University of Virginia Library

20. THE
ANCIENT CLAIRVOYANT.

Many centuries ago, a child named Hermotimus
was born in the genial climate of Ionia. From infancy,
his hold on material life seemed exceedingly
slight. He was a delicate, frail blossom;

But the slender thread that bound him to this
mortal existence did not break. The babe crawled

from his cradle and toddled into the fields, where
he would sit motionless for hours, by the side of
some flower he loved. A grave smile would illumine
his countenance if a butterfly rested on it, or
a passing bird brushed it with her wing. He always
expected to see the flower fly, too; and therefore
he watched it so patiently, as it swayed under
their light pressure. In very early childhood, he
was remarkable for the keenness of his senses and
the vividness of his dreams. He heard distant
sounds, inaudible even to the quick ear of his playmate
the hound; and the perfume of a rose made
him faint, before he was old enough to explain why
he turned so pale. At vintage time, when processions
in honor of Bacchus passed through the village,
his mother dared not take him to the show, where
all other children were dancing and capering; for
once, when she carried him with her to the rustic
festival, he fell into violent fits at the sound of the
shrill pipes and the clashing cymbals. His dreams
furnished a theme for all the gossips of the neighborhood;
for the scenes he witnessed in sleep impressed
themselves on his mind with such singular
distinctness, that nothing could persuade the child
he had not actually seen them. Sometimes, when
they gave him his little bowl of goat's milk for
supper, he would cry for the lamb with beautiful
rose-coloured wool, that had eaten a portion of his
milk the night before; and it was quite useless to
try to persuade him that there was no such creature
as a rose-coloured lamb. To all their assertions, he
would answer, with lively pertinacity, “I did see
him! I did see him; and he did drink from my
bowl.” As he grew older, he sometimes hummed
snatches of tunes, which he said were sung to him
by maidens in white robes, with garlands about
their heads; and the melodies were unlike any
known in the neighborhood. Several times, as he
walked along the road, he started suddenly at the
approach of a stranger, and ran away shuddering.
When his companions asked why he did so, he
would answer, “Ah, that was a very bad man. He
made me feel all over cold.”

It was no wonder that the simple villagers became
superstitious concerning such a singular child.
Some remembered that, before he was born, his
mother had carried offerings into a consecrated
grotto, where stood a statue of Apollo; and that,
being overcome by the warmth of the day, she had
fallen asleep there. This gave rise to the story that
in her dreams she had heard the god playing upon
his golden lyre; that the divine sounds had pervaded
her whole being, and endowed her child with
Apollo's gift of prophecy. Others declared that
the altar in the sacred grotto had for several years
been loaded with her devout offerings, and that she
had been heard to say the statue sometimes smiled
upon her. Such tokens of approbation from
celestial beings were by no means deemed incredible;
but they implied that the worshipper was a

favourite with the deity she served. From this be
life it was easy to infer that the extraordinary child,
who saw and heard things invisible and inaudible
to other mortals, might be a veritable son of Apollo.
Some old crones shook their heads mournfully, and
said children who received peculiar endowments
from the gods generally died young.

But the little Hermotimus wandered about with
his father's shepherds, and was gradually invigorated
by air and exercise. He no longer fainted at
perfumes, or shared his supper with rose-coloured
lambs. His mother still noticed a peculiar dreaminess
in the expression of his eyes, and when he was
alone, she sometimes heard him singing melodies,
which came to him from some mysterious source.
She kept her thoughts in the privacy of her own
heart, but she retained her belief that his remarkable
boyhood was the forcrunner of something extraordinary
in manhood. With his improving
health, the gossip of the neighbourhood gradually
subsided, and was only occasionally revived by
some eccentricities in his manners. The change
pleased his father well; for he wanted a son to aid
him in the acquisition of wealth, and had no desire
to see him become either poet or prophet. He
charged his wife never to talk to him about his
childish dreams, and he was annoyed by any allusions
to her sleep in Apollo's grotto. Of course,
the lad was aware that things had been said of him,
which his mother believed, and his father disliked

to have mentioned. This mystery made him think
more about himself, than he would otherwise have
done, and increased his tendency to lonely wanderings
and profound reveries. His father did his utmost
to allure him to convivial meetings with young
people; saying to himself that a sharp shot from
Cupid's bow was the best thing to wake him up
thoroughly. But the timid youth scarcely ventured
to raise his eyes in the presence of maidens, and
appeared to take even less notice of their charms,
than he did of flowers and birds, and other beautiful
things. His father thought that a mate as unlike
himself as possible would be most likely to
counteract his peculiar tendencies. He therefore
selected Praxinoë, a buxom merry-hearted lass, who
was so healthy, she never had but one dream she
remembered in the whole course of her life; and
that was of being at a vintage festival, where she
pelted the young men with clusters of grapes, till
the wine ran down their chins and made her wake
with laughing. Certainly, she would have chosen
quite another sort of mate, than Hermotimus with
his soft voice and dreamy eyes. But it was the
belief in those days, and it has kept its ground
pretty well ever since, that women have no right
to an opinion of their own. So the parents arranged
the affair between them, and the passive
young couple were married.

Praxinoë was energetic and ambitious. She
prided herself on the excellent cheeses she made,

and the quantity of grapes she dried for the market.
She was always talking of these, and Hermotimus
tried to listen patiently, though she unconsciously
tormented him to a greater degree than ever his
thrifty father had done. Sometimes he even praised
her industry, and smiled, in his absent sort of way;
for he had a kind of pleasure in the company of his
pretty young bride, as he had in the presence of a
lively twittering bird. Had a modern caricaturist
made a picture of their wedded life, he would have
painted it as the marriage of a solemn young owl
with a chattering wren. Hermotimus was often
bewildered by her volubility, and her incessant activity
sometimes made him feel weary, as if he had
himself been hard at work. He loved to sit for
hours in silent thought, meditating on the nature
of the soul; revolving in his mind whether the
gods ever did unite themselves with mortals; and
whether those philosophers had spoken truly, who
had affirmed that there was something divine within
the body, which would lay aside its temporary
garment of flesh, resume its native wings, and return
to a celestial home, to dwell among immortals.
While his thoughts were plunged in such profound
meditations, it not unfrequently happened that
Praxinoë came to inquire whether he remembered
how many cheeses she had sent to market, or how
many bushels of grapes were in readiness; and if
he forgot the number she had told him, as he generally
did, her cheerful temper became over-clouded
with consciousness that the energy and industry,
on which she prided herself, were altogether unappreciated.
It was a hard disappointment for her to
bear; for she loved luxury, and was born to sun
herself in the pleasures of this world. Hermotimus
would have pitied her if he could; but he never
was in that region where she lived, and he did not
know what people enjoyed or suffered there.
Praxinoë had as little idea of the worlds through
which he wandered; and the glimpses she obtained
from his occasional remarks were by no
means attractive to her. She had much less desire
for celestial wings, than she had for fine woolens
and glossy silks; and the shadow-land of disembodied
souls presented to her mind no pleasant
pictures of comfortable housekeeping. Her favourite
topics of conversation were embroidered mantles,
and robes of Tyrian dye; and if her husband sought
to check her, by remarking that such expensive
articles could never be obtained by them, she answered
impatiently, “Why not? People can have
what they will. The Greeks got into Troy, didn't
they?” Sometimes she would add, in an undertone
of vexation, “But they were not such Greeks
as thou art.”

Undoubtedly, he was a vexation to an earth-born
woman—that mild, dreamy, saintly man! The distance
between them inevitably grew wider and
wider; and the process was hastened by changes
in the condition of Hermotimus. Though he had

become more healthy in youth, than he was in infancy,
there had never been a complete union between
his soul and body. The inner and outer
circles of his being, instead of clasping into each
other, touched only at one point, and so remained
nearly strangers. At the time of his marriage, he
was believed to have outgrown the feebleness of
his childhood, and to have lost the power of prophecy.
But two years afterward, he fell asleep one
day in the same grotto of Apollo to which his
mother had been accustomed to carry offerings.
He came out pale and chill, and was that night
seized with a singular kind of fits, which continued
to attack him more and more frequently. The old
gossip was renewed. The neighbours said his
father, the divine Apollo, had kissed him in his
sleep, and he would never be like other men.
Praxinoë nursed him carefully, for she had a kindly
heart. But when the fits were on him, he inspired
a degree of awe amounting almost to terror;
for his looks and words impressed her with a strong
conviction that he was some sort of a Spirit, and
not a mortal man. At times, he told her the most
secret thoughts of her heart, and repeated word for
word what had been said to her, when he was out
of hearing. He frequently described magnificent
cities, gorgeous birds, and beautiful flowers, she
had never seen or heard of. But what made her
shudder more than all else, was the familiar intercourse
he described with relatives and friends long
since dead. If she were alone with him, during
these strange visitations, he never answered when
she spoke, or gave any indication that he was aware
of her presence. But there was one person, to
whose questions he always replied. In the neighbouring
city of Clazomenæ lived a Pythagorean
philosopher, named Prytanes. He heard rumours of
the singular childhood of Hermotimus, and of the
extraordinary fits that had come upon him in manhood;
and he was desirous to ascertain how far
these accounts had been exaggerated. When he
made his first visit to him who was called The
Sleeping Prophet, he found him lying upon a couch
motionless and senseless. He took hold of his
hand, and found it cold and rigid; but a change
went over the countenance, like the light which
drives shadows across the fields; and Hermotimus
said, “I am glad you have come again; for, above
all things, I have enjoyed our pleasant walks together
in the groves, talking of the wings of the
soul.” This seemed marvellous to Prytanes; for
never, to his knowledge, had he spoken with Hermotimus.
But when he asked questions concerning
their conversations, the sleeper revealed to him
many thoughts, which he remembered to have
passed through his own mind, at various times, and
which had seemed to him, at the moment, as if they
did not originate in himself, but had come to him
from some unknown source; thoughts which he in
fact believed to have been imparted by supernal
beings. When Prytanes returned to Clazomenæ,
he gave an account of this wonderful experience, in
public discourses to his disciples; and the fame of
Hermotimus spread more and more widely. Priests
and philosophers came to listen to his conversations
with Prytanes; and while some went away incredulous,
others were deeply impressed with awe.
From far and near, people brought the diseased to
him, begging him to prescribe a cure; and the
rumour went round that sometimes, when he merely
passed his hands over them, their pains departed.
In these days, he would have been called a clairvoyant;
but what we style animal-magnetism had
then never been mentioned; though its phenomona
were occasionally manifested, as they always have
been, wherever the spiritual and physical circle of
man's compound existence is partially disjoined.
Scientific causes were then little investigated.
Health, beauty, eloquence, poetry, and all other
things, were supposed to be direct and special gifts
from some god. No wonder then that many believed
Hermotimus to be really the son of Apollo,
receiving the gift of healing and of prophecy from
immediate and continual intercourse with his divine
father.

If the wise and thoughtful were puzzled, it may
well be supposed that the busy little Praxinoë often
felt as if she were walking among shadows in a fog.
Her ambition was in some degree gratified by her
husband's fame, and by the distinguished persons

who came to visit him. But, in confidential conversation
with her gossips, she complained that
these numerous visitors interrupted her avocations,
beside bringing a great deal of dust into the house,
and asking for a draught of her fresh wine rather
oftener than was convenient. “I admire hospitality,”
she would say; “and I wish I were rich
enough to feast all Ionia, every week, and send
each guest away with a golden bracelet. But the
fact is, these dreams of Hermotimus, though they
are full of palaces and fountains, do not help in the
least to build such things; and he brings home no
wine from the beautiful vineyards he describes.
Then I can't help thinking, sometimes, that it would
be pleasant to know for a certainty whether one's
husband were really dead, or alive.”

One thing became daily more obvious to her and
to all who saw him. The continual questions he
was called upon to answer, and the distant places
of the earth he was required to visit, exhausted the
little bodily strength he possessed. The priests at
the neighbouring temple of Esculapius said he
needed more quiet, and ought to drink a strong
decoction of vervain, gathered when the moonlight
rested on it. He himself, when questioned, during
his miraculous slumbers, declared that the air of
the valleys was not good for him. Therefore his
friends removed him to a residence among the
hills. Praxinoë made no objection; for though
her spiritualized mate failed to call forth all the

warmth of her loving nature, she had a friendly
feeling for him, and would gladly have done any
thing for the recovery of his health. But the
change was by no means agreeable to her lively
disposition. She liked to live where she could see
festive processions passing with garlands, and gaily
dressed youths and maidens dancing to the sound
of cymbals and flutes.

News from the city became more rare; for Hermotimus
recovered his health, and with it lost what
was called his gift of prophecy; consequently,
visitors came less and less frequently. Urged by
Praxinoë, the diseased one sometimes tried to render
himself practically useful. But his heart was
in such occupations even less than it had formerly
been. Companionship with philosophers had excited
his intellect, and induced the habit of watching
his own soul with intense interest. He was
absorbed in reverie most of the time, and Prytane,
who came occasionally to see him, was the only
person with whom he conversed freely. Their conversation
was more wearisome to Praxinoë than his
dreamy silence. She said they might be as wise as
owls, for all she knew to the contrary, but that she
could see no more sense in their talk, than she did
in the hooting of those solemn birds of darkness.
In another respect, Hermotimus seemed to her like
an owl. His eyes became so nervously sensitive to
light, that he winked continually in the sunshine,
and was prone to seek the shelter of grottoes and

shady groves. His childish habit of vivid dreams
returned; and the explanation of these dreams occupied
his thoughts continually. One morning, he
told Praxinoë he had dreamed that she held in her
hand a crystal globe, that reflected all things in
the universe; that she threw it into the flames,
where it cracked asunder, and there rose from it a
radiant Spirit, with large white wings. She laughed,
and said if she had such a globe, she would not
break it till she had taken a peep at Corinth, to see
the embroidered silks and golden girdles that the
women wore there. He was thinking of the winged
Spirit, and her remark passed through his ears without
reaching his mind. Had he listened to the observation,
it would have seemed to him very much
like looking through the universe to watch a butterfly.
Nothing was interesting to him but the process
of attaining wings to his soul. He thought of
this, till the body seemed an encumbrance, and its
necessities a sin. He ate sparingly at all times, and
fasted often. When he spoke at all, his talk was
ever of mortifying the senses, that the soul might
be enabled to rise to the ethereal spheres from which
it had fallen into this world. Praxinoë was impatient
with such discourse. “To think of his talking
of mortifying the senses!” exclaimed she;
“when he never had any senses to mortify. Why,
never since I knew him has he eaten enough to
keep a nightingale alive. For my part, I think it
is a blessing to have plenty of good food, and an
excellent appetite for it.”

In her present situation, she was not sustained
through her trials, as she had been near Clazomenæ,
by the reverence which her husband inspired. Their
dwelling was isolated, and in the nearest village
were many scoffers and skeptics. She had formed
an intimacy with a wealthy dame, named Eucoline;
and from her she learned that people said
Hermotimus neglected to provide for his family,
because he was too indolent to work; that he injured
his health by frequent fasts, and made himself
crazy with thinking, merely for the sake of
being stared at by the common people; and as for
his pretended visions and prophecies, they were
undoubtedly impositions. Praxinoë, who habitually
looked outward for her standard of thought and
action, was much influenced by these remarks.
She had sometimes wept in secret over her cheerless
destiny; but discontent had been restrained
by a reverent sense of being connected with some
solemn mystery, which others respected. Now, she
began to doubt whether the eccentricities she daily
witnessed might not be assumed, from the motives
imputed by their neighbours. This tendency was
increased by the influence of Eratus, the gay, luxurious
husband of Eucoline. He professed to be a
disciple of Epicurus, but he was one of those who
had perverted the original doctrines of that teacher;
for while he thought happiness was the only good,

he believed there was no enjoyment higher than
that of the senses. To his volatile mind all things
in life afforded subjects for jest and laughter. If
he met Praxinoë, on her way to his wife's apartments,
he would say, “How is the good Hermotimus,
to-day? Has he gone to talk with the gods,
and thrown his body on the couch till he returns?”
These sneers were not pleasant; and the habit of
comparing her situation with that of Eucoline increased
her discontent. The handsome and healthy
Eratus was growing richer every day by his own
energy and enterprise. “Such robes as he buys
for his wife!” said she to herself, “I can make
better wine than she can; I can weave handsomer
cloth; and I think the gods have endowed me with
more beauty; but I can never hope to wear such
robes. Ah, if my good Hermotimus were only
more alive!”

This involuntary comparison did no great harm,
until her friend Eucoline chanced to die suddenly.
Then the idea came into her head, “If I could
marry Eratus, what a noble span we should make!
We might ride in our own chariot, inlaid with
ivory and gold. Perhaps it may happen some day,
Who knows? Didn't the Greeks get into Troy?”
She tried to drive away the pleasing vision, but it
would intrude itself; and worse still, the handsome
Eratus often came in person to bring choice grapes
and figs, in the prettiest of all imaginable vases and
baskets. He was always friendly with Hermotimus;

and if his body had wandered away, carried
by the soul, which was so generally absent
from this material world, the Epicurean would inquire,
in this jocular way, “Where is the good
Hermotimus, pretty one? Has he gone off to converse
with the gods? If Venus had given me such a
beautiful companion at home, all Olympus wouldn't
tempt me away from her.” The gay, graceful,
flattering man! He was a dangerous contrast to
her pale silent husband, hiding himself in groves
and grottoes, thinking only of obtaining wings for
his soul. Eratus was conscious of his power, and
betrayed it by expressive glances from his large
dark eyes. Sparks fell from them into the heart
of the neglected wife, and kindled a fire there
which glowed through her cheeks. Her eyelids
drooped under his ardent gaze, and she avoided
looking at him when he spoke; but she could not
shut out the melting tenderness of his tones. It
was a hard trial to poor Praxinoë. Her nature had
such tropical exuberance! She was born with such
love of splendour, such capacity for joy! and the
cruel Fates had cast her destiny in such cold and
shady places! Her pride had sometimes been an
evil companion, but it now proved a friend in need.
If she could not be the wife of Eratus, she resolved
not to give Cupid any more opportunities to shoot
arrows from his eyes, or play amorous tunes with
his musical voice. When she saw the flatterer approaching,
she retreated hastily and left an old servant
to receive him, and thank him for the grapes
he had brought for Hermotimus. Eratus smiled at
the veil she thus endeavoured to throw over his attentions;
and to deprive her of the subterfuge, he
sent her a golden bracelet and ear-rings, for which
she could not thank him in the name of her husband.
She returned the costly gift, though affection,
vanity, and love of elegance strongly tempted
her to retain it. She was a brave woman. The
prudes in the neighbourhood, who were accustomed
to shake their heads and say she laughed and
talked more than was consistent with decorum,
never knew half how brave she was.

This prudent reserve of course rendered her
more interesting to the enamored widower. The
more he thought of her, the more he was vexed
that such a vivacious creature, with mantling complexion,
laughing eyes, and springing step, should be
appropriated by a pale devotee, who took no notice
of her charms, and who in fact despised even the
most beautiful body, regarding it merely as a prison
for the soul. At last, he plainly expressed a wish
to marry her; and he proposed to ask Hermotimus
to divorce her for that purpose, which the laws of
the country enabled him to do. Praxinoë, with
bashful frankness, confessed her willingness, and
said she did not think Hermotimus would observe
whether she were present or absent. “If he understands
my proposition,” replied Eratus, laughing,
“he will give me a grave lecture, and tell me

how the wings of his soul are growing, by with
drawing from all the pleasures of this world. Let
them grow!”

The sudden and alarming illness of Hermotimus
arrested the progress of affairs; for the kindness of
Praxinoë overcame all other feelings, and she said
she would not leave him to the care of hirelings.
He recovered slowly, and again wandered forth
into the groves, with feeble steps. Eratus watched
him impatiently; and when at last he seemed sufficiently
recovered to enter into conversation, he
sought an interview. He found him lying on the
ground, in one of his favourite groves, cold and rigid
as a corpse. He called servants to convey him to
the house. Praxinoë manifested no surprise. She
said she had not seen him in such a state for two
years, but that in former times he would often lie
senseless for a long time, and then wake up to tell
of wonderful countries he had visited. Day passed
after day, and he did not wake. The disciples of
skeptical philosophers came and looked at him, and
went away laughing with each other about the
stories they had heard of his former visions, prophecies,
and miraculous cures. They concluded
their remarks by saying, “It can do no harm to
burn his body, whether he is dead or not. The
soul he had so much faith in was always longing
to get out of prison. It would be conferring a
favour upon him to give him a chance to try his
wings.”

The parents of Hermotimus were dead. Eratus
summoned priests of æculapius, who decidedly
pronounced his slumber the sleep of death; and
the relatives of Praxinoë sympathized with his impatience
for the funeral. But she continued to
doubt, and insisted upon first sending for the Pythagorean
philosopher, whom Hermotimus had always
answered, when he was in those strange
trances. The messenger returned with tidings that
he had gone to Athens. The funeral-pile was
erected, and the good-hearted widow wept to find
that the certainty of his death was such a relief to
her mind. This consciousness was the more unpleasant
to her, because she said to herself, “If he
is in one of those trances, he knows all I am thinking.”
When they lifted him from the couch where
he had lain so still, she shuddered violently, and
exclaimed, “Surely he is not quite so pale as he
was!” But they reasoned with her, and said, “He
looks just as he has for the last three days.” She
saw his body placed on the funeral-pile, and when
the flames began to curl round it, she listened to
hear if there were any audible signs of life. But
all was still, save the crackling of the wood; and
in a short time, a heap of ashes was all that remained.

That night, she dreamed that she held a crystal
globe in her hands, and threw it from her into the
flames. The globe cracked, and a radiant Spirit,
with white wings, rose from it and soared high into

the air. He smiled as he passed her, and said, “I
foretold this.” The countenance looked as that of
Hermotimus had sometimes looked in his trances,
when he told his friend Prytanes that he was listening
to white-robed maidens, who played on golden
harps; but though similar in expression, it was far
more glorious. Did memory cause that dream?
Or was it imparted from some other source, beyond
herself? She woke trembling and afraid, and with
a strong impression that she had seen Hermotimus.
This belief excited uneasy thoughts, which she
dared not mention, for fear of slanderous tongues.
But she secretly confessed to Eratus that she feared
her husband was not dead when they burned his
body. He replied, “It is foolish to trouble yourself
about a dream, my lovely one. It is enough
that all who saw him thought he was dead. You
know it often puzzled wiser folks than you or I to
tell whether he was alive or not. Whatever phantom
it was that sailed through the ivory gate of
dreams, he smiled and seemed happy. Then why
be disturbed about it? Life was given for enjoyment,
dearest.” He laughed and began to sing,
“I'll crown my love with myrtle;” and his looks
and tones drove all phantoms from her thoughts.

She soon became his wife, and her ambitious
hopes were more than realized. Eratus placed a
high value on worldly possessions, and knew very
well how to obtain them. She never had occasion
to remind him that the Greeks entered Troy.

But where there is sunshine, there is always
shadow. Her prosperity excited envy; which
some manifested by saying, “If every body could
burn a poor husband for the sake of marrying a
rich one, other folks could wear silk mantles, too.”
Remarks of that kind reached the ears of many
who were firm believers in the inspiration of The
Sleeping Prophet. They made anxious inquiries
concerning the manner of his death; to which certain
envious women answered: “Praxinoë was
always a very good neighbour. We have nothing
to say against her; though some people thought
she was rather free, and not a little vain. The old
nurse says Eratus was always sending her presents,
long before her husband died; and some people do
think it was very obliging in poor Hermotimus to
die, just when he was so much wanted out of the
way.” These whisperings soon grew into a report
that the rich Epicurean had bribed the priests of
æsculapius to pronounce the slumberer a dead man.
Of course, some persons were good-natured enough
to repeat these rumours to the parties implicated.
Finding their solemn assertions of innocence received
with significant silence, or annoying inuendoes,
they resolved to remove from the neighbourhood.
Praxinoë had always greatly desired to see
Corinth; and to please her, Eratus chose it for their
future residence. In that gay luxurious city, her
love of splendour was abundantly gratified with
pompous processions and showy equipage. Her

beauty attracted attention whenever she was seen
in public, and her husband took pride in adorning
her with rich embroidery and costly jewels. In
such an atmosphere, the wings of her soul had
small chance to grow; but that subject never occupied
her thoughts.

It was generally believed in Clazomenæ and its
vicinity that Hermotimus was not dead when his
emaciated body was consumed on the funeral-pile.
This idea occasioned a good deal of excitement
among those who had been cured of diseases by his
directions, or startled to hear their inmost thoughts
revealed. His frequent conversations with spirits
of the departed had strongly impressed them with
the belief that some god spoke through him, while
his senses were wrapped in profound slumber; and
no skeptical witticisms or arguments could diminish
their faith in the prophet. They erected a temple
to his memory, where they placed his ashes in a
golden urn; and because his wife had consented
that his body should be burned, while his soul was
absent on one of its customary visits to the gods,
they never allowed any woman to enter within the
consecrated precincts.