As Concerns Interpreting the Deity by Mark Twain
This line of hieroglyphs was for fourteen years the despair of all the
scholars who labored over the mysteries of the Rosetta stone: (Figure 1)
After five years of study Champollion translated it thus:
Therefore let the worship of Epiphanes be maintained in all the temples,
this upon pain of death.
That was the twenty-fourth translation that had been furnished by
scholars. For a time it stood. But only for a time. Then doubts began to
assail it and undermine it, and the scholars resumed their labors. Three
years of patient work produced eleven new translations; among them, this,
by Grunfeldt, was received with considerable favor:
The horse of Epiphanes shall be maintained at the public expense; this
upon pain of death.
But the following rendering, by Gospodin, was received by the learned
world with yet greater favor:
The priest shall explain the wisdom of Epiphanes to all these people, and
these shall listen with reverence, upon pain of death.
Seven years followed, in which twenty-one fresh and widely varying
renderings were scored—none of them quite convincing. But now, at
last, came Rawlinson, the youngest of all the scholars, with a translation
which was immediately and universally recognized as being the correct
version, and his name became famous in a day. So famous, indeed, that even
the children were familiar with it; and such a noise did the achievement
itself make that not even the noise of the monumental political event of
that same year—the flight from Elba—was able to smother it to
silence. Rawlinson's version reads as follows:
Therefore, walk not away from the wisdom of Epiphanes, but turn and follow
it; so shall it conduct thee to the temple's peace, and soften for thee
the sorrows of life and the pains of death.
Here is another difficult text: (Figure 2)
It is demotic—a style of Egyptian writing and a phase of the
language which had perished from the knowledge of all men twenty-five
hundred years before the Christian era.
Our red Indians have left many records, in the form of pictures, upon our
crags and boulders. It has taken our most gifted and painstaking students
two centuries to get at the meanings hidden in these pictures; yet there
are still two little lines of hieroglyphics among the figures grouped upon
the Dighton Rocks which they have not succeeded in interpreting to their
satisfaction. These: (Figure 3)
The suggested solutions of this riddle are practically innumerable; they
would fill a book.
Thus we have infinite trouble in solving man-made mysteries; it is only
when we set out to discover the secret of God that our difficulties
disappear. It was always so. In antique Roman times it was the custom of
the Deity to try to conceal His intentions in the entrails of birds, and
this was patiently and hopefully continued century after century, although
the attempted concealment never succeeded, in a single recorded instance.
The augurs could read entrails as easily as a modern child can read coarse
print. Roman history is full of the marvels of interpretation which these
extraordinary men performed. These strange and wonderful achievements move
our awe and compel our admiration. Those men could pierce to the marrow of
a mystery instantly. If the Rosetta-stone idea had been introduced it
would have defeated them, but entrails had no embarrassments for them.
Entrails have gone out, now—entrails and dreams. It was at last
found out that as hiding-places for the divine intentions they were
A part of the wall of Valletri having in former times been struck with
thunder, the response of the soothsayers was, that a native of that town
would some time or other arrive at supreme power. —BOHN'S SUETONIUS,
"Some time or other." It looks indefinite, but no matter, it happened, all
the same; one needed only to wait, and be patient, and keep watch, then he
would find out that the thunder-stroke had Caesar Augustus in mind, and
had come to give notice.
There were other advance-advertisements. One of them appeared just before
Caesar Augustus was born, and was most poetic and touching and romantic in
its feelings and aspects. It was a dream. It was dreamed by Caesar
Augustus's mother, and interpreted at the usual rates:
Atia, before her delivery, dreamed that her bowels stretched to the stars
and expanded through the whole circuit of heaven and earth.—SUETONIUS,
That was in the augur's line, and furnished him no difficulties, but it
would have taken Rawlinson and Champollion fourteen years to make sure of
what it meant, because they would have been surprised and dizzy. It would
have been too late to be valuable, then, and the bill for service would
have been barred by the statute of limitation.
In those old Roman days a gentleman's education was not complete until he
had taken a theological course at the seminary and learned how to
translate entrails. Caesar Augustus's education received this final
polish. All through his life, whenever he had poultry on the menu he saved
the interiors and kept himself informed of the Deity's plans by exercising
upon those interiors the arts of augury.
In his first consulship, while he was observing the auguries, twelve
vultures presented themselves, as they had done to Romulus. And when he
offered sacrifice, the livers of all the victims were folded inward in the
lower part; a circumstance which was regarded by those present who had
skill in things of that nature, as an indubitable prognostic of great and
wonderful fortune.—SUETONIUS, p. 141.
"Indubitable" is a strong word, but no doubt it was justified, if the
livers were really turned that way. In those days chicken livers were
strangely and delicately sensitive to coming events, no matter how far off
they might be; and they could never keep still, but would curl and squirm
like that, particularly when vultures came and showed interest in that
approaching great event and in breakfast.
We may now skip eleven hundred and thirty or forty years, which brings us
down to enlightened Christian times and the troubled days of King Stephen
of England. The augur has had his day and has been long ago forgotten; the
priest had fallen heir to his trade.
King Henry is dead; Stephen, that bold and outrageous person, comes flying
over from Normandy to steal the throne from Henry's daughter. He
accomplished his crime, and Henry of Huntington, a priest of high degree,
mourns over it in his Chronicle. The Archbishop of Canterbury consecrated
Stephen: "wherefore the Lord visited the Archbishop with the same judgment
which he had inflicted upon him who struck Jeremiah the great priest: he
died within a year."
Stephen's was the greater offense, but Stephen could wait; not so the
The kingdom was a prey to intestine wars; slaughter, fire, and rapine
spread ruin throughout the land; cries of distress, horror, and woe rose
in every quarter.
That was the result of Stephen's crime. These unspeakable conditions
continued during nineteen years. Then Stephen died as comfortably as any
man ever did, and was honorably buried. It makes one pity the poor
Archbishop, and wish that he, too, could have been let off as leniently.
How did Henry of Huntington know that the Archbishop was sent to his grave
by judgment of God for consecrating Stephen? He does not explain. Neither
does he explain why Stephen was awarded a pleasanter death than he was
entitled to, while the aged King Henry, his predecessor, who had ruled
England thirty-five years to the people's strongly worded satisfaction,
was condemned to close his life in circumstances most distinctly
unpleasant, inconvenient, and disagreeable. His was probably the most
uninspiring funeral that is set down in history. There is not a detail
about it that is attractive. It seems to have been just the funeral for
Stephen, and even at this far-distant day it is matter of just regret that
by an indiscretion the wrong man got it.
Whenever God punishes a man, Henry of Huntington knows why it was done,
and tells us; and his pen is eloquent with admiration; but when a man has
earned punishment, and escapes, he does not explain. He is evidently
puzzled, but he does not say anything. I think it is often apparent that
he is pained by these discrepancies, but loyally tries his best not to
show it. When he cannot praise, he delivers himself of a silence so marked
that a suspicious person could mistake it for suppressed criticism.
However, he has plenty of opportunities to feel contented with the way
things go—his book is full of them.
King David of Scotland... under color of religion caused his followers
to deal most barbarously with the English. They ripped open women,
tossed children on the points of spears, butchered priests at the
altars, and, cutting off the heads from the images on crucifixes, placed
them on the bodies of the slain, while in exchange they fixed on the
crucifixes the heads of their victims. Wherever the Scots came, there
was the same scene of horror and cruelty: women shrieking, old men
lamenting, amid the groans of the dying and the despair of the living.
But the English got the victory.
Then the chief of the men of Lothian fell, pierced by an arrow, and all
his followers were put to flight. For the Almighty was offended at them
and their strength was rent like a cobweb.
Offended at them for what? For committing those fearful butcheries? No,
for that was the common custom on both sides, and not open to criticism.
Then was it for doing the butcheries "under cover of religion"? No, that
was not it; religious feeling was often expressed in that fervent way all
through those old centuries. The truth is, He was not offended at "them"
at all; He was only offended at their king, who had been false to an oath.
Then why did not He put the punishment upon the king instead of upon
"them"? It is a difficult question. One can see by the Chronicle that the
"judgments" fell rather customarily upon the wrong person, but Henry of
Huntington does not explain why. Here is one that went true; the
chronicler's satisfaction in it is not hidden:
In the month of August, Providence displayed its justice in a remarkable
manner; for two of the nobles who had converted monasteries into
fortifications, expelling the monks, their sin being the same, met with
a similar punishment. Robert Marmion was one, Godfrey de Mandeville the
other. Robert Marmion, issuing forth against the enemy, was slain under
the walls of the monastery, being the only one who fell, though he was
surrounded by his troops. Dying excommunicated, he became subject to
death everlasting. In like manner Earl Godfrey was singled out among his
followers, and shot with an arrow by a common foot-soldier. He made
light of the wound, but he died of it in a few days, under
excommunication. See here the like judgment of God, memorable through
This exaltation jars upon me; not because of the death of the men, for
they deserved that, but because it is death eternal, in white-hot fire and
flame. It makes my flesh crawl. I have not known more than three men, or
perhaps four, in my whole lifetime, whom I would rejoice to see writhing
in those fires for even a year, let alone forever. I believe I would
relent before the year was up, and get them out if I could. I think that
in the long run, if a man's wife and babies, who had not harmed me, should
come crying and pleading, I couldn't stand it; I know I should forgive him
and let him go, even if he had violated a monastery. Henry of Huntington
has been watching Godfrey and Marmion for nearly seven hundred and fifty
years, now, but I couldn't do it, I know I couldn't. I am soft and gentle
in my nature, and I should have forgiven them seventy-and-seven times,
long ago. And I think God has; but this is only an opinion, and not
authoritative, like Henry of Huntington's interpretations. I could learn
to interpret, but I have never tried; I get so little time.
All through his book Henry exhibits his familiarity with the intentions of
God, and with the reasons for his intentions. Sometimes—very often,
in fact—the act follows the intention after such a wide interval of
time that one wonders how Henry could fit one act out of a hundred to one
intention out of a hundred and get the thing right every time when there
was such abundant choice among acts and intentions. Sometimes a man
offends the Deity with a crime, and is punished for it thirty years later;
meantime he has committed a million other crimes: no matter, Henry can
pick out the one that brought the worms. Worms were generally used in
those days for the slaying of particularly wicked people. This has gone
out, now, but in old times it was a favorite. It always indicated a case
of "wrath." For instance:
... the just God avenging Robert Fitzhilderbrand's perfidy, a worm grew in
his vitals, which gradually gnawing its way through his intestines
fattened on the abandoned man till, tortured with excruciating sufferings
and venting himself in bitter moans, he was by a fitting punishment
brought to his end.—(P. 400.)
It was probably an alligator, but we cannot tell; we only know it was a
particular breed, and only used to convey wrath. Some authorities think it
was an ichthyosaurus, but there is much doubt.
However, one thing we do know; and that is that that worm had been due
years and years. Robert F. had violated a monastery once; he had committed
unprintable crimes since, and they had been permitted—under
disapproval—but the ravishment of the monastery had not been
forgotten nor forgiven, and the worm came at last.
Why were these reforms put off in this strange way? What was to be gained
by it? Did Henry of Huntington really know his facts, or was he only
guessing? Sometimes I am half persuaded that he is only a guesser, and not
a good one. The divine wisdom must surely be of the better quality than he
makes it out to be.
Five hundred years before Henry's time some forecasts of the Lord's
purposes were furnished by a pope, who perceived, by certain perfectly
trustworthy signs furnished by the Deity for the information of His
familiars, that the end of the world was
... about to come. But as this end of the world draws near many things are
at hand which have not before happened, as changes in the air, terrible
signs in the heavens, tempests out of the common order of the seasons,
wars, famines, pestilences, earthquakes in various places; all which will
not happen in our days, but after our days all will come to pass.
Still, the end was so near that these signs were "sent before that we may
be careful for our souls and be found prepared to meet the impending
That was thirteen hundred years ago. This is really no improvement on the
work of the Roman augurs.