University of Virginia Library

TALES
OF
THE GROTESQUE AND ARABESQUE.

EPIMANES.

Antiochus Epiphanes is very generally looked
upon as the Gog of the prophet Ezekiel. This honor
is, however, more properly attributable to Cambyses,
the son of Cyrus. And, indeed, the character of the
Syrian monarch does by no means stand in need of
any adventitious embollishment. His accession to
the throne, or rather his usurpation of the sovereignty,
a hundred and seventy-one years before the coming
of Christ—his attempt to plunder the temple of
Diana at Ephesus—his implacable hostility to the

Jews—his pollution of the Holy of Holies, and his
miserable death at Taba, after a tumultuous reign of
eleven years, are circumstances of a prominent kind,
and therefore more generally noticed by the historians
of his time than the impious, dastardly, cruel,
silly, and whimsical achievements which make up
the sum total of his private life and reputation.

* * * * * *

Let us suppose, gentle reader, that it is now the
year of the world three thousand eight hundred and
thirty, and let us, for a few minutes, imagine ourselves
at that most grotesque habitation of man, the
remarkable city of Antioch. To be sure there were,
in Syria and other countries, sixteen cities of that
name besides the one to which I more particularly
allude. But ours is that which went by the name of
Antiochia Epidaphne, from its vicinity to the little
village of Daphne, where stood a temple to that
divinity. It was built (although about this matter
there is some dispute) by Seleucus Nicanor, the first
king of the country after Alexander the Great, in
memory of his father Antiochus, and became immediately
the residence of the Syrian monarchy. In
the flourishing times of the Roman empire, it was the
ordinary station of the prefect of the eastern provinces;
and many of the emperors of the queen city,
(among whom may be mentioned, most especially,
Verus and Valens,) spent here the greater part of

their time. But I perceive we have arrived at the
city itself. Let us ascend this battlement, and throw
our eyes around upon the town and neighboring
country.

What broad and rapid river is that which forces
its way with innumerable falls, through the mountainous
wilderness, and finally through the wilderness
of buildings?

That is the Orontes, and the only water in sight,
with the exception of the Mediterranean, which
stretches, like a broad mirror, about twelve miles off
to the southward. Every one has beheld the Mediterranean;
but, let me tell you, there are few who
have had a peep at Antioch. By few, I mean few
who, like you and I, have had, at the same time, the
advantages of a modern education. Therefore cease
to regard that sea, and give your whole attention to
the mass of houses that lie beneath us. You will
remember that it is now the year of the world three
thousand eight hundred and thirty. Were it later—
for example, were it unfortunately the year of our
Lord eighteen hundred and thirty-nine, we should be
deprived of this extraordinary spectacle. In the
nineteenth century Antioch is—that is, Antioch will
be, in a lamentable state of decay. It will have been,
by that time, totally destroyed, at three different
periods, by three successive earthquakes. Indeed, to
say the truth, what little of its former self may then
remain, will be found in so desolate and ruinous a
state, that the patriarch will have removed his residence
to Damascus. This is well. I see you profit

by my advice, and are making the most of your
time in inspecting the premises—in
I beg pardon—I had forgotten that Shakspeare will
not flourish for nearly seventeen hundred and fifty
years to come. But does not the appearance of
Epidaphne justify me in calling it grotesque?

It is well fortified—and in this respect is as much
indebted to nature as to art.

Very true.

There are a prodigious number of stately palaces.

There are.

And the numerous temples, sumptuous and magnificent,
may bear comparison with the most lauded
of antiquity.

All this I must acknowledge. Still there is an
infinity of mud huts and abominable hovels. We
cannot help perceiving abundance of filth in every
kennel, and, were it not for the overpowering fumes
of idolatrous incense, I have no doubt we should find
a most intolerable stench. Did you ever behold
streets so insufferably narrow, or houses so miraculously
tall? What a gloom their shadows cast upon
the ground! It is well the swinging lamps in those
endless colonnades are kept burning throughout the
day—we should otherwise have the darkness of
Egypt in the time of her desolation.

It is certainly a strange place! What is the meaning
of yonder singular building? See!—it towers
above all others, and lies to the eastward of what I
take to be the royal palace.

That is the new Temple of the Sun, who is adored
in Syria under the title of Elah Gabalah. Hereafter
a very notorious Roman emperor will institute this
worship in Rome, and thence derive a cognomen
Heliogabalus. I dare say you would like a peep at
the divinity of the temple. You need not look up at
the heavens, his Sunship is not there—at least not
the Sunship adored by the Syrians. That deity will
be found in the interior of yonder building. He is
worshipped under the figure of a large stone pillar
terminating at the summit in a cone or pyramid,

whereby is denoted Fire.

Hark!—behold!—who can those ridiculous beings
be—half naked—with their faces painted—
shouting and gesticulating to the rabble?

Some few are mountebanks. Others more particularly
belong to the race of philosophers. The
greatest portion, however—those especially who
belabor the populace with clubs—are the principal
courtiers of the palace, executing, as in duty bound,
some laudable comicality of the king's.

But what have we here? Heavens!—the town
is swarming with wild beasts! How terrible a spectacle!—how
dangerous a peculiarity!

Terrible, if you please; but not in the least degree
dangerous. Each animal, if you will take the pains

to observe, is following, very quietly, in the wake of
its master. Some few, to be sure, are led with a
rope about the neck, but these are chiefly the lesser or
more timid species. The lion, the tiger, and the leopard
are entirely without restraint. They have been
trained without difficulty to their present profession,
and attend upon their respective owners in the
capacity of valets-de-chambre. It is true, there are
occasions when Nature asserts her violated dominion
—but then the devouring of a man-at-arms, or the
throtling of a consecrated bull, are circumstances
of too little moment to be more than hinted at in
Epidaphne.

But what extraordinary tumult do I hear? Surely
this is a loud noise even for Antioch! It argues some
commotion of unusual interest.

Yes—undoubtedly. The king has ordered some
novel spectacle—some gladiatorial exhibition at the
Hippodrome—or perhaps the massacre of the Scythian
prisoners—or the conflagration of his new
palace—or the tearing down of a handsome temple
—or, indeed, a bonfire of a few Jews. The uproar
increases. Shouts of laughter ascend the skies.
The air becomes dissonant with wind instruments,
and horrible with the clamor of a million throats.
Let us descend, for the love of fun, and see what is
going on. This way—be careful. Here we are in
the principal street, which is called the street of
Timarchus. The sea of people is coming this way,
and we shall find a difficulty in stemming the tide.

They are pouring through the alley of Heraclides,
which leads directly from the palace—therefore the
king is most probably among the rioters. Yes—I
hear the shouts of the herald proclaiming his approach
in the pompous phraseology of the East. We shall
have a glimpse of his person as he passes by the
temple of Ashimah. Let us ensconce ourselves in
the vestibule of the sanctuary—he will be here
anon. In the meantime let us survey this image.
What is it? Oh, it is the god Ashimah in proper
person. You perceive, however, that he is neither a
lamb, nor a goat, nor a satyr—neither has he much
resemblance to the Pan of the Arcadians. Yet all
these appearances have been given—I beg pardon
—will be given by the learned of future ages to the
Ashimah of the Syrians. Put on your spectacles,
and tell me what it is. What is it?

Bless me, it is an ape!

True—a baboon; but by no means the less a deity.
His name is a derivation of the Greek Simia—what
great fools are antiquarians! But see!—see!—
yonder scampers a ragged little urchin. Where is
he going? What is he bawling about? What does
he say? Oh!—he says the king is coming in triumph—that
he is dressed in state—and that he has
just finished putting to death with his own hand a
thousand chained Israelitish prisoners. For this
exploit the ragamuffin is lauding him to the skies.
Hark!—here comes a troop of a similar description.
They have made a Latin hymn upon the valor of the
king, and are singing it as they go.

Which may be thus paraphrased:

Do you hear that flourish of trumpets?

Yes—the king is coming! See!—the people
are aghast with admiration, and lift up their eyes to
the heavens in reverence. He comes—he is coming
—there he is!

Who?—where?—the king?—do not behold
him—cannot say that I perceive him.

Then you must be blind.

Very possible. Still I see nothing but a tumultuous
mob of idiots and madmen, who are busy in
prostrating themselves before a gigantic camelopard,
and endeavoring to obtain a kiss of the animal's
hoofs. See! the beast has very justly kicked one of
the rabble over—and another—and another—and
another. Indeed I cannot help admiring the animal
for the excellent use he is making of his feet.

Rabble, indeed!—why these are the noble and
free citizens of Epidaphne! Beast, did you say?—
take care that you are not overheard. Do you not
perceive that the animal has the visage of a man?
Why, my dear sir, that camelopard is no other than
Antiochus Epiphanes, Antiochus the Illustrious, King
of Syria, and the most potent of the autocrats of the
East! It is true that he is entitled, at times, Antiochus
Epimanes, Antiochus the madman—but that is
because all people have not the capacity to appreciate
his merits. It is also certain that he is at present
ensconced in the hide of a beast, and is doing his
best to play the part of a camelopard—but this is
done for the better sustaining his dignity as king.
Besides, the monarch is of a gigantic stature, and
the dress is therefore neither unbecoming nor over
large. We may, however, presume he would not
have adopted it but for some occasion of especial
state. Such you will allow is the massacre of a
thousand Jews. With how superior a dignity the
monarch perambulates upon all fours! His tail, you
perceive, is held aloft by his two principal concubines,

Elline and Argelais; and his whole appearance
would be infinitely prepossessing, were it not for the
protuberance of his eyes, which will certainly start
out of his head, and the queer color of his face, which
has become nondescript from the quantity of wine
he has swallowed. Let us follow to the hippodrome,
whither he is proceeding, and listen to the song of
triumph which he is commencing:

Well and strenuously sung! The populace are
hailing him `Prince of Poets,' as well as `Glory of
the East,' `Delight of the Universe,' and `most
remarkable of Camelopards.' They have encored

his effusion—and, do you hear?—he is singing it
over again. When he arrives at the hippodrome
he will be crowned with the poetic wreath, in anticipation
of his victory at the approaching Olympics.

But, good Jupiter!—what is the matter in the
crowd behind us?

Behind us, did you say?—oh!—ah!—I perceive.

My friend, it is well that you spoke in time.
Let us get into a place of safety as soon as possible.
Here!—let us conceal ourselves in the arch of this
aqueduct, and I will inform you presently of the
origin of this commotion. It has turned out as I
have been anticipating. The singular appearance
of the camelopard with the head of a man, has, it
seems, given offence to the notions of propriety entertained
in general by the wild animals domesticated
in the city. A mutiny has been the result, and, as is
usual upon such occasions, all human efforts will be
of no avail in quelling the mob. Several of the
Syrians have already been devoured—but the general
voice of the four-footed patriots seems to be for
eating up the camelopard. `The Prince of Poets,'
therefore, is upon his hinder legs, and running for
his life. His courtiers have left him in the lurch,
and his concubines have let fall his tail. `Delight of
the Universe,' thou art in a sad predicament! `Glory
of the East,' thou art in danger of mastication!
Therefore never regard so piteously thy tail—it
will undoubtedly be draggled in the mud, and for this
there is no help. Look not behind thee, then, at its
unavoidable degradation—but take courage—ply
thy legs with vigor—and scud for the hippodrome!
Remember that thou art Antiochus Epiphanes, Antiochus
the Illustrious!—also `Prince of Poets,'
`Glory of the East, `Delight of the Universe,' and
`most remarkable of Camelopards!' Heavens!
what a power of speed thou art displaying! What
a capacity for leg-bail thou art developing! Run,
Prince! Bravo, Epiphanes! Well done, Camelopard!
Glorious Antiochus! He runs!—he moves!—he
flies! Like a shell from a catapult he approaches
the hippodrome! He leaps!—he shrieks!—he is
there! This is well—for hadst thou, `Glory of the
East,' been half a second longer in reaching the
gates of the amphitheatre, there is not a bear's cub
in Epidaphne who would not have had a nibble at
thy carcass. Let us be off—let us take our departure!—for
we shall find our delicate modern ears
unable to endure the vast uproar which is about to
commence in celebration of the king's escape!
Listen! it has already commenced. See!—the
whole town is topsy-turvy.

Surely this is the most populous city of the East!
What a wilderness of people! what a jumble of all
ranks and ages! what a multiplicity of sects and
nations! what a variety of costumes! what a Babel
of languages! what a screaming of beasts! what a
tinkling of instruments! what a parcel of philosophers!

Come let us be off!

Stay a moment! I see a vast hubbub in the
hippodrome—what is the meaning of it, I beseech
you?

That?—oh nothing! The noble and free citizens
of Epidaphne being, as they declare, well satisfied
of the faith, valor, wisdom, and divinity of their
king, and having, moreover, been eye-witnesses of

his late superhuman agility, do think it no more than
their duty to invest his brows (in addition to the
poetic crown) with the wreath of victory in the
foot race—a wreath which it is evident he must

obtain at the celebration of the next Olympiad,
and which, therefore, they now give him in advance.