, seem to
us difficult, and many things in themselves attainable seem to us not
to be attained. And this befalls us sometimes through our inexperience,
sometimes through the infancy of our minds. For, as compared with the
First Cause of all, every man, be he never so old, is but a child; and
human life, when compared with eternity, is but a childhood’s span.
Who therefore shall decide what is likely? For which, think you is the
harder or the more unlikely? To raise a stillness out of a blustering
tempest, and to spread a cloudless sky over the whole of Europe and
of Asia, or to change the shape of one woman into the form of a bird?
We see even children every day shape distinct forms and figures from
wax and clay. Then certainly God, who is too excellent in greatness
and wisdom to be brought into comparison with the wisest of human
beings, can effect more wonderful actions than these which are easy
and familiar. Nature, we see, finding in a comb of wax a shapeless
worm without legs or feathers, bestows on it wings and feet, and
enamelling it with great diversity of fair colors produceth a bee,
the wise artificer of divine honey! Seeing therefore this marvellous
transformation, why doubt we of thy lesser wonder, O Halcyone, most
dutiful of birds? Nay, but from henceforth I will not cease to scoff
at the folly of poor puny mortals, who can neither comprehend great
matters nor small, but doubt of most things, even of those which
concern ourselves, and yet dare to deny the power of the immortal gods
to transform halcyons or aught else. And for my part, even as the fame
of the fable hath been conveyed to me from my ancestors, so will I
extol the praise of thy songs, O thou bird of mourning, conveying it
to my children and to their posterity after them; nor will I cease to
repeat the story of thy virtuous love for thy husband, thy constancy
and thy patience, to my wives Xantippe and Myrto.”
Then, putting aside all mirth, “Do you not see, my dear Onesimus,” said
he, “that, upon such reasoning as this, any impostor can palm off
any portent upon the credulity of mankind. Nay, so eagerly does the
multitude seek after portents that they will oftentimes refuse to pay
homage even to the truth, unless it come accompanied with portents:
and indeed such is the nature of our Phrygians in this region (and the
Paphlagonians are no better) that if a juggler will but play his tricks
before them, taking with him a player on the flute or tambourine or
cymbals, straightway they will gape upon him as on a messenger from
heaven, and believe as he instructs and do as he commands. But it is
not the part of a philosopher, my dear friend, to accept falsehoods
through laziness, or credulity, or enthusiasm, but rather to esteem
sobriety and incredulity to be the very sinews of the soul, remembering
the words of him who said, ‘I love Socrates well and Plato well, but
Truth best of all.’ And surely, if there be a god indeed, as you and
your philosophers will have it, and this god a good god, then to such
a god that man must be pleasing who most honors truth; but the man who
serves falsehood must be unpleasing, whether folly or knavery be the
cause of such a servitude.”
His words moved me not a little; for I seemed forced at least to this
conclusion that whether there were an Elysium or not, whether gods or
no gods, in any case truth must needs be better than falsehood; and
when he spoke of falsehood as a “servitude” his words galled me all
the more because I was a slave; and I confessed in my heart that I had
been acting slavishly in resolving to believe what was pleasant, merely
because it was pleasant, and without much regard to the truth of it. So
I vowed within myself that howsoever Philemon might enforce my limbs to
his service, he should not constrain my mind to this or that opinion
contrary to what I believed to be the truth; for though my body might
be the body of a slave, in my mind and thoughts I would be free.
§ 8. HOW I JOURNEYED WITH PHILEMON TO ANTIOCH IN SYRIA.
Now began my old fit of doubt and trouble and moroseness to return
upon me. I had long misliked the excessive and, as it seemed to me,
pusillanimous superstition of Philemon; and the more because, although
he spared no pains nor cost in resorting to oracles and practising new
superstitions, he had not yet bethought himself of his promise that he
would emancipate me. Lately also he had built for himself a tomb at
a very great expense, saying that it was unreasonable to prepare for
oneself a sumptuous house wherein we should spend threescore years at
the most, and yet to take no thought of that other abode wherein a man
needs spend all his time hereafter for many years. But while he made
this so costly and careful provision for his bones, he made none for
his family nor for his slaves; for it was known that he had some months
since destroyed his former will and he had not as yet made another; so
that both I and all the rest of the household were in danger to be sold
to we knew not what master, if anything evil should suddenly befall
Philemon. Yet when Artemidorus urged him to the making of a will, he
resented it as if it were done upon some expectation of his death. For
at times, in his melancholy, he came to such a point of suspicion as
to imagine that all men, even his household, were set against him and
wished to murder him. So I began to rebel once more against the worship
of the gods, partly (as before) because it seemed to be a religion
for the rich and not for the poor, but partly also because it seemed
possible to be religious and yet to be swallowed up with thoughts of
self, having no regard unto others. Notwithstanding I gave not up as
yet all belief in divine things; but I became a seeker after some
religion which should afford redemption not for the few but for the
many.