Hear me, Libanius! How did I come hither? With full confidence in the people of this city. Antioch, chosen by the Sun-King for his especial seat, was to help me to repair all the wrong and ingratitude which had so long been shown to the immortals. But how have you met me? Some with defiance, others with lukewarmness. What have I not to endure here? Does not that Cappadocian, Gregory of Nazianzus, still wander about the city, stirring up the ignorant Galileans by his audacious speeches? Has not a poet arisen among them—a certain Apollinaris—who, with his wild songs, inflames their fanaticism to the point of madness?
And what do I not learn from other places? In Caesarea, have they not carried out their threat, and wrecked the temple of Fortuna! Oh shame and infamy! Where were the goddess’s worshippers the while? Did they prevent it? No, they did not lift a finger, Libanius, though they should have laid down life itself to preserve the sanctuary.
But wait, wait! The Galileans of Caesarea shall atone with their blood, and the whole city shall go up in flames as soon as I have time at my disposal.
Libanius.
My lord and friend,—if you would permit me——
Julian.
Permit me, first. Say yourself whether I ought to tolerate such things? Say whether my zeal can bear with such insults to the divinities who hover over and shield me? But what can I do? Have I not laboured through many a long night to disprove these unhappy delusions,—writing, Libanius, till my eyes were red, and my fingers black with ink? And what good, think you, has it done? I have reaped scorn instead of thanks, not only from the fanatics themselves, but even from men who pretend to share my opinions. And now, to crown all these mortifications, I find you acting as spokesman for the complaints of a handful of citizens against Alexander, who at least does his best to keep the Galileans in check.
Libanius.
Oh, my august friend,—that is precisely our ground of complaint.
Julian.