'Then send out for some pillars and Cecil B. DeMille'
Bob Dylan, Tombstone Blues
And so they did. The result was one of my favourite Sunday afternoon films when growing up, The Ten Commandments, old-school Hollywood spectacle at it's best, based in part on this mid-19th century tome by a long-winded clergyman and author who once told Longfellow that he had written twenty novels in a single year. A plague of novels, you might say.
Don't go expecting any plagues in the first four hundred pages here, however, or even so much as a burning bush. Ingraham takes his sweet time getting to the Moses story we all know from the Book of Exodus, taking us instead on an extended tour of ancient Egypt, its people, customs, military, and religion, all seen through the eyes of Sesostris, a visiting prince from Phœnicia.
As such, I don't know how useful the first two thirds of this book is nowadays, our understanding of Egyptian history has greatly increased since then. Ingraham intends to be as accurate as possible, using the contemporary work of Nolan and Seyffarth as his guide, but even a layman like me could detect that the chronological and historical errors were many.
He set the Exodus in the 16th century BC, which is as likely as any, yet if so then it simply could not have been during the reign of the Pharaoh's Daughter of the Bible. The princess who adopted Moses was probably called Bithia, not Amense as she is here, and was certainly never Pharaoh herself.
During this ethnographic preamble, which turned out to be the bulk of the book, Moses is called Remeses, while Rameses is called Mœris. I admit to being confused by this for a while. Athe outset, Moses is an enlightened Egyptian prince aged thirty-four. He sees beyond the pantheistic religion of his people and believes in "the One God, God of gods."
Rather incredulously he also perceives that the earth is a globe which revolves around the sun, fully three thousand years before Copernicus figured it out.
The Egyptian religion is shown to be above the Phoenician, as the new religion of the Hebrews will be above the Egyptian. As Rameses tells Sesostris:
"The figures of our gods, which you see hewn in marble, painted on temples, standing colossal monoliths in the entrance of the city, are but vicarious forms, not intended to be looked upon as real divine personages. Not a child in Egypt believes that a being exists, with the head of a bird joined to the human form—... They are all, simply personifications of divine attributes."
There was an awful lot of that kind of talk, much more than the average reader would be willing to bear. I bet old Cecil himself skipped most of those parts, though he obviously paid attention to the passages detailing the treatment of the Hebrew slave colony at Goshen, including the incident where Moses stepped in to prevent the ill-treatment of an old man.
Only when Moses was banished from Egypt, staying with the Prince of Uz (more commonly known as Job) did the narrative start to move. In fact when the plagues finally arrived, Ingraham ran through them pell-mell, as though he realised he had already wasted too much time playing the historian.
I was ok with this scholarly approach, or at least found these bits preferable to moments when the author injected some personal drama into all the epistolary sightseeing, such as Amense's efforts to keep the truth of her adopted son's Hebrew identity a secret from him. The scenes between them were the worst kind of melodramatic drivel.
In the final two hundred pages Charlton Heston really came into his own.