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

by E. F. Burr

“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.