Aleph, the Chaldean; or, the Messiah as Seen from Alexandria

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Aleph, The Chaldean;

Or, The Messiah as Seen from Alexandria.

by

E. F. Burr, D.D., LL.D.,

Author of “Ecce Cœlum,” “Pater Mundi,” etc.

“_So forth we gat us from our home;_ _So we are here to-day:_ _Now tell us where this King to find,_ _Whose reign shall be alway._”—ANON.

New York: Wilbur B. Ketcham, 2 Cooper Union.

Copyright, 1891, By Wilbur B. Ketcham.

Preface.

Two facts, at least, should be remembered by the readers of this book.

1. It was not uncommon in the times of the Christ for Hebrew men, in imitation of Joseph and Moses and Boaz, to marry outside of their own people.

2. It is a great mistake to suppose that women in the Roman Empire of the First Century were secluded after the current oriental fashion. They had about as much freedom on most lines of social intercourse as women have among us. The New Testament shows this in regard to Palestine and such contiguous countries as appear in the Acts of the Apostles. But it was the same wherever the Roman authority and influence extended.

“Tradition was in favor of restriction, but by a concurrence of circumstances women had been liberated from the enslaving fetters of the old legal forms, and enjoyed freedom of intercourse in society; they walked and drove in the public thoroughfares with veils that did not conceal their faces; they dined in the company of men; they studied literature and philosophy; they took part in political movements; they were allowed to defend their own law cases if they liked; and they helped their husbands in the government of provinces and the writing of books.”

Lyme, Conn., U. S. A.

I.

Down The Nile.

Φησὶ δὲ, τοις μὲν ευθὺ γινομένοις μιξαι χρυσὸν.

—ARISTOTLE, _Polit._ ii. 3.

_He says that some have gold in their composition from the start._

1. Who are they? 2. A son of Misraim. 3. The times of old. 4. A seeming misfortune.

I.

Down The Nile.

From Coptus downward on the dreamy Nile—past innumerable canals with their primitive water-wheels; past populous villages and lordly villas embowered in sycamores and palms; past still more lordly ruins, silent now for many a century; past caravans and pleasure-parties and bodies of Roman soldiery, foot and horse, coming and going on the thoroughfares that closely skirt the river on either hand; past water craft of all sorts, from skin-buoyed rafts carrying sandstone from Chennu to the Delta up to gay barges carrying travelers to Thebes and the dead Egypt of the Pharaohs; past crocodiles and hippopotami and pelicans sporting in the water, or basking along the muddy shore as so many logs or stones.

_Who_ are moving downward on the dreamy Nile to Alexandria—in a large merchant vessel, whose lateen sail swells gently to the south wind? A large number of persons with whom we have no special concern. Two persons with whom we have great concern, and whose appearance is striking enough to draw much attention from their fellow-travelers, as they stand together watching the ever-changing scene.

Both wear the classic Greek dress, of plain material. The elder, a man of some sixty years, is so Greek in feature that no dress is needed to proclaim his nationality. The other, a young man of perhaps twenty years, has a face of a different type. And what a face! Is it Egyptian? No. Is it Roman? No. Is it Hebrew? No. As we take our privilege of drawing very near, and of looking carefully at those features on all sides, and even of lifting the abundant brown hair from the broad white forehead that swells so loftily over the steady and somewhat austere gray eyes, we would rather say that we are looking on the original type from which all other racial faces have varied, so readily does it express the better elements of all. Yes, the young man must be from Britain or the Caucasus—and yet he certainly is not from Britain; for that is still a land of savages, and this youth has an air of culture and refinement, which the plainness of his garb cannot conceal. Is it mere fancy? Have I really a sixth sense? There is something about the young man that seems to breathe of lofty plateaus, and mountain summits, and torrents that dash and roar on their way from the clouds to the sea. What does this mountaineer here among the lowlands of the Nile?

He is evidently looking at the country for the first time. Everything seems to interest him much. His companion, as plainly, is by no means an entire stranger to the scene, and yet shows the degree of interest natural to one who is revisiting a country after long absence. The Greek language flows easily between the two; as the elder from time to time points this way and that, and seems to be recalling and introducing old acquaintances, as the vessel slowly glides by object after object.

“It is now more than thirty years,” said the Greek, whom we will call Cimon, “since I left Egypt; but I notice very few changes—here and there a new quay or villa, or an old palace decorated with new gardens and trees. I once knew who lived in some of the finer dwellings; for example, yonder low castellated building that covers so much ground on the eastern bank. It is very ancient, and the gradual rise of the land from the annual deposits by the river, long since converted the lower story into a dungeon. The Roman proprætor lived here a part of the year. It once belonged to Cleopatra; was given by her to a favorite noble and relative, from whom the Romans took it, as being heirs to all the Pharaohs.”

The vessel, from some cause, now approached the palace they were observing, and the two men walked to the right side of the boat for a closer view. While standing here and noticing various points of a structure that was now seen to be a fortress as well as a palace, they became aware of a man standing by their side.

“You seem interested in this place,” he said in a grave but courteous tone; “can I give you any information about it? I happen to be particularly well acquainted in this neighborhood.”

They had turned to see a man of majestic stature and mien, far advanced in life, but still erect as a palm and keen-eyed—as thoroughly Egyptian in his look and dress as Rameses the Great.

“I see that you are strangers, and _not_ Romans,” he added apologetically, “and old age likes to speak of the past when it can do so safely.” And he looked around as if to assure himself that they were alone.

Cimon politely thanked the Egyptian, and said that he had just been telling his young friend Aleph that the structure before them was once a royal residence.

“That is so,” said the old man; “not only a residence of the Ptolemies, but also of our native kings. You see that the material is stone from Syene, and that the style of building is old Egyptian. It passed to the Ptolemies with the crown of the Pharaohs, but was restored to a direct descendant of the old owners as an act of justice by Cleopatra. For a generation it continued in his family; but at last the Roman governor took a liking to the place and took it. The Romans are apt to take what they like.”

“Not a very uncommon thing for conquerors anywhere to do,” said Cimon. “Perhaps the site of this very palace was taken without purchase or leave by the Pharaoh who built it, from a weak subject or from another defeated Pharaoh.”

“I think not,” decidedly said the Egyptian. “I could show you papyri and parchments in the Serapeum proving that the property has been in the possession of the same priestly family to which it now belongs almost as long as we have been historically a people; and that, you know, is a great while, and nearly connects us with the time when vacant Misraim was divided among our fathers.”

“Certainly,” said the young man whom we have heard his companion call Aleph, “no people between this and the Pillars of Hercules holds its land by so ancient and original a tenure as does the people of Misraim. The Egyptian is older than the Roman, older than the Greek; indeed, was wise and powerful ages before Rome or Greece was born. And, if I mistake not, there is no tradition, nor other reason for thinking, that your fathers dispossessed any other people. They must stand as original proprietors. If immemorial possession, without hint of wrong, does not give a just title, the world knows of no such title, whether the party be a nation or an individual.”

“That seems to me well said,” came slowly from the old man, as his eye rested on the ingenuous face of the youth. “We came to the valley of the Nile so early that we did not have to inhabit at the expense of any other nation. We may be said to hold our country directly from the immortal gods.”

“You say we _came_,” said Cimon. “So, in your opinion, this was not the original site of the Egyptians. From whence do you suppose them to have come, and at how early a period? For my part, I have no doubt that you were here, and were here as a great and accomplished people, long before the Greeks, or even the Phenicians, had any political existence.”

“Your question would be variously answered among us,” returned the Egyptian. “Some would claim for our past hundreds of thousands, and even millions, of years; would say that such a civilization as ours was at the date of our oldest monuments could not have ripened from that savagery and even brutality which they fancy to have been the primitive human condition in anything short of such immense periods. But such is not my view. I see that you are surprised at this!”

“Not surprised that you reject the brute-origin of mankind,” returned the Greek; “for that seems to be contrary to the feeling and faith of all nations; but rather surprised that you do not share what I have supposed to be the fashionable opinion among Egyptians as to their immense antiquity, and what would naturally be to you a very pleasant opinion.”

“No opinion is pleasant to me,” replied the old man, slowly shaking his head, “for which I can see no reasonable foundation. Manetho, our only extant historian, was an ancestor of mine. I have his original manuscripts, entire, and am satisfied by the careful study of them and of the palace registers of Thebes that his earlier dynasties were largely cotemporaneous. No; from two thousand to three thousand years are enough to account for our whole history, monuments and all, if we suppose the nation to have been originally gifted and far advanced in civilization on their coming into the land.”

“May I ask from whence you suppose them to have come?” inquired Aleph.

“That is a very broad question at its broadest; and the broadest is what I see in the depths of your eyes. There has been but one tradition among us on the subject, and it is like the traditions of all these western peoples. They look toward the sun-rising. Our fathers entered the land from the north, after journeying from the east. From what part of the great east, do you say? My answer is that Seti the aged is the son of the youth who now stands before me. His is the primitive stock. Caucasian Chaldea is the cradle of the nations. And if you go on to ask whence that cradle and primitive stock, I have to tell you what primitive Egypt thought and said—that AMUN RE, the eternal, almighty, and all-wise Spirit, made the stars and the world, and the first parents of us all. That your Democritus and Epicurus,” added the Egyptian, looking archly at Cimon, “should have taught differently! They should have visited us three thousand years ago and taken lessons. They would have steered their way more successfully among the snags and breakers of thought. For, the stream of history is like the Nile—broad with us, and not without its monsters as well as fertilities, but beginning small and beginning very high among mysterious mountains. I speak with confidence; for I feel that, owing to certain circumstances, I stand on higher ground than most observers do, and can see farther across the centuries. The horizon is distant, but I can see that there _is_ a horizon, and that it sweeps high among the clouds.”

* * * * *

At this moment a Roman officer, who had been lying intoxicated behind some boxes, but was now sufficiently recovered to be miserable and quarrelsome, came somewhat unsteadily toward them. They were standing with their backs toward him; and, noticing their plain garbs, he was, perhaps, encouraged in his thought of mischief. Coming up to the Egyptian, he struck him a smart blow on the back with the flat of his sheathed sword which he carried in his hand.

“Ha, old mummy, did you never see a Roman before?” as Seti turned suddenly toward him. “Improve your opportunity. But you will have an opportunity to _feel_ a Roman as well as to see him if you do not at once find the skipper for me. Come, hurry off, old fellow!” and he raised his sword as if for another blow.

Aleph stepped between. “It is more fitting that I should do your errand, if it must be done. You see that I am a young man,” said he, fixing a steady eye on the haughty and inflamed face before him.

“Who are you who dare to stand between a Roman and his will?” cried the officer furiously, his hand still uplifted.

“Let it suffice you that we are peaceable people, moving quietly about on our own private affairs, as Roman law and custom entitle us to do. Do you understand?”

“I understand that if you do not stand away from between Rome and Egypt, the Caucasus will suffer,” and the madman began to draw his sword.

“Listen,” said Aleph with composure and emphasis. “You had better not. You have a superior officer, and we are going to Alexandria. I call all these people to witness (by this time many had gathered about) that this quarrel is not of our seeking.”

“Dare you threaten a Roman commander, you beardless cub! By the immortals, you shall see what I dare,” shouted the man, as he plucked his sword from the scabbard.

“You _shall_ not,” said Aleph; and, snatching a large bundle from a by-stander, he thrust it into the face of the Roman. It burst and enveloped the man in a cloud of pelican feathers, which a Jew had been collecting for the rag-market of Alexandria. Before his assailant could recover himself and sight, Aleph had thrown his arms about him, secured his sword, and, despite his struggles, laid him supine on the floor. Then, without much difficulty, he managed to swathe and bind his arms to his body with his long sword-sash. Looking about, his eye caught a small coil of rope near him; this he drew to himself, and with it fastened the man in a sitting posture to one of the posts that supported the awning. All this was not done without much struggling and cursing on the part of the Roman; but Aleph was perfectly silent till his prisoner was well secured. Then, turning to the spectators, he said:

“In behalf of the general safety, let this man remain as you see him till we reach Alexandria. Wine has made him dangerous; and you notice that what has been done, I only have done, and that reluctantly, to prevent something worse.”

A cheer flashed out from the faces huddled about, and almost shaped itself on their parted lips, but was suddenly suppressed before anything more than an indistinct murmur had escaped; for their eyes fell on the watchful and infuriated face of the officer. They were prudent people, those passengers. They admired courage; they were glad to see a Roman put down; but they were not ready to sacrifice safety to sentiment. So, instead of cheering, they compromised and fell to laughing at the Jew, who, exclaiming, “O, my feathers, my poor feathers! Ah, father Abraham, I am a ruined man this day; what will become of me!” crept about on his hands and knees, trying to collect as much of his volatile property as possible.

“Do not worry yourself, my friend,” said Seti to him in a low voice; “gather what you can, and add this coin to make the weight good. What has been lost for my sake shall not be loss to you.”

The Jew glanced at the coin that had been slipped into his hand, and, catching the gleam of gold, hurried it dexterously to his pouch, at the same time exclaiming, “May all the patriarchs ... oh, my beautiful feathers for which I paid ... may Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob ... ah, what will become of me!”

And so he went on groping and exclaiming and stuffing handful after handful of his recovered property into his bag amid the merriment of the crowd.

Making a sign to the two friends to follow, the Egyptian led the way to another part of the vessel free from people, where was a single seat. On this he seated himself.

“I take the privilege of age,” said he, “and I am by no means sure but that age gives me the only advantage I have over you. I suspect that the eyes of Seti, though aged, have made a discovery.”

The two friends glanced inquiringly at each other, but said nothing. They were now moving along the canal that connected the Nile with Lake Mareotis; and for some time they silently watched the agricultural operations and the ever-increasing number of people and dwellings on either bank. At length, emerging into the lake, they saw in the distance the crowded shipping and towers of the city of Alexandria.

Seti roused himself from the mood of intense thoughtfulness, into which he had fallen, and asked:

“Are you acquainted with Alexandria?”

Cimon answered: “With the city, well; with the people of the city, not at all. A generation has passed since I was here.”

“Excuse one further question,” continued the Egyptian. “Do you stay long in the city?”

“That depends on circumstances,” replied Cimon; “but probably our affairs will keep us here for some time.”

“This young man has to-day made an enemy, and a powerful one; no less a person than the dissipated son of Flaccus, the Governor of Egypt. But he has also found a friend; and if at any time you should need such aid, in whatever affairs you have in hand, as can be given by a native of the country, and by one well acquainted with things and persons here and not altogether without influence, ask at the Serapeum for the priest Seti, and you will find that I have not forgotten to-day. Do you believe in faces?” looking at Aleph.

“In _some_ faces, as interpreted by circumstances, I do certainly,” replied the young man.

“And so do I, at least so far as you are concerned,” said the Egyptian; “and it is largely because I do so that I now say what I do. There are two men in Alexandria with whom you should have as little dealing as possible. One is Flaccus, the Roman; the other is Malus, the Jew. The one is violent, the other is crafty, and both are wicked and powerful. Avoid them, if possible; but if it is not possible, then remember Seti, the Egyptian. It is true—what the proverb says, that in this world the worst men often occupy the best places.”

As the vessel approached the quay, Seti continued: “I think that, contrary to my expectation, I will ask one more question before we part. Of what faith are you? All sorts are found here; also multitudes with no faith at all. Where do you stand?” looking at Cimon. “Do you hold with your fathers?”

“With my father,” said the Greek; “but not with my fathers. I follow not Zeus, but Jehovah; not the oracles of Delphi and Dodona, but those of the Hebrew prophets. This young man the same.”

“It is as I supposed,” said the old man, after a moment adding, as if to himself, “and it is well. Zeus, Jupiter, Amun Re, and Jehovah, rightly understood, are the same.”

Giving them his hand, he stepped ashore, and disappeared in the crowd. Runners from the various khans now came noisily aboard and fought for customers, as they do now, and have done from time out of mind. To one of these troublesome fellows Cimon delivered certain packages, and then, with his young companion, followed them. In passing the spot where they had left the Roman, they found that he had disappeared. Who had set him free? No matter; he is gone. We hope they have seen the last of him. We hope that returning soberness has made the man so ashamed of himself that hereafter he will carefully keep out of view. But we have our fears. The appeal from Philip drunk to Philip sober is not always a success. Besides, Philip was not a Roman.

II.

The Caravansary.

Αλλη δ’ αλλων γλῶσσα μεμιγμένη.

—HOMER, _Odyss._ xix. 175.

_There was a great confusion of tongues._

1. All sorts. 2. What all believe. 3. An exception. 4. A wrong righted.

II.

The Caravansary.

The khan to which our two friends were conducted was not far from the landing. It was the chief point, in that part of the city, of arrival and departure for commercial people; and, as evening was now near, the great court within was bustling and picturesque with arrivals. Donkeys were being led through it to stables in the rear, camels were being unloaded, horsemen were dismounting; it was a very Babel of sounds, of costumes, and of movements.

“Is Nathan still the keeper of this khan?” inquired Cimon of their guide, as they were being shown to their quarters.

“He is,” said the man; “but he is now out of the city. Do you wish to see his assistant? The master himself will not be at home for, perhaps, some days.”

Cimon answered in the negative. Following their guide and parcels into a small sleeping-room, with an ante-room opening on the piazza which surrounded the court, and directing that a simple meal should be sent to them in the evening, they busied themselves for a while in arranging matters for the night. Then they went out on the cooler piazza, and seated themselves on a bench.

“This adventure with the Roman seems unfortunate,” said Cimon thoughtfully. “Unless matters have much changed since I was here, the ill-will of any Roman official is not to be coveted; while that of the Roman governor looks like quite a serious matter to people on such an errand as ours.”

“My interference, I suppose,” said Aleph, “would hardly be considered prudent by most people; but I cannot but think that there is something better than prudence. Shall we never allow our hearts to speak and act without stopping to consider how our interests will be affected? Safety gained in that way seems to me hardly worth the having.”

“I think you are right,” said the other. “I am far from finding fault with what you have done. Under like circumstances I would have you do it again. Our first thought, no doubt, should be, What is highest and worthiest? If that is not prudence, it is something vastly better. But it _is_ prudence, on the whole; for it will never do for a man to despise himself and offend Heaven. God governs. But we must wait for Him. A cloud is not always a calamity. A rough wind may help one toward the harbor sought. I know that these are your father’s views, and that he would be unwilling to have his son sacrifice, even magnanimity to any appearance of present advantage.”

“Have you any idea who Seti is?” inquired the young man after a moment.

“I have been trying,” answered the other, “to find in my memory something about him. I know that when I was here, the Egyptians as well as the Jews had an official head or _alabarch_ of their own nation, who was the organ of communication between them and the Roman authorities. My impression is that the Egyptian alabarch was of Pharaonic family and a priest of the Serapeum. It may be that Seti is the man. I hope he is.”

“I confess,” said Aleph, “that the man has quite taken possession of me. It seems to me that I would be willing to venture almost anything on his thorough uprightness and even grandeur of character, although I have known him but such a short time. Did you notice what an aspect he turned on the Roman just after the blow? Had not the fellow been besotted, the surprised majesty of that look alone would have quelled him. But how is it possible for such a man to be a worshipper of brutes, and even to act as their priest?”

“That is not a question easily answered,” replied the Greek. “But probably Seti, like all superior Egyptian priests from time immemorial, believes in a religion for the few and another religion for the many. The doctrine of One God to be worshiped without sensible figures is for the few elect who are prepared for it; the lower classes in general are not prepared for it, but need to have the various divine attributes shadowed out to them in sensible forms; and as no forms that man can make are equal to even the familiar living creatures with their wonderful mysteries of internal structure, these are offered to assist the feeble thought of feeble men. Of course, this is all wrong; but it is a wrong imbedded in the traditions and prejudices of ages, and so not easily escaped from. Jehovah makes allowances for such people, whether their names be Socrates and Plato or Zoroaster and Seti. Aristotle says that some of our species have gold blended in their composition from the very beginning. Seti seems to me one of these.”

By this time the sun was below the west side of the khan, and the open court was quite in the shade. This brought out into it and the surrounding piazzas all the guests. It was a motley to see as well as to hear. Almost every nation seemed represented, almost every style of features and costume. There were Romans, Greeks, Phenicians, Egyptians, Persians, Arabs, and even a sprinkling of natives from Gaul, Spain, and other places. Such a variety of faces, dress, and, when one listened attentively, of speech! A drag-net of all seas was Nathan’s khan.

Aleph was all eyes and ears. The scene was full of novelty and interest to him. At length, turning to his companion, he said:

“This scene reminds me of what I have often heard you and my father say.”

“And what is that?” asked Cimon. “Your father, at least, is wont to say wise things beyond any man I ever knew.”

“That, wide as is the variety of religious beliefs among men, they believe alike in certain main respects. What differences among the faces before us as to color, size, proportion of parts, expression; and yet they are all faces, all human faces, all faces having the same general plan of structure and location of the various organs.”

“Yes,” added the elder; “_Homines diversi sed homines_, as said a Roman before you. And see how various the costume; and yet it is all clothing,—all clothing that recognizes the warm climate, the season of the year, and to a certain extent the time of day and the convenience of travelers.”

“And you might add,” continued the young man, after a moment of close listening, “that it is just so with the various articulate sounds that come to us. While they differ in tone, in time, in syntax, in dialect, they are all speech, all articulate speech, and, for the most part, speech so much of the Greek pattern as to be intelligible to nearly all of us.”

“Yes,” said Cimon, “and I suppose that it is very much so with the religious beliefs of these people. Though their creeds differ much among themselves, they are alike in many most important particulars. They all recognize a realm of spiritual beings superior to man, a Supreme Deity, his concern in human affairs, messages from him, our responsibility to him, a future state of rewards and punishments, and the main principles of good morals. There may be some exceptions; for these, I understand, are skeptical times in the Roman world. Almost everything is called in question among the philosophers, even the fact that there is something to be called in question; though it is found hard to get men to question that the Romans are masters, that Tiberius reigns, and that Alexandria is the greatest emporium of the world. But the vagaries of the schools make but little impression on the people at large. They never have done so. The more fundamental beliefs have kept a firm hold on all nations and ages. A little pool will show the heavens as well as the ocean. This khan is a little pool; and at the bottom of it, amid many wrinkles and clouds, one can discover many of the larger stars of religious truth which have shone on the world from the beginning.”

“And how do you account for these universal beliefs?” asked Aleph.

“It seems to me that they came from a Divine revelation to the first fathers of the race, and that they were carried forth with them as they gradually dispersed from their original seats, and that they took root so deeply in the needs and reasons of men that no evil circumstances have been able to remove them. It seems to me that as all the routes of trade in our day naturally converge on Alexandria, so the natural highways of thought and need all over the world converge on these fundamental truths.”

“No doubt you also think it reasonable to believe that Deity, who made the deposits with the race, has been personally active all along to preserve it, as a broad ground for responsibility and further enlightenment? In addition to a mighty undertow in human nature itself toward these fundamental truths, there are winds and currents of external circumstance setting in the same direction by the personal agency of the Most High.”

“Just so. But look at those men!”

The two persons pointed at had been sitting not far away in the open court, conversing in a low tone. By degrees their conversation had become more animated and loud, until now they were earnestly gesturing and talking so as to be distinctly understood at a distance. It seemed that one of the disputants was a Phenician, and was endeavoring to settle an account of long standing with an Alexandrian dealer in Tyrian dyes, to whom these goods had from time to time been consigned. This dealer claimed that several of the consignments had been short in both quantity and quality; and so offered about half the regular price for the whole lot.

The other protested, called Baal and Ashtaroth to witness that his claim was just; said that he had trusted for so long and for so much, that if his accounts were not now allowed, he would be ruined. He had arrived from Sidon some days before, expressly for the purpose of trying to get a settlement, but had till now been unable to get even an interview with the dealer, who was always too busy to see him, but had at last agreed to have his agent meet him at the khan. This was the meeting. The Phenician had at first quietly represented the hardships of his case with some hope of softening the agent, but, growing desperate, he hotly rose from his seat and exclaimed in a voice that was almost a wail:

“I shall be undone,—quite undone! Have you no mercy?”

“Not much,” said the other, “for some people.”

“Thou flint! Before all the gods my claim is just. What shall I do? My children will starve.”

“Let them. The fewer such brats the better. Business is business. Take what I offer or nothing. You have only yourself to blame; you shouldn’t cheat so.”

“_Cheat!_” exclaimed the Phenician in a transport of wrath that for the moment drank up his tears like a hot blast from the desert. “_Cheat!_ you Cretan rascal! You are a pretty fellow to advise against cheating; you who, I verily believe, never did anything else; nor your fathers either, for that matter. Who does not know what the honesty of a Cretan is worth?”

By this time many had gathered around. Turning to them, the Phenician besought their help to make his debtor do him justice.

“Why not go to the judge?” said a by-stander.

“Ah, my friend, I have been imprudent. I cannot _prove_ that my goods were all right; for I was so careless that I took it for granted that I was dealing with an honest man, and so neglected to have them examined and registered at Sidon. Besides, if I had done this, how could I know but that the packages had been tampered with on their way here? I could not swear that they came into this man’s hands in as good condition as they were when they left mine. But _he_ could swear to anything. Why shouldn’t he? He told me a little while ago, while we were opening our conference with some general talk, that he did not believe in any god or hereafter; in short, that he had no religion of any sort. What is to keep such a man from wronging his neighbor out of his dues when it can be done safely?”

“This man speaks truth,” said a substantial looking man hard by; “for, as I was passing here some time ago, I overheard this atheist sneering at all religion. Said I to myself, that man is a rogue. Is cheating too bad a thing for such a fellow to do? Hassan thinks not.”

On this another cried out: “Some of us know Hassan. His word is good. I think as he does: that a man who has robbed himself of his conscience would not hesitate to rob a Phenician of his goods.”

“Exactly so,” said another just behind, as he gave his neighbor a push toward the Cretan. “A man who does not believe in anything good believes in everything bad.”

“Oh, the fellow is an imitation philosopher, is he? The genuine is bad enough, but an imitation is worse—mere husks. And husks are thrown away. Let’s throw him away;” and the speaker drew his girdle a hit tighter.

“And _I_ would not trust the rascal with a fig,” cried another, as he shied a rather sorry specimen of the fruit at the Cretan.

“Hustle him out—hustle him out,” cried several at once, throwing up their hands.

The crowd seemed on the point of doing it. The Cretan turned pale as he saw them moving upon him, and began to retreat toward the gate. Seeing this, some of the people ran and planted themselves in the way. Finding himself intercepted, the man jumped on a bench and cried in a frightened voice:

“Friends, do not harm me. I am only an agent in this matter. I do what I am bid. My principal is MALUS.”

Malus, Malus—the word passed from mouth to mouth in a low tone. It seemed magical. At once the outcry ceased. The billow of angry faces and hands that was rushing toward the Cretan suddenly stood still, and then slowly broke into many little whispering, murmuring whirlpools. The way to the gate was no longer barred, and the Cretan made his way to it precipitately, and disappeared. There was no danger of pursuit.

The Phenician sat down again, and covered his face with his hands. Our two friends talked together for a few moments in a low tone. Then Aleph rose and went to the man; and, after exchanging a few words with him, conducted him to Cimon. A long conversation followed. At last Cimon came forward to the edge of the piazza, and beckoned for attention. He already had it—had indeed been having it for some time; but seeing the gesture, the people came nearer.

“I do not express any opinion,” said the Greek, “as to the justice of this man’s cause. We have not at present the means for judging that. But, unless all the usual marks fail, this is a case of genuine distress; and one that is not likely to be helped by a resort to the courts. The man confesses that he has been imprudent. Besides, he is too poor to bear the expense of a suit. And if he could, a suit would probably be in vain. When the weak contend with the powerful, the weak must go to the wall. So, rightly or wrongly, the poor man will lose his debt; his family will suffer, and he will be in danger of losing all heart by losing in his old age the labor of years. I propose that we help him. The sum lost, though large to him, would not be large to us. A small contribution from each of us will set him on his feet again. Who of you will join me in making it, perhaps in righting a great wrong?”

And, stepping forward, he laid a piece of gold on the bench where the Phenician had sat. Aleph rose and put another by the side of it. Hassan promptly came up and did the same. The example was followed by others, until at last Aleph, coming forward and examining the amount contributed, pronounced it quite sufficient to cover the loss. He handed the sum to the Phenician.

The man seemed for a moment almost bewildered as he received it. He then fell on his knees and thanked his gods in a few trembling words; then springing to his feet, he lifted up his voice and wept. At last he found words and composure enough to say to the people:

“My friends, you have saved me. I was ready to die; would gladly have died a few moments ago; but now I can live, because my family can. I bless you in the name of my little children. You may be sure that you have not helped a rogue; the facts are as I have given them. Before the gods I am an honest man, though I could not prove it before your judges. Again I thank you; and,” turning to Cimon and Aleph, “especially these two friends, who, though strangers to me, have this day stood between me and ruin. If Sansciano ever forgets them, may....”

Here he fairly broke down, and suddenly turning to one of the pillars that supported the piazza, buried his face in his hand.

The sudden night of Egypt was now upon them, and the torches began to flame. After exchanging a few more words with the Phenician, the two friends withdrew to their rooms; but not before they had caught glimpse of a Roman uniform entering the little office near the gate of the court. Did it give them any uneasiness? I hope not. Borrowing trouble is poor business. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. And then, is there not a shield broad as the heavens above the good? Trust it, ye strangers, and go to sleep—if ye are indeed good.

_Are_ they good men? For one, I am inclined to believe in them. Not so much because of their good looks, as because they look good. Not so much from what they have said and done during the few hours of our acquaintance with them, as from a certain—well, let the word be written, though deservedly somewhat unpopular of late—_intuition_. There is something wonderfully prepossessing in the look of both these strangers. It is hard to say what that something is that so bespeaks confidence, but that it exists and speaks mightily there is no denying—at least by me. I seem to look right through those frank and fearless yet kind eyes into noble souls. It may be only a seeming. I shall not attempt to justify myself to the philosophers. If they choose to remind me that appearances are sometimes deceptive; that virtue is often very cleverly imitated; in short, that old proverbs declare that “All is not gold that glitters,” and that “Fair outsides often cover foul insides,” I have nothing to say against it. I shall not argue the case with them. They would have the best of it from the arguing stand-point. Intuitions cannot be defended. So I will do nothing but express a modest opinion that such well-appearing people will turn out as good as they look. Even this, no doubt, will look sufficiently foolish to some; and should they conclude to suspend judgment as to the character of Cimon and Aleph till they have seen more of them in the progress of the narrative, I shall not complain. They are acting sensibly—as the world goes. They certainly are on very safe ground. “By their fruits ye shall know them” is a maxim whose authority cannot be controverted. And if, in the application of this maxim, they shall discover that the two strangers are no better than they should be, or as bad as the worst, I can only hang my head in confusion, and confess that the logic of experience is better than intuition—_my_ intuition.

III.

The Banker.

Τὰ χρήματα νεῦρα τῶν πραγμάτον.

PLUTARCH, _Cleom._ 27.

_Money, the sinews of business._

1. A financial emperor. 2. His greatest treasure. 3. Pharisees and Sadducees. 4. Poor Miriam!

III.

The Banker.

Whether Cimon and Aleph slept the sleep of the just we must leave to be settled in the progress of the narrative. I am, I again confess, prepossessed in their favor. At any rate, they slept so soundly that most of the guests of the khan had gone off on their various affairs before the two friends made their appearance.

Perhaps, too, they were delayed by a cause that did not delay many of their fellow-guests—morning worship. It seems that they acknowledged Jehovah and a revelation from him; and it is to be presumed that such people began their day in the reasonable and old-fashioned way. When have devout believers not acted on the principle that prayer and provender hinder no man’s journey? Besides, they breakfasted in their own room; whereas most inmates of the khan patronized the cook shops that abounded in the neighborhood.

After the meal they went out and seated themselves on the bench they had occupied the evening before.

“The first thing to be done,” said Cimon, “is to find a suitable banker and open an account with him for such Alexandrian funds as we may need. As one of our objects requires that we be unknown, and especially that our connection with your father should not reach the ears of Malus, we cannot use our draft on him except in case of absolute necessity. We must depend on the jewels. And they are too valuable to be trusted to any but the best hands. If the Jewish family that held the alabarchate when I was here last is still in business, this would be the one to apply to. They were as noted for their integrity as for their immense wealth and influence at Rome. I will go and ask our deputy-host whether they have now any representative in Alexandria.”

After a short absence the Greek returned with two canes in his hand, and with the information that the old banking-house was flourishing more than ever in the person of Alexander, the son of the old Alabarch; that the son had succeeded to all his father’s honors and more than his father’s wealth; and that, as the imperial banker, his influence at Rome was supposed to be even greater than among his own people for whom he had lately enriched the nine gates of the temple at Jerusalem with gold plates of enormous value. It was generally understood in the city that he had lately prevented certain oppressive measures against the Jews of Antioch by threatening to withhold a loan. Some went so far as to tell how many millions of sesterces each minute brought him, and even supposed that he had discovered the art of turning base metals into gold.

“I am sorry that we did not ask Seti about the present Alabarch,” said Cimon; “but I have no doubt from what I know of the family that he is the person to whom we should apply.”

“I have also learned two other facts,” he continued. “One is that the greatest galley in all the three harbors is Malus himself, and that the Cretan of last night is one of several small tenders that wait on the great ship and do its meaner work—which means that the oversight of the harbors and of the import trade has mainly fallen into the hands of Malus and his agents, and that the fear of him is on all small dealers, whom he could easily crush, especially as he is on the best of terms with the Roman authorities of the city. The other fact is that a Roman soldier was at the khan-office last night to inquire whether two men (describing us) were staying here. The deputy said that he managed not to enlighten the man much—as it was always safe to assume that what a Roman wanted to know ought not to be known.”

“Would it not be well for us,” said the young man, “to make some changes in our dress so as to embarrass such inquiries?... I am glad to see that you have brought in your hand something to help us discourage unpleasant recognitions,” he added with a smile and a glance at the canes. “They have a tough and serviceable look.”

“They certainly may be useful on occasion. But every gentleman in Alexandria is in the habit of carrying a cane; for us to do the same will help ward off notice as well as assault. Dogs and donkeys abound; and some of them walk on two legs. A stout stick, with your skill at fence and thrust, will be almost as good as a sword.... As to making some changes in dress, I think your suggestion a good one. I also think that it would be well for you, at least, to dress somewhat more richly to-day, inasmuch as you must be the one to do our business with the banker. Till one is known appearance goes far. Meanwhile I will brush up my knowledge of the city and its people. We will meet here late in the day.”

Cimon then produced his tablets and drew on them a rough plan of the city—one central street, two hundred feet broad, running between the lake and the sea from the gate of the Moon to the gate of the Sun, and called Emporium Street: this crossed in the middle at right angles by another street of similar breadth, but of much less length, called the street of Canopus, ending on the west at the gate of the Necropolis, and on the east at the gate of Canopus: these two main streets cut at right angles by all the rest: here, in the south-east, the Jews’ quarter, occupying two of the five divisions of the city: there, north of this quarter and extending to the two harbors Eunostus and Kibotus, and including all the frontage on these harbors called Bruchium, the Greek and Roman quarters. These latter also include a narrow section of the city lying along the whole length of Emporium Street on the west. Just west of this section is Rachotis or the Egyptian quarter, in the southern part of which, on the highest ground in the city, stands the Serapeum, the famous temple of Jupiter Serapis.

“Entering at the gate of the Moon,” continued Cimon, “you are to pass up Emporium Street till you come to the street of Canopus: here turn to your right, and, after a short walk, you will find by inquiry the place of the great banker.”

Surely, the way was so plain that no guide would be needed. So, after making some changes in his dress, Aleph took his cane and set forth.

By this time the whole Alexandrian world, the most industrious and bustling world known in ancient times, was in full movement. Such tides of men surging from sea to lake and from lake to sea—such tides of donkeys and horses and camels going and coming—such a menagerie and roar of sounds from the tramp of thousands, the shrill calls of traders hawking their wares, the cries of the animals and their drivers, the infinite clatter from the tools of artisans of every name pouring out from the open shops far and near! Slowly on went the young man, with eyes full of grave interest, along the splendid thoroughfare for two miles, till he came to the ornate square, half a league in circumference, from the centre of which one could, without changing his place, see the lake on the south and the harbors with their dividing mole (Heptastadium) and its Pharos on the north, as well as the sands of the desert at both ends of the street of Canopus. Turning down this street to the east under one of the magnificent colonnades that skirted it on either hand, he noticed as he advanced not only that the leading places of business were held by Jews (a fact that he had noticed on the other street), but that the farther he went the more people he saw with Jewish features.

Before he had gone very far, two young men with caps and black gowns, something like the present English university dress, hurried by him; one saying to the other as they passed:

“The earlier at the Alabarch’s the better. First come, first served, you know.”

Aleph quickened his pace so as to keep near them. They soon came to what seemed a fortress rather than a private dwelling or place of business—solid stone, no windows on the first story, length on the street several times that of an ordinary dwelling. Solidity and strength rather than show was the impression given—no elaborate carvings, no pillars of porphyry and cornelian, but plain, massive, mob-defying marble; in short, an architectural _safe_. This structure was on a corner. Turning the corner, the young men came by a few steps to a small door. Aleph followed closely; and when the door opened to the others, he entered with them and was ushered into a reception-room close by, where many others were already waiting their turn to be called into the presence of the financial magnate.

Soon a servant presented on a silver salver tablets to the new-comers, on which each should write his name. When the tablets came to Aleph he noticed that the names of the two young men who had just written were _P. Cornelius, Serapeum_, and _Q. Metellus, Museum_. What did _he_ write? After a moment’s hesitation he wrote _Aleph, the Chaldean, khan near the gate of the Moon_.

There were several academic uniforms in the room (each with a conspicuous gold badge in front) that seemed well acquainted with one another, and not disposed to lose the time of waiting, possibly long, in silence. Some talked together with great enthusiasm of a boat-race that had come off the day before on the lake: others discussed the merits of various recent performances in the palæstra, especially those of a certain noted athlete and trainer who had just arrived from Rome: two agreed that there was nothing worth living for but the noble art of fencing, and that the greatest living master of the art was one Draco of Rhodes, of whom they were taking lessons. A knot of dudes were comparing breast-pins and finger-rings and experiences at the last fashionable party; or boasting of the successful tricks they had played on the lecturers at the Museum, and of how they managed to evade many of the lectures and delude their parents and other friends at home with the idea that they were hard at work digging into all the sciences and philosophies and living like hermits on crusts and water. Some were ready to burst with merriment over some practical jokes they had played on some citizen or new-comer at the Museum; or at the way in which they had baffled the police in a midnight brawl.

The two students who came in with Aleph seemed better to deserve the name. They had just come from a lecture by Philo, a brother of the Alabarch; and found much to commend in his ingenious attempts to Hellenize the Hebrew writers or to Hebraize the Greek—they were uncertain which way to put it. They agreed that he was a very broad man and ready to do justice to great men of other nationality than his own. They were also hearing lectures on astronomy and Hipparchus in the observatory rooms at the Serapeum, as well as on the physics and metaphysics of Aristotle at the Museum.

Aleph was not sorry to have this little insight into student life in Alexandria; and, considering the number of persons in the room on his arrival, he was expecting to have a still longer time to observe and listen, when, to his surprise and apparently to that of others around, a special servant came to conduct him to the banker.

After passing through a large room occupied by many persons busy at desks, and crossing a broad passage from which rose a flight of marble steps, they came to a small room plainly furnished, in which were seated two men. What was his surprise to recognize in one of them the Egyptian Seti! The pleasure he felt sprang at once to his face, as he advanced with a warm but modest greeting which the aged man cordially reciprocated, and then presented him to the Alabarch as “the young man of whom we have been speaking.”

Alexander was a Jew to the slightest inspection. But his features though national were royally so, and might have belonged to Solomon. Their whole expression bespoke one accustomed to great thoughts and plans; while yet a certain watchfulness, like distant pickets about a royal encampment, looked out from far back in his frank and friendly eyes as of one who knows that all sorts of characters will come to a banker, and who knows how to protect himself on occasion. His manners were polished and courtly—as might have been expected in one who dealt only with the highest and most cultured classes, and was even a companion of princes. In watching him one felt sure that the man was larger than his wealth, however large that might be. He was still in the prime of life, and without a thread of silver in his dark hair and beard.

Alexander received the young man graciously, though with wide-open, all-observing eyes.

“I happened,” said the Egyptian to Aleph, “to be with my son when your name was brought in; and, though you gave me no name yesterday, I fancied that the Chaldean was the friend I have occasion to remember, and that his first business would naturally be with a banker. I had just finished explaining how we met when you came in.”

“That I am as glad as surprised,” returned the young man, “to see you here and in such a relation, you doubtless have already discovered. Perhaps I am the more glad because my business with this gentleman is such as may call for a word of friendly prepossession in my favor from one who is known here. For the present I am compelled to remain unknown. I can only appear as Aleph, the Chaldean, in company with his preceptor and friend, Cimon the Athenian. So I have no papers to present on which to ask an open account for him and myself, within certain limits, with a banker. I have only certain jewels to place in his hands, of the value of which he must judge”—and he drew from the bosom of his tunic a small box which he opened and handed to Alexander.

The banker was surprised. In all his wide experience he had never fallen in with such brilliants—so large, so beautifully and variously hued, with such soft and mystic fires playing about them and raying out from their inmost depths. A pearl, a ruby, a sapphire, and a diamond—that was all; but, as Alexander turned the box this way and that, there flashed out upon him such lovely lights as he had never seen in the imperial treasury at Rome, enriched as it was with the regalia of many nations.

After carefully taking out each gem and examining it on all sides, and then as carefully replacing it in its luxurious bed, Alexander at length fetched a long breath and slowly said:

“If any common stranger had brought me these remarkable jewels I should have demanded to know his name and station—in short, that he is the rightful owner of such a treasure. This would only be common prudence. But I happen to have an uncommon father-in-law, who has a notion that he has a gift of reading character in faces and bearing, and who thinks so favorably of yours that he might quarrel with me if I should deal with you on strictly business principles. I should be sorry to have him do that. Besides, to tell the truth, I have something of his weakness for a good face and figure, and whatever else that indescribable something about you is that demands confidence. So I think I will venture”—and he threw an arch look and smile at Seti.

And he drew two sheets of papyrus toward himself. After writing for some time, he read over to himself carefully what he had written, and then handed the sheet to Aleph, saying, “Is this satisfactory?”

The young man read a full description of the box and its contents; an acknowledgment of the receipt of it as basis for credit to the extent of 200,000 aurei or staters, to be drawn upon at pleasure in large or small sums; also a promise to restore the jewels on repayment of sums advanced with a moderate interest.

Aleph pronounced the paper entirely satisfactory, and far more favorable than he had any reason to expect—adding, however, that he had no idea of making any large drafts on the sum pledged; as one of the objects he had in view in Alexandria would compel him to live in a very quiet and inexpensive way, even if it were not a matter of choice.

Alexander then proceeded to copy the document, and to affix his signature and seal to it and to the copy. He retained one and gave the other to Aleph, with a parcel of small slips of papyrus each already signed by himself, but otherwise blank, saying:

“Whenever you wish current money, fill in one of these with the sum desired, in your own handwriting and with your name as given to-day, and present it in the room through which you passed in coming here.... Now I will put this treasure where it will be somewhat safer than it was when walking the streets of Alexandria under the protection of a cane”—and he rose and took the box and his copy of the paper he had just executed to carry them into an adjoining room whose door, massive with iron, proclaimed the very citadel of the financial stronghold.

“Will you add this small parcel of valuable documents to the box?” said Aleph, as he again produced from the bosom of his tunic an elaborately tied and sealed parcel.

Alexander had hardly resumed his seat, after a few moments’ absence, when a light step was heard descending the stairs in the neighboring passage, the door softly opened a little, then wider, and after a moment a young lady advanced into the room. Seti and Aleph were so seated that they could not well be seen from the door; and the maiden seeing none but Alexander went hastily up to him, put her hand on his shoulder, kissed his forehead, and said:

“Father, word has just been brought me that my poor nurse Miriam, who has come back to the city sick, is now dying, and wants to see me. May I take a servant with me and go? In the absence of my mother and brothers, I thought I had better come directly to you, as I may need to be gone for some time, and you would be alarmed at my prolonged absence.”

“Certainly I would have been. Take two servants: then you can send one of them back for anything that may be needed. Let the woman have every possible help and comfort. But, Rachel, you do not notice your grandfather!”—nodding his head toward Seti, who had risen and was coming toward her.

Rachel turned suddenly, with a faint exclamation of surprise, and sprang into the open arms of the Egyptian, exclaiming:

“When did you come? I thought you were still in Upper Egypt. How glad I am to see you, my dear grandfather—as glad as one can be whose foster-mother lies dying!”

“I will not keep you from her—only to answer your question by saying that I reached the city safely last evening, thanks to a young friend of mine. No particulars at present. Perhaps I will step in at Miriam’s on my way home (I accidentally heard of her whereabouts this morning), and see if the leech has done his best, and, if not, whether old Egypt can do better.”

“Do, grandfather,” she pleaded, “and come soon: for I verily believe that the priest Seti knows more of the healing art than all the rest of Alexandria—the daughters of my people not excepted.”

As she glided toward the door her eye rested for a moment with a startled look on Aleph. He had till now been unobserved. The tall form of Seti had been interposed. She hesitated a moment, as if to make sure that the young man was not some one whom she ought to recognize, and then hastened away.

Ah, those great, lovely eyes! It was but a second that their inquiring look rested on him; but they at once made him forget every other feature. He had not failed to notice her faultless figure, the queenly carriage of her head, the easy grace and even majesty of her every movement; and when she turned to greet Seti he had had full view of an exquisite face, hesitating between girlhood and womanhood—a face wonderfully luminous with a certain spiritual and lofty loveliness—but the moment her eyes shot their fires into his, all previous impressions vanished, and he saw nothing but _eyes, eyes_. In talking over the events of the day with Cimon at the khan in the evening, he could not, for the life of him, remember distinctly whether she was tall or short, dark or brown-haired, light-complexioned or otherwise—he could only remember the glorious _eyes_. But the young man was in Alexandria for a purpose, and a great one: and what had he to do with a maiden’s haunting eyes? Just nothing at all. So he turned his own eyes to the business in hand: and the effulgent twin stars that had just risen above his horizon, contrary to the order of Nature, silently sank back again and disappeared—almost.

He rose to take leave. But Alexander said, _Wait a little_, and touched a string. A servant appeared, to whom he gave some directions in a low voice. When he had dismissed the man, he said that he had just sent to notify those in waiting that no more business would be done to-day. He added that he usually closed business earlier on the sixth day of the week out of regard to the sacred seventh, and that so he had some leisure for conversation; if the young man would resume his seat.

“Speaking of our Sabbath,” continued he; “reminds me that I ought to invite you to our place of worship for to-morrow: for I learn that you are not a worshipper of Belus?”

“Hardly,” said Aleph with a smile.

“Nor a fire-worshipper?”

“By no means.”

“Nor a worshipper of the sun, moon and stars?”

“I was not so taught,” emphatically.

“But you were taught to worship the One God who made the heavens and the earth, and who spake by Moses and our other prophets?”

“Even so: our family religion for generations has been that of the Hebrews—as being the most credible and satisfactory within our knowledge.”

“Our common friend here could not tell me quite as much as this,” said Alexander with a gratified look, “but I am glad to hear it, and hope to learn at some future time how your family came into possession of our faith. You observe our sacred day?”

“I do, as does also my companion. Though a Greek by birth, he is a Hebrew in religion. We will be pleased to accept your invitation for to-morrow. Where shall we find your place of worship?”

“We Jews are 300,000 strong. So there are several synagogues in the city; but two of these are much larger than the rest, and stand for two different schools of doctrine among us. The one with which I am connected is the _Diapleuston_ and is on the street of Canopus, not far from here. The other is on Emporium Street, and is not so large as ours, but still has many substantial adherents, of whom Malus, our chief shipping merchant, is the most prominent. Indeed, I think that he is now the chief ruler of his synagogue.”

“May I ask,” inquired Aleph, “what the doctrinal difference between the two synagogues is?”

“The chief difference,” answered Alexander, “relates to the degree of authority to be allowed to our Sacred Books. We of the _Diapleuston_ say that their authority is final on all matters of which they speak—that their writers were so guided and guarded by Jehovah in composing them that they were at first perfectly free from mistake of all sorts: while the other school maintain that, while properly enough said to be of divine origin, our Scriptures have always been more or less mistaken in their teachings and need to be sifted by learned men.”

“Do these men offer any criterion by which one may separate the reliable from the unreliable?”

“They do not _agree_ on any. One says that all important Scripture statements are reliable; another tells us that all are reliable, save in the domains of history and science; another excludes as unreliable all but positively _religious_ statements.”

“Of course they differ widely as to what _are_ important or strictly religious matters.”

“Certainly. Whatever statements are unsatisfactory to a man for any reason he is apt to think of small consequence.”

“And I should suppose the other test might be equally elusive. Is there not room for considerable difference of opinion as to what deserve to be called moral and religious statements?”

“So it seems: and, as a matter of fact, Malus and his synagogue agree only in discrediting those parts of the Scriptures that are in the narrative form and a large part of the remainder. Especially are they prepared to admit the possibility of mistake to almost any extent in Moses and the earlier Scripture writers. Not a few deny that we have any Moses. What passes under the ancient name is really the invention of recent times.”

“This is the result I should expect. One seems to be left at liberty to take as much or little of the Scriptures as suits him: for if parts of them are unreliable, and we have no sure way of determining where these parts are, we will be likely to locate them where our prejudices and inclinations say. The larger part of the Book may easily be considered secular or unimportant by one who wishes as much.”

“Very true,” said Alexander; “and see what the other synagogue have actually come to! Some reject the doctrine of angels, some that of a human soul distinct from the body, some that of personal responsibility, and nearly all that of miracles and all other forms of supernaturalism in history, as well as that of a future state of settled character and destiny for men. And so on. Really, between them all, there is very little of the sacred Book left. The sum of their doubts and denials would cover almost the whole of it. What is left is the brief revelation that Malus, the Sadducee, uses. His maxim is to discard what anybody doubts.”

“This seems to me a sad state of things,” said Aleph, fetching a long breath that was almost a sigh. “It would be almost unimaginable in the house of my fathers. Practically these people are without a revelation. The only revelation to each is that bundle of guesses and notions which he calls his knowledge or judgments: and there are about as many different revelations of this sort as there are men; and, to my thinking, they are all about equally worthless. It is sad that circumcised people should hold such uncircumcised notions.”

“A sad state of things, indeed,” consented Alexander, “but we may console ourselves with the fact that this sad sort of people are a minority and a small one, and have been quite unknown among our people till quite recent times. I trust they will soon become unknown again. When the Messiah, whom we are daily looking for, comes and, accrediting himself by signs and wonders, declares that not one jot or tittle of the law shall fail, even Malus will have a revelation that is worth the having.”

“May He come quickly!” said the young man devoutly.

Alexander looked intently for a moment on the kindling and abstracted face before him, and then as devoutly said _Amen_.

During this conversation Seti maintained an unbroken silence—his arms folded, his face impassive, but his eyes as watchful as eagles’. He seemed to be hearing as well as seeing with those ancient eyes of his that never once left the face of Aleph.

They both rose at the same time—Seti saying that he would walk along with the young man and point out the Diapleuston in passing.

The Alabarch courteously escorted them through the now vacant rooms to the door; saying to Aleph, as he parted, “Remember—at the third hour to-morrow. Come half an hour earlier.”

Turning into the street of Canopus, and going westward under the colonnade, they soon came to a corner on which stood an imposing structure of white marble. As Aleph glanced down the side street he saw that the length of the structure was immense: as he passed to the front he saw that its breadth was nearly as great. A central part raised on a lofty pediment, surmounted by a gilded dome, and supported in front and on either hand by immense monolith columns, was surrounded on all visible sides at a little distance by low marble cloisters—save where a broad flight of steps led up from the street to the great doors. From the wide platform at the top the great columns rose in elaborately wrought clusters, each supporting an ornate capital, architrave, frieze, and cornice; while, behind, the whole front was alive with spirited sculpture in relief of the Feast of Tabernacles.

I must not forget to add that at one angle the low cloisters swelled into a graceful and lofty tower that ended in a parapet.

“From behind that parapet,” said Seti, pointing, “are sounded the seventy silver trumpets that summon the Jews to their worship; for here is the Diapleuston to which you have been invited.”

They passed on to another crossing.

“Let us turn down this street,” said the Egyptian. “It is less crowded than the thoroughfare, and equally direct for both of us, as I learn that you are staying for the present near where we landed yesterday. Besides, I wish to stop for a few moments with the sick woman. I am afraid of these Alexandrian leeches. Once in every five or ten years they get a new fashion of treating diseases and call it science.”

They turned south and soon came to a humble house, where Seti knocked. The door was opened by a shiftless looking Greek who, on request, pointed to a door within which the sick woman could be found. On entering, they found her on a rude bed, supported almost in a sitting posture by the daughter of Alexander, who sat behind her. She was a woman of middle age, very emaciated, eyes closed, lips parted, chest laboriously heaving, apparently unconscious.

“Oh, grandfather, I feared you would not come,” exclaimed the maiden in a subdued voice, “feared you would be too late,—I am afraid you _are_ too late. The leech says that nothing more can be done”—and the tears dropped fast from the lovely eyes.

The rich dress worn at home had been exchanged for one exceedingly plain and suited to her present sad and humble surroundings. But the change did not detract from her superb loveliness. On the contrary, the exquisite graces of feature and figure became all the more apparent in the absence of the distractions of extrinsic ornament; and a new light born of a heavenly pity and self-forgetfulness was shining in her face.

Without replying to her words, Seti advanced to a casement and door, and threw them widely open on a small open court.

“But the leech, grandfather, said that the fresh air must be excluded.”

“Did he bring this?” said the Egyptian, taking up from the bed a partly unrolled manuscript. He read aloud: “_The Psalms of David translated by the Seventy_.”

“That is mine,” said Rachel. “I brought it with me, and have read from it to Miriam while she could listen. It was her only comfort, besides prayer.”

“What have you learned about her case?”

“You know that she left us two years ago to marry a man whom we could not approve: and until yesterday we did not know what had become of her. Then I had a message from her husband, who is a Greek, that she was sick at this place. I went to her at once and found her very weak and low with this fever; and gathered from her with great difficulty that she had led a life of hardship and exposure since leaving us, had sometimes been in the extreme of want, but was ashamed to make her situation known to us after having rejected our counsel. So she had gradually been worn down by want and disappointment until this fever seized on her and found an easy victim”—and the fair head drooped with a sigh to the hot forehead that rested against her shoulder.

“Has she asked for nothing?” inquired Seti.

“Not of late. When I first came she wanted water, and asked for it almost constantly. But the leech said she must not have it. It would chill her and finally make the fever worse. He would only allow her lips to be moistened occasionally with a sponge.”

“Her lips are trying to move now. Can you hear anything?”

“Nothing.”

Seti stooped and put his ear close to the lips of the dying woman. He shook his head.

“Old age,” said he, “has its disadvantages, and dull ears are one of them. Perhaps my young friend here can help us”—and he beckoned to Aleph, who had remained at some distance.

The young man at once came forward, and, kneeling by the bed, laid his ear close to the twitching lips. For a few moments he seemed not to breathe at all. As Seti looked down on that noble head with its wealth of youth and strength in broad contrast with the sharp, worn features of the sick woman, he said to himself: “It is the head of Horus, the sun-god.”

At length Aleph rose. “She says _water, water_—that and nothing else.”

“Give her water, then,” commanded Seti.

“But the leech, grandfather!” interposed the maiden anxiously.

“No matter what the leech says. I too am a leech. Let her drink freely.”

Aleph took up the water-jar that was standing by the bed, poured into a large cup that was near till it was almost full, and held it to the lips of the woman—saying to Rachel as he did so: “It is the way of my country.” The dry lips closed spasmodically over the rim of the cup, and did not release it till not a drop was left. She opened her eyes. A faint sigh of relief reached the younger ears.

“Give her another cup,” said Seti.

She drained that also: then whispered _Heaven_—so that they all heard, and almost a smile hovered upon her wan features. Great drops stood on her forehead, and she quietly sank into sleep.

“Now lay her down softly,” said the Egyptian to the maiden, “and let her sleep. She will do well. What has she eaten?”

“Nothing since I have been here. The leech said that food would not nourish her: it would only nourish the fever.”

“Has she never asked for anything in particular?”

“The woman who was here when I came tells me that before nurse became so weak she asked for fried lampreys and onions. But the leech said that she could not ask for a worse dish. It would kill her outright. And, what was worse, it would kill him too; for it would ruin his practice to allow such a thing. It was against all rules.”

“Never you mind his rules. Tell the woman—but here she is; I will tell her myself,” and he turned toward a peasant woman, who had just softly entered and was standing embarrassed at the presence of strangers. “When this sick person wakes let her drink all the water she wants. Then ask her if she can think of anything she would like to eat, calling over to her all the eatables you can think of, and whatever she chooses get for her, even though it is fried lampreys or fried dragons. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord; but the leech ...”

“Will see that these instructions of Seti are obeyed. If not, send word at once to this lady.... Now, Rachel, you ought to go home at once. Though you are not unaccustomed to such work as this, I can see that you are tired and worn. If you were of the fainting sort I should hold out my arms to catch you from falling—your cheeks are so white and your eyes so——”

She would have fallen had she not hastily staggered toward him and caught his arm.

“Yes, grandfather, I think I had better go home as soon as possible,” she said in a low and trembling voice. “The closeness of the room till you came, together with the anxiety and excitement, has been too much for me. But the open air will set me right.”

“Ought not the lady to have a sedan?” inquired Aleph. “I saw a stand at the last corner as we came.”

“Certainly,” said Seti: “and where are the two servants, Rachel, who came with you?”

“Are they not at the door? I left them there, to be within call.”

“I did not notice them when we came. Did you?”—turning to Aleph.

Aleph shook his head. “Allow me to go for a sedan,” said he, “and we will see the lady safely home.”

“Thank you—that will do.”

Aleph hastened away. During his absence, which was short, Rachel reclined; and on his return with a chair and two stout porters he found her much revived and quite disposed to dismiss the vehicle as being unnecessary. But this Seti would not permit. And she speedily found that he was right; for, on trying to walk to the door, she found it necessary to accept support from both men. But the open air of the street seemed to recall her strength at once, and she entered the sedan without help.

Seti walked before the vehicle to guide. Aleph walked behind—every now and then quieting the motion of the bearers by a word, and once or twice venturing to draw aside the curtain and inquire in a grave, sympathetic way how the lady was enduring the jolting. The answer was satisfactory and cordial: and when the house of Alexander was reached she professed to feel as well and strong as ever, and proved it by darting up the steps without aid. Turning, as the door opened, she threw down thanks and adieu with the gesture of a goddess and disappeared.

“There goes the Gem of Alexandria,” murmured Seti to himself.

Aleph said nothing, but he thought that, whatever the gem, it was a wonderfully fine casket that contained it. He was sure that he had never seen a finer. And those _eyes_! As he turned away the twin stars again ventured to show themselves above his horizon in all their dewy splendors. But what had he to do with a maiden’s starry eyes? Just nothing at all. So back they timidly sank to the horizon’s edge; but refused to go farther. They must wait till they had burned a path through.

That evening at the khan Cimon and Aleph compared experiences. Cimon had revived his acquaintance with the city, but had not found any of his old acquaintances. Thirty years and more had dismissed all of them to new homes or to the Necropolis. No directory made it possible for him to be sure but that, somewhere in the great city, some one whom he had known as a young man was still living with whitening locks; but no doubt nearly all of his generation were dead. That was the way of things in Alexandria: as it is everywhere else. Cimon was sad that night. O Time, thou mighty thief, when will Government apprehend thee and bring thee to justice! Or, better still, when will it take thy scythe from thee, and put thee into some Reformatory to learn giving instead of stealing, addition instead of subtraction, flowing instead of ebbing, the art of ever setting poor men forward from strength to strength instead of backward from weakness to weakness! Well, that is what will be done some day—for some. For whom?

IV.

The Synagogue.

Καὶ ἀρίστους δὲ καὶ θεοφιλεστάτους.

—XENOPHON, _Memorab._ iii. 9.

_That the best men are most observant of Divine worship._

1. Is it a recognition? 2. Diapleuston the magnificent. 3. Has the Messiah come? 4. Procul este profani.

IV.

The Synagogue.

If the reader is curious to know how the two friends passed the long Sabbath morning, before it was time to go to the synagogue, I can inform him. They prayed apart, they prayed together; they produced a copy of the Septuagint and read what the prophets had written about the Messiah. They found many mysteries, and much material for conversation, until the dial in the centre of the court told them that it was time to be moving.

On their way up Emporium Street they kept to the right side for two reasons—because the right was first reached, and because on that side the current of people was in their own direction. And a strong current it was. Men, women, and children, with Jewish faces and apparently dressed in their best, in great numbers were leisurely moving northward. Aleph was tall enough to look over the heads of most of the people before him and noticed in the distance the living stream turning into a building. It occurred to him that this building was probably the synagogue of Malus, of which the Alabarch had spoken. He was confirmed in this idea by the light behavior of most about him. The principle of reverence was neither in their feet nor in their faces. And as to their tongues—these seemed to have the freedom of all the days of the week. They were talking shop, talking ships, talking fashions, talking gossip—talking everything but politics and religion. These last topics they prudently left to the Romans and “whom it might concern.”

When they came to the synagogue they saw that it was large; though by no means as large and imposing as the Diapleuston. They lingered a little among the many standing on the street in order to get a better view. Just then came up a group of persons more richly dressed than the rest, and for whom the rest made way with special deference as they mounted the steps. One of these, whose dress was particularly showy, turned when he had reached the last platform, and looked down among the people as if seeking some one. His eye rested on Aleph. Both Cimon and Aleph noticed an involuntary start. It could hardly have been greater if the man had received an unexpected blow.

He was a man of middle stature, somewhat past middle life, and more than middlingly obese. His face was a curiosity. It was as round as a full moon, and as pocked: but the great peculiarity of it was its characterless or wooden expression. It neither laughed nor cried, it neither promised nor threatened, it was neither happy nor miserable, it was neither saint nor sinner. Yet one hesitates a little over this last statement. There was a certain thin, very thin, something about the face that asked to be considered religious. But to the eyes of our friends it seemed sanctimoniousness instead of sanctity, a gauze white veil which, however well worn, is no part of the person and can be put off at pleasure. Perhaps they were mistaken. Sudden judgments sometimes shoot wide of the mark. And it was but a moment they had in which to study his face before he disappeared within the synagogue.

Cimon turned to a by-stander, and asked: “The ruler of the synagogue?” The man bowed assent.

“I wonder,” said Cimon, musingly, as they passed on, “whether Malus recognized your father in you. You resemble him strongly—as he was, thirty years ago.”

As they came up to the Diapleuston there burst from the summit of the side tower a chorus of trumpets—rich, soft, yet far-sounding. Looking up they saw seventy men standing behind a circular balustrade and chanting through silver trumpets toward all points of the compass.

“How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord of Hosts,” went sounding broadly forth over the city.

They were met just within the doors by Alexander himself—to whom Aleph presented his “preceptor and friend” Cimon. The Alabarch received them with great courtesy, and thanked the young man for the service rendered to his daughter the day before; and when Aleph expressed the hope that she had quite recovered from her indisposition, he said:

“Quite so, she tells me; and so I have brought her with me to give thanks for the good news this morning received that her nurse continues to mend.”

And he led the way toward a distant canopy not far from the centre, near which his daughter was sitting. She was simply dressed and closely veiled; but Aleph had no difficulty in recognizing the exquisite shape and bearing of the Gem of Alexandria.

Alexander then said that he had asked them to come somewhat in advance of the congregation, partly in order that they might have time to look about them, and to get familiar with the building before the services should begin.

“Walk about freely,” he continued, “until the trumpets cease summoning; then return and occupy the seats yonder (he pointed). They are reserved for visitors in accord with us. Meanwhile I have to meet the elders.”

He bowed himself away; and they began to look about them. But few people had yet come in. It was the largest and finest synagogue in the world. Just before them, abutting on the east side of the building, was a low platform surrounded by a delicate silver railing and surmounted in part by a canopy of cloth of gold. Under this was an ornate seat curiously wrought in various precious woods. Near the front of the platform stood an equally elaborate reading desk, with several rolls upon it. By the side of the platform was a door by which Alexander had disappeared; and in front of the platform, arranged in several semicircles, were the famous seventy gilded chairs for the seventy elders of the synagogue. Back of these were the seats for the families of the elders with a narrow aisle separating the males from the females. On the first seat to the left of this passage sat Rachel. Behind these seats, and skirted by immense columns on either hand, ran a broad aisle from end to end of the synagogue. The building was so long that the signal for the responses had to be given by a flag to the more remote worshippers; for all were expected to join vocally in the prayers as read at the centre, though addresses to the people were made simultaneously at several other platforms placed at convenient intervals. The walls were covered with Scripture verses in both Hebrew and Greek, beautifully done in mosaic—one wall with prayers, another with praises, a third with the Ten Commandments, a fourth with the leading Messianic prophecies. One mystery of the building was the pleasant illumination without any sign of windows or sources of artificial light.

While they were lingering over the Messianic inscriptions they suddenly awoke to the fact that the synagogue was becoming thronged and that the summoning trumpets were about concluding their sonorous chant. So they made their way back, as rapidly as the incoming stream of belated worshippers (not wholly unknown in any age) would allow, to the seats which had been shown them.

AMEN, sang the trumpets in long-drawn note from their tower. AMEN, answered the packed multitudes on their knees. The door at the side of the platform opened; and the seventy elders, with Alexander and another younger man, who strongly resembled him, at their head, entered in long flowing robes elaborately fringed and decorated on the breast with phylacteries lettered in gold. The leaders ascended the platform: the others passed on to the gilded chairs. The Alabarch seated himself under the canopy: his companion advanced to the lecturn, bowed his head upon it for a moment, then placed the _tulith_ on his head—and at once the service began.

Began with a doxology—spontaneous, universal, mighty; flooding the whole temple with rhythmic billows of uplifting sound. As the last note died away, the man at the desk began to read from a roll that vivid picture of the consequences to Israel of both obedience and disobedience contained in Deut. 28th—read them sonorously and with great distinctness, but not without something of the artificial and professional in his tone—read them with here and there a word of comment which did not always content itself with the literal sense instead of an allegorical and mystical one. This reading concluded, he waved a small flag; and all the people broke out again into a doxology—this time the entire psalm, beginning with, “Praise ye the Lord; praise the Lord, O my soul; while I live will I praise the Lord,” in a rapid and triumphant march of unified sound. He then proceeded to read on his knees, the people all kneeling, the prayer contained in the psalm that begins with “Give ear, O shepherd of Israel, thou that leadest Joseph like a flock, thou that dwellest between the cherubims shine forth;” at the conclusion of which he waved the flag again and a universal AMEN arose. This was followed by readings from the prophets of selections commonly understood to point to the Messiah. Again the flag waved, and the people exclaimed as with one voice, but in a plaintive tone:

“Though he tarry long he will surely come.”

The reader then became a preacher. His theme was the Messiah. He spoke of the certainty of His coming, of the time and other circumstances of it, of the character and functions that would belong to Him, of the way in which He would prove Himself, and of the universal current expectation of Him among their own people. He showed that from the beginning of the race hints of Him had been given—hints that gradually enlarged and brightened as the ages rolled on, until, in the later prophets, all veils were removed and the dimmest eye could see the King that cometh in the name of the Lord. As to the time—he shared the common belief of the present and the last generation that the time was near, if not already arrived. How could the dates of Daniel be reconciled with any other view? To be sure, some allowance should be made for round numbers: it would not do to say that this or the next year is the time for the Coming; but after all it is safe to say in a general way that we are living in the times of the Christ. It ought not to surprise them if He should come to-morrow. As to the family from which He is to spring, the place of His birth, the forerunner Elias He is to have, there is and can be but one opinion. Exactly how He will prove himself to the people it were hard to say: perhaps by a supernatural beauty and glory of person, perhaps by a mysterious inward voice speaking to the whole nation as it spoke to individual prophets, perhaps only by His wonderful success over all obstacles in becoming our Redeemer and King.

The preacher evidently did not deem it wise to be at all specific on this last point—the conquering and kingly character of the Messiah—in a city held by the Romans for the Cæsars. He contented himself with glittering generalities. He spoke ornately and enthusiastically of the prosperity and felicity of Israel in the golden age that was sure to come. What the Gentiles call by that name was a poor thing compared with that which was knocking at the doors of the Chosen People.

He, however, cautioned his hearers not to allow themselves to be impatient in their waiting for this good time. Their faith might be tried. They must be on their guard against pretenders. It would not be strange if the current expectation should itself produce false Christs. It would seem indeed as if this had already happened. At this moment, as most of them knew, there was a man in Judea who was making much noise with his claims, but whom the principal men of the nation did not feel able to accept. When the true Messiah comes he doubtless will commend Himself to the natural leaders of the people. Meanwhile the people should rest quietly in their various places and occupations.

When the orator had finished, the Alabarch rose and gave the usual invitation to approved persons to speak—immediately adding, however, that he saw that one of their own elders, Simeon the son of Simeon, had returned from Jerusalem, and that whatever account he could give of religious matters there would be acceptable.

A venerable looking man rose from among the Seventy. He brought salutations from the Sanhedrin at Jerusalem. They had been much disturbed over the case of Jesus of Nazareth to whom the preacher had just referred. The multitude were disposed to listen to him; attributing to him many signs and wonders, and asking whether he is not the Messiah. It was not clear, however, that he himself had put forward any such claim. His Messiahship seemed to be merely an inference of the multitude from his wonderful works at a time when all are on the lookout for the Shiloh. As to the reality of these wonderful works, the brethren of the Great Council and the principal men generally do not seem to call it in question. They concede that Jesus has, with a word or a touch, cured all sorts of incurable diseases; given sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf, wholeness to the maimed, reason to the insane, and even life to the dead. Two of them, Joseph of Arimathea, and Nicodemus, a cousin of the great teacher Gamaliel, go further than this, and affirm that no man could do such mighty works unless God were with him. “If such deeds could not prove a Divine mission, they were at a loss to see how such a mission could ever be proved. How was Moses authenticated?” But the rest agree in ascribing the marvels to magic and evil spirits; especially as there never has been known a time when so many people seemed possessed with demons. They say that they are compelled to resort to this explanation, not merely by the fact that Jesus speaks so unfavorably of the ecclesiastical authorities and of their oral traditions, but still more by the fact that he does not answer in origin, appearance, or aims to the Messiah. The Messiah comes from Bethlehem, Jesus from Nazareth: the Messiah comes from the royal family of David, Jesus from a peasant family of no property or social standing; the Messiah is a mighty King and Deliverer, Jesus is plain in his appearance, associates even with publicans and sinners, and has nothing of the warrior and statesman about him—in fact, says that his kingdom is not of this world. He has even been understood to give out that his mission here is to teach and suffer rather than to conquer and reign. Such a person differs so widely from what they have been accustomed to expect and from what the Sacred Books have been supposed to promise, that the leading brethren in Judea, with the exceptions mentioned, are unanimous in ascribing the miracles of Jesus to the Evil One, and in trying to break his influence with the people. Whether they will succeed seems doubtful. But their determination to do so is very strong and will probably lead to severe measures. He was sorry not to be able to judge of the man from personal observation; but Jesus at the time was in Galilee, and could not be reached in the time at command. Besides, it was evident that a visit of Simeon to Jesus would be looked upon as a discourtesy by the chief men—so decided have their views become, and so high runs the tide of feeling.

Such in a few words was the purport of what Simeon said in more.

The reading of the psalm beginning, “Give the king thy judgments O God, and thy righteousness to the king’s son;” the waving of the flag; AMEN and AMEN by the people, as with one voice, concluded the service.

The congregation rapidly disappeared through the many doors that suddenly revealed themselves; for the architect had thought it possible that occasion might arise for a hasty evacuation of the premises—had also thought it possible to have the means of egress as unnoticeable by a stranger as were the means of light. But a few of the elders, among whom were Alexander and the preacher, gathered about Simeon, whose chair stood near the daughter of Alexander. Cimon and Aleph had also lingered; it may be with the idea of making some inquiry of Simeon or the preacher. Seeing this, the Alabarch beckoned them near, and, simply introducing them as co-religionists, proceeded to say to Simeon:

“I am sorry that you were not able to see and hear Jesus for yourself.”

“My desire was strong to do so: and I did my best to get as near as possible to personal observation. I sought reliable information from all quarters. There seemed to be no difference of opinion, even among his greatest enemies, as to the reality of his miracles.”

“What do you understand,” inquired another elder, “to be the general character of his teaching? How does he treat our Sacred Writings?”

“With the highest honor. It is agreed on all hands that no word has fallen from him that savors of irreverence toward the Law and the Prophets: on the contrary, he makes them final authorities on all matters of which they speak; and when he rebukes the leaders of the people it is in their name. He does not belong to the synagogue of Malus.”

“That is a great point in his favor,” said another. “But are his own manners and morals blameless in the view of the Law?”

“I must confess that I heard nothing to the contrary—not being able myself to see wrong in a religious teacher eating and drinking like other people, or in his being accessible to the lowly and sinful.”

“Have not I heard you say, brother Philo,” said Alexander to the preacher, “that the chiefs of the people charge Jesus with blasphemy? Blasphemy can hardly be considered a point of good behavior.”

“I spake as I heard,” said Philo. “Perhaps Simeon can tell us whether I heard correctly.”

“It seems,” said Simeon, “that Jesus has sometimes spoken of himself as the Son of God; and, in a mysterious way, of a certain unity between himself and his heavenly Father; and, probably, it is this lofty way of speaking of himself which has given occasion for the charge of which you speak.”

“Do not the prophets sometimes use language equally strong about the Christ?” asked Cimon deferentially.

“For example,” said Aleph: “His name shall be called Wonderful, counsellor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father.”

“Such passages, I believe, have always been understood by many among us as declaring that the Christ will not be a mere man, but will have something of a Divine quality about him,” said Alexander reflectively.

“Perhaps, then,” added Cimon, “it is not so much the magnificence of the claims of Jesus that has led the fathers at Jerusalem to view him as a blasphemer, but rather the striking contrast between such claims and the humble appearance and circumstances of him who makes them, and which have already led them to decide against him. Of course, if he is not the Christ, such lofty pretensions are blasphemous—not otherwise.”

“But it appears to me,” said another elder, Ben Abner, whose dress was specially showy, phylacteries specially many, and air specially haughty, “that the humble condition of the man is itself decisive against him. Our wise men, for generations, have understood from the Scriptures that the Messiah would appear in great splendor as a conqueror and king. For my part I expect no other Messiah, want no other, will have no other. I hope they of Jerusalem will away with the impostor.” He spoke with flashing eyes.

“So _I_ think,” said half a dozen voices with emphasis and gesture.

“Possibly the friends of Jesus would say,” returned Simeon coolly, “that great endings sometimes have small beginnings, and that there is time enough yet for the outward splendor. Indeed, I happen to know that this is what some of his friends do say. But others claim, and I must confess that this is what Jesus himself seems to teach, that the prophets have been misunderstood; that the kingdom and the glory and the conquests of which they speak are spiritual and so perfectly consistent with a lowly and even suffering Messiah. And for evidence they appeal to the prophecies of Isaiah, and other Scriptures. Perhaps our friend Philo, who believes so thoroughly in the allegoric and spiritual meanings of our Sacred Books, will not blame this interpretation as severely as some do.”

Philo smiled at this, and said that he never intended to spiritualize _away_ the Scriptures. It would be very hard for him to give up the brilliant hopes that had so long been entertained as to the times of the Messiah and what he would do for his Israel.

“I should not have so much difficulty,” said Alexander, “with the present humble condition of Jesus, and the spiritual character of his claims, as with the apparent fact that he was not born in Bethlehem and is not a son of David—as the Messiah must be.”

“That has been my great difficulty,” said Simeon. “It is everywhere claimed in Judea that Jesus is a Galilean, a Nazarene, and of parentage so humble that he is on that account in disfavor with even the people of Nazareth.”

Aleph ventured to inquire whether some branches of David’s line had not, in the course of centuries, sunk into a humble condition; and whether it was not possible that Jesus belonged to some such decayed branch—also, whether he might not have been born in Bethlehem, though brought up elsewhere?

“I think,” said Simeon, “that we are hardly entitled to say _No_ to either of these questions of the young man. I myself was born in Jerusalem, though brought up in this city. The family of David is now lost among the common people; and, though it can be recovered in our genealogies, I never could learn that the enemies of Jesus have taken the pains to examine them with reference to his claims. Having settled in their minds that such a Messiah as Jesus is neither what they expected nor wanted, they easily accepted without examination such rumors in regard to him as agreed with their wishes and foregone conclusion. So, at least, it seems to me.”

“Can you tell us about what the age of Jesus is?” asked Cimon.

“He appears, I am told, somewhat less than forty; perhaps he is not much more than thirty years. I took special pains to inquire about this; partly because of an experience of my father’s some thirty years ago, and partly because of wide-spread rumors at that time of a remarkable birth which had just taken place in connection with celestial phenomena. However, the matter was kept as close as possible from fear of Herod. My father at that time was living in Jerusalem—a very old man and as saintly as old. For a long while he had expressed to his family an assurance that he should live to see the Christ. One day he came home from the temple with a radiant face, saying that he was now ready to depart, for he had just seen and held in his arms an infant which an inward Divine voice told him was the Messiah. He then lay down, calmly closed his eyes, and departed in a peaceful sleep. This I had from my sister, for I was in Alexandria at the time. All this was widely known at the time, but was spoken of by the people under their breath on account of the jealousy and cruelty of the rulers. Now at that time Jesus must have been an infant.”

“And we happen to know,” said Aleph, looking at Cimon, “that the name of the infant concerning whom such remarkable things were told was Jesus—though we may not at present tell how we came by the knowledge.”

As Aleph said these words he could not well help noticing three things—the cordial look that Simeon gave him, the look of exasperation on the face of Ben Abner, and the start made by Rachel, whose attitude of earnest attention throughout the conversation would have been evident enough even if her veil had not been gradually drawn somewhat aside as she watched the speakers. Alexander also noticed the start. Perhaps he feared a return of yesterday’s faintness. He bent over her, and spoke in a low tone. She shook her head.

“However, we will go home,” said he, “as soon as I have put off these vestments.”

He retired to the vestry, followed by the other elders.

Aleph approached the maiden and said that he had been glad to hear from her father that her nurse continued to mend, and expressed the hope that she herself was none the worse for her indisposition of yesterday.

“Not at all,” said she promptly; “but I was absorbingly interested in the subject of the conversation, and was, I confess, startled by what you said of your knowledge of the infant Jesus. You were not then born.”

“No, lady; my knowledge is altogether second-hand, but is none the less certain for that. My friend here has some original knowledge in the case; but both of us have, in addition to this, sources of information that are beyond all question.”

“I very much fear,” said she with a sigh, “when I hear Ben Abner and others, that our people will be found treating a new prophet as they have ever treated prophets. What do you think?”

“I also have my fears.”

“But you also have knowledge; and if at any time it becomes consistent for you to share your knowledge with others none will welcome it more gladly than I. Till then I believe in it and—in you”—and her eyes, which till then had been unconsciously and half-wonderingly perusing his face as she spoke, sank before his, and the lovely color deepened on the loveliest features that the Chaldean, or even the more experienced Greek, had ever seen.

What was that? A confused sound as of struggle and disputing voices came from the direction of the great door on the street of Canopus. This was soon followed by the noisy tramp on the marble pavement of what seemed in the distance a body of soldiers. As they came nearer they were seen to be indeed some twelve Roman soldiers in full armor, carrying at their head a standard—the legionary standard, consisting of a pike surmounted by a silver eagle, on whose spread wings stood an effigy of the emperor, with this superscription in large capitals—DEUS TIBERIUS CÆSAR.

The soldiers were followed at a short distance by a weeping, groaning, threatening crowd of Jews who had tried, it would seem, to prevent the entrance of the party with their desecrating symbol, and were now following them with lamentations and execrations.

As the band came near, Aleph easily recognized in the leader of it the drunken officer whom he had disarmed on the Nile. Almost as soon the two friends were recognized by the Roman; and, with an oath, he at once led the way to where they stood (they had planted themselves in front of Rachel), although at that moment Alexander and his elders were hastily coming forward from the vestry.

“I have found you at last,” the man cried, as he disposed his soldiers in a semicircle, “and you will not easily escape me.”

Alexander had now come up.

“As the head of the community worshipping here, I demand to know for what purpose you have come into their sanctuary with standard and arms?”

“To give you and your friends,” the officer replied with mock solemnity, “an opportunity, which no doubt you will gratefully accept, to pay an act of religious worship to the great god Tiberius Cæsar—after this manner,” and he kneeled before the standard, and, with both hands lifted, cried, _Great God, I worship thee_.

Rising, he exclaimed, “Now I have set you an example—copy it, every one of you!”

The crowd behind groaned and hissed.

The officer shook his fist at them and shouted, “Be still, you snakes and swine; your turn will come shortly. Let your betters lead off. It is their privilege. Come, begin, Pontifex Maximus!”—turning to Alexander.

“I demand of you by what authority you make this demand on us,” demanded the Alabarch.

The Roman pointed to the image of the emperor.

“Do you mean to say that an order has come from Rome for violating the sanctuaries of the Jews, and revoking the edicts which from the founding of the city have guaranteed to us our own religious views and usages?”

“The Roman senate has decreed Divine honors to the emperor; and his image has been received and worshipped in every place of worship in the city, saving the synagogues of the Jews. Now you shall have your turn.”

“That is no answer to my question. The Jews have always had special privileges in this city, and one of them is to refuse worship to every god but their own. Again I ask, has this privilege been recalled by the emperor since yesterday: for yesterday I received a personal letter from him in which he promised to abate nothing from our privileges.”

The Roman made no answer, but conferred with one of his men in a low voice. After a moment’s delay, Alexander continued:

“It is plain that you have no authority from the emperor for this outrage. Have you for it the authority of the governor, or of the prefect of the city? I await your careful reply.”

“We are carrying out the wishes of the representatives of Rome in Alexandria,” said the fellow sullenly.

“And _that_ is no answer to my question. Are we to understand that Avilleus Flaccus, or Urbanus Civicus, undertakes on his own responsibility to set aside the decrees of kings and emperors for four hundred years, those of the reigning emperor included, and has expressly sent you here to-day for this purpose?”

“We did not come here,” said the officer with a face that was fast becoming purple, “to be catechised.”

“You came here,” said Alexander sternly, “to commit an outrage—came as a private venture of yourself and a few mischievous companions, and without authority from your superiors. You deserve heavy punishment, and I hope will get it. Now _begone_ from the sanctuary which you have profaned.”

“_Begone!_” echoed the elders. “BEGONE!” shouted and screamed the mob from behind.

“Whatever privileges you cursed Jews may have, they certainly do not belong to these men”—pointing at Cimon and Aleph. “These are no more Jews than I am. And for aught I know the same is true of this woman. We will see”—and he stepped toward Rachel to lift her veil.

“Stand back,” said Aleph sternly, as he placed his hand on the breast of the man and sent him staggering back on his men.

Before the man could recover himself, Alexander interfered: “This lady is my daughter; and as for these men, they are of our faith, and as co-religionists are entitled to our immunities.”

“And if it were not so,” said Aleph, “it may be well for this man to know that under no conceivable circumstances would we pay religious worship to the emperor, though quite ready to pay the magistrates all due observance.”

“We will see,” cried the Roman in a transport of fury, as he rushed on the young man with his drawn sword. “Down on your knees to the standard this instant, you renegade, or by Jupiter, I will put you on your knees for the rest of your life,” and he struck at his knees.

Aleph caught the blow with his cane. Whereupon the officer lost all self-restraint and made a rapid succession of strokes and thrusts that sought life. But Aleph had evidently learned the art of fence: his cane was as good as a shield and met the sword at every point. At last, after a desperate lunge, the sword went flying aloft; and both Cimon and Aleph had seized its master.

“EXPEL THEM!” shouted Alexander to the crowd of Jews that was now surging and roaring like a maddened sea, “Expel them with your canes and your hands! They have forced an entrance into our sanctuary, they have profaned it with an idol, and now they have sought to stain it with the blood of unarmed men. EXPEL THEM, I say!”

The mob needed no spur. They threw themselves on the soldiers, already cowed by what had passed, and in a moment were dragging them, disarmed and unresisting, behind Cimon and Aleph with their prisoner. Had it not been for the example of coolness and forbearance set by our friends and an occasional moderating word from them, the people might have torn their prisoners limb from limb. As it was, the soldiers had no gentle handling. They had little armor left on them when they reached the great doors. They had gotten many an accidental elbowing and tripping. Somehow people had stumbled heavily and found it hard to recover themselves. There were few parts of those Roman bodies which had not become intimately acquainted with both the point and broadside of a cane. Their captain suffered least—in fact, suffered nothing beyond the shame and uneasiness of being held fast in iron hands.

When those hands were taken off, just outside the great door, he suddenly drew a knife from a fold in his sash and made a pass at Aleph. But both friends were vigilant; and Cimon, while beating off the knife with one hand, with the other dealt the rascal such a blow on the head that his helmet flew off and went clattering down the steps into the street. He followed staggering. The people behind, seeing only the cuff and the result, cheered, and very cheerfully followed the example supposed to be set them. Each soldier received such a hearty cuff and push as he went down the steps as made his descent little less than a fall.

Once down, they were not allowed to linger. The blood of the people was up; and they followed the soldiers in their precipitate flight a long distance with menacing cries and gestures, and with such missiles as they happened to find in the street.

Meanwhile the friends had been called within the synagogue by Alexander, and the great doors fastened. What consultations took place it is not necessary to record. There _were_ consultations; and that too of a very political and secular sort. The situation of the Jews was always delicate. There was much reason to fear that the morning’s disturbance would seriously embroil them with the authorities at both Alexandria and Rome. What should be done? If any one has light let him speak out at once—_though it be Sabbath_.

But none had scruples. The ideas of the Alexandrian Jews of the first century were not exactly like those of some of their ancestors in the time of the Maccabees who refused to defend themselves against their enemies on the Sabbath because self-defense was work, and that too of the severest sort. The children had become wiser if not better. They had come to believe that self-preservation is a work of necessity, not to say of mercy; and were ready to fight the idolaters seven days in the week if necessary for even a less matter than self-preservation—as we have seen. They would not consent to be martyrs till they had tried hard to be victors. They would not be idolaters, and they did not want to be rebels. They wanted to preserve their religion, and also wanted to preserve themselves. Was it possible? _Let us see_, said the Seventy, as they resumed their gilded chairs. So the men who did not hesitate to fight a battle on the Sabbath did not scruple to consult on that day how to prevent the battle from souring into a defeat. Were they wrong in this?

Cimon and Aleph answered in the negative. I am not sure but that I agree with them. Doubtless a council of war _may_ be as holy as a prayer-meeting. I once knew of one that was holier, but that began with a prayer.

But a narrative is like a star—it perishes if it stops moving. So let us proceed.

V.

The University.

Ο δὲ παῖς, πάντων θηριων, ὲστὶ δυσμεταχειριστότατον.

—PLATO, _Leg._ vii. 14.

_Of all wild beasts, a boy is the hardest to manage._

1. Breakers ahead. 2. Behold, the Serapeum! 3. Another school quite as good. 4. A Messianic partnership.

V.

The University.

Early the next morning Cimon and Aleph transferred themselves and their effects to a small khan in the Egyptian quarter of the city. This was done for the following reasons.

The events of the Sabbath seemed to make it prudent to withdraw from public notice as much as possible. Of course, the son of Flaccus was a source of danger: and then the seeming look of recognition on the face of Malus, which both of them had noticed, was not a pleasant feature of the situation. It was the silent lightning on the horizon. They felt it even more important, just then, to keep out of the sight of the Jew than it was to keep out of the sight of the Roman. Especially after an incident that occurred on their way back from the synagogue.

As they came down the steps of the Diapleuston, they noticed a Jew across the street, watching them. Before they had gone far, Aleph, happening to look behind, saw the man following, and spoke of it to Cimon. They walked slower—at length very slowly. The man slackened his pace to suit. They walked faster—at length very fast. The man quickened his pace correspondingly. It was annoying.

“Let us go to meet him,” said Cimon, “and see if he will retreat.”

Accordingly they turned and, for a moment, it seemed as if their shadow would turn too. But he thought better of it; and only stood still, in some confusion, till they came up.

“Can we do anything for you?” inquired the Greek. “If so we are at your service.”

“I certainly owe you an apology,” stammered the Jew. “The fact is, I was in the synagogue at the time of the disturbance, and was so struck with the very great likeness of this young man to one whom I saw many years ago that I determined to wait for his coming out and to follow him—in hope of finding where he was staying, or at least of getting a better view. And I have gotten it,” he added laughingly, “in a way I did not expect, but certainly deserved. However, I will not complain; as I now have an opportunity to thank you both for standing up so boldly and effectually for us to-day.”

“Well,” said Cimon, good-humoredly, “since we have now gratified your curiosity, perhaps you will not refuse to gratify ours by telling us who you are, and whom you suppose this young man to resemble.”

“That is but fair,” returned the Jew. “I keep a khan at the east end of this street, near the gate of Canopus, as did my father before me. When I was a youth, there came to our place from Judea a caravan of eastern people, evidently of great distinction, on their way homeward by the Red Sea route. It was in this company that I saw a man whose appearance made such an impression on me that if I were a painter I could put him on canvas to-day: and this young man is his double—perhaps somewhat brightened by youth.”

“I have to confess,” said Aleph with a smile, “that I am a Chaldean; and also that all Chaldeans have a certain likeness to one another. But you must not forget that the imagination is a powerful faculty, especially among us orientals, and has sometimes been known to see things that did not exist. But you can see for yourself, without any help from your imagination, that the peculiar way in which this conference has come about has attracted the notice of the street, and that the curious are beginning to thicken about us. So now let us separate: but, as soon as our affairs permit, we will seek you out and hear further about the pilgrims of whom you speak.”

So they parted. But the incident, especially after reflection and conference early the next morning, determined the friends to withdraw as fully as possible from the Jewish and Roman quarters of the city, and to hasten certain inquiries as to Malus.

There are two kinds of prophecy—the natural and the supernatural. The latter is a spark from the Divine foreknowledge, granted occasionally to certain privileged persons. That our friends had anything of this I am not prepared to say; but they were reasonably well furnished with such foresight as reason and experience can give; and what they foresaw was very considerable annoyance and even danger if they should remain at their present quarters. So they determined to remove. This was not valor, certainly. As certainly it was not cowardice. But it was that good thing which we call prudence, and which sensible people think to be almost or quite as good as heroism itself. It was a wise precaution—the tacking of the ship when breakers are seen ahead, the putting on of armor when the arrows begin to fly, the striking tent and removing to higher ground when the morning sky is red and lowering, and there is a sound of abundance of rain.

Have I said that the strangers were in the habit of asking each morning for Divine guidance during the day? If not, I ought to have said it. And the habit was no empty form. When they had risen from their knees they seemed free from anxiety as to what might happen, though not free from forethought and a disposition to be very active in pursuit of their objects. Queer people, were they not? Some would say they were very absurd as well as queer. However this may be, it is certain that Aleph and his friend did not stir a step that morning even in the matter of planning, till they had sought leading from a wisdom above their own. And what they did that morning they may be counted on to do every morning while we follow their fortunes. Will it be of any service to them? Perhaps they have found in their Septuagint several passages like this, “Commit thy way unto the Lord and he shall direct thy paths.”

Perhaps Cimon found more difficulty than his young companion in keeping free from anxiety on account of what had occurred. He felt a responsibility for both.

“It seems unfortunate,” said he, after their devotions, “not only that we should have been brought again into collision with the Romans, who can do so much to hinder at least one of our objects, but that it has come about in such a way as to attract to us the notice of the whole Jewish community. For, of course, yesterday’s events will be public talk to-day, and everybody will be inquiring and surmising about the strangers. And I am very much afraid that Malus has already caught a spark that in such a gale will set all his suspicions and craft on fire. But as these seemingly untoward things could not well have been avoided by us, I cannot but hope that the untowardness is only in seeming. I have lived long enough to know that a Divine leading can brighten seeming perils and disasters into blessings. But it seems a reasonable condition of Divine guidance that we try to act as prudently as we can, from the human stand-point. And prudence seems to require that we at once remove to the Egyptian quarter; that you matriculate in the University, and thus secure its immunities for yourself, as well as meet the wishes of your father that you hear for yourself the scholars of the west; and that I proceed without delay to make the inquiries we need to make in regard to Malus. These inquiries will have to be made as quietly and rapidly as possible; for if he should take the alarm his craft and influence are evidently such that he might seriously embarrass our movements—if not baffle them.”

And so it came to pass that the early morning found them established in a quiet khan almost under the shadow of the Serapeum.

This does not localize them very definitely; for the Serapeum cast a very great shadow. The temple, or rather collection of temples, was, by all odds, the most imposing structure in Alexandria. It was built on an elevation, partly artificial, the ascent to which on three sides was by broad flights of steps and successive platforms; while on the north side the ascent began at the harbor and advanced by a grade easy for vehicles to the great Propylon. This was purely Egyptian. To the right and left of it rose walls of red syenite, high and massive enough to be the walls of a city, decorated with many towers, and inclosing the whole levelled summit of the hill with their somewhat irregular lines. Within these, at a little distance, and built of the same, though much finer and carefully wrought, stone, rose the complicate structures of the temple proper. It was a little city by itself. And, towering above all other structures, it seemed to protect Alexandria and defy the seas beyond.

Like most Egyptian structures it was most successful in giving to beholders the ideas of massiveness and vastness. Yet the airiness of the situation, combined with a mingling of the various Hellenic architectures with the Egyptian, seemed to relieve the ponderous pile of any air of heaviness. For Pharaohs and Ptolemies, Mother Isis and her vagrant daughters Doris and Ione and Cora, were all represented in the confused mass of templed structures designed to welcome all the classical creeds.

The most striking features of the temple, to one looking up to it from the street, were, perhaps, an enormous canopy that seemed to overhang the whole pile of buildings and a tower by its side that rose still higher. This tower was the famous observatory where Eratosthenes and Hipparchus had made their observations; and in the spacious halls at its base was deposited the greater part of the then existing Alexandrian library—consisting of some 200,000 works collected by the Ptolemies, together with 300,000 parchments brought from Pergamos by Mark Antony for Cleopatra.

The Serapeum was under Egyptian control, but was greatly revered by devout Greeks and Romans as well as by Egyptians. Each nation regarded the god to whom the temple was dedicated and whose statue of mingled marble and silver and gold was there enshrined, as being the chief of all its gods—the Egyptians calling it Osiris, the Greeks Zeus, and the Romans Jupiter. For some reason, of late years, this statue had been kept in a dark room, and was seldom, if ever, shown to the people at large. They worshipped without the presence of any visible symbol of deity. The priests were numerous and of the highest rank. The chief of all was primate of all Egypt.

To its religious character the Serapeum added that of an institution of learning. Its priests had among their own people the reputation for wisdom which belonged to the ancient Egyptian priesthood among all nations—and not without reason. Their priestly duties being light, they spent much time in studying the sciences and philosophies as then known, and in training young priests to the same. In addition, the more eminent among them taught on certain topics in the Alexandrian School. They were recognized by the Ptolemies, and afterward by the emperors, as in all respects peers of the teachers located at the Museum.

Indeed, among people religiously inclined their standing was altogether superior to that of the secular professors. They were far more sober and practical in their teachings. They more boldly recognized religion and taught on lines parallel with it. They had stricter notions of what could properly be called science and philosophy. A few facts blown up into prettily colored bubbles, and then tossed into the air on exhibition, and then collapsing, and then succeeded by another output of pretty emptinesses, and this by another, and so on—such were the substance and history of the better part of the ever-changing teaching of the Museum. The worse part had no foundation in facts at all. In fact, facts were scorned. They were vulgar. The lofty name of wisdom should be given only to great general intuitions and the logical deductions from them. And as the teachers were by no means careful in either their premises or their processes, their conclusions were apt to be worthless when they were not pernicious. In short, the Museum was the child of Athens and the mother of Germany.

Accordingly, many of the noblest families in the neighboring countries turned their faces toward the Serapeum. They were disgusted at the laborious trifling. They were alarmed at the decay of faith. If their sons could not have something that deserved to be called knowledge, and knowledge without impiety and all the terrors, they did not want them to have it at all. But if they could have it thoroughly leavened with religious ideas—why, they would welcome it, be very glad of it, pour out for it their shekels or sestertii or staters freely. Such people found what they wanted in the priest-teachers of the Serapeum; and said to themselves that if religion is the supreme wisdom then are the ministers of religion the supreme professors.

All this Cimon recalled and spoke of when he found himself in the neighborhood of the temple. And he proposed that Aleph should matriculate there instead of at the Museum—as being the nearer and more conservative branch of the University, as well as more remote from the Roman headquarters.

“I do not think,” said he, “that you will need to confine yourself very closely to the routine of lectures. Many of the more advanced students do not. You are already familiar through me with the main subjects discussed in both the Athenian and Alexandrian Schools: and I do not imagine that you will hear much that is new; only you will hear the old said in a new way, with new illustrations and personal modifications, which is not without its advantage to a young man. And you will have what, perhaps, is a still greater advantage, that of mingling with and studying the leading young men of the West. As to the present preliminaries for admission to the School, you had better apply to Seti for information.”

“And why not ask his advice, also,” said Aleph, “as to how you had better proceed in the affair of Malus? It would be a safe thing to do. The priest is not in love with the trader.”

“Perhaps,” returned the Greek, “this is the best thing to be done. Still I feel reluctant to do it—at least till I have proved it necessary. It is a good rule not to call on others to help you till you have tried to help yourself. We must spare our friends as much as possible. And I do not see that any harm can be done by my going directly to the custom house and inquiring on what terms abstracts from the records can be made, or by my going to leading dealers and asking how the prices of certain goods have ruled in Alexandria for a term of years. Let me cautiously feel my way about to-day by myself: by the evening I shall be better able to see whether we need to call in help from outside.”

As soon as Cimon had gone, Aleph inquired of the landlord at what part of the temple he should present himself. Climbing successive flights of steps that began almost at the khan, he came to the broad carriage-way of which we have spoken. As yet very few people could be seen upon it—none who seemed moving to the temple. This led him to think that very likely he was yet too early for the temple habits, and had better linger a little before seeking admittance. So he sat down on one of the stone seats, placed at intervals by the wayside for the convenience of the weary and the idle, and proceeded to study at his leisure the stately façade of the temple. While thus engaged he heard voices just back of the wall against which he was leaning.

A voice laughed heartily.

“Have you been at your cups so early” said another voice testily. “I should have thought that these leeks and onions would set you to crying. That is what they do to me.”

“I couldn’t cry if I were up to my eyes in the onions of Nauticratis,” said the other. “Oh, it was such a capital thing! Why, the very gods themselves must be shaking with laughter—at least our Egyptian gods.”

“Who ever heard of an Egyptian god laughing? Our deities never did that in the best days of the country. They who were as grim as fate when Thebes was in its glory are not likely to smile now when Thebes is dead, and a Roman garrison is in Alexandria, and a Roman Governor in the palace of Seti.”

“That is just it—now you are coming to the point!” cried the other; “it is just _because_ there is a Roman garrison in Alexandria and a Roman Proprætor in the ancestral palace of Seti that our gods, calm and grave as they generally are, must have had a merry time of it yesterday.”

“There, take that, you provoking Sphinx!” (and Aleph heard something strike against the wall). “If you do not expound your riddle right away it will be, not two onions that your empty head will get, but a whole basket of them.”

“Do you pretend to say that you have not heard what took place yesterday at the Diapleuston? Why, the whole city is ringing with it—at least the Jewish Quarter. The Roman Quarter will be silent enough, I warrant.”

“Have heard nothing. Was in Canopus yesterday—came back before people were stirring this morning. What is it? Out with it, man!”

“An you be a true son of Egypt, now open your ears and mouth! Yesterday the Governor took a hundred soldiers and tried to make the Jews at the Diapleuston worship an image of the emperor. A magnificent young man in shining armor suddenly appeared on the scene, disarmed Flaccus, and encouraged the Jews to give the whole party a good drubbing. Which they did. The Romans were pommelled within an inch of their lives, then tumbled headlong into the street, and then chased on a full run quite to Bruchium. Gods! what a treat to see Flaccus run! I would have given ten years of my life to see it. And now it is said that Alexander, the favorite banker of the emperor, and heavier with him than all the pyramids put together, has just written to the governor demanding an apology for his behavior; and threatening to report him to the emperor.”

“Give us your fist, old fellow! Here goes my cap—to the moon, for aught I care. This _is_ good news, capital news, news fit for the gods, news—almost too good to be true! But it _ought_ to be true, and so true it must be. Let the gods laugh till the skies crack. To see the Romans soundly thrashed and running away with their tails between their legs must have been a treat for heaven and earth. I could give that young man a chaplet—who is he?”

“Just what everybody is asking.”

“And just what, in my opinion, nobody will ever find out; for he must have been at once rapturously spirited off by the celestials to their own country for the good service done us. Perhaps he was a celestial to begin with.”

“That reminds me that I did hear some Jews debating whether he might not be the Wonderful Deliverer whom they are expecting.”

Was there any danger that Aleph would be unduly exalted in his own estimation by such a very complimentary account of himself? Perhaps he was saved from this peril by the several large exaggerations of the story. What more natural than for him to say, “And I, too, am an exaggeration!”

At any rate, he wasted no time in arguing the matter; for he now noticed that the postern at the side of the great gate was being opened to a comer. So he rose, advanced leisurely to the postern, and plied the knocker which hung from a small window above. The door opened. He told the porter that he wished to see the priest Seti.

“I suppose you mean the _high_-priest Seti!” said the man with dignity.

“Very possibly,” said Aleph. “Is there here more than one priest of that name?”

“I know of no other.”

“Then I wish to see the _high_-priest Seti. Please have him informed that Aleph the Chaldean wishes to see him.”

The porter glanced outside, as if to see whether there was any fine equipage, with servants, before the great gateway: then said:

“You probably will not be able to see him this morning. I doubt if he would see the prefect of the city.”

“But I am _not_ the prefect—as you have just seen. I am a visitor more likely to be acceptable to the high-priest: for I come by his express invitation. So I will enter and stay in the hall till an answer comes to my message”—and he advanced on the man with so decisive and commanding an air that he gave way and admitted him.

“Now if you will send my message at once, you will do no more than your duty,” said Aleph coolly.

So a servant was sent off; who after a few moments returned and, with an air of great respect, said, “The high-priest will see you. I will conduct you to him.” But he was spared the trouble, for just then Seti himself appeared, received his visitor in a way that astonished the servants, and conducted him to his own private rooms.

“You see,” said the young man with that modesty and deference of manner that are so graceful and winning in the young toward age and station, “that I have very soon availed myself of your permission to call upon you. It is the wish of my father that I should, while in Alexandria, hear for myself the scholars of the west; though the Greek preceptor, who has conducted my education and whom you have seen, has already made me acquainted in a general way with the western literature and learning as it was taught in his youth, both here and at Athens. And, as I am told that the Serapeum stands for a branch of the Alexandrian School, I wish to join it here; and have come to you to learn in what way I may do so, and become entitled to such privileges and immunities as membership confers.”

“I am glad that you propose doing this,” returned the high-priest; “especially because I have heard from Alexander of the events of yesterday. No doubt there is danger abroad; but if any class among us is specially exempt from espial and interference by the civil and military authorities it is that of the students. So we will have you booked without delay. Where are you now lodged?”

On hearing of the transfer to his own neighborhood, Seti added:

“That is just what I was about to propose. The Romans have less to do with this part of the city than with any other. Neither my son nor myself anticipate any trouble from the authorities on account of what occurred yesterday. They probably will disavow all connection with it, on account of my son’s influence at Rome. At the same time they, no doubt, are in full sympathy with the rascals and will let them off without punishment, if not with secret commendation. This everybody is sure of—I mean everybody who knows that the leader in the affair was the son of Flaccus. Your chief danger will be from that reprobate. After the lessons he has had he is not likely to attack you in front; but you will need to be on your guard against all mean and dishonorable ways of attack. He is the greatest scoundrel in Alexandria—after his father and Malus, who have all his vices and hypocrisy in addition. But come, let us lose no time in matriculating.”

Seti then led the way to a large hall with a platform and seats.

“This,” said he, “is our chief lecture-room; and here some of the professors who live and lecture at the Museum come at stated times to repeat their lectures. This door opens into the tower from the top of which our astronomers observe the stars; and sometimes other things nearer home, as, for example, the flight and pursuit yesterday along the street of Canopus. The doors on the other three sides open into the library with its 500,000 different works on papyrus and parchment. Let us pass into it.”

Aleph now found himself in a room, or rather a suite of rooms, lighted wholly from above, whose sides were shining with the copper cylinders which contained the literary treasures of many lands and centuries. What would our modern bibliopoles not give for the same privilege? At central tables and in recesses were scholars poring over open rolls—also professional scribes copying manuscripts with careful exactness and a beauty of result wonderful to see. Seti led his companion freely within the bronze railing that fenced the collection from the general public; taking down and exhibiting some notably rare or beautiful rolls—among others the entire works of Berosus and Manetho and Sanconiathon, of which, unfortunately, we now have only a few fragments.

At length they stopped before a small open office, within which sat a uniformed official. He rose respectfully. Seti asked for the University register.

“Write your name, as you wish it to be known, here,” he said, pointing to a page, “and then pay to this man as initiation fee one gold _stater_. Then when I have written my name as sponsor over against yours on the opposite page, you will be a member of the University and entitled to wear its badge conspicuously on your tunic—also, whenever you please, the University toga. But this latter is usually reserved for special occasions, and can be procured at your leisure.”

Aleph followed directions and received a large gold badge, which he was told was only one _stater_ additional. Seti himself fastened it conspicuously on the tunic of the new student. He also received from the registrar a syllabus of the lectures for many weeks at both the Serapeum and Museum. Glancing it over he noticed that Seti was one of the lecturers and Philo another—the one on history and ethical philosophy, the other on Plato and comparative religions.

“Now,” said Seti, as they were returning through the lecture room, “I have hurried you through these formalities for two reasons—one of which is that I wish you to have as soon as possible the benefit of being a recognized member of our University. The other reason is that I wish to get you to do me a favor. Just before you came I had a message from Rachel, my granddaughter, that the Greek leech, who is employed for her nurse, has gone back to his old treatment and that the woman is again rapidly sinking. It seems that the husband not merely supports the leech in his course, but absolutely requires it of him. I suspect that the brute wants to get rid of her. Now, I have an important engagement this morning, which will prevent my going personally to look after the case at the time she mentions—I see by this clepsydra that the time is near—and as the matter is urgent I could wish to have you go in my stead and deal with both the husband and the leech as you may find occasion in order to save the woman’s life. Can you do me this favor? I think there is no lecture to-day.”

“Certainly,” said Aleph, “I will do what I can, for your treatment is that of my own country; though, I confess, I do not at present see how I am to enforce your wishes in case the leech and the husband should both prove obstinate.”

“That is a difficulty,” returned the Egyptian; “but I must leave you to solve it as you best can. This will be no disadvantage to your education. The young man who has learned how to deal with difficult men in difficult circumstances has graduated at a higher university than teaches in the Serapeum and Museum. So take a lesson in the university of human nature; and, perhaps, when I join you, which will be as soon as my business will allow, you can reproduce the lesson for me.”

Aleph could not well help noticing the change that had come over the manners of the porter as Seti and himself approached the postern in close conversation. The man had exchanged impudence for obsequiousness. He was all deference and humbleness. His bow was so low, as he set the postern wide open, that one might reasonably have feared that the hinge in his back had entirely given way in favor of a prostration. Has it not been noticed in all ages that impudence and servility are near of kin to each other and are never far apart?

In due time Aleph presented himself at the house of the sick woman. The same forbidding looking man who had acted as porter before now answered to his knock, but only opened the door a hand breadth.

After waiting a moment for an invitation to enter, which he did not get, the young man said, “Will you not permit me to enter?”

“What is your business?” demanded the fellow in a surly tone, making the opening of the door still less.

“A friendly one,” said Aleph. “I will explain it more fully when I have entered and delivered to you—that is, if you are the husband of the sick woman—some money which I have for you.”

The word money seemed to throw a shade of uncertainty into the man’s face. At length he said: “I am her husband. Why cannot you deliver the money to me here?”

“Of course I can,” said Aleph. “The only difficulty lies in my disposition. The gold is in my pouch, my arm is long enough to reach it, and your hand is near enough to take it: but you see, man, it does not suit my humor to give gold to a man who is rude enough to shut his door in my face. I hardly think you yourself would be liberal under like circumstances—would you?”

“My wife is very sick—it may be dying. Your coming in will disturb her.”

“Dying people are not apt to be disturbed by a step and voice as light as mine will be. Besides, if the woman is dying you will need the gold all the more. Death and burial in Alexandria must be expensive. I suppose there are some people here who cannot afford to die.”

“Well,” said the man, slowly and after a pause, “you can come in; but I cannot let you remain but a few moments.”

Aleph promptly stepped in as the door opened; and, while the man was closing and fastening it, made his way to the room he had before visited. As before, the air was close and almost stifling. As before, the woman lay on the bed, in about the same death-like state. And, as before, Rachel sat behind her, supporting her head and caressing it with her hand—her own face a picture of lovely distress. A man at a table was, apparently, preparing some medicines. He was not a bad looking man, save as a certain pretentious and stubborn look is a bad one on a face somewhat stony and unsympathetic. One would say that his sympathy with his patients would not be likely to interfere with his health or his meals. His whole bearing seemed to say, “I am a leech, and I understand my business;” and yet his dress was too poor to suggest the idea of a prosperous business. All this the observant eye of the young man took in at a glance.

Rachel looked up. A look of glad recognition sprang into every feature, but especially into her welcoming eyes. They smiled on him through tears. He bowed profoundly in acknowledgment of the silent greeting; and, advancing to her, said in a low voice, “From your grandfather.” Facing about on the husband, who had closely followed him, he put a piece of gold in his hand, saying as he did so, “For the sick woman.”

Then turning to the leech, he said in a courteous tone:

“I think I am speaking to the physician in charge of this patient. If so, will he allow me a few words, with him in private? Perhaps we can step out into this little court for a few moments”—and he at once quietly moved to the door leading to the back court, opened it, and passed out without looking behind him—passed to the farther side of the inclosure, as if sure of being followed. He _was_ followed, though with some backwardness.

“I wish,” said Aleph, as he turned and confronted the leech, “to confer with you about this poor woman. I come from some of her friends. Perhaps you know who these friends are?”

“Is not her husband a friend?”

“He certainly ought to be. As to whether he is, I have my doubts. At all events he is not one of the friends of whom I speak and from whom I come. Do you know who that young lady yonder is?”

“The daughter of Alexander, the great Jewish Banker.”

“Do you know who Seti is?”

“He is the Egyptian high-priest and primate.”

“Well, these are the friends in whose behalf I have come and for whom I speak. They wish to save this woman, and believe it can be done by the treatment which was so successful for the short time it was tried. Will you tell me why it was discontinued?”

“Because it was contrary to all the medical rules; but mainly because the man who employs me insisted on a return to the old treatment.”

“You mean the husband of the sick woman?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure that your employer is able and disposed to pay you for your services?”

“He evidently is poor; but he says that he has rich friends who can be depended on for all expenses. This seems to be true; for the house has been lavishly supplied for the last few days with every possible comfort by some friends.”

“Whom do you suppose these friends to be?”

“The family of Alexander the Alabarch.”

“Certainly these are friends worth having,” said Aleph with emphasis; “and no doubt they can be depended on to meet all expenses—if they will promise as much. And this they are ready to do, and more, provided you will meet their wishes in certain respects.”

“What do they wish?” said the leech after quite a pause.

“That you will take them for employer instead of this vagabond; accept such compensation for your professional services as they are accustomed to pay; and then, in the interest of science, suspend for a little your way of treating this case in favor of the one you have just abandoned. We will assume all responsibilities. If the experiment does not work well, you can return to the old treatment. You had better have the patronage of the Alabarch and the Egyptian primate than that of this scoundrel—for such he is, unless his looks greatly belie him.”

“I have no very high opinion of him, I confess,” said the leech. “I have seen more tender husbands than he; and the woman’s talk about him in her delirium is far from complimentary. But if we change the treatment he will be troublesome. He was very violent when he discovered the first change.”

“Did he tell you by whose authority it was made?”

“He only said that a strange man had been meddling with what did not concern him.”

“Then he did not tell you that this meddler was Seti?”

“Certainly not.”

“Nor did the nurse?”

“No—but she is mortally afraid of the man, and that may have kept her silent.”

“Nor did the young lady?”

“No: but she had some difficulty in getting admission to the house, as I think you had; and it is possible that the man would not admit her till she had promised not to interfere, and had sent away her servants. Indeed, I thought I overheard as much.”

“No doubt the fellow will be troublesome. The only thing to be done is to keep such a force here as will be able to control him. As long as we are here we can do this; but when we leave we must leave behind others who will make our places good. I think I can arrange for this.... Now that we have come to an understanding, let us go in; but do you take the lead, as is fitting, in making the changes.”

When they re-entered the room they found the man standing where they had left him—with anything but amiability in his face.

“We have agreed,” said the leech to him, “in order to satisfy important friends, to try for a while a change in the treatment. Sometimes the failing powers will rally wonderfully under a complete change of conditions. At any rate we will try it.”

He at once set wide open door and casement. Then going to the water-jug, he poured out a large cup full of water and brought it to Aleph, who had kneeled at the bedside and was listening again at the parched and twitching lips of the unconscious woman. He let a few drops fall upon them. He gently tried to part the locked teeth, and dropped more. At last he put the cup to her mouth.

“STOP!” shouted the husband, as he rushed up—his face white with passion and a demon looking out of his eyes—and with his clenched hand struck the cup aside, spilling a large part of the water on the woman’s face—“STOP! I say: this woman is under my protection.”

In a moment, Aleph was erect and confronting him:

“And _such_ a protection!” he scornfully said. “Such a protection as the thunder cloud gives to the tree it strikes—such a protection as you have been giving her, ever since you enticed her away from her friends under the pretense that you were a man and not a brute. To my eyes the very shadow that you cast, and a very black shadow it is, is that of a wild beast of the meaner kind. I have not listened at these white lips in vain. I know something of your story, and expect to know more shortly—know enough now to say that this woman wishes no such protector. Death would be a better one. After having made her life miserable you shall not go on to put her to death—as you seem to wish. Now, do you understand that we shall proceed to treat this woman as the leech has said, and if you interfere, or make any disturbance whatever unsuitable to a sick-room, we will find such ways of quieting you as may be necessary—for quiet we will have, even if we have to turn you over to the police as a dangerous character.”

Aleph said this, not loudly, but in so determined and commanding a manner, and with such rebuking and threatening eyes fastened on the hateful face before him, that for a moment that face took on a shade of fear and shame among its other shades—of which it had not a few. But it was only for a moment. He reinforced himself, as such fellows are apt to do, by a mighty oath and seemed about to spring on the young man; but noting again his watchful eye, the cane in his hand, and his whole attitude so full of lithe and conscious power, he thought better of it, and fell back on the fighting resources of his tongue.

“This is my wife, and this is my house, at least for the time being; and I will