Julian.
That is well, my friends; rejoice that I have succeeded in making a not altogether unworthy beginning to this day, which is specially dedicate to the feast of the radiant Apollo. For is it not worthy of a philosopher to overlook affronts against himself, whilst he sternly chastises wrongs done to the immortal gods? I do not recall whether that crowned cultivator of learning, Marcus Aurelius, was ever in like case; but if he was, we must hope that he did not act quite unlike me, who hold it an honour to follow humbly in his footsteps.
Let this serve as a clue for your future guidance. In the palace, in the market-place, even in the theatre—did I not loathe to enter such a place of folly—it is fit that you should greet me with acclamation and joyful applause. Such homage, I know, was well received both by the Macedonian Alexander and by Julius Caesar, men who were also permitted by the Goddess of Fortune to outshine other mortals in glory.
But when you see me entering a temple, that is another affair. Then I desire you to be silent, or direct your plaudits to the gods, and not to me, as I advance with bent head and downcast eyes. And above all, I trust you will be heedful of this to-day, when I am to sacrifice to so transcendent and mighty a divinity as he whom we know by the name of the Sun-King, and who seems even greater in our eyes when we reflect that he is the same whom certain oriental peoples call Mithra.
And with this—if no one has more to say
The Priest at the Door.
[Draws himself up.] In the name of the Lord God!
