THE TRUTH ABOUT JESUS IS HE A MYTH? Illustrated By M. M. Mangasarian 1909 [Illustration: 005 Woman Crucified. In the Church of St. Etienne, France. For a Long Time This Bearded Woman Was Supposed to be the Christ] _If it is not historically true that such and such things happened in Palestine eighteen centuries ago, what becomes of Christianity?_ --THOMAS HUXLEY. _By education most have been misled, So they believe because they were so bred; The priest continues what the nurse began, And thus the child imposes on the man_.--DRYDEN. PREFACE The following work offers in book form the series of studies on the question of the historicity of Jesus, presented from time to time before the Independent Religious Society in Orchestra Hall. No effort has been made to change the manner of the spoken, into the more regular form of the written, word. M. M. MANGASARIAN. [Illustration: 010 Picture in Herculaneum, of the Days of Pompeii, Showing Cupid Crowned with a Cross.] PART I. A PARABLE I am today twenty-five hundred years old. I have been dead for nearly as many years. My place of birth was Athens; my grave was not far from those of Xenophon and Plato, within view of the white glory of Athens and the shimmering waters of the Aegean sea. After sleeping in my grave for many centuries I awoke suddenly--I cannot tell how nor why--and was transported by a force beyond my control to this new day and this new city. I arrived here at daybreak, when the sky was still dull and drowsy. As I approached the city I heard bells ringing, and a little later I found the streets astir with throngs of well dressed people in family groups wending their way hither and thither. Evidently they were not going to work, for they were accompanied by their children in their best clothes, and a pleasant expression was upon their faces. "This must be a day of festival and worship, devoted to one of their gods," I murmured to myself. Looking about me I saw a gentleman in a neat black dress, smiling, and his hand extended to me with great cordiality. He must have realized I was a stranger and wished to tender his hospitality to me. I accepted it gratefully. I clasped his hand. He pressed mine. We gazed for a moment silently into each other's eyes. He understood my bewilderment amid my novel surroundings, and offered to enlighten me. He explained to me the ringing of the bells and the meaning of the holiday crowds moving in the streets. It was Sunday--Sunday before Christmas, and the people were going to "the House of God." "Of course you are going there, too," I said to my friendly guide. "Yes," he answered, "I conduct the worship. I am a priest." "A priest of Apollo?" I interrogated. "No, no," he replied, raising his hand to command silence, "Apollo is not a god; he was only an idol." "An idol?" I whispered, taken by surprise.