Alciphron: A Fragment. Letter IV.

FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO DECIUS, THE PRAETORIAN PREFECT.     Rejoice, my friend, rejoice;--the youthful Chief     Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief,     And gay and godless makes the present hour     Its only heaven, is now within our power.     Smooth, impious school!--not all the weapons aimed,     At priestly creeds, since first a creed was framed,     E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield,     The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers concealed.     And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet     As any thou canst boast--even when the feet     Of thy proud war-steed wade thro' Christian blood,     To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood,     And bring him tamed and prostrate to implore     The vilest gods even Egypt's saints adore.     What!--do these sages think, to them alone     The key of this world's happiness is known?     That none but they who make such proud parade     Of Pleasure's smiling favors win the maid,     Or that Religion keeps no secret place,     No niche in her dark fanes for Love to grace?     Fools!--did they know how keen the zest that's given     To earthly joy when seasoned well with heaven;     How Piety's grave mask improves the hue     Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen thro',     And how the Priest set aptly within reach     Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each,     Would they not, Decius--thou, whom the ancient tie     'Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally--     Would they not change their creed, their craft, for ours?     Leave the gross daylight joys that in their bowers     Languish with too much sun, like o'er-blown flowers,     For the veiled loves, the blisses undisplayed     That slyly lurk within the Temple's shade?     And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school--     Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule,     Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide,     Till Pleasure's self is chilled by Wisdom's pride--     Be taught by us, quit shadows for the true,     Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue,     Who far too wise to theorize on bliss     Or pleasure's substance for its shade to miss.     Preach other worlds but live for only this:-     Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung,     Which, like its type the golden cloud that hung     O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign,     Round human frailty wraps a veil divine.     Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they     Alone despise the craft of us who pray;--     Still less their creedless vanity deceive     With the fond thought that we who pray believe.     Believe!--Apis forbid--forbid it, all     Ye monster Gods before whose shrines we fall--     Deities framed in jest as if to try     How far gross Man can vulgarize the sky;     How far the same low fancy that combines     Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs,     And turns that Heaven itself into a place     Of sainted sin and deified disgrace,     Can bring Olympus even to shame more deep,     Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap.     Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood,     Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food--     All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees     In dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities!     Believe!--oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no care     For things divine beyond the soldier's share,     Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds,     A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs--     Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs     Loose as thy summer war-cloak guess the pangs     Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart     Stubborn as mine is acts the zealot's part--     The deep and dire disgust with which I wade     Thro' the foul juggling of this holy trade--     This mud profound of mystery where the feet     At every step sink deeper in deceit.     Oh! many a time, when, mid the Temple's blaze,     O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise,     Did I not keep still proudly in my mind     The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind--     A lever, of more might, in skilful hand,     To move this world, than Archimede e'er planned--     I should in vengeance of the shame I feel     At my own mockery crush the slaves that kneel     Besotted round; and--like that kindred breed     Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed,     At famed Arsino[1]--make my keepers bless,     With their last throb, my sharp-fanged Holiness.     Say, is it to be borne, that scoffers, vain     Of their own freedom from the altar's chain,     Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold.     And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold?     It must not be:--think'st thou that Christian sect,     Whose followers quick as broken waves, erect     Their crests anew and swell into a tide,     That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride--     Think'st thou with all their wondrous spells even they     Would triumph thus, had not the constant play     Of Wit's resistless archery cleared their way?--     That mocking spirit, worst of all the foes,     Our solemn fraud, our mystic mummery knows,     Whose wounding flash thus ever 'mong the signs     Of a fast-falling creed, prelusive shines,     Threatening such change as do the awful freaks     Of summer lightning ere the tempest breaks.     But, to my point--a youth of this vain school,     But one, whom Doubt itself hath failed to cool     Down to that freezing point where Priests despair     Of any spark from the altar catching there--     Hath, some nights since--it was, me thinks, the night     That followed the full Moon's great annual rite--     Thro' the dark, winding ducts that downward stray     To these earth--hidden temples, tracked his way,     Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me,     The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see,     Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary.     The clangor of the marvellous Gate that stands     At the Well's lowest depth--which none but hands     Of new, untaught adventurers, from above,     Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move--     Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh:--     'Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky,     Had been observed, curiously wandering round     The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground.     Instant, the Initiate's Trials were prepared,--     The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dared,     That Plato, that the bright-haired Samian[2] past,     With trembling hope, to come to--what, at last?     Go, ask the dupes of Priestcraft; question him     Who mid terrific sounds and spectres dim     Walks at Eleusis; ask of those who brave     The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave     With its seven starry gates; ask all who keep     Those terrible night-mysteries where they weep     And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze.     O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities--     Amphibious, hybrid things that died as men,     Drowned, hanged, empaled, to rise as gods again;--     Ask them, what mighty secret lurks below     This seven-fold mystery--can they tell thee? No;     Gravely they keep that only secret, well     And fairly kept--that they have none to tell;     And duped themselves console their humbled pride     By duping thenceforth all mankind beside.     And such the advance in fraud since Orpheus' time--     That earliest master of our craft sublime--     So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud,     From the great Orphic Egg have winged abroad,     That, still to uphold our Temple's ancient boast,     And seem most holy, we must cheat the most;     Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round     In pomp and darkness till it seems profound;     Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind,     With changeful skill; and make the human mind     Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray     But by the Priest's permission wins its way--     Where thro' the gloom as wave our wizard rods.     Monsters at will are conjured into Gods;     While Reason like a grave-faced mummy stands     With her arms swathed in hieroglyphic bands.     But chiefly in that skill with which we use     Man's wildest passions for Religion's views,     Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds,     Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds.     And oh be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil     Hath, for our use, scooped out from Egypt's soil     This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes,     Gardens and palaces where Pleasure reigns     In a rich, sunless empire of her own,     With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne:--     A realm for mystery made, which undermines     The Nile itself and, 'neath the Twelve Great Shrines     That keep Initiation's holy rite,     Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light.     A light that knows no change--its brooks that run     Too deep for day, its gardens without sun,     Where soul and sense, by turns, are charmed, surprised.     And all that bard or prophet e'er devised     For man's Elysium, priests have realized.     Here, at this moment--all his trials past.     And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last--     Our new Initiate roves--as yet left free     To wander thro' this realm of mystery;     Feeding on such illusions as prepare     The soul, like mist o'er waterfalls, to wear     All shapes and lines at Fancy's varying will,     Thro' every shifting aspect, vapor still;--     Vague glimpses of the Future, vistas shown.     By scenic skill, into that world unknown.     Which saints and sinners claim alike their own;     And all those other witching, wildering arts,     Illusions, terrors, that make human hearts,     Ay, even the wisest and the hardiest quail     To any goblin throned behind a veil.     Yes--such the spells shall haunt his eye, his ear,     Mix wild his night-dreams, form his atmosphere;     Till, if our Sage be not tamed down, at length,     His wit, his wisdom, shorn of all their strength,     Like Phrygian priests, in honor of the shrine--     If he become not absolutely mine,     Body and soul and like the tame decoy     Which wary hunters of wild doves employ     Draw converts also, lure his brother wits     To the dark cage where his own spirit flits.     And give us if not saints good hypocrites--     If I effect not this then be it said     The ancient spirit of our craft hath fled,     Gone with that serpent-god the Cross hath chased     To hiss its soul out in the Theban waste.