picture Apollo bursting his bands, leaping forth from his cradle, and
spreading his wings like a swan, soaring sunward, declaring that he
had come to announce to mortals the will of God. "Is it possible," I
asked, "that all this is pure fabrication, a fantasy of the brain, as
unsubstantial as the air? No, no, Apollo is not an idol. He is a god,
and the son of a god. The whole Greek world will bear me witness that
I am telling the truth." Then I looked at my guide to see what
impression this outburst of sincere enthusiasm had produced upon him,
and I saw a cold smile upon his lips that cut me to the heart. It
seemed as if he wished to say to me, "You poor deluded pagan! You are
not intelligent enough to know that Homer was only a mortal after all,
and that he was writing a play in which he manufactured the gods of
whom he sang--that these gods existed only in his imagination, and
that today they are as dead as is their inventor--the poet."

By this time we stood at the entrance of a large edifice which my
guide said was "the House of God." As we walked in I saw innumerable
little lights blinking and winking all over the spacious interior.
There were, besides, pictures, altars and images all around me. The
air was heavy with incense; a number of men in gorgeous vestments were
passing to and fro, bowing and kneeling before the various lights and
images. The audience was upon its knees enveloped in silence--a
silence so solemn that it awed me. Observing my anxiety to understand
the meaning of all this, my guide took me aside and in a whisper told
me that the people were celebrating the anniversary of the birthday of
their beautiful Savior--Jesus, the Son of God.

"So was Apollo the son of God," I replied, thinking perhaps that after
all we might find ourselves in agreement with one another.