In Both Worlds
by William H. Holcombe · English · Gutenberg #36342 · 587,408 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: In Both Worlds
Author: William H. Holcombe
Release date: June 6, 2011 [eBook #36342]
Most recently updated: June 17, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36342
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN BOTH WORLDS ***
IN BOTH WORLDS.
BY
WM. H. HOLCOMBE, M. D.,
AUTHOR OF “OUR CHILDREN IN HEAVEN;” “THE SEXES:
HERE AND HEREAFTER,” ETC., ETC.
PHILADELPHIA
_J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO_
1870.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for the
Eastern
District of Pennsylvania.
LIPPINCOTT’S PRESS,
PHILADELPHIA.
[Illustration: Ornament]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I.
CAST OUT 17
II.
CLOUDS GATHERING 29
III.
NIGHT BY THE DEAD SEA 39
IV.
IN THE WILDERNESS 50
V.
THE BANQUET 60
VI.
THE CHAMBER OF MAGIC 75
VII.
SAVED 93
VIII.
BREAD ON THE WATERS 105
IX.
SACRIFICE 119
X.
AT ATHENS 132
XI.
HELENA 141
XII.
THE HALL OF APOLLO 149
XIII.
MY FIRST DEATH 159
XIV.
MY SPIRITUAL BODY 171
XV.
THE WORLD OF SPIRITS 184
XVI.
THE CHRIST ABOVE NATURE 193
XVII.
JUDGMENT OF THE JEWS 203
XVIII.
IMAGINARY HEAVENS 214
XIX.
THE MAGICIANS IN HELL 225
XX.
FRIENDS IN HEAVEN 236
XXI.
THE SPIRITUALLY DEAD 250
XXII.
BACK TO EARTH 261
XXIII.
IMPRISONED 271
XXIV.
BURIED ALIVE 280
XXV.
WHAT HAD HAPPENED 292
XXVI.
THE CITY OF COLONNADES 305
XXVII.
HELENA AGAIN 320
XXVIII.
TO THE LION 334
XXIX.
CHRISTIAN CANDLES 344
XXX.
THE GREAT COMBAT 355
XXXI.
FREE 367
XXXII.
WHAT REMAINS? 378
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]
A STRANGE DISCOVERY
IN LIEU OF
A PREFACE.
[Illustration: Initial]
Many years ago I was enjoying in the harbor of New York the charming
hospitalities of the officers belonging to one of the finest vessels in
the British Navy. The company was gay, cultivated and brilliant. Student
and recluse as I then was, I was perhaps more delighted than any one
present with the conversation of those practical and polished men of the
world.
After supper I was attracted to a small group of earnest talkers, of whom
the surgeon of the ship seemed to be the centre and oracle. He was
speaking of exhumations a long time after death, of mummies and
petrifactions and other curious transformations of the human body. He
stated that he had examined some of the skeletons which had been dug out
of the ruins of Herculaneum. The bones were almost perfect after the lapse
of eighteen hundred years. The complete exclusion of air and water seemed
to be the only thing necessary to an indefinite preservation.
The chaplain of the vessel endeavored to give the conversation an æsthetic
and semi-religious turn by analyzing the feelings of mingled awe,
melancholy and curiosity with which most men survey the remains of a human
form—feelings always heightened by the antiquity of the relic, and by the
dignity of the person who lived and loved and labored in it.
“The fundamental idea,” said he, “is a profound respect for the human body
itself as the casket which has contained the spiritual jewel, the soul.”
“Yes,” remarked the surgeon; “nothing but the lapse of a people into
cannibalism can obliterate that sentiment. When the Egyptian embalmers
were ready for their work, a certain person came forward and made the
necessary incisions for taking out the entrails. He immediately fled away,
pursued by volleys of stones and curses from all the others. Hence also
the dissections of the dead by medical students are conducted with the
utmost secrecy and caution.”
“Schiller,” said I, “makes one of his heroes remark that the first time he
plunged his sword into a living man, he felt a shudder creep over him as
if he had desecrated the temple of God.”
“Besides the feeling of reverence,” continued the clergyman, “we have the
awe which death naturally inspires, the melancholy excited by the vain and
transitory nature of earthly things; and lastly, a tender and curious
interest for the brother-soul which has tasted the sweetness of life and
the bitterness of death, and passed onward to those hidden but grander
experiences which await us all.”
“Those shocking Egyptian mummies,” said one of the officers, “are so
disgusting that a strange horror is mingled with the gentler emotions you
describe.”
“I experienced that feeling,” said another, “on reading an account of the
exhumation of the remains, or rather the opening of the coffin, of King
Charles I., two hundred years after he had been beheaded. It was
increased, doubtless, by the idea of the separated head and body, and the
strange and lifelike stare of the king’s eyes, which collapsed like
soap-bubbles when they were exposed to the air.”
“There was something of the picturesque in that finding of a dead body by
some little children who were playing in a grotto in France. It was seated
on a stone bench and perfectly petrified, retaining, however, a sweet and
placid expression of countenance. The man was an old hermit, who
frequently retired into the deepest chamber of the grotto for religious
contemplation.”
“Imagine yourself,” said I, “in the silence and shadows of Westminster
Abbey, peering through some crevice in an old vault and getting a sight of
the shrunken dust of Shakespeare.”
“Passing from imagination to fact,” said solemnly the old surgeon, “I have
seen the body of a man lying upon the ground where it had lain undisturbed
for eighteen hundred years.”
“Eighteen hundred years!” exclaimed several voices at once.
“Yes, eighteen hundred years; and I was the first person who set eyes upon
him from the day of his death until I got into the cavern where he
perished.”
“A romance! a romance!” cried the minister. “Come, doctor, be
communicative and tell us all about it.”
“It is not a romance,” said the doctor, “but the facts were certainly very
curious.
“When I was a young assistant surgeon, attached to the sloop-of-war
Agamemnon, we were skirting leisurely the eastern shores of the
Mediterranean, and anchored one morning in sight of the ruins of the
ancient city of Sidon and opposite the westernmost spurs of Lebanon, the
Mont Blanc of Palestine.
“There is only one picture grander than a view of Mount Lebanon from the
sea, and that is a view of the sea from Mount Lebanon. I enjoyed the
former so keenly that I determined to obtain the latter also. We got up a
party of genial and stout fellows to ascend one of the highest peaks,
armed with pick-axes, to obtain geological specimens on our way.
“We had advanced but a short distance up one of the cliffs, when we
started from the scanty undergrowth some little animal—a wolf or jackal or
wild dog, all of which abound on Mount Lebanon. We all joined noisily in
the chase, and soon ran the frightened creature into one of the deep
crevices or fissures made in the earth by the tempestuous rains of that
region. Our picks were immediately brought into play, and in a short time,
to our very great astonishment, instead of digging the fugitive out of a
little hole in the ground, we opened our way into what was evidently the
rear or back part of a cave of considerable dimensions.
“Our party crawled in one after another, myself leading the way. The
contents of the place arrested our attention so strongly that we forgot
the object of our chase, which had buried itself in some holes or burrows
at the side of the cavern. The floor was of a yellowish-white limestone,
and all eyes were immediately directed, in the rather dim light, to the
figure of a man outstretched upon it.
“Yes, it was a man whose entire body, clothing and all, had dissolved into
one blended mass, and so long ago that it looked rather like a great
bas-relief of the human form projecting from the lighter-colored floor.
“The shape of the head and of the long hair and beard was complete. One
outstretched arm lay along the floor, and the fingers could be traced by
little ridges separate from each other. The protuberances of all the bony
parts showed that the skeleton still resisted the disintegrating process
of decay.
“What an awful death he must have experienced! For there was not a single
other object in the small space which remained of the cavern; not a stone
which might have served for a seat or a table; not an earthen vessel which
might have contained a draught of water.
“The fate of this unhappy being was evident. Whether he had lived in the
cavern or whether he had taken refuge in it from some great storm, he had
clearly rushed to the back part of it to escape some enormous landslide
and caving in at the front, which had opened toward the sea. He had been
buried alive! Having exhausted the little air that remained to him,
stricken down by terror, despair and suffocation, he had rendered up his
soul to the great Giver in silence, darkness and solitude.
“These facts were so obvious that we all lifted our hats before speaking a
word; thus paying the tribute of human sympathy to a fellow-creature
eighteen hundred years after he had ceased to need it.”
“How did you fix upon the date of his death?” asked the chaplain.
“You will see. A large cylindrical case of bronze was lying upon the
breast of the dead man. He must have valued it highly, for he had clasped
it to his bosom in the agonies of death. It was hermetically sealed with
such ingenuity that we found considerable difficulty in breaking it open.
It contained a parchment of great length, and rolled tightly around a
little brass rod. The parchment was closely written in beautiful Greek
characters. It was perfectly preserved. Two small gold coins fell out of
the white dry sand with which the case had been filled. One of them bore
the inscription of Tiberius Cæsar, and the other was stamped in the ninth
year of the reign of the emperor Nero. Thus in the accidental grave of its
author had his book been safely preserved amid all the mutations of the
world.”
The old doctor stroked his gray beard in silence, and I exclaimed:
“Who do you suppose this unfortunate man to have been?”
“That was revealed in the manuscript, but unfortunately not one of our
party could read Greek. I sent the case with its contents to an old uncle
of my mother, who had a little curacy near Binghamton. He was a great
Greek scholar, and devoted to his classical studies the little time he
could spare from the game of whist. I had a good deal of curiosity on the
subject, and wrote several times to my uncle from different parts of the
world before he condescended to reply. His answer was in substance this:
that the manuscript purported to be the autobiography of Eleazor or
Lazarus, whom Christ raised from the dead; that it was probably the work
of some heretic monk or crazy philosopher of the second or third century;
that, interwoven with romantic incidents in this world and the other, it
gave expression to many absurd and false doctrines; in fine, that it was
not worth my reading, and that I had better devote myself dutifully to
killing his Majesty’s enemies on the high seas, than to searching old
caverns for apocryphal documents which impugned the sacred verities of the
Apostolic Church.
“And so,” concluded the old surgeon, “I have never thought any more about
it.”
“Your uncle was no doubt right in his conjectures and wise in his advice,”
said the young chaplain. “The number and extent of the apocryphal
impositions upon the early Christian Church are almost incredible.”
“Were you satisfied,” said I, “with your good uncle’s opinion?”
“I have always believed,” replied the doctor, evasively and with a roguish
twinkle of his eye, “that if the manuscript had contained the Thirty-nine
Articles by anticipation, my uncle would have pronounced it divinely
inspired.”
“What became of it?” I inquired.
“Oh, it was sealed up again and sent to the nursery as a plaything for the
children. It is probably still in the possession of one of my cousins.”
The strange story of the old surgeon made a profound impression upon me;
for in spite of the incredulity of all the other listeners, I believed
from the first that the dust of that cavern was the dust of Lazarus, the
brother of Martha and Mary, and that the manuscript contained something of
genuine value to the Church and the world.
The opinion of the old curate and the echo of the young chaplain did not
weigh a feather in my estimation. Young as I was, I had acquired that rare
faculty of thinking for myself. Besides, I had had learned enough of human
nature to know that legal reforms are rarely suggested by lawyers; that
doctors always make war on a system of medicine better than their own; and
that priests instinctively repudiate anything which demands a
re-examination of the fundamental doctrines of their theological systems.
I had an inextinguishable desire to possess that manuscript, and set
myself earnestly about it. I cultivated the acquaintance of the genial old
surgeon, and contrived to render myself useful to him on more than one
occasion. When he sailed for England I extorted from him a promise that he
would send me the manuscript of Lazarus which his orthodox uncle has so
flippantly condemned.
A good many years passed away, and I heard nothing from him. At length
came a package, and a letter from England couched in very handsome terms,
a part of which ran thus:
“My beloved father on his deathbed made up the parcel which I now send
you, and requested me to transmit it to you with the following message,
which he made me write down as the words fell from his lips:
“‘Forgive your old acquaintance for neglecting until death the matters of
the dead. Read what Lazarus says, while I go in person to verify or
invalidate his story. I have lived passably well, and I die comparatively
happy. Good-bye!’”
I drew a deep sigh to the memory of the old surgeon, and set immediately
to work studying and translating the manuscript. I found that a difficult
task. It was not written in very classical Greek, and besides, was full of
Hebraisms, which sometimes obscured the sense. There were not only many
obscure things, but many things irrelevant, and many which would be
regarded as absurd and even childish in the present age.
It soon became clear that a literal translation of the manuscript would
not be of any great interest to the general reader. I determined to take
the astounding facts narrated, as a skeleton or framework around which to
build up a story of my own. This book is therefore a modern romance
founded upon ancient facts. The original might be called a prose poem.
Indeed, much of it is in the poetical form; the description of Helena, for
instance, in the eleventh chapter.
The key to the whole book is, that here are the views and experiences of a
man who, by what we may call a supernatural accident, was led into states
of thought two thousand years in advance of his contemporaries.
I present it to the public in a dress of the nineteenth century, hoping it
will reverse the decision of the old curate, who understood Greek and
whist better than he did the inappeasable hunger of the soul after the
unknown, and perhaps, alas! the unknowable.
[Illustration: Ornament]
In Both Worlds.
I.
_CAST OUT._
[Illustration: Initial]
A serene and happy old age may delight in recalling the glory and the
dream of youth, of which it is the crown and the fulfillment; but the
wretched and desolate, nearing the grave, revert seldom to the past things
of a life they are eager to exchange for a better.
A solemn sense of duty to mankind impels me to be my own biographer.
My story is the most wonderful in the world: so wonderful that the men of
the present age cannot comprehend or believe me. I am spiritually alone.
None before me have penetrated consciously into the invisible world:
examined its structure and its people: and returned to his fellow-men,
enriched and burdened with its awful secrets.
This have I done.
I am Lazarus of Bethany, whom Christ raised from the dead.
I have lived and died, and live again; and I await a second time the
bitterness of death.
“Lazarus,” said they, “is asleep or dead. That is all.”
Ah! how little did they know!
When I returned from the spiritual world, I had more wisdom than all the
ancients, than all the magi, than all the prophets. I could have enriched
the Church of God with spiritual treasures. I could have given light to
every mind and joy to every heart. I could have satisfied the hidden
hunger and thirst of the human soul. I was not permitted to do it. They
would have rejected my gold and my frankincense and my myrrh. They would
have turned from my offerings of spiritual truth as a wild beast turns
from a man when he offers it bread.
I have lived many ages too soon. I will write what I have seen and heard.
The world of mind will grow with the coming centuries into the capacity of
comprehending what I alone now comprehend. These premature utterances will
then be understood.
I was born in the little village of Bethany, which sits upon the eastern
slope of Mount Olivet, embowered all summer in leaves and fruit. There
were four children in the family; and our mother died in giving birth to
Mary, the youngest and most beautiful. Our father was a man of great
wealth and high social position, and we were reared in the lap of luxury.
My earliest recollection is that of playing in a large, terraced garden
with my brother and two little sisters. The garden was full of olive,
pomegranate, orange and date trees, and adorned with a great many shrubs
and flowers. It was cool, fragrant and shady, and we sported about the
tomb of our mother, which was cut in the solid rock, as merry and innocent
as the birds and butterflies which shared with us the peace and beauty of
the summer day.
I was ten years of age when Samuel, my younger brother, was taken from us.
It was the first real grief of my life. Although five years old when my
mother died, I was too young to remember the incidents. The angels are so
near us in our infancy, that the troubles of the world, which are
afterward engraved in marble, are then only written in water.
Little Samuel died calling my name. Oh that I could have obeyed his call,
and followed him into that bright and peaceful sphere in which I saw him
long afterward, and in which I shall soon see him again!
Early on the day of his burial our father went into the chamber where lay
his little white body covered all over with whiter flowers. He knelt
beside it and wept bitterly. He seemed unconscious that his three little
ones had followed him, and stood pale and trembling at the door. When we
heard the voice of his weeping we crept forward to the feet of our little
brother and wept also. Our father kissed us all tenderly, and controlling
his emotions and steadying his voice, he repeated from memory the
beautiful verses of Scripture which describe the grief and resignation of
King David at the loss of his child.
The body of our little brother was deposited in a niche in the rock close
to the dust of his mother. The garden was avoided as a playground for a
long while. I was busy with my books, Martha with her dolls—both rendered
thoughtful beyond our years. One day little Mary ventured into the garden
alone, but presently came running back and buried her golden head in her
sister’s lap in a shower of tears which needed no explanation. Who can
read the little child’s heart? Perhaps some playmate bird had called to
her: “Rosebud! rosebud! where is your brother?”
Then came the years of school and opening thought and expanding faculties,
and the first appearance of affections and passions, no longer the
dewdrops of the spring morning, but the beginnings of deep and swift
currents in the course of life.
My sisters were remarkable women, differing in style and character; yet
each a perfect picture of female loveliness!
Martha grew tall and firm and straight, with long black hair and black
eyes, a brunette complexion and a finely-cut oval face. She was the
impersonation of a pure and intelligent womanhood. She was active,
observant and critical. She regulated her life by lofty principle as well
as by noble impulse, and there was something about her that always
impressed you with the idea that she was brave and strong as well as
gentle and pure.
Mary was fragile in form, willowy and graceful in motion, soft and winning
in manners. Her eyes were blue and sparkling with the tender dew of
sentiment. The lily and the rose contended for supremacy on her face, and
sunbeams nestled always in her hair. She was the impersonation of a loving
and love-awakening womanhood. Her voice, her smile, her tear, expressed in
the most extraordinary manner the sensitive emotions of her soul.
Mary was my lily; Martha my rose. Martha was my ruby; Mary my pearl.
Martha was reason; Mary was sentiment. Martha was wisdom; Mary was love.
Martha was faith looking fixedly at the stars; Mary was charity looking
trustfully beyond them to God.
My father took a deep interest in the education and general training of
his children. He provided us with the best teachers in every branch, but
let nothing escape his own watchful supervision. It was greatly due to his
intelligent care and the inspiring stimulus of his affection, that we
attained a degree of mental and social development rarely witnessed in
children of our age.
A dark cloud hung over this good and wise father and his happy little
household.
His health had been gradually failing for a long time. He grew languid,
lost appetite, and became slow in his gait and stiff in his motions. He
abandoned his business in the city, and rarely went out of the house. He
declined receiving visitors, until our home, which had been so gay and
brilliant, became quite deserted and lonely. But his mental condition
underwent a change altogether incommensurate with his physical symptoms.
He became silent and melancholy, and so unlike his former patient and
sweet self! He repulsed every attempt on our part to inquire into the
nature or cause of his troubles. His mental faculties were also greatly
weakened.
We could not comprehend the meaning of all this. We became very unhappy.
We knew he was wealthy, honored and beloved—in possession of all that men
covet for good or evil ends. The country was in a state of profound
repose. It was incredible that the mere approach of sickness and death,
could so change the character of a good and brave man.
My father was now frequently closeted with Caiaphas, a young priest of
stately appearance and ingratiating manners. I became very anxious to
learn the subject of these prolonged interviews. I once questioned
Caiaphas at the gate about my father’s condition; but he evaded me
adroitly. At last my curiosity, prompted by filial love, triumphed over my
sense of propriety, and I crept to my father’s door one night, when he and
Caiaphas were together, and applied my ear to the keyhole. For a long time
the tones were too low for me to catch any meaning; but my father suddenly
raised his voice in an excited manner—
“I assure you he is a thief and a robber, and addicted to magic. O
Caiaphas! save my children and their property from this monster!”
I was terrified at these words, and slipped away in the darkness. There
was the secret of my father’s grief. He expected to die very soon, and was
anxious for the fate of his children when he was taken from them. I wept
on my bed nearly all night at the idea of losing my good parent. But who
was this monster he so much dreaded? That set me to thinking.
When a man died, his minor children and property passed under the
guardianship of his next of kin. My father had no brothers in Judea, for
his only brother had wandered off more than thirty years before. He was an
eccentric character who forsook his religion and changed his name. Beyond
that we knew nothing of him. Nor did my father even know where to find
him.
His only sister was married to Magistus, a citizen of Bethany. She was a
confirmed invalid and never seen. In the event of my father’s death we
would fall to their care. Magistus then was this terrible monster, a thief
and a magician. I was confirmed in this conclusion by the fact, that my
father and Magistus had long been on bad terms; and my father was not the
man to withdraw his friendship from a worthy person.
Magistus was a thin, sallow, ugly old man, with an immense hooked nose
like the beak of a bird of prey. His black eyes were small, fierce and
sly. He had a long dingy beard which he had twisted like a screw.
Notwithstanding this sinister appearance, he had the reputation of being a
good and wise man. People speak well of a rich man who seems always to
retire modestly from the public eye. Magistus moreover was a great friend
of the priesthood and a favorite with the priests.
I could not reveal to my sisters the approaching death of our father and
the fears he had expressed about our legal guardian. I was astonished and
somewhat relieved when he passed the warmest eulogy upon Caiaphas the next
morning, and told us to look to him for comfort and to rely on him for
help in the greatest emergencies. What astonished me still more was, that
this reliable friend never visited my father again.
We were greatly distressed that no medical aid was called in. The
suggestion was always repudiated with a strange earnestness. Whatever the
disease was with which our father was afflicted, he was plainly growing
worse and worse. At last he refused to quit his chamber, or to admit any
one into it. He commanded a little food and water to be placed upon a
table on the gallery underneath his window; and what was singular, he only
took it in during the night when no one saw him. These things threw us
into the saddest consternation. We began to fear that he was losing his
reason. We were frantic with excitement. We determined to see him and
nurse him. We knocked at his door and window and entreated him to show
himself to his children.
At last he called out in a voice which showed he had been weeping:
“Calm yourselves, my children! and pray to God. A great evil has come upon
us, which can be concealed but a little longer. My soul is overwhelmed
with misery, but my heart beats for my children with the tenderest love.
Ask me nothing at present; it is more than I can bear. If you love me and
would obey me, keep away entirely from my chamber. Let no one come into
the house—and least of all, your uncle Magistus.”
We were reassured of his love and his rationality by these words; but they
filled us with a vague terror and overwhelmed us with sorrow. We had no
one to appeal to, no one to consult. We were commanded to keep everybody
away. Thus several weeks of fearful suspense rolled by. The neighbors
began to inquire about my father. His seclusion became the wonder and talk
of the village. The interrogations, always disagreeable, became absolutely
impertinent. The mystery had excited suspicion.
Worse than all, Magistus became a regular visitor to the gate. He
questioned the porter in the subtlest manner. He obtained from him the
facts that my father had never received any medical attention, that he had
concealed himself in his chamber, and had not been seen for weeks, even by
his children. He evinced the liveliest satisfaction. “The apple will soon
drop,” said he aloud to himself. All this was faithfully reported to us.
Three little sparrows in a nest among the green leaves, could not have
been in greater trepidation with an ugly bird of prey gazing at them from
a neighboring branch.
The dénouement approached. We were whispering our sorrows together one
day, seated by the little fountain in the inner courtyard of the house,
upon which the door of our father’s chamber opened. Suddenly voices and
footsteps were heard approaching. A moment after Magistus appeared,
followed by a venerable-looking old priest and stately Roman centurion. My
sisters clung to me in terror.
Without noticing us, the party rapped loudly on my father’s door, and
commanded him to come forth. “In the name of the Mosaic law,” said the
priest; “and by order of the Roman governor,” added the centurion. The
words were repeated in a louder voice: the door slowly opened and my
father stepped out, exclaiming, “Unclean! unclean!”
All fell back several paces.
“The scourge of God!” said the priest with deep solemnity.
“Damnable Eastern plague!” muttered the Roman soldier.
“Incurable! incurable!” exclaimed Magistus.
It was the leprosy!
That ghoul of diseases, which slowly devours a living victim, had made
fearful ravages upon my poor father’s frame. His eyebrows and eyelashes
were gone; his chin and ears were much swollen, and a pearl-white scaly
ulcer deformed his forehead; his hands had a sickly and withered
appearance.
We now understood the meaning of his strange conduct. The disease began
first about the joints and the covered parts of his body. As soon as it
broke out on the skin, the poor man had shut himself up to conceal his
affliction and to avoid contaminating his family. Knowing himself stricken
with a disgusting and incurable malady, which would exclude him from
society and drive him away from his children, he bore the burden of his
awful secret alone. Magistus had discovered his condition, and anxious to
revenge himself upon virtues he could not imitate, and to get possession
of the property, he laid the case before the authorities, and insisted
that the law of separation should be executed upon his brother-in-law.
As the unhappy man stood in the doorway, he turned his eyes upon the pale
faces of his terrified children, and, silently wringing his hands, looked
upward to heaven. He was turning away, when all three of us sprang forward
at once, and with cries which would have moved the coldest heart, fell at
his feet and clung about his knees.
“Touch me not! my sweet children!” he exclaimed, in a hoarse and feeble
voice. “Touch me not. It is all over! Caiaphas will befriend my orphans.”
He had not finished the words before several strange domestics, who had
rushed in at a signal from Magistus, proceeded to drag us from the spot.
“Away with them!” said the hideous old man, fiercely. “Confine them in the
farthest room. We want no young lepers—no more scourges of God.”
“If it were a scourge of God,” cried I, struggling to escape, “it would
have been sent upon you and not upon my noble father.”
We were carried weeping out of the courtyard. Looking back to the door, we
saw the unhappy man waving his last adieu to us with his poor, sickly,
withered hands.
The Mosaic law against the unfortunate leper was cruelly severe; but the
Roman power which occupied the country and feared the ravages of leprosy
among the soldiery, added greatly to its force and to the stringency of
its execution.
The leper was sentenced to a social and civil death far more terrible to a
man of sensibility than the mere separation of soul and body. He was
driven from the face of his fellow-men, and dwelt in caves and hollow
trees and deserted ruins. No one was permitted to touch him, to approach
him, or even to speak to him. He was compelled to cry out, Unclean!
unclean! so as to warn every one of his dangerous proximity. He became
literally the wild man of the woods and the mountains and the desert—the
companion and sometimes the prey of wild beasts.
Those who had friends and money had little huts erected for them in remote
but safe places, and were amply provided with food and even luxuries by
servants who deposited the articles upon the ground at a considerable
distance from their habitations.
Such was the fate of our good and generous father—the idol of our hearts
and the model of all social and heroic virtues.
We spent the night in tears, and the next day in an agony of grief. I do
not know who witnessed the dreadful ceremonies of the law. He was examined
by the proper inspectors, and pronounced unclean and incurable. He was led
into the great highway. The people stood afar off. The priest in a loud
voice pronounced the curse of God upon him—the service of the dead over
the living body. He cut him off from the congregation of Israel. The
guards then drove him before them into some uninhabited place, and he
disappeared from the sight of men.
He was always visible, however, to the hearts of his three little orphans.
We followed his steps with filial vigilance. We saw him toiling along in
the sand of the desert, and we shared his burden of heat and hunger and
thirst. We saw him seated under a palm tree, or in the shadow of some
great rock, and we felt the sorrows of his thoughts as if they were our
own. We saw him kneeling by the brook, and we mingled our prayers with
his. We saw him sleeping in his lonely hut, lighted only by the moon, and
we were comforted by his dream of angels and heaven.
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]
II.
_CLOUDS GATHERING._
[Illustration: Initial]
We were now orphans, and of that kind most to be pitied, who have fallen
into the hands of a cold and selfish step-uncle. He had a father’s power
over us, without a father’s affection to regulate and sanctify it. There
was no one to supervise his conduct toward us; no appeal from his baseness
or cruelty, unless his acts were so flagrant and unconcealed as to call
down the vengeance of the laws.
This uncle whom we so much dreaded and had so much reason to dread, wore
at first a smooth and pleasing mask. He came every day to see us, and
endeavored by as much civility and kindness as he could counterfeit, to
soften our feelings and satisfy us with our condition. He professed the
deepest sympathy for our poor father’s calamity. He regretted the severity
of the Jewish and Roman laws on the subject of leprosy, but excused them
as a necessary protection to society. He assured us that our father had a
comfortable lodge on the border of the wilderness, and that servants were
despatched every other day with fresh supplies of food and wine and water.
This assurance brought tears to our eyes and comfort to our hearts.
When the storm of our grief had abated a little, we requested to see our
aunt; for we yearned for the presence and sympathy of woman. Magistus
conducted us over to his residence which adjoined our own, but fronted
upon another street. A high brick wall separated his garden from ours. He
had a door cut in this wall so as to facilitate the passage from one house
to another. His mansion was completely concealed from the public eye by a
thick grove of trees which surrounded it. In the most retired chamber of
this quiet and really beautiful place, we found Ulema, my father’s invalid
sister.
She was a middle-aged woman of extreme thinness and pallor. Her face was
waxen-colored and ghastly. There was a wild terrified expression about her
black eyes, which was absolutely painful. She had evidently been a great
sufferer in mind and body. She received us with a faint, sickly smile, and
then her features assumed an expression of profound pity. We supposed this
was on account of the loss of our father. We did not know the reasons
which the poor woman had for pitying any one who came within the shadow of
Magistus.
After the interchange of a few commonplaces, our uncle cut short the visit
on the plea of Ulema’s feeble and nervous condition. This visit was
repeated every Sabbath after the morning sacrifice. Magistus always
accompanied us, and drew us away as quickly as possible. My aunt had
always the same expressions of terror and pity. Thus our repeated
interviews added nothing to our knowledge of her character. In vain we
petitioned Magistus to let us live with our aunt, or to let us visit her
oftener, or to let us stay longer.
Our own home was sadly changed. The furniture, the pictures, the statues,
the fountain, the flowers, were all the same, but there was an air of
silence and melancholy about the whole place, as if the inanimate objects
had felt and shared the misfortunes of the orphan children. There was a
different sphere around us, a different light upon us. The organizing and
unitizing spirit was gone;—the good and wise father, who made all happy
and cheerful about him, and held his little household together in the
sweet bonds of perfect order and peace.
It was a cruel act of Magistus to substitute servants and creatures of his
own for those who had been with us from our infancy. We were soon
surrounded by strange faces, so that our father’s house began to appear to
us, what it really was, a prison. The domestics of an establishment
acquire in time a coloring from the kind of life within it, as insects are
colored by the leaves and bark of the trees they inhabit. Ours were
respectful, obedient and cheerful; these were cunning, insolent and
dishonest.
The chief butler or head servant was, however, a good character, who plays
a remarkable part in my story. He was an African about thirty years of
age, very black and homely. He was a eunuch, and dumb. These
disadvantages, which at first excited a feeling of repulsion, were atoned
for by a singular kindness, deference and sympathy, which were displayed
in his features and manners. The other servants held him in great awe; for
he had been brought from Egypt about three years before by a magician, and
was supposed to be gifted with supernatural power.
It was this advantage in command, as well as a certain kind of talent,
industry and reliability, which induced Magistus to give him the supreme
charge of both households. He had been with us but a few days, before he
had quite won our hearts by his friendly attentions and evident sympathy
for our distress. I, who had been made suspicious by my father’s opinion
of our guardian, detected in the face of Ethopus (for that was his name)
the same expression of pity which shone in the features of our sick aunt.
All this, however, he concealed from Magistus with the greatest care; for
he was always cold and impassive toward us in the presence of his master.
Unfortunately Ethopus was dumb. His communications at this time might have
been of incalculable service to us. I endeavored to learn something of the
habits and character of my uncle from the other servants, but on that
subject they were as dumb as Ethopus; for whenever I approached it, they
manifested signs of fear, and invariably put the finger on the lip.
I became dissatisfied with this secresy. I resolved to teach Ethopus to
read and write, so that he might tell me his own story, and initiate me
into the mysteries and dangers of my position. He comprehended my idea at
once, and came to me secretly at hours when he knew Magistus was absent.
He had made some little progress,—though the difficulties of the first
steps were very great,—when one evening Magistus walked slyly in and
surprised us at our studies. We had been betrayed by one of the servants,
who all acted as spies on each other.
Magistus was in a towering passion. He beat Ethopus severely,
notwithstanding my protestations that I alone was to blame—and drove him
from the room.
Turning fiercely upon me, he exclaimed:
“Do you not know the crime, the danger of teaching that man to write?”
“Oh, uncle!” said I, “what harm is there in bestowing the light of
knowledge upon a poor dumb slave?”
“He was made dumb to keep him from betraying secrets.”
“Horrible!” said I.
“Not my secrets,” he added, cautiously, “but his former master’s. If Simon
Magus thought he could write, he would come all the way from Egypt to cut
his heart out of his body.”
After that event, the sphere of Ethopus’ duty was changed, so that we
rarely saw him.
Several weeks passed away, and we wondered why Caiaphas, from whom our
father expected so much, did not come to see us. He was to aid and
befriend us, and, as I hoped, to deliver us from the control of Magistus.
He had evidently promised all that to our dear father. The priestly
authorities, if properly applied to, surely would not permit the children
of a good and devout man to continue under the influence of a thief and
magician.
Caiaphas at last came. His visit was short: his manner constrained but
polite. He sympathized briefly with our affliction; explained and defended
the Mosaic laws against leprosy; eulogized our father in eloquent terms;
and congratulated us on having such a worthy uncle, who would train us so
carefully in the faith, and who would make our home so happy.
And this was the result of the secret interviews with my father, and of
his solemn warnings against Magistus as a thief and a magician! I was
puzzled and disappointed. I could not help saying:
“Did you know, O Caiaphas! that my father entertained a very different
opinion of this good uncle?”
“Remember, my son,” said he, somewhat abashed, “that your father was very
sick, and his mind greatly impaired. There was no foundation whatever for
his unhappy suspicions. Obey your uncle like good children, and you will
find him all I have represented him to be.” He then retired.
I was too young and ignorant of the ways and wiles of the world, to
suspect that this priest had been all along in collusion with Magistus,
and was to share with him in the plunder of the orphans of his friend.
The words of my father rang in my ear and continually haunted my mind: “He
is a thief and robber, and addicted to magic.”
I asked my uncle one day, in a very quiet manner, his opinion of magic.
He looked at me severely and answered:
“What are the words of Moses on the subject? Listen: ‘A man or a woman
that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to
death. They shall stone them with stones.’”
This did not convince me that my father was in error.
Months passed; and a gradual and saddening change was creeping over our
life and its surroundings. I had detected no robbery, no magical
practices; but I had no faith in my uncle. Cautious and reticent as he
was, he could not conceal some of the ugly points of his character. He was
violent and cruel in his dealings with his slaves. He was addicted to
falsehood, and in both opinion and practice was destitute of charity. His
strict observance of the ceremonial law and his intense ritualism, could
not conceal from me the fact that his heart was wholly untouched by the
spiritualizing influences of true religion.
He ceased after a while to take us to see our aunt. Our teachers in
various branches were not re-engaged, or were dismissed. Education came to
a stand-still. Company was excluded from our house. His own was opened at
night to suspicious characters. By bribing one of his servants one dark
night, I obtained admission to his courtyard, and discovered, by muffled
sounds of music and dancing, that a bacchanalian revelry was going on
underground. He sometimes betrayed the next day, in his face and manner,
the effect of these midnight orgies.
In the mean time my beautiful sisters pined, neglected and sorrowful.
Magistus rarely visited them; and when he did, he was guilty of coarse
familiarities which shocked and repelled them. I summoned courage, boy as
I was, on one of these occasions to reproach him bitterly for these
things; for neglecting our education, our dress, our manners, our
comforts; and for falling himself into habits which would certainly lead
to the ruin of us all. He stared at me insolently, and said that I had
better get my father’s friend Caiaphas to revise his guardianship.
Like a man who sits helpless in a boat without oars, gliding down a swift
current, and hears the far-off but inevitable cataract, I contemplated the
dark future that awaited us. I grieved for my sisters more than for
myself. We had just been mourning together one day over our sad fate, when
Magistus came into the room. He had held a long private interview that
morning with a strange man of gigantic size and very coarse manners, whose
appearance, as he entered the guest-chamber, excited my gravest
suspicions.
“You complain so bitterly,” said he, looking reproachfully at me, “of the
general decay and ruin into which everything about here, animate and
inanimate, is falling, that it is surprising you have not yet intimated
your doubts about your father getting his proper supply of provisions.”
“Oh no, uncle!” said Mary, tenderly, “you could not forget so sacred a
duty as that. Surely no one ever hinted such a thing. The thought of it
would drive me mad.”
“I wish you to satisfy yourselves perfectly upon that point,” he
continued, in the tone of a man who thought himself aggrieved. “A trusty
servant is to convey to him a basket of things the day after to-morrow.
Let Lazarus accompany him. Let his daughters send some little presents.
His son can see him and even speak with him at a distance. He can see his
lodging and satisfy himself that he is comfortably situated.”
“Without confessing, uncle,” said I, “that this visit is necessary for my
faith in your attention to my father, I concede that it will give me very
great pleasure.”
“How long will he be gone?” said Martha.
“Is there no danger?” said Mary.
“He will run no risk and will return the same night,” said Magistus,
answering both questions in a breath.
This visit occupied our thoughts continually, and we delighted to imagine
what joy it would give our poor father. I was out of bed before daylight
that morning, impatient to start. I partook heartily of an extempore
breakfast which Ethopus provided me. That personage to my surprise seemed
sad and abstracted. I could say nothing to him, however, for Magistus was
present. I kissed my sisters good-bye at the door of their room, for they
too could not sleep for excitement. Magistus waved his adieu at the front
door. I walked through the courtyard with Ethopus, who carried a covered
basket on his arm.
We were near the gate, when Ethopus coming close to me slipped something
into my hand. It was a long, thin, bright dagger. I concealed it
immediately in my bosom.
“Ethopus thinks there will be danger,” said I, to myself.
I would perhaps have said something, but I observed the porter admitting a
person through the gate, whose entrance at that hour in the morning caused
me the greatest surprise.
It was a woman; and at the age of sixteen a woman occupies a great deal of
the field of vision before the masculine eye. This woman was very
young—not more than fifteen, although perfectly mature. She was very
beautiful—so beautiful that everybody must have turned to look after her.
Her eyes were large, soft and hazel; her hair brown and wavy; her cheeks
blended roses and pearls: her mouth small and curved like a bow; her voice
and smile perfectly bewitching—all that I took in at a glance: nor did it
need the splendid ear-rings and brilliant necklace and scarlet robe she
wore, to impress it very deeply on my mind.
She bade me good-morning with the sweetest smile imaginable, and with the
affable, self-possessed manner of a woman much older than herself.
Startled and abashed, I could do nothing but bow profoundly and hurry into
the street where Ethopus had given the basket to the person who was to be
my guide.
I made signs to Ethopus, by a kind of pantomime we had acquired, to keep a
watchful eye on my sisters. He replied by an affirmative motion of the
head and a deep sigh, which was evidently on my own account.
This woman was destined, under the leadings of Providence, to make a
greater and more lasting impression on my soul than all others. And this
was our first meeting: I a bashful boy; she a strange woman, too gaudily
dressed, entering my father’s house at a strange hour. So two ships might
pass each other on the Great Sea, merely exchanging signals of
good-morning—ships destined long afterward to convoy each other beyond the
Pillar of Hercules into the infinite unknown!
This woman was Mary Magdalen.
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]
III.
_NIGHT BY THE DEAD SEA._
[Illustration: Initial]
With my thoughts fluctuating between the extreme beauty of Mary Magdalen
and the danger which Ethopus seemed to apprehend, I walked some distance
without regarding my new companion.
When I did so, I was surprised and puzzled at his appearance. He was a
young man of singularly handsome features, the only drawback being a nose
which was a little too aquiline. His black hair curled in short ringlets
close to his head, and his face was thoroughly bronzed by sun and tempest.
His dress was rather that of some foreigner attached to an Assyrian or
Egyptian caravan, than the coarse and simple clothing of a Hebrew servant.
And then there was something bold and free in his bearing, which precluded
the idea that he was a menial either in character or condition.
“Are you engaged in my uncle’s service?” said I.
He shifted the heavy basket from one arm to the other, and made no reply.
I repeated my question in a louder tone; but he did not seem to hear me,
looking straight ahead at the road before him.
“This handsome fellow is both deaf and dumb,” said I to myself. “My uncle
has a curious passion for silent people.”
Debarred the pleasure of conversation, I relapsed into reverie. I
determined to make a use of this visit which my uncle little anticipated.
I resolved to approach my father boldly, contagion or no contagion, and
have an interview with him. I wanted to tell him of the neglected and
unhappy condition of his children, of our increasing repugnance to
Magistus, and of the indifference or treachery of Caiaphas. I wanted his
advice. He could surely direct me to friends in the city, whose assistance
might arrest our impending ruin.
Made happier by that resolution, as if it had already accomplished
something, I let my mind revert back to the woman I saw at the gate, and a
new cause of uneasiness arose as I reflected upon that accidental meeting.
Boyish and inexperienced as I was, I discovered something in the dress and
manner of the early visitor, which whispered to me that she was not a
suitable companion for my sisters. She certainly was not a domestic. Who
could she be? What could she want at our house just after daybreak?
Perhaps she came to see Magistus on business. It was not the hour or the
place for that. Perhaps she was one of the midnight revelers whom I heard
singing and dancing in the basement story of my uncle’s secluded
residence. That idea startled me more than all. I determined to get back
home by rapid walking before nightfall, and explore this disquieting
mystery.
We had passed over hill and dale through a highly-cultivated country, full
of vineyards and gardens and orchards, full of sweet little villages and
beautiful rural villas. This did not last long, and we turned in a
south-easterly direction. The villages disappeared; the houses became more
sparse and humble; the trees became more stunted and bare; the rocks
larger and the road more difficult. At the point where the highway leads
down the steep hills toward Jericho and the plain of the Jordan, my guide
turned suddenly due south into a rough, barren and wild country, where
there was no road at all.
The sounds of life faded behind us. Vegetation almost wholly disappeared.
No animals were to be seen but a few goats far away browsing among the
rocks. The birds seemed to refuse to accompany us further. The silence of
the desert fell gradually upon us. This was the wilderness of Judea.
We were winding downward to the Salt Sea, that great watery waste, in
whose silent deeps Sodom and Gomorrah lie buried; on whose shores stand
bleak and desolate mountains full of sulphur springs; the gloom without
the glory of nature; the home of wild beasts and lepers and robbers and
demons; mountains fearful in their nakedness and solitude; evil genii
guarding in stern silence the eternal sleep of the lost cities of the
plain.
I grew uneasy and melancholy as we approached these famous and dangerous
places. The taciturnity of my guide, together with an increasing shadow on
his expressive face, magnified my apprehensions almost into fears. I felt
my boyish weakness and inexperience by the side of this strong, rough,
silent man of the wilderness, who now seemed to my excited imagination to
have got into his native element, and to be a part of the lonely and
supernatural region into which we had entered.
Our attention was suddenly drawn to a neighboring eminence by sounds of so
strange a character, that it was impossible to say whether they were
animal or human. Four lepers appeared in sight, almost naked, holding up
their long, withered arms, and screeching out from their hoarse throats
and swollen lips their hideous cry,
“Unclean! unclean!”
I trembled at this sad spectacle and gazed intently, expecting and afraid
to recognize my poor father in the group. My guide suddenly laid his hand
upon my shoulder, and we both stood still. He then set the basket upon the
ground, made signals to the lepers to approach, and drew me away from the
spot. A horrible chorus of guttural thanks came up from the leprous
creatures, who awaited our departure before pouncing upon the acceptable
present.
“Oh, sir!” said I, resisting my guide, and forgetting that he was deaf and
dumb, “you have given my father’s food to those unhappy wretches! Where is
my father? Oh, take me to him!”
He stopped and looked me full in the face.
“Oh yes!” I continued, in a supplicating tone; “that basket has food and
wine for my poor father, the leper, and a bouquet and a letter from
Martha, and a pair of sandals from little Mary—”
Overcome with emotion I burst into tears.
The guide drew a deep sigh; and when I looked up into his face it was
radiant with a sweet and benevolent expression. He had either heard me or
he comprehended intuitively the nature of my distress. He shook his head
and made a deprecating gesture with his hand. He then drew me off
strongly, but so gently that I was partially reassured, and walked meekly
at his side, overwhelmed with surprise and sorrow.
After passing over several rough ridges we turned into a deep ravine. The
guide made me go in front. The pathway down this narrow gorge, this cleft
between two mountains, was rough and dangerous. There were deep holes or
pits upon one side, and frightfully overhanging rocks upon the other. It
was so dark and precipitous in some places that I could scarcely believe
we were not descending into the bowels of the earth. We suddenly emerged
from this monstrous fissure on a little mound made by the soil washed down
from above, and found ourselves on the shore of the Dead Sea.
I had never seen such an expanse of water before, and was charmed with the
sight. Away to the left was the plain of the Jordan and the sacred river
of that name, invisible at a distance among its reeds and rushes. Opposite
arose the reddish-brown mountain chain which borders the sea on the west.
Far down to the right stretched a range of high hills of a bluish gray
color. In front, and widening away to the south, lay the mighty surface of
the sea, shining like a burnished mirror in the noon-day sun. A fine
breeze was blowing; but there was only a faint ripple on the water, for
its heavy salt waves can scarcely be stirred by the wind—like the soul of
a wicked man, which cannot be moved by the Spirit of God.
I was recalled from that delicious reverie into which every one is
transported by a view of the sea; for my guide pointed to a clump of
stunted trees or rather large bushes near the beach. Half hidden by them
was a tent of alternate white and red canvas, in front of which a large
boat was drawn up on the sand. Two rough-looking fellows lay in the boat
asleep. There was no human habitation anywhere about this lonely spot.
These people belonged on the other side of the sea. They were ready for
flight in a moment. They were wild, roving, secretive, fugitive. They were
engaged in some unlawful business. I had fallen into the hands of robbers.
These disquieting thoughts passed through my mind as we approached the
tent. Hearing our footsteps on the sand, the chief came out of it. He was
tall and sinewy, a man of unusual weight and size. He was clad in a
richly-embroidered crimson robe, with a splendid scimitar, jewel-hilted,
at his side. A long beard, stained of a golden yellow by some vegetable
dye, gave him a grotesque and never-to-be-forgotten appearance. All this
barbaric ornament did not prevent me from recognizing the strange, coarse
man who held the long interview with Magistus two days before. Then he was
disguised; now his character was apparent.
We stood before him. My guide made a low obeisance and said in a clear
voice:
“Barabbas! I have obeyed your orders!”
My astonishment on discovering that my robber-guide was neither deaf nor
dumb, was turned into another channel when Barabbas exclaimed:
“Well done! Bind him tightly with the old Persian. If Beltrezzor’s ransom
does not arrive by sunrise, we will make way with them both together.”
My uncle had betrayed me into the hands of the Ishmaelite to be murdered.
There could be no doubt that the atrocious assassin had taken every
precaution to prevent escape or failure. Resistance was impossible. There
were four men in sight, either one of whom could have overpowered me in a
moment. My heart sank in despair when my guide led me behind the tent, and
bound me securely to a little tree, without evincing the least remorse or
care at his own part in this shameful and cowardly transaction.
I now surveyed my fellow-prisoner, who was tied to another tree close to
me. His gray hair and beard showed that he had passed considerably beyond
the meridian of life. He had a serene and rather handsome face, full of
thought and benevolence. Young and inexperienced as I was, I perceived by
a kind of intuition that my companion in distress was a cultivated and
superior man. He wore a rich Eastern robe and a bright-colored turban. He
was smoking a long pipe curiously carved and twisted. He surveyed me
quietly and nodded kindly to me, evidently pitying my childish terror and
despair.
“We shall be murdered to-morrow!” I gasped.
“I learned a proverb in India,” said the old man. “Brahma writes the
destiny of every one on his skull. No man can read it”—and watching his
smoke fade into air, he slowly continued, “and even the gods cannot avert
it.”
I was astonished at his coolness; but his fatalism did not console me.
“To die—to die!—to leave my poor sisters unprotected and to see them no
more—Oh, it is horrible!”
“Not to be,” said the Persian, in a voice of singular depth and sweetness,
“not to be is better than to be; and not to have been is better than all.”
In spite of myself and my fears, the calm and almost spiritual halo which
seemed to surround this strange old man, began to quiet my agitation and
to divert my thoughts from my impending fate.
“Are you a philosopher?” said I.
“I think,” he replied; and drawing a long whiff from his pipe, he
illustrated his remark by lapsing into a profound reverie.
I contemplated this serene philosopher a long time in silence, and made up
my mind that he must have a good many beautiful things to think about as
he sat there, bound and under sentence of death, smoking so placidly upon
the arid shore of that dreadful sea.
When he indicated, by knocking the ashes from his pipe, that he had
ascended from the ocean of dreams into which he had dived, I asked him how
he had fallen into the power of these miscreants.
“Speak evil of no one, my son! Leave wicked names to the wicked. These
gentlemen live upon the road and in the wilderness. They pay special
attention to travelers, to caravans, and to small and remote villages.
They cure some people of that chronic disease we call life, and they
permit others to ransom themselves by large quantities of that evil thing
we call money. They have set me down in the latter class, and I am
awaiting a remittance from a friend in Jerusalem.”
“Suppose your friend is dead, or absent from the city, or cannot raise the
sum required, or refuses to do it?”
He pointed to the sea, shrugging his shoulders, and exclaimed:
“What is written, is written.”
When it was quite dark my guide of the morning brought us a little food.
The old Persian ate heartily, but I could barely taste it. The guide
whispered in my ear, “Be silent and wakeful,” and departed.
“Now sleep, my son,” said my philosophic companion; “trust in God and
sleep. Our angels and good genii befriend us most powerfully when asleep.
When awake we scare them away by our villainous thoughts. Sleep.”
The whispered words of the guide had inspired me with a vague hope, and I
preferred trusting to his advice rather than to the invisible guardians of
our sleep. I was therefore silent and wakeful. The moon went down long
before midnight.
The hours passed away slowly, slowly, marked only by the coming up of the
white stars from behind the eastern hills; while the long minutes were
told by the dead plash of the water against the beach.
There were feasting and drinking and singing in the tent of Barabbas. This
was kept up until long after midnight. Then there was silence, and the
loud snoring as of some one in a drunken sleep.
It became very dark. The voices of man and nature were hushed. The hours
passed, and all things seemed to sleep except the stars which continued to
climb the heavenly dome, and the sad, gray sea which pushed feebly against
the desert beach, and myself cruelly orphaned and betrayed, thinking
alternately of home and death.
“Death at sunrise!” I exclaimed, thinking aloud to myself.
“The sun has not risen,” whispered the Persian.
And Hope, the undying consoler within us, took courage at the words of the
old man and at the slow-footed pace of the night; and thought it was long,
long till the morning, and that the angel of Life might still come, and
relieve from his awful watch the angel of Death.
An hour more of silence that could be felt, and of unutterable
suspense—and a hand was laid softly upon my shoulder. The rope that bound
me was disengaged, and my deliverer drew me stealthily along the beach,
and away from the tent where Barabbas lay dreaming of plundered caravans
and cruel uncles who enriched him for the murder of their nephews.
The guide did not speak until we stood on the mound at the mouth of the
great ravine, where the Dead Sea first broke upon my sight.
“You are free,” he said. “You are a child, abused and betrayed. You shall
not be murdered. Robber as I am, there is something in my heart which is
touched by your sorrows. Go back to life, if not to happiness. God perhaps
will deliver you from Magistus, as He has through me delivered you from
Barabbas.”
“Come with me,” said I; “leave this wretched and dangerous life in the
wilderness. Share our fate and fortune in Bethany.”
“Do not speak of it,” he answered; “it is impossible. Hasten on your
journey, or all may be lost.”
“But,” said I, clinging to him, “Barabbas will kill you when he finds I
have escaped.”
“No! I have contrived against that. I am cunning and I shall succeed.”
“The poor old Persian will be murdered!”
“No! He will be ransomed to-morrow. Away!” he continued excitedly; “a
moment’s delay may be fatal. Away!”
“Stay!” said I, eagerly; “tell me the name of my benefactor, that I may
repeat it in my prayers.”
“I have no name, no home. I am the Son of the Desert.”
He hurried softly away toward the tent, and I crept up the ravine in the
darkness.
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]
IV.
_IN THE WILDERNESS._
[Illustration: Initial]
Afraid of the dark and fearful gorge, full of rocks and pitfalls and
unseen dangers; afraid of the unpeopled desert which awaited me above;
afraid of wild beasts, serpents, lepers and evil spirits; afraid of the
silence and solitude of night by the Salt Sea; afraid of all things behind
me and all before; I ascended cautiously and painfully the narrow path, if
path it might be called, praying to the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob,
for protection.
I, who had never been out of my father’s house at that hour of the night
in my life, thus found myself amid a complication of circumstances which
might have appalled the stoutest heart.
I had ascended two-thirds of the way, when my keen ear caught upon the
night-wind the subdued but rough voices of several persons who were
descending the ravine. My heart stood still and I almost fainted with
affright. Fortunately, I remembered that I had just passed, a little lower
down, a large side-fissure or chink in the great rock wall of the ravine.
I went back with the utmost speed and caution, and got safely concealed in
the black crevice before the objects of my terror came along.
They were no doubt some of the party of Barabbas, who were returning with
or without the ransom of the old Persian. They were talking of ransom with
oaths and laughter as they passed. I held my breath in suspense; nor did
my heart recover its natural beat until they had descended a good
distance, and their voices floated faintly upward like the mutterings of
lost souls in some horrible abyss.
I was now afraid to start again lest I should meet another detachment of
the robbers. I waited a long time, listening intently. It suddenly
occurred to me that when the robbers reached the tent of Barabbas, my
escape would be discovered, and the swiftest runners despatched to
overtake me. This thought brought the cold drops to my forehead; and I
hurried breathless all the way up the ravine, actually thinking that I
heard the footsteps of men behind me, and voices calling my name.
Escaped from the robbers, I fell into the arms of the desert. I could have
extricated myself from the new danger if the sun had been shining. But the
day rose dark and cloudy, and I could not tell whether I was going east or
west, north or south. I failed to recognize any of the spots we had passed
the day before. I walked rapidly up and down the bare hills, over the
rough gullies and through the sandy hollows. After some hours of this
exhausting travel, both mind and body being on the stretch, I was shocked
on discovering that I had been moving in a circle, and was near the mouth
of the ravine again.
I would have stretched myself upon some rock in despair; but my dangerous
proximity to Barabbas and his men, revived my fears and gave supernatural
strength to my body. I fled away as fast as I could over new hills and
gullies and sandy bottoms. It must have been two or three hours after
noon, when I reached a hill overlooking a deep, narrow valley, the dry bed
of some nameless brook, which, in the rainy season, poured along over the
sands its little tribute to the sea. Thoroughly exhausted with hunger,
thirst, fatigue, loss of sleep, fear and despair, I lay down upon the
hillside. Lost in the wilderness, thinking of the still worse conditions
of my father and sisters, my misery was too deep for tears. A strange
torpor crept over my senses, and I fell into that profound slumber in
which the weary are strengthened and the sorrowful comforted.
When I awoke, the setting sun, just freed from clouds, was shining in my
face.
How life-giving, faith-giving, hope-giving is a sight of the sun, wrapping
his mantle of softened glory about him, and descending trustfully to sleep
in the kingdom of night, assured that Aurora will open duly her palace of
pearl, and his golden chariot with its fiery steeds issue forth in the
morning!
So does the Soul sink only to rise; sleep only to wake; die only to live:
ever changing in state, ever the same in substance.
I was thus drawing new vigor from the rays of the sun, when a voice of
heavenly sweetness broke upon my ear, a voice chanting this beautiful
Scripture:
“As the hart panteth after the water-brooks,
So panteth my soul after thee, O God!
My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God:
When shall I come and appear before God?”
“Are there angels as well as demons in the desert?” said I, to myself.
A jutting brow of the hill concealed from me the source whence these
sounds appeared to issue. I arose and advanced to explore the mystery.
Rounding the intervening slope, I saw a young man seated upon a stone at
the mouth of a large cavern. His quick eye detected me in a moment, and he
advanced to meet me. He wore a single garment wrought of the finest
camel’s hair, which was secured about his waist by a leathern girdle.
Simple toilet! But when you looked at his fine head with its long black
hair curling about his bare neck, and his beautiful oval face soft as a
girl’s, full of all saintly thoughts and heavenly emotions, you knew that
you were in the presence of one who was clad interiorly in fine linen and
purple.
“Good sir,” said I, “behold an unhappy youth, who has just escaped death
by robbers, and is lost in this terrible wilderness!”
“One must have lived long in the desert to find his way out of it such a
dark day as this. It will be clear to-morrow, and I will pilot you into
the great highway. Meantime you are welcome to my poor hospitalities—a
cave for roof, a bed of skins, water to drink, wild honey and locusts to
eat; that is all.”
“I gladly accept your offer; and were your proffered gifts still more
humble, they would be sanctified by the light of brotherly love you throw
upon them.”
I seated myself on the stone while he went into the cave and brought forth
his simple food and drink, of which I partook heartily.
“To whom am I indebted for this kind reception?” I inquired, as I finished
my meal.
“I am John,” he answered, “the son of Zacharias; and I dwell in the desert
until the time of my showing unto Israel.”
A deep human groan from the interior of the cavern now startled me, and I
sprang from my seat.
“What is that?” I exclaimed.
“My poor old patient has awakened. I must go and examine him.”
“He takes in the sick as well as the wandering,” said I to myself. “Surely
the angels must protect him in some peculiar manner.”
John came forward again with an anxious countenance. “Alas!” said he, “the
old man has rapidly changed. He fell into a soft slumber an hour ago, but
he is now plainly dying. I knew he was very ill, for he has raved all day
about his children and some magicians who wish to destroy them.”
At these words a fearful tremor seized me. I could not speak. I sprang
past the young man, and in a moment was kneeling at the side of my father!
I seized his withered hand and covered it with kisses.
“My father! my father! Do you not know your son, your only son?”
The young hermit looked on in tears.
The old man slowly opened his eyes and cast a bewildered look, first at
me, and then at John.
“Yes—you are angels,” he said, “who have come to welcome my spirit into
paradise.”
He breathed heavily. I sank down weeping. John came forward with a little
basin of water. “There is no time to be lost,” said he in a low tone.
“Do you believe in God, and in Moses his lawgiver, and in the prophets his
servants?”
“I do! I do!” said the old man, eagerly.
“Do you repent of your sins, and pray for the Holy Spirit to guide you?”
“I do! and God be merciful to a miserable sinner!”
“Then I baptize you with water, the emblem of purification,—and in the
name of the Lord, the only God, into his spiritual Church and into the
hope of immortal life.”
Thus saying, he sprinkled some water on the old man’s forehead. His own
face shone with a meek and holy radiance. My father closed his eyes and
seemed to sleep.
Suddenly he started, frowning, as if some great pain had changed the
current of his thought.
“Tell my son to beware of his uncle. He is a magician.”
“Here is your son!” I exclaimed, eagerly; “here is your son! Oh, speak to
me, my father!”
He did not notice my grief; but, pointing slowly to John the Baptist, he
said, solemnly:
“Behold the prophet of God!”
He then looked fixedly upward; and as I followed his glance to the roof of
the cave, his spirit passed away beyond the blue dome, beyond the stars
and the sun, beyond the entire realm of nature, into the paradise of Moses
and the prophets.
I spent the night in prayer and tears by my father’s dead body.
Occasionally the young prophet broke in upon the stillness of the air with
his silvery voice, chanting the sweet verses of Scripture. I was sorely
tempted to rebel against the providence of God, which permitted such a
good man as my father to be so cruelly dealt with. The presence, however,
of the young prophet, was in itself a sermon, a blessing, a help to
resignation. One could not be skeptical or even critical in his luminous
atmosphere of peace and love. I reflected that there were many great
mysteries which my youthful and inexperienced mind could not at present
comprehend, and returning faith assuaged the grief it could not remove.
The next day about noon the young prophet offered a prayer over the
corpse, and we consigned it to a humble grave dug by our own hands in a
large cavern near by. I observed that there were four other graves in the
same spot.
“Yes,” said John, meekly, “this is my little cemetery. Here I bury my dead
in ground consecrated to the Lord. This was a robber who was wounded in a
fray and left by his comrades. He dragged his bleeding limbs into the
desert. I found him and bore him to my home. I preached to him the new
gospel of repentance and faith, and he died in my arms weeping like a
child over the sins of his youth. He who occupies that grave was a madman,
who broke his chains, and drove every one from him with knives and stones
until he met me in the wilderness. He followed me to my cave, and would
sit contented at my feet hearing me sing or read or pray. Under that mound
is a poor slave who fled, mutilated and frenzied, from a cruel master. I
kissed the wounds I could not heal; and he died clasping my hands
smilingly to his lips. And that last one is the grave of another poor
leper like your father, forsaken even by his wretched companions—but not
forsaken by the Lord, whose Word I obeyed when I tended him in his long
illness.
“I call it consecrated ground,” he continued; “for these poor people are
the children of God. The leper is cured of his leprosy; the slave is free;
the madman is sane; the robber is forgiven.”
“What induces you,” said I, “to lead this strange, lonely life, so full of
self-sacrifice, so full of terrors and dangers?”
“The Spirit of God!” he said, solemnly.
“Are you not afraid of the silence, the solitude, the darkness of the
desert?”
He replied in the words of Scripture:
“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the
strength of my life: of whom shall I be afraid?”
I felt awed in the presence of this young man, who was not more than ten
years older than myself. I was better satisfied to leave my father’s ashes
in his keeping, than if I had built above them the most splendid monument
of Pentelican marble or Corinthian brass.
After a frugal meal we started for the public road. It was ten long miles
to the nearest highway, and it was ten more from that to Bethany. We
discoursed, as we walked along, about spiritual things; and although I did
not understand half he said, he spoke with such eloquence and sincerity
that he convinced me he had some great mission in the world. We parted a
little before sunset with mutual embraces and blessings. I dropped some
grateful and admiring tears as I gazed after the heavenly-minded hermit,
picking his way with his long staff through the rough places, until he
disappeared from sight over the brown, bare hill.
It was not until the comforting and sustaining power of his presence was
withdrawn, that I recognized how exhausted and helpless and lonely I was.
Fatigue, fear, excitement, sorrow, loss of sleep and inadequate
nourishment, had considerably shattered my nerves; and now to appear
suddenly in the presence of an uncle who thought he had murdered me, was a
difficult and perhaps a dangerous task. I would gladly have turned in any
other direction; but my sisters were in the power of the monster who had
plotted my assassination. Nothing but a vague fear that those lovely women
were in some trouble or distress, gave strength to my tired limbs and
courage to my aching heart.
Night came on, and I had to advance more slowly. The full moon was shining
halfway down the western sky, but a dark cloud had risen from the ashes of
the sunset, and was advancing upward. It was important that I should make
all the haste I could, before the light of the moon was obscured by that
ascending blackness. To get out of the road might be to lose the whole
night.
I moved so rapidly that I became exceedingly tired. If I sat down to rest,
a mysterious fear impelled me to rise and press forward to Bethany. I have
faith in those secret attractions, those silent monitors, those
inexplicable warnings. A minute’s repose of muscle, a minute’s
recuperation of breath, and I started again with renewed energy.
A wind came up behind the cloud and drove it furiously onward. It covered
the moon and all was dark. I groped my way. I stumbled over obstacles. I
advanced slowly. It was late, late in the night, when I entered the
village of Bethany. No lights were visible; no sounds were heard. I
traversed the streets alone. I passed my uncle’s residence, brimful of
maledictions against its wicked proprietor. Soon my father’s house loomed
up before me. I saw the long white wall in front of it, and the parapet of
the house-top darkening above.
Suddenly a strong blast of wind stirred all the trees of the village. It
sighed along the deserted streets and up into the sky. It lifted the lower
edge of the cloud from the moon which shone out, low down, just above my
father’s house, as it were with a sudden brilliancy.
It revealed to me two astonishing things.
One was a large, strange, gilded vehicle drawn by two powerful horses
standing before the gate.
The other was the figure of a woman on the house-top, between me and the
moon—a woman with flowing robes and disheveled hair, raising her arms
wildly to heaven, while a man was approaching her in the attitude of
striking.
It was my sister Martha!
With a cry of horror I sprang against the gate, which gave way before me.
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]
V.
_THE BANQUET._
[Illustration: Initial]
I am too deeply impressed with the vanity of our worldly affairs in
comparison with the verities of the spiritual life, to employ my own time
or engage a reader’s attention with a biography, however pleasing or
romantic, unless there was a subtle connecting link, which I expect to
reveal, between the facts narrated and those eternal truths which
overshadow all others in importance.
I, alone of all mankind, have lived consciously in both worlds long enough
to discover their relations to each other. What my fellow-men have seen
only on the surface, I have examined interiorly. I have seen the secret
springs of human pride, ambition, passion and folly. I have seen the souls
of men as they appear in the sight of angels. And my instructions in that
world were all based upon my experiences in this.
It is now necessary to drop for a while my personal narrative, and to go
back and relate, from the evidence of others, what happened in Bethany
during my absence.
My sisters had been left with our atrocious uncle, like two lambs under
the guardianship of a wolf. One capable of assassinating his nephew, a
mere youth, would not hesitate at any wickedness against his beautiful
nieces. This man’s character was so cruel and wicked, that some
explanation is needed of the singular maturity of diabolism to which he
had attained.
Magistus had neither religion nor honor. Honor binds us in duty to our
neighbor, as religion binds us both to God and the neighbor. It is a moon
which shines brilliantly in the absence of the sun. The light of honor is
also but the reflected light of religion. When both shine together, honor
is absorbed and swallowed up in the more effulgent blaze of religion. The
soul without religion or honor, is like the earth without sun or
moon—cold, dark, desolate, hideous.
Such was the soul of Magistus.
Irreligion, like drunkenness, is sometimes inherited. The father of
Magistus was a scoffer and sensualist. Fatal incubus of moral deformity
descending from father to son! In this he was typical of the age. The
hereditary pressure toward hell was so great, that a few more centuries of
transmission would have brought the world into perfect sympathy with the
lower regions. The advent of the Lord arrested that for a while.
Without religion or honor man is very close to hell. The veriest barbarian
has some faint idea of natural religion, and some feeble impulse of
natural honor, which distinguish him from the beasts and unite him to his
kind. These are barriers against the influx of infernal life. He is
ignorant of the devils within him, and the devils within him are ignorant
of him. Wise and blessed provision! Were he brought into conscious rapport
with his own attendant evil spirits, he would soon be one with them. Their
life in hell and his life on earth would be animated by the same breath.
This had happened to Magistus.
Not that he was a barbarian. He was an educated, cultivated man,
accustomed to the luxuries and full of the suavities of civilized life.
Civilization and religion are not synonymous. Hell itself has a stupendous
civilization. Magistus was a Pharisee by profession: a ritualist, and a
strict observer of feast-days and ordinances and ceremonies. That,
however, was not the man, but only his outer garment—his cloak. Supposed
by the world to be virtuous and honest, this wealthy and reputable
Pharisee was spiritually a whited sepulchre, full of dead men’s bones and
all uncleanness.
He was a spiritualist, a sorcerer, a necromancer, a magician. He at first
sought and became familiar with these people, with their studies and arts,
from natural curiosity. It was very pleasant to call up his dead father
and various dead friends, and converse with them. It was agreeable to know
that they were all happy, and advancing in various degrees toward the
infinite divine perfection. They showed him wonderful things. They
performed miracles in his sight greater than those which the magicians of
Egypt performed before Pharaoh.
Then they told him that the Jewish Scriptures were not divinely inspired,
but a medley of fables, passable poetry and childish philosophy. He had
already suspected this; and he congratulated the spirits on possessing a
critical genius so similar to his own. He finally acquired, from these
supernatural instructors, a grand system of philosophy, revealing the
divinity of nature and the laws of progress.
Having become convinced that there are great and subtile powers emanating
from the spiritual world, unknown to most men, he determined to avail
himself of those powers for his own private ends. He became a secret pupil
and disciple of magicians and wizards. He communicated with spirits and
permitted them to take possession of him, soul and body, so that they
spoke through his mouth and wrote through his hand and came at his call.
He learned all the tricks and spells of legerdemain, the arts and formulas
and incantations of magic, and the rites and ceremonies of the black art
in its broadest sense. He obtained means of seeing objects at any
distance, of producing hallucinations or optical illusions, of personating
the dead, of finding hidden treasures, of reading men’s thoughts, of
sowing enmity between friends, of discovering secrets, and a thousand
other astounding and almost incredible things.
The soul is not destroyed in a moment: it is the work of years. The evil
spirits and demons with whom he was thus brought into contact, slowly
poisoned the fountain-head of character; extinguished his reverence, his
modesty, his respect for marriage; undermined his conscience; swept away
all religious and even social and civil scruples; and fired and sustained
all his evil propensities; so that, externally a faithful disciple of
Moses, he was interiorly a devil, governed only by the love of self and
the world.
This formidable hypocrite, the most of whose wealth had been obtained by
secret frauds, and was not unstained with blood, had his dwelling in the
centre of an immense area surrounded by lofty walls and concealed by a
dense grove of trees. He received no visitors but those who came to him at
night, and for no good purpose. He had the character of a recluse, devoted
to sacrifice and prayer. He thus indulged his secret vices and carried on
his diabolical incantations unsuspected. The dark shadows of his princely
mansion enveloped a degree of Assyrian luxury scarcely exceeded by the
Caprean court of the emperor Tiberius.
Caiaphas, the priest, was his best friend, who shared his private
pleasures and maintained by constant applause his public reputation for
sanctity and honor.
The influence of evil spirits who possess us is at first gentle and
subtile, coinciding with our own inclination. Thinking to lead, we are
led. When a man is chained so that he can no longer resist, they urge him
headlong to a crisis. They fire his evil passions; they blind his
perverted intellect; they inflate his pride and self-conceit; they make
him scornful and regardless of others, impatient of all barriers to his
self-gratification, and assure him of boundless immunity and protection.
In this state of horrible fantasy and inflamed passion, he is ready to
trample upon all laws human and divine.
To this fearful point in his spiritual life had Magistus arrived.
When my father was driven into the wilderness, Caiaphas and my uncle
plotted together how to get speedy and sole possession of his great
wealth. To get rid of or destroy his children was the first, and, indeed,
the only thing necessary. But they resolved to allow some months to
elapse—to let our misfortunes die out from the public memory, and even
ourselves be quite forgotten. Hence the seclusion, the solitude, the
systematic neglect to which we were subjected.
The plan was finally matured. The boy was to be decoyed into the
wilderness and murdered by Barabbas. It was to be given out that he was a
wild, incorrigible lad, who had run away from home and joined a band of
robbers. After a few months a letter was to be received from Barabbas,
whose fame as an outlaw was widespread, giving the particulars of his
death in an attack of the party upon some caravan. This was to settle the
matter for ever in the public mind.
It was more difficult to dispose of my sisters than of myself. A hundred
schemes were suggested by the inventive villains, but all rejected or
suspended. It was finally agreed to draw them out and test their
characters, to make experiments upon them, to see what could be done with
them. It was a delicate task; but Magistus had boldness and cruelty for
anything, and Caiaphas was to back him incessantly with his private
counsel and his public support. He had already begun his insidious work,
by lamenting to sundry influential persons, with sanctimonious regrets,
that the daughters of his old and dear friend exhibited so early a
singular perverseness of character and disregard of their social and
religious obligations. The result, he added, of that laxity of discipline
and passion for individual liberty, which characterized the unhappy leper.
The first and best instrument of evil is always a woman. Mary Magdalen,
left an orphan without relatives at a very early age, had fallen into the
hands of a strolling showman, who taught her to sing and dance,
accompanying herself on the timbrel. Her extraordinary beauty attracted
attention in the streets of Jerusalem, and she soon passed into the
possession of one of those connoisseurs who study the anatomy as well as
the philosophy of art. She quickly disappeared from sight; and it was
rumored that she had been sent to Ashkelon to serve in the gorgeous temple
of Ashtoreth, the Venus of Assyria. She had gone one dark night no further
than Bethany, and had buried her talents and her shame in the princely
mansion of Magistus.
On the morning of my departure this serpent was introduced into the
dove-cote. Magistus represented her as a distant relative whom he had
invited to spend several weeks with his nieces, hoping that her gayety of
spirits would lighten the constant gloom of his little charges. The
children, dazzled by her great beauty and won by her free and affectionate
manner, were delighted with their new companion. She entertained them with
curious stories of what she had seen and heard, refraining from any
allusion which might reveal her true life and character.
But the plot of the two arch-demons did not work as they had calculated.
Indeed, it worked in a way quite opposite to their expectations. They had
counted on the corrupting influence of a bold, fascinating woman on the
gentle and unsophisticated thoughts and feelings of innocent girls. They
had not counted, cunning and sagacious as they were, on the possible
influence of the girls upon Mary Magdalen.
That influence was astonishing. When she felt the pure and innocent sphere
which surrounded the lovely sisters, a change came over the subtle
emissary of Magistus. She forgot the instructions of her masters. The
memories of her old life seemed to die out, and the unseen angels of her
better nature to wake into strange activity. Young herself, more sinned
against than sinning, her pity was awakened for these young creatures
against whom such wicked ones were conspiring.
She made them tell her all about their poor father, and wept with them at
the story. She took them into the garden and played over the green knolls,
and ran in the graveled walks, and gathered flowers, and sang little
childish songs, as if she were a child again. She asked a thousand
questions about our mother and little Samuel, and about the babyish
sayings and doings of my little sisters and myself. She frequently
exclaimed “Oh, I am so happy! This is the happiest day of my life! Oh that
I could live for ever so!”
Pausing before the tomb of my mother, and looking at a little vase of
fresh flowers which stood before it, she suddenly fell upon her knees,
exclaiming wildly:
“O God! if I could have offered flowers, also, at the tomb of a mother, it
might have been different!”
She burst into a flood of tears; and the sisters endeavored to console
her—not knowing the true nature of her wound—by kissing her cheeks and
mingling their tears with hers.
They were interrupted in these sweet offices of mutual sympathy, by the
voice of a servant asking Mary Magdalen if she had forgotten that she had
to prepare herself and her companions for the grand supper at the house of
Magistus.
She arose from the ground, and slowly recovering her composure, led the
astonished children through the gate in the garden wall toward the house
of our uncle. On the way she told them that Magistus had prepared a
handsome entertainment for herself and them, and as a charming surprise to
their brother, who was expected to return with good news from the father
just about the hour of the feast. They need not be frightened, for
Caiaphas alone was to be present.
We had never entered any portion of our uncle’s great mansion except the
small wing which contained the reception-room and the long passage which
led to the private chamber of our invalid aunt. The three women now passed
up a flight of marble steps into a portico leading into a vast hall,
ornamented with statues and with vases filled with flowers. Hurrying
through this hall, Mary lead them up another flight of stairs which had a
gilded balustrade, into two exquisite bed-chambers which opened into each
other.
The bedsteads were of carved ivory, exceedingly beautiful; the canopies,
of blue silk fringed with gold; the coverlets, of fine linen and purple,
curiously embroidered. The divans, the couches, the chairs, the tables,
were all gems of graceful art. The floor was of polished cedar, with
gilded moulding around the wall. The ceiling was a splendid stucco-work on
which scenes were painted in brilliant colors; in one room, Actæon peeping
from behind the trees at Diana and her nymphs in their crystal bath; and
in the other, Venus beating her breast and tearing her hair at sight of
the blood-stained thigh of Adonis.
The whole atmosphere was freighted with the most delicious and
exhilarating perfumes. There were chests of drawers full of the richest
female clothing, the fruit of the rarest material and the finest
needlework. There were caskets lying open and revealing ear-rings and
necklaces and bracelets of the most dazzling beauty. The sisters were
overwhelmed with wonder and delight. They had never seen such things
before; for our father, rich as he was, was plain, frugal and
unostentatious in his tastes and habits.
“These are all ours,” said Mary Magdalen, “the gifts of our good uncle who
delights to make us happy. Come, let us dress for the supper.”
Domestics came at her call, and the ladies were attired in robes of the
greatest magnificence. Their hair was dressed in the most graceful manner,
sparkling with alternate flowers and gems. “All this is for Lazarus,” said
the sisters to each other, as they followed Mary Magdalen, blushing at
themselves, down into the supper-room in a deep basement almost under
ground.
The supper-room was as gorgeously furnished as the bed-chambers. The table
was placed on a raised platform at one end of the room, leaving a great
space for which our bewildered visitors could not imagine the use. The
ceiling had a splendid painting of Aurora driving the chariot of the sun,
attended by the Muses and the flying Hours. The walls were adorned with
solid upright mirrors of polished brass. In every niche and corner was
some exquisite marble, some nude figure from the Grecian mythology; the
most beautiful of which was Leda caressing the swan, concealing within its
white form the passionate soul of Jove.
Caiaphas and Magistus reclined upon silken couches at a table which was
loaded with savory viands and vessels of gold and silver containing
delicious wines, and ornamented with brilliant vases of fruits and
flowers. The scene was lighted by hundreds of wax candles of as many
colors as the rainbow.
As soon as the women were handed to their places at the table, Martha
exclaimed:
“And why could not poor aunt Ulema be brought down to enjoy this charming
feast?”
And Mary added:
“And Lazarus, where is he?”
Ulema and Lazarus were the last persons in the world whom the host would
have invited to his banquet. He paid no attention to Martha’s question. To
Mary’s he replied by drawing a parchment from his bosom.
“Listen!” said he; “a letter from Lazarus!”
The faces of the young girls grew anxious.
“DEAR UNCLE:
“Excuse me for spending the night with my father. He is better, happy and
well provided. But I have many things to say to him, and my visit has
given him so much pleasure. I know I must submit on my return to the law
of purification, which will separate me many days from my sweet sisters.
Take them to your own house and make them happy. I will return to-morrow.
“Your loving nephew,
“LAZARUS.”
Magistus looked up: the sisters were weeping.
“I was half angry at first,” he said, “at this strange disobedience. On
reflection, I am satisfied. It confers immense happiness on both father
and son; and their consultations may be of great service to you all. And,
besides, it gives me such a good opportunity to become better acquainted
with my charming nieces.”
He passed the manuscript to my sisters, who inspected it closely. It was
my handwriting without doubt. The reader need not be told that it was a
base forgery; for at that very moment my poor father was ill in the cave
of John the Baptist, and I was bound in expectation of death on the shore
of the Salt Sea.
My sisters appeared to resume their composure and the feast proceeded,
although they partook very lightly of its delicacies. Musicians came in,
and the harp, the timbrel, the flute, the cymbals, the drum, and the
silver bugle enlivened the entertainment. Caiaphas and Magistus grew warm
and witty and convivial over their wine, which they pressed in vain upon
the timid girls. Even Mary Magdalen merely sipped it in deference to both
parties.
What a delicate thermometer is the heart of a young girl! Without
thinking, how innocent! Without reasoning, how wise! A thoughtful shadow
crept over Martha’s face. Mary sank into a deep reverie, from which the
playful sallies of the rest could not arouse her. These young girls were
thinking, and their thoughts ran in the same channel.
The sudden change of Magistus from indifference to suavity; this gorgeous
and secluded feast; Lazarus and his father away off in the wilderness;
their poor aunt shut up in her sick chamber; this strange woman who wept
so bitterly in the garden: these pagan pictures and statues so revolting
to their chaste religious instincts: the lights; the music; the noisy
laughter of these usually sedate men; all these things overwhelmed them
with sudden apprehensions and vague terror. Each divined the feelings of
the other by some secret sympathy; and bursting into tears at the same
moment, they both rose from their seats.
“Stay!” exclaimed Magistus, nourishing his wine-cup and maddened by its
contents—“Stay! you lose the cream and essence of the feast. I will show
you now how the dancing-girls of Babylon intoxicate the king of Assyria.”
At these words they fled from the room.
“Follow them,” said Caiaphas to Mary Magdalen, “and quiet their
apprehensions.”
“Put your babies to bed,” roared Magistus, “and come back yourself.”
I will not describe the new parties who were introduced to the feast, nor
how it degenerated into a revel, and the revel into an orgy. Mary Magdalen
did not return to the supper-room; and long after midnight the drunken
master of the house was borne off to a sleep from which he ought never to
have awakened, and to dreams of conquests which he never achieved.
The shadow of other spheres more powerful than his own, was already
approaching to thwart his plans and change his destiny!
An hour after all was quiet, a strange sound was made at the back gate in
the wall nearest the lodging-rooms of the domestics of the establishment.
It was a double sound; the first part of it being a loud and peculiar
whistle, the last part a powerful and startling hiss or rattle. The first
sound seemed to summon some one to appear; the second, to threaten him if
he did not obey. The first was a call; the second a menace.
There was one person on the premises, and only one, who knew the full
meaning of that strange summons. He trembled on his couch when he heard
it. Great drops of sweat came out on his forehead as he listened. He
strove to rise as if to obey it, but fell back as if paralyzed with fear.
The call was twice repeated with a weird ferocity in its tone; and the
black eunuch, Ethopus, staggered from his chamber and groped his way into
the open air and to the gate. He opened it softly with a private key, and
stepped into the street. Do not men, like moths, fly sometimes stupidly
into the candle of danger?
A remarkable vehicle, drawn by two great black horses and driven by a
hideous black servant, stood in the street. It was showily gilded, and had
several little doors and windows in it. It resembled the chariots on which
mountebanks and jugglers perambulated the country, but was of larger size
and more tastefully constructed.
Ethopus paid no attention to this equipage. Right before him stood an
object capable of inspiring him with the deepest horror. It was a tall
figure with a huge yellow serpent coiled about his neck and body, and a
leopard standing quietly at his side. The leopard growled and the serpent
hissed as the black man approached their master.
“Be quiet, Moloch!” he said to the leopard. “Hush, Beelzebub,” he
whispered to the snake. “This is a friend and fellow-servant.”
The poor black prostrated himself in the dust before this mysterious
night-visitor and his bestial attendants. He signified his total
submission by raising the man’s foot and placing it on his head as he
groveled on the ground. When he released it, he kissed it with the most
abject servility. His abasement was extreme.
“That is right, Ethopus!” said his master, “that is right. I rejoice to
find you in such a becoming frame of mind. Conduct me promptly to the
secret chamber of magic. Then return to my servant and give him suitable
accommodations. Inform Magistus of my arrival early in the morning. I have
come on a grand errand to this village of Bethany.”
Ethopus obeyed these orders without noise. All was at length silent.
Perhaps all slept: the drunken proprietor, the wicked priest, the
remorseful Magdalen, the frightened eunuch, the strange guest, and Mary
and Martha locked in each other’s arms, their beautiful faces bathed in
tears, and their sweet souls dreaming that their angel-mother was watching
them from heaven.
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]
VI.
_THE CHAMBER OF MAGIC._
[Illustration: Initial]
There are few sights more touching than that of a man struck speechless in
the course of disease, yet retaining his mental faculties. Death perhaps
approaches; weighty business presses on his mind; solemn secrets demand
revelation; confessions of soul struggle for utterance. He makes
inarticulate sounds, incomprehensible gestures. He writhes; he moans with
the burden of thoughts he cannot express. His eyes speak and plead with a
mute eloquence. His ideas play upon his countenance like lambent
lightning, but die away, voiceless, indefinite, unrevealed.
Such was the state of Ethopus, the dumb eunuch, the day after the
treacherous banquet. There was a great solitude about the house; for
Magistus, Caiaphas, and Simon Magus the magician, made an early and
prolonged visit to Jerusalem. Mary Magdalen took the sisters over the
beautiful and extensive grounds, and paid another visit to the tomb of our
mother, carrying some exquisite flowers in her own hand as a little
offering to the maternal shade. Ethopus flitted about here and there in a
state of unaccountable excitement. He followed the sisters all day at a
respectful distance; and when his duties called him off imperatively, he
went precipitately about everything until he could assure himself again
that they were free and out of danger.
“Ethopus has something extraordinary on his mind,” said Martha, to
herself; but she did not communicate her observation to her timorous and
sensitive sister.
The case was evidently this: Ethopus had discovered the plot of Magistus
against us all, and he felt certain that the arrival of the magician boded
no good. He was struggling between his disinterested affection for us and
his intense fear of his wicked masters. He felt his own weakness,
increased by his inability to speak; and he was laboring to devise some
plan by which the sisters could be brought to share his knowledge, and to
concert measures of escape from some impending catastrophe.
He seemed to divine that Martha was more thoughtful, courageous and
trustworthy than her sister. It was late in the afternoon when he made her
a signal, seen by herself alone, to follow him. She understood his
meaning, and contrived to withdraw without exciting the suspicion of her
companions. Ethopus conducted her to the chamber of Ulema. Scarcely giving
her time to exchange kisses with her aunt, he pushed her into a little
recess in the wall which was concealed by a hanging curtain. Between the
folds of this, Martha could peep cautiously into the room. In a few
moments Magistus entered.
He seemed hurried and flustered, and had a dark frown upon his brow.
“No message from Barabbas to-day. Something has gone wrong. Put this woman
to sleep immediately.”
Ethopus adjusted a large mirror of polished metal on a table. Ulema arose
from her couch without speaking a word, and seated herself in a chair
about four feet in front of the mirror and gazed steadfastly into it.
Magistus stood a little one side, and made rapid passes with his hands and
arms from her head to her feet, nearly touching her body. His black eyes
were fixed fiercely upon her face, and his heavy breathing could be heard
by Martha at every pass he made.
There was silence for several minutes, during which Ulema gazed
steadfastly into the mirror. Martha could not help doing the same; and she
gazed at the mirror until a strange, tingling, bewildered sensation began
to creep over her frame, and she averted her eyes to escape its magical
fascination.
The victim of this singular experiment now became rigid, and made a
convulsive sound as if in a severe spasm. Martha was terribly frightened;
but her aunt suddenly became relaxed with a profound sigh. Magistus took a
long needle and passed it through the skin of her hand. She did not
flinch. He then put something which seemed to be a lock of hair into her
palm, and closed the fingers tightly upon it.
“Follow this person,” said he, “wherever he is, and tell me what you see.”
The woman began, after a long pause:
“I am in a great wilderness of bare hills full of rocks and sand. The
sense of solitude is terrible. It is cloudy but windy—and the sun will
soon shine in the west.”
“But the youth?—the youth?” cried Magistus, impatiently.
“Wait a moment. The youth? I must find him. Bless me! how he has wandered!
how many circles! Ah! there he is! I see him stretched at full length upon
the ground.”
“That is good!” said Magistus eagerly; “that is good. He lies dead upon
the ground. Go on.”
“He is not dead,” said the oracle slowly; “his heart still beats: he
sleeps.”
“Not dead?” screeched the old man, “what say you, not dead? Is he not
wounded? Is he not stabbed? Is he not bleeding?” he continued in the
highest excitement.
“No!” said the woman calmly; “he is not dead, he sleeps.”
“Do you see no gashes upon his body?”
“No, I see only a bright new dagger.”
“Furies!” exclaimed Magistus; “he has escaped me. I have been deceived.”
Turning suddenly upon the woman, he seized her by the throat:
“Do you tell me the truth?”
“I tell you what I see. I fabricate nothing. I am now attracted around the
hill. Ah! I see a young man with the face of an angel coming forth from a
cave. He sings. Oh how sweetly he sings!”
“Angels and devils!” roared Magistus; “you have seen or reported falsely.”
With that he seemed overwhelmed by a paroxysm of rage, and began beating
the poor woman violently about the head and arms with a black rod he took
from the table. She made no resistance, and did not seem to feel the
blows. Ethopus raised his hands deprecatingly, and Martha was about to cry
out from her place of concealment, when a low, fierce growl, from
underneath the floor apparently, startled all of them but Ulema, who heard
it not.
Simon Magus was feeding his leopard.
“The Master has returned,” said my uncle, “I will consult him immediately.
He may deliver me from this difficulty.”
He left the room. Ethopus made rapid passes from her knees upward, and
Ulema awoke. She rubbed her hands and eyes, looked wonderingly around her
and exclaimed:
“I have had a long, painful sleep, and I must have seen sad things. Did I
give him satisfaction?”
Ethopus shook his head sadly.
“Alas!” said she, with a distressed and puzzled air, “when will this cruel
imprisonment cease, and this strange life of visions which I never
remember?”
Martha now came forward and threw herself weeping upon the neck of her
aunt. For a long time these sorrowful women exchanged those kisses and
tears which are consolations. They then unburdened their hearts to each
other. By questioning Ethopus and interpreting his pantomimic answers as
well as they could, they learned that some secret dangers surrounded them,
and that Ethopus wished Martha to spend the night in the chamber of her
aunt. Martha thought it best to rejoin Mary immediately, and explain to
her that Ulema was quite indisposed, and get her to sleep with Mary
Magdalen, and permit the older sister to comfort and nurse the invalid.
All of which was easily accomplished.
Ulema had been confined for years in that little room by her husband as
the subject and victim of his magical art. She was a clairvoyant of
extraordinary power; and when put asleep by the shining mirror and the
waving hands, she would follow any clue given her, and the greatest
physical obstacles seemed only penetrable shadows in the path of her
mysterious vision.
She was thus employed by her husband to advance the schemes of his
unscrupulous spirit. She was made to read the thoughts of others, so that
Magistus became possessed of any man’s or any woman’s secret life whenever
he chose. He obtained information in this manner which enabled him to make
lucrative transactions in business, to plot in the dark against whomsoever
he pleased, to destroy the peace of families, and to acquire a reputation
for superior and almost miraculous wisdom.
She had long ceased to be anything but a mere tool in her husband’s hands.
She was locked up and taken care of as any other valuable instrument would
have been. She was visited and inspected only when her services were
required. Love, sympathy, interchange of sentiments, all this had ceased.
She received nothing from him but contempt and threats. She lived within
hearing of his midnight revels. She bore the ravages of these things in
her pale and tearful face, with its sad and terrified expression.
Ethopus came softly into the room about midnight, and after many gestures
expressive of the supreme necessity of caution and silence, he conducted
the two women on tip-toe through a narrow passage. Near the end of this he
paused, and pressing on a secret spring, he discovered a sliding panel in
the wall. This opened and admitted them into a large, empty room. This
room was only for the ventilation of a more interior and secluded
apartment. A series of movable slats effected the communication between
the two chambers. The light streaming through the shutters showed that the
inner room was occupied. Looking down through the apertures, with very
little danger of being discovered, the women beheld, six or eight feet
before them, the floor of the secret chamber of magic.
Ethopus left them as stealthily as a cat, after placing them in the best
position to see and hear what was going on in the den of sorcery. He
pressed Martha’s hand to his heart before he departed. Perhaps he wished
to show how deeply he felt for them; perhaps also to intimate how deeply
he suffered. Perhaps he asked for help as well as sympathy. The poor, dumb
African would not only save them, if possible, from their subtle enemies,
but would enlist the knowledge and power of a superior race, to effect his
own deliverance from the crushing thraldom they had imposed upon him.
A thousand or two thousand years hence, magic as a science and an art will
have ceased to exist. Generations unborn will enjoy the leafage and fruit
of that sacred tree of Christianity, whose little seed we have seen
planted in the dark ground. The hells now opened will be closed; the
superstitions now triumphant will be a myth; the languages now living will
be dead; the arts now flourishing will have perished; the civilization now
dominant will be a historic shadow. Those who find this manuscript and
give it to the world, will not be able to comprehend the meaning, or to
believe the truth, of the strange things I am going to relate—and yet they
are true.
Magic, which pervades to a greater or less extent all nations, and in some
shape influences all individuals, had its origin in the corruption and
perversion of the sacred truths of religion. It is the life of all false
systems, the voice of their oracles, the inspiration of their prophets,
the power of their mighty men. It was the medium by which evil spirits
took possession of their victims. It is the falsity which antagonizes
truth; the darkness opposite to light; the hell arrayed against heaven. To
be under magical influence, is to be assaulted, betrayed, possessed,
governed, by demons.
Simon Magus, who believed himself attended by Moloch and Beelzebub, two
princes of hell, under the respective forms of a leopard and a serpent,
was the most remarkable sorcerer in the time of Christ. He was a Samaritan
by birth, but had spent his youth in Egypt, where he became addicted to
the black art, and thoroughly conversant with all its mysteries. He was
supposed by most men to be an Egyptian, and he took no pains to correct
the mistake.
He was a man of unquestionable genius and boundless ambition. He was of
majestic presence, bending weaker spirits easily to his will. He was brave
to desperation, and eloquent as if he had been fed in his youth by the
bees of Attica. He was the secret chief and leader of thousands of persons
addicted to magic in different countries. His word was regarded as law;
his power as irresistible; his wisdom as inscrutable.
Magicians generally resorted to remote caves and deserted ruins for their
rites and incantations. Many of the most splendid temples, however, of the
pagan religions, had private chambers devoted to their use. So also did
the palaces of many kings, and the princely mansions of wealthy and
powerful men. The magicians of Jerusalem and its neighborhood had a secret
council-room in the quiet house of Magistus, in which they held their
infernal conclave at every visit of the Master.
The two women peeped cautiously into this chamber of mystery. The floor
and the ceiling were both covered with black cloth, the latter having a
great many stars flaming upon it in imitation of night. Through them a
vast comet trailed its fiery form. The walls were painted with figures of
the most disgusting objects which creep on the earth, or fly in the air,
or swim in the sea. Some of these figures had the heads of men and women:
others had the heads of monsters attached to naked bodies in the human
shape.
On a raised platform of black marble, and in a great arm-chair covered
with crimson silk, sat Simon Magus, wearing a white robe of dazzling
lustre, a leopard skin loosely thrown over his shoulders, and a gilt crown
surmounted by an eagle with outspread wings. He wore also a massive gold
chain around his neck, from which was suspended a little sapphire image,
which was supposed to guide the Egyptian priest to the truth, as the
breast-plate of precious stones did the Jew.
The short black hair of Simon Magus curled close to his head, and he had
no beard after the fashion of his adopted country. His forehead was white
as pearl and both wide and lofty. His eyes were large and brilliant. His
whole face was illumined by the grand fires of intellect and passion. His
expression was too proud to be pleasing, too fierce to be beautiful. He
was a man to strengthen the heart of his friends, and to make his enemies
tremble.
A large black table was before him, brilliantly painted with the signs of
the zodiac. In the centre of it stood an image or idol made of black stone
or ebony, having the head of a man, the breast and fore-feet of a lion,
and the hind quarters of a goat. The serpent was coiled on the platform at
his right hand; the leopard crouched at his left. A splendid globe of
crystal hung from the ceiling constituting a lamp, burning perfumed oil
and shedding a rose-colored light over the scene.
In this mystic and formidable presence stood twelve or fifteen men with
bowed heads, down-hanging hands, and attitudes of the deepest humility.
The women recognized only the faces of Magistus and Caiaphas. The former
stood nearest to the table. Simon was addressing them in terms of
reproachful eloquence:
“You have made no progress in our sublime mysteries during the past year.
You have acquired no new powers over the spiritual world. You have not
even given me information of the least importance. Alas! you are devoid of
genuine ambition, without which whoever deals with spirits becomes a slave
and not a master.”
His voice became more sonorous and his eye more scornful as he warmed with
his subject:
“Your tastes, your character, your life, are low and vulgar and sensual.
You employ the powers of magic for paltry and contemptible ends. To obtain
reputation for cunning and foresight; to get good bargains out of your
neighbors; to cheat some widow out of her property; to find stolen or
buried treasure and appropriate it to yourselves; to pry into the secrets
of men’s bed-rooms and store-rooms and kitchens; to seduce silly maidens;
to create trouble between husbands and wives; to inflict all kinds of
petty and scurvy revenges upon your enemies,—that is all you do with our
venerable and awful art. The grander destiny which awaits us all by the
development and centralization of our powers, your vulgar passions do not
permit you to see or to appreciate.
“My example has been almost in vain. My spirit of self-sacrifice in
achieving my lofty ends, is a mystery to your sluggish and ignoble souls.
I have endured hunger and thirst and wakefulness and nakedness and heat
and cold and solitude and plagues and wounds for mastery in the great path
I have chosen. I have traversed the world from the frozen seas to the
chasms of torrid heat. I have contended with wild beasts and with their
guardians, the great spirits, by land and water. I have conquered the
serpent and the leopard. The vulture lights on my shoulder like a sparrow;
the lion crouches at my feet like a dog. Arch-demons come at my bidding,
and hundreds of lesser spirits swarm at the signal of my curse.”
He became violently excited; his eyeballs glared around in frenzy, and he
continued in a fierce whisper:
“It would freeze your cowardly souls only to hear the spells, the
incantations, the blasphemies I employed; the watchings, the tortures, the
combats, I endured, before I brought Moloch and Beelzebub into subjection
to my will. See there, how I have burned their names into my flesh with
pencils of iron heated to whiteness!”
He turned back the sleeves of his robe from his white arms, and held them
out. Upon one arm in great red letters was the word Moloch, on the other
the word Beelzebub.
“It was dreadful! dreadful!—but henceforth they are mine.”
The serpent writhed and protruded his tongue. The leopard showed his white
teeth, but dropped his yellow head between his paws.
“I have told you,” he continued, scornfully, “what constitutes your
ambition. Now I will tell you mine. To me belongs the glory of having
organized magic and associated magicians. I found them a horde of
wandering hunters; I shall make them an invisible phalanx of soldiers. I
have more than two thousand magicians, in seven different countries, who
obey me as one man. By concerted action we have obtained the secret
history, the hidden life of all the governors, consuls, warriors, kings
and great men throughout that vast region. I am maturing my plans to get
them all under my sovereign control. Other conquerors operate from
without, by sword and spear and catapult. I conquer from within, by hope
and fear and lust and passion and terror. Unseen, unsuspected, unknown,
with legions of invisible soldiers, I shall get possession of all their
treasures, all their palaces, all their thrones!
“Do you not see it?” he exclaimed, wildly, starting to his feet. “The
lever which truly moves the world lies always on the spiritual side of our
life. I advance from the right quarter to my designs. I shall subdue the
souls and bodies of men. I shall possess myself of all they possess. I
shall become emperor of Rome—yea, monarch of the world. Further still:—I
shall advance from realm to realm, from sphere to sphere in the spiritual
universe, marshaling around me my hosts of conquering spirits. I shall
pronounce the Unspeakable Name. My own name shall become Unspeakable!”
While the magician’s imagination soared away in this flight of boundless
ambition, his form dilated; a fierce red flush came over his face; his
eye, fired with a baleful brilliancy; and the maniac stood forth the very
impersonation of that Self-Love which is the moving and controlling genius
of hell.
His hearers trembled at his words and manner.
He sunk back into his chair and leaned his brow upon his hand. No one
disturbed his reverie. All were spellbound by the speaker’s enthusiasm.
After several minutes he raised his head and continued in a subdued tone:
“But, alas! my friends! this glorious dream is far from accomplishment. If
we had only to conquer the race of men, the difficulties would not be
insuperable. But our fiercest fight is on the spiritual side. All are
contending for the same prizes—power and glory. When we have beaten back
the shining ones whom they call angels, our combat begins with each other;
for each demands all for himself.
“Yet I despair not”—he added, after another pause and with a certain
sadness in his manner—“I despair not of realizing my inexpressible dream.
I have come into possession lately of an ancient and wonder-working
formula, whereby I hope to take many steps forward. Listen!
“I discovered by secret means only to be acquired in Egypt, that in a
certain wild spot of the Lybian desert one of the oldest and greatest
cities of the world was buried in the sand; a city so old that it has no
historical record; a people inconceivably wicked, in comparison with whom
the people of Sodom and Gomorrah were children sporting in the golden dawn
of innocence. This city and these people had been overwhelmed by the same
Power which buried the cities of the plain in the Salt Sea.
“I found this spot. By the aid of spiritual powers I burrowed my way into
their buried palaces and temples. I exhumed their remains. I made food and
drink of their ashes. The spirits who accompanied me fled away, and I was
left alone. I blended my being with that of the lost people. I became a
skeleton among skeletons, a shade among shades. I conquered. I drew voices
out of the silence, forms out of the darkness, life out of death. I
summoned with difficulty and danger the ruling spirits of the perished
race. I mastered their master. I made him my slave. I compelled him to
disgorge the secrets of the wilderness and the grave. I have enriched
myself with treasures of knowledge and power, of which no man even
dreams.”
Intense excitement pervaded his listeners—fear of the man and stupefaction
at his words.
“I will show you,” he continued—“by a strange art I have acquired, I will
show you this new demon who is also one of the oldest. I have summoned
this antediluvian monster to-night. He stands before me face to face, like
man to man. You cannot hear his voice nor see his shape; but you shall
feel his presence and mark his shadow on the wall.”
He now let down a large white curtain against the wall, to the top of
which it had been rolled like a great map. He resumed his seat and drew
forth a curious cup from a drawer in the table. It had words and figures
engraven upon it. He gazed intently into the cup, and pronounced some
words in an unknown tongue.
A moment of awful silence ensued, every one gazing steadfastly at the
curtain and hearing the beating of his own heart. Suddenly a strange,
benumbing, paralyzing sensation invaded the nerves of all present. It was
the approaching sphere of the antediluvian spirit.
“See!” said the magician hoarsely, “See! He comes!”
And sure enough! Like the shadow of a man which the moon makes when it is
going down, there crept a shadow up over the curtain; dim, wavering,
misshapen, which slowly settled into distincter form, and stood with
bended head and sweeping beard, with tottering knee and outstretched arms,
like a very old man of gigantic size begging alms.
All shuddered at the presence of this terrific spirit, more than Saul at
the rising of Samuel in the cave of the witch of Endor.
“From this most ancient arch-demon of our art,” continued Simon, pointing
to the shadow, “I have extorted a method of incantation which promises
more power and glory than all the combined rites and amulets in the world.
He will confirm what I say.”
The shadow slowly turned its old and hideous face toward the audience and
made an affirmative motion with its head. It then passed away from the
curtain like the shadow of a cloud creeping over a field of grain. All
breathed more freely.
“This formula will procure me a liquid of such potent magnetic virtue,
that a single drop of it put into a glass of wine will bind the woman who
drinks it, entirely and for ever, soul and body, to the man who
administers it. She will surrender friends, home, name, fame, everything
to his wishes.
“Miserable sensualists that you are,” he exclaimed, raising his voice and
confronting his cowering audience, “the use for which you would chiefly
value this inestimable secret has no attractions for me. My spirit looks
upward, not downward. I scorn pleasure. I love glory and power. Through
woman I shall conquer man. Woman herself shall be the agent of
transferring all that husbands, lovers, brothers, sons, friends possess,
to the great magician who shall be a god in her eyes.”
“Glorious ambition!” exclaimed Caiaphas.
“When I have achieved the conquest of the world,” said the earnest madman,
“I will resign the women to you, as a conqueror throws the treasures of a
sacked city to the soldiers who have won him a crown.”
“And the liquid?” inquired Magistus—“how is it to be obtained?”
“That brought me hither from my subterranean palace in Egypt, where I was
initiated into the sacred mysteries by Isis herself.”
All ears paid him the strictest attention.
“I must obtain the body of a young girl and convey it to the buried city
of the sands, where Ja-bol-he-moth, whom you saw just now, will assist me
in the magical rites. We must take her alive. I have made every
preparation. I have a vehicle specially constructed for concealment. That
will convey us to Joppa whence I have just come. From there to Alexandria
by a vessel which awaits me. Thence to the Lybian desert.”
“And the young woman?” asked Caiaphas.
“She must be pure as the snow nearest heaven: innocent as the babe tended
by angels: beautiful as Aurora when she treads the golden pavement with
her feet of pearl: loving as the heart of Spring when she gives her life
to the earth: holy as the spirit of prayer which breathed from the lyre of
King David.”
“And what would you do with this peerless maiden?” said some one in the
group.
“Are you acquainted with the processes and powers of magic, and do you ask
such a question? Do you know the virtues of the dust of a dove’s heart? of
the ashes of a viper’s tongue? of the pulverized bones of a babe’s head?
of the blood of a living man? Can you not imagine what subtile forces we
may extract from the essences of a virgin body?”
“Has your oracle directed you where to find this wonderful woman?” asked
Magistus.
“My presence here is a warrant that it has. That woman is a Jewess, of the
tribe of Benjamin, the youngest child, born at the death of her mother.”
These were the last words heard by either Ulema or Martha. These
affrighted women had been the silent witnesses and auditors of the
extraordinary scene I have described. With increasing amazement and terror
they found themselves unable to stand, and they sank softly upon the
floor. When the object of Simon’s visit to Bethany began to reveal itself,
they trembled with intense fear. When the horrible idea took distinct
shape in her mind, Martha had almost burst into a wild shriek of agony.
The shriek was with great difficulty suppressed. The terror and agony were
borne in upon the young soul, and she fell into a long and fearful swoon
which seemed death itself.
After a long, long time, when all was still and dark, Ethopus approached
as softly as he had departed. He aroused Ulema from her trance of grief,
and the two bore the unreviving form of Martha back to the chamber. She
was laid upon the bed; and as Ethopus passed out of the door, Ulema saw
him by the dim light of the stars lifting his face and hands earnestly to
heaven.
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]
VII.
_SAVED._
[Illustration: Initial]
After Martha came out of her swoon, the night was spent in consultation
between the two women as to the surest method of averting the catastrophe
which impended. It was determined that the sisters should escape from the
house early in the morning, and appeal for help to some worthy and
influential residents of Bethany, friends of my father. They were so sure
of obtaining succor and deliverance, that they became quite cheerful as
the sunlight broke above the hills.
Magistus suddenly entered the room, and their hearts sank within them as
they noticed the silent ferocity of his countenance. Without saying a word
he clasped iron rings upon their ankles and wrists, and chained them
securely to the bed-posts. Their tears, cries, inquiries, supplications,
were all in vain. He took no notice of them whatever, and locked and
bolted the door behind them, leaving them bound and in despair.
A different but equally painful scene occurred in the chamber of Mary
Magdalen. Mary, my sister, had just awakened with a deep sigh, and began
narrating an ominous dream which had disturbed her night’s rest, when a
loud knock was heard at the door, and a strange voice commanded them to
dress and come forth immediately. They sprang up in great trepidation and
obeyed the order. On opening the door they turned back into the room with
a loud shriek.
Simon Magus stood before them with his serpent and leopard. He had these
creatures about him almost constantly. It was to keep them in good
training, for his personal protection, to excite wonder, to inspire awe,
and to enforce his authority. They were admirable adjuvants to his
pretensions and power. Every one quailed before them.
He assured the women that his pets should not hurt them, if they followed
him in silence, turning neither to the right nor to the left. There was no
alternative but to obey. He conducted them to our father’s residence
through the gardens and the gate in the garden wall. He had given every
point a recent inspection. He passed into the inner courtyard, and led
them down a flight of steps to a room in the cellar used by two of the
domestics as a bed-chamber. Here he locked and bolted them in and retired.
Thus were the sisters secured without the possibility of communication or
escape. The conspirators took every possible precaution. No one was
permitted to leave the grounds, or to come in during the day. Magistus or
Simon kept the black eunuch continually in sight. Whether his agitated and
anxious manner betrayed him, or whether the magician really read his
thoughts, his masters suspected that Ethopus meditated a revolt against
the snares which had fascinated the leopard and the serpent. He was
closely watched.
The situation of this poor fellow was very touching. His dark face was an
index of a darkened soul, not by evil but by the absence of light. Under
his homely exterior was a brave and generous heart. He was born and reared
in a barbaric land, full of strange beasts and birds and stranger men,
where Nature herself is wild and savage. He had been the victim of
incredible oppression and cruelty. It is wonderful that the last spark of
human feeling had not been trodden out from his spirit.
It spoke well for the native richness of the soil when good seed sprang up
so luxuriantly as soon as planted. From the day he became acquainted with
my sisters and myself, a new life had dawned upon him. Friendly voices,
gentle words, kindly looks, sympathizing deeds, were food and drink to his
amiable and child-like nature. His soul grew and expanded under them as
flowers under dew and sunlight. Sincere attachment to us and hatred of our
common enemies took possession of the whole man. He was ready for any
labor, any danger, any sacrifice in our behalf.
Imagine the mental tortures of this humble and voiceless friend, when he
saw the terrible fate which was impending over us, and found himself so
helpless to avert it or to assist us!
Thus passed away the long, dreary, gloomy day—the day of my father’s
funeral. It was spent by my sisters in prayer and tears and unavailing
struggles to escape or to make themselves heard. Mary Magdalen identified
herself thoroughly with the gentle and innocent child with whom she was
imprisoned. She taxed her ingenuity to the utmost to give her consolation
and hope; and when invention failed, she resorted to tears.
“Do you ever pray to God?” said little Mary.
“To which God?” asked Mary Magdalen.
“Which God? There is but one God!”
“Magistus has the statues of a dozen gods and goddesses in his house; and
he says that all of them answer prayer when they are presented with
splendid gifts.”
“Jehovah, the only God,” said the child with sweet solemnity, “heareth the
prayer of the humble and contrite heart. He heareth the poor and needy,
and lifteth up all who are cast down.”
“How beautiful!” exclaimed Mary Magdalen with a deep sigh; and she fell
into a profound reverie with downcast eyes, while a solitary tear, the
first pearl of genuine repentance, trickled down her cheek.
About nightfall Simon Magus unlocked the door and called Mary Magdalen out
of the room. He closed the door behind her, so that Mary could not hear
what he said. He put into her hands two cups of different patterns
containing milk.
“This one,” said he, “you will give to the child; this you will drink
yourself. Be careful and not forget. Your life depends upon it. If you
fail to obey me, I will feed your body piecemeal to my leopard.”
Terror-stricken as well by his manner as his words, she took the cups
mechanically from his hands and passed into the room. He carefully locked
the door again.
Bewildered by this new blow, she took her seat in silence, a cup in each
hand. She strove to collect her thoughts. Poison to Mary or death to
herself! That was the alternative. Her nature was impulsive and
passionate. She reached her conclusions quickly, and she acted upon them
instantaneously.
“What is my wretched life worth in comparison with hers?” was the silent
language of her heart, “What attraction has life for me, poor, guilty,
forlorn, forsaken thing?” She drank from the cup intended for Mary.
“What is the matter,” said my sister, who had noticed her singular
abstraction and agitation. “What are you drinking?”
“Only some milk. I was so frightened by that terrible man that I forgot
what I was doing. Excuse me for drinking first. Here is a cup for you.”
The unsuspecting child drank it eagerly, having passed the whole day
suffering from both hunger and thirst. Taken after fasting, poisons act
quickly. It was not long before Mary Magdalen began to have strange
swimmings in the head and benumbing sensations along the course of all her
nerves. She felt sure that her death was approaching.
“Mary,” said the brave girl, “when you are delivered from these dangers
and your brother comes home and I go away, will you remember me
sometimes?”
“You will not go away.”
“Oh yes. I shall go away, far, far away.”
“You shall live with us always,” said Mary.
“I cannot! I cannot! When I am gone, and they tell you evil and cruel
things of me, will you think of me kindly and love me still?”
“I will not believe them.”
“But if you should believe them, would you love me still? I cannot live
without your love.”
“I will love you for ever,” said Mary, throwing her arms around her neck.
“Why do you speak so sadly? You frighten me. What is the matter?”
“I am sleepy, so sleepy,” said Mary Magdalen, stretching herself on the
couch.
Mary knelt at her side, chafing her hands, with some vague foreboding
rising on her mind.
“Oh do not go to sleep so early. Do not leave me alone in the dark. Talk
to me.”
“Mary,” said the stupefied woman slowly and with difficulty, “does Jehovah
who accepts the offering of a contrite heart, ever receive into his heaven
a very great sinner?”
“Certainly, certainly!” said the child.
“Then pray for me.”
No words, no shaking, no supplications, no frantic screams could arouse
her again; and Mary beat her bosom and tore her hair in the extremity of
grief at the side of her inanimate friend.
About an hour before midnight four men stood in the inner courtyard of my
father’s house. Caiaphas and Simon Magus were engaged in earnest
conversation. Magistus turned to the black mute whom he had compelled to
accompany him everywhere, and said:
“I shall go half a day’s journey with Simon. We will start now in ten
minutes. Haste to the stables where his chariot and servant are in
waiting. Drive quietly around to the front gate of this house. Here is the
key to Ulema’s chamber. After we have gone, not before, give those women
some food.”
Ethopus departed. He left the gate in the garden wall open. He hurried to
Ulema’s room. He released the astonished women. He drew them out upon the
gallery. He pointed eagerly to the garden gate and over to my father’s
house. It was all he could do. He was wild with excitement, and the
gestures of the dumb man were those of despair. He then ran toward the
stables.
The women started on their dangerous journey, not knowing what was to be
done. They hurried along the flowery walks in the greatest trepidation. On
ascending our terraced garden, Ulema, weak, sick and overwhelmed with
emotion, fainted and fell. Martha tried in vain to revive her. Time was
flying. Faint screams now issued from the house. Mary was being abducted!
She started up and without thinking,—for thought would have paralyzed her
efforts,—rushed to the rescue alone.
The miscreants had descended into the cellar. Great was their astonishment
to find Mary Magdalen in a profound stupor and the little Mary weeping at
her side.
“This delays us,” said Simon, with great vexation. “That traitorous woman
has taken the opiate herself. It will be necessary to bind and gag the
little one. No sounds must issue from the chariot, no suspicions be
excited.”
It was during this terrible process of binding and gagging that the
screams were made which Martha heard in the garden. It was effected; and
the three men were bearing the silent and muffled body through the
courtyard, when Martha rushed toward them with a loud shriek of
supplication.
“Silence!” thundered Simon, “would you betray us?” And uncoiling his great
serpent from his neck (the leopard was locked up in the chariot), he threw
it toward her. “Strike her!” he said, in a hissing tone. The serpent, as
if acting intelligently, made an immense coil of its body and raised its
head threateningly toward Martha. She fled in terror up the stairway
leading to the flat top of the house.
“Pursue her!” said Simon to Caiaphas—“pursue her and keep her silent with
your dagger until we have escaped.”
Caiaphas bounded after her. She turned and faced him on the house-top. He
threatened to plunge the dagger into her heart if she made a sound. She
backed before him to the parapet. It was at that moment when the moon,
suddenly emerging from the cloud, revealed to me, as I was approaching my
father’s house, the two figures; my sister raising her arms wildly to
heaven, and the wicked priest threatening to strike.
At that moment I entered the courtyard and confronted Magistus and Simon,
who were bearing my sister toward the gate. I drew the dagger Ethopus had
given me, and plunged it into the side of Magistus who was nearest to me.
He sank upon the ground with his burden, uttering a deep groan. Simon
rushed upon me and in a moment we were engaged in a deadly struggle. He
was a man of astonishing strength. He threw me at last upon the ground and
had nearly wrested my dagger from me, when Ethopus who had been concealed
behind the gate sprang to my assistance. He dragged the magician back by
the shoulders, and at the same instant there was a loud scream from Martha
on the parapet, and the sound of voices and footsteps at the gate. Two
persons rushed in to our aid; and Simon suddenly springing from us all,
escaped into the street, and in a second the wheels of his chariot rattled
away with the utmost rapidity.
Caiaphas, seeing that his party was vanquished, fled away through the
garden to the house of Magistus. Martha hurried down and rejoined her
friends below. Ethopus brought lights as quickly as possible, although I
had already recognized in the new-comers the good old Persian whom
Barabbas held prisoner, and my late deliverer who had styled himself the
Son of the Desert.
Mary was released from her wrappages and threw herself alternately into
the arms of brother and sister. Ethopus enjoyed this scene with gestures
of frantic delight. The happy party was suddenly startled by the groans of
the wounded man, who had dragged himself away and was leaning against the
wall of the house, bleeding profusely.
We laid him on the floor of the reception-room, and the Son of the Desert,
who was an adept in such matters, stanched the blood and bandaged his
hurt, pronouncing it severe but not mortal. When Magistus opened his eyes
and saw the old Persian bending over him, he stared at him with amazement,
and stammered forth:
“Surely this is my renegade brother-in-law, who has renounced the name and
religion of his fathers and calls himself Beltrezzor.”
He was right. Beltrezzor was our uncle, our father’s only brother, our
next of kin, our legal guardian!
This recognition gave us all the greatest delight. After mutual
congratulations we hastened to recover poor Ulema from her trance, and to
convey her and her wounded husband to their own home. Mary Magdalen was
brought up into an airy, upper room, and every effort was made to rouse
her from her comatose state; but in vain. A good nurse was placed at her
bedside charged to render her every attention.
The Son of the Desert spent the night under our roof, and proceeded the
next morning to Jerusalem with Beltrezzor. He refused to appear at the
table with the women and declined all the rewards and presents which our
gratitude induced us to offer.
It seems that Beltrezzor’s friend had sent one-half of the ransom by the
robbers who passed me going down the ravine, promising the other half in
two days after, on the delivery of Beltrezzor himself at Jerusalem.
Barabbas had entrusted the Son of the Desert with that mission. The old
man had been slow in his movements, and night with its black cloud had
overtaken them before reaching the highway. Reflecting that the trumpets
of the Roman soldiery had sounded the evening tattoo, Beltrezzor had
luckily suggested that they should turn aside into Bethany, where he had a
brother whom he had not seen for thirty years. They came close behind my
own weary footsteps, and I have told the result.
The second day after these surprising events, Mary Magdalen disappeared
suddenly to our great regret, leaving no clue by which she could be
traced. She awoke from her artificial sleep about daylight, and the nurse
supplied her with food, and told her the wonderful things which had
happened. She went away, notwithstanding the remonstrances of the nurse.
“Tell them,” said she, “that I rejoice at their good fortune, and that I
love them so much that I lift the shadow of my presence from the sunshine
of their peace.”
Poor Magdalen!
My new and real uncle, Beltrezzor, had a bargain to make with Magistus and
his young friend, the hypocrite Caiaphas. It was easily affected. We were
in possession of facts which would have exposed them both to public
infamy, and have cut short the ambitious career of the talented priest.
Silence on our part was purchased at the following price:
Beltrezzor was a pagan, and objections might be raised in the Jewish
Sanhedrim to his taking possession of a Jewish estate and the charge of
Jewish orphans. Magistus and Caiaphas were to obviate these objections,
and to secure him the legal guardianship.
Ethopus was to be declared a freedman.
Beltrezzor, my sisters and myself were to be permitted to visit Ulema
every Sabbath so long as she lived.
In addition to his liberty, Beltrezzor presented Ethopus with a precious
stone of considerable value, upon which was engraved a mystic name. This
gem had great reputation in the magical fraternity for releasing its
possessor from the spell of the most powerful enchantment. Whether some
change really came over his spirit, or whether his imagination did the
work, Ethopus acted as if some great burden had been lifted from his soul.
He entered at once into our service, and his gratitude seemed only equaled
by his humility.
Beltrezzor took possession of my father’s estate, and to our great joy
determined to reside at Bethany during our minority. Under his judicious
and liberal management everything soon blossomed like the rose. He adorned
our residence with all the chaste and beautiful treasures of architecture
and art. He surrounded my charming sisters with every luxury that the most
cultivated fancy could suggest. He devoted himself especially to our
education, and our house became the favorite resort of all that was most
learned and brilliant in Jewish society.
Thus several years passed happily away, overshadowed by no cloud. If a
tear ever came into our eyes, it was consecrated to the memory of our dear
father, and to the reflection that he had perished so sadly in the
wilderness, without knowing the good fortune which was in store for his
children.
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]
VIII.
_BREAD ON THE WATERS._
[Illustration: Initial]
The impression made upon our minds by these extraordinary events was
ineffaceable. After three days and nights of perilous adventure and
suffering, from a youth I became a man. From little girls, my sisters
became women. There was ever afterward about us a pensiveness, a gravity
of manner, a too early maturity of thought, which excited the pity of
those who had known us during our father’s life, when a happy childhood
broke forth into smiles and pleasures, like a genial spring blossoming out
into perfumes and flowers.
Our six months of domestic life under the management of Magistus, with its
gloom, its neglect, its suspicions, its want of love and liberty, stood in
painful contrast with the merry sports, the delightful peace and the
religious sunshine of our father’s household. It was night compared with
day. But the unmasking of the characters of Caiaphas and Magistus was a
rude shock to our tender spirits. We had revealed to us at one view the
utmost depths of human depravity. We had stood consciously amid the
hideous and revolting spheres of hypocrisy, sensuality, robbery and
murder. There was a leprosy of the soul as well as of the body; there were
wild beasts of the spirit; there was a wilderness of the mind; there was a
death masquerading in the garments of life; and we had seen them all. We
had looked into hell.
This early and deep insight into the fearful connection between evil
spirits and wicked men, and their combined influence over the world, was
in one sense salutary. The recoil from the bottomless abyss into which we
had peeped, produced a rapid and unusual development of the moral nature.
In my sisters it took a religious, in myself a philosophical turn.
Those young girls, constitutionally pious and full of gratitude to God,
sought renewed strength and comfort in the exercises of faith and
religious duty. They devoted themselves to prayer and the study of the
Scriptures. With the womanly nature of the vine, which must cling to
something of firmer texture and stronger growth, they attached themselves
trustingly to the priests and scribes and doctors of the law, with a
natural and pardonable feeling. But they avoided Caiaphas.
I do not remember that I ever felt any decided respect or love for the
religious institutions of my country. I was born, I suppose, with the
element of veneration for the past left out of my mental organization. I
never could understand why men look back to the infancy and childhood of
the race for the oracles of wisdom. It is rather the business of each
century to scrutinize rigidly the inheritance it has received from the
preceding century, and to reject everything which is worthless,
unphilosophical and immature.
I was largely indebted to my father for my progressive temperament. He
despised pretension and ceremony. He conformed his life rather to the
spirit than to the letter of the law. His understanding sturdily revolted
against the mysterious and improbable. We were not trained after the
strict manner of the Pharisees, but with that freedom of action which does
not crush the individuality of the child. The reformer, the innovator, the
man of new ideas and life, is seldom born of the narrow-minded literalist
and bigot of an old system. The father is generally an intermediate link
between the old and the new; adhering loosely to the old himself, and
prophesying, inarticulately perhaps, the emancipation of his son from the
thraldom of the past.
When we get rid of the conventionalisms of an old and perishing system, we
become peculiarly open and sensitive to the grand intuitions of natural
religion. The gorgeous ceremonies of the temple made little impression
even on my boyish fancy: they were tiresome and disgusting to my riper
years. But I melted into tender admiration at the thought of John the
Baptist, praying and toiling in the wilderness, unseen of men, trusting in
God, and receiving to his loving bosom and care, the leper, the robber and
the lost ones of the world.
One of the teachers provided me by my excellent uncle Beltrezzor, was a
Greek; and the study of that wonderful language and literature led me
still farther away from the influence of Judaism, corrupted and failing as
it was. I was not slow to assert that the poetry of Æschylus and Homer
charmed me more than that of David and Isaiah; and that the philosophy of
Plato exceeded in value all the learning of the Scribes.
My heretical opinions, candidly avowed on proper occasions, but never
obtruded, had a gradual effect in breaking the spell of enthusiasm which
bound my sisters to the priesthood and the ritual. But the examples and
conversations of Beltrezzor had a still greater influence in lifting their
minds out of that narrow and exclusive circle of thought, in which the
typical Jew is born, lives and dies.
Beltrezzor was a man of most beautiful and lovely character. Simple in his
own tastes and dress, frugal in his own habits, but generous and even
lavish to others; cheerful and polite; active and industrious; truthful
and unselfish; full of liberal opinions and tender sympathies; he charmed
all who knew him by the purity and nobleness of his mind and the suavity
of his manners. One of the most opulent and honored men in his adopted
country, and an inveterate traveler by habit, he had quietly settled down
in the little village of Bethany to consecrate several years of his life
to our education and happiness.
Yet the model man, the like of whom we had never seen in Priest or Scribe,
was in our eyes a renegade and a pagan. He had abandoned the doctrines and
precepts of Moses for those of Zoroaster. His religion, which appeared so
sweetly in his life, was a puzzle to us, for we expected to discover its
quality in its outward observances. The following manifestations of the
religious spirit were all we ever detected: He sometimes looked from his
window at the rising sun, and muttered something like a prayer with bowed
head. He always spoke of Fire with a strange reverence, and said it was
synonymous with Power and Beauty. He kissed his hand to the first star he
saw in the evening. On the last day of every year, he had fruits, flowers,
wine and rice brought into his chamber, as offerings to the spirits of his
departed friends, who, he believed, visited him on that occasion.
Behold the simple ceremonial upon which was based so much goodness of
heart and so much wisdom of thought!
“Who was Zoroaster?” asked Martha one day of her uncle.
“Zoroaster, my child, was the friend and companion of Abraham. They lived
together in Haran until the Great Being, Ormuzd, the King of Light, called
Jehovah by the Jews, summoned them both to leave their country and fill a
sacred mission. Zoroaster went to the east and Abraham to the west.
Zoroaster like Moses received the book of God on the top of a burning
mountain, and gave laws to the people.”
“What kind of laws, uncle?”
“The essential moral teachings are as much like those of Moses as twin
sisters are like each other.”
“Then you do not worship idols?”
“No—we detest them.”
“You do not worship any of the gods of the pagan nations?”
“No, my child! There is but one God, Ormuzd, King of Light. All religions
come from him. Some are purer and more perfect than others. All true
prophets and priests are his servants. False priests and magicians are in
league with evil spirits. They are children of Ahrimanes.”
“If there is such fundamental identity, why then, uncle, do you prefer the
religion of Zoroaster to that of Moses?”
“Because its ritual is more simple, beautiful and sublime; because its
doctrines are more rational and philosophical; because the people who
believe it and live it, are more liberal and loving and enlightened than
the Jews; because it brings the soul nearer to the Power and Beauty of the
sun.”
“Uncle,” said Mary, affectionately kissing his hand, “are all the
worshipers of Ormuzd as good and pure and sweet-tempered as you are?”
The old man blushed: “The teachings of Zoroaster tend to make men far
purer and better than I.”
The sisters sank into a deep reverie. They had a glimpse of that great
world of moral light and beauty, which lay entirely outside of the limits
of the Jewish faith. They gazed on it with wonder.
“But, uncle,” said Martha, “in the great day of judgment will not the
unbelievers be sentenced to eternal punishment?”
“In the last day, my child, all the metals in the world will melt with
heat, and all human souls, living and dead, will pass in judgment through
the fiery element. To the good it will feel like a fragrant bath of warm
milk; to the evil it will be a torrent of burning lava. It will consume,
however, nothing but the wicked lusts of the heart. Evil will thus be
destroyed; and all men, freely forgiven by Ormuzd, will unite in a
universal chorus of love and praise.”
The sphere of our uncle’s life and character taught us charity for even
renegades and pagans; and the beauty and rationality of his singular
doctrines made me suspect that truth had temples elsewhere than in Judea.
I became fairly emancipated from the Jewish Church, and looked for the
regeneration of mankind to the ennobling and purifying influence of
knowledge, which, I believed, would finally illumine the world with its
waves of rosy light. Beautiful and illusive dream!
My sisters, disgusted as they soon became, with the fanatics, hypocrites
and impostors who thronged the temple, were not ready to cut loose from
the faith of Moses or the ceremonies of the law. They deplored the
corruptions and deadness of the Church. They shrank from the ritualists
who had no religion, and from the devotees who had no love in their
hearts. They sought consolation by looking eagerly for the Messiah, who
was to restore the sceptre to Israel and rekindle the embers of faith and
piety in the church.
Martha and Mary pondered upon all they had ever heard or read on this
wonderful subject. Born of a virgin, “the Prince of Peace, the Mighty
Counselor, the Everlasting Father,” was coming in the flesh? They
delighted to search the Scriptures for traces and predictions of his
birth, his appearance and his mission. They loved to walk in the grove of
olives which crowned the mount in rear of our house, whence they could see
the marble colonnades of the temple and its vast roof all fretted with
golden spikes, while they conversed arm in arm on their favorite theme.
Thus were we being secretly prepared by the experiences and circumstances
of our life, for the reception of the new and strange religion of Christ.
The thoughtful analysis of the past history of any human life, will reveal
here and there the movings of the finger of God. We do not see the divine
providence as an event approaches, but only after it has transpired.
Jehovah showed his back, not his face to Moses.
Some may be surprised at the idea that certain minds were _prepared_ for
the reception of the Christian religion by processes directed by divine
providence. They suppose that every one who saw the miracles and heard the
words of Christ, could have believed in him and followed him if he had
chosen. It is a mistake. There were many noble and pious Jews, to whose
minds the words and miracles of Christ had no weight whatever; who
rejected him unhesitatingly as a dreamer or an impostor. They were not
prepared to receive him.
There have been several revelations or dispensations of Divine Truth; and
there will unquestionably be more. The new revelation is seldom or never
received by the adherents of the old. The force of the decaying system is
first broken by schism. After schism comes a spirit of free inquiry, and
skepticism is developed. The old foundations are broken up; new ideas, new
influences, new life start forth. Then comes the possibility of a renewed
development, a reconsideration of principles, the evolution of higher and
more spiritual truth.
This fact was illustrated in the early days of Christianity. The first
disciples were not the leading spirits and great lights of the old
dispensation, who regarded themselves as the special guardians of
religious truth. That class misunderstood Christ and rejected him. The men
and women who forsook all and followed him had no special reverence for
the Jewish law and its ceremonies. Singularly enough, they were not
persons of strong religious convictions, however holy their life became
after receiving the inspiration of the Holy Ghost. They had outlived or
spiritually outgrown the Jewish dispensation. They cared little or nothing
for the opinions of priest or scribe. They stood aloof from the Jewish
ceremonial with skeptical indifference, waiting for Providence to give
them something radically new. They knew Christ by intuition; their spirits
had been organically prepared for his reception.
Christ rejected the Jewish Church long before it rejected him. He
neglected its ceremonies; he violated its laws; he disregarded its
superstitions; he ignored its magnates; he chose his associates from the
publicans and sinners of civil life, and his disciples from the publicans
and sinners of the moral world. If he ever comes again, the same phenomena
will recur; for the Divine laws repeat themselves, like the return of
comets and the revolutions of the sun.
I was acquainted with most of the persons who organized the infant Church
of Christ. There were within my knowledge but two exceptions to the
general law, that those who acknowledged the Messiah first and most
cordially, were outside of the orthodox pale. Thomas Didymus was a rigid
Pharisee and ritualist. He believed nothing which he could not see with
his own eyes and touch with his own hands. He was the least spiritual of
all the disciples.
Paul, the apostle to the Gentiles, was a man of ardent imagination,
intense faith and great genius. His mind, however, was cast in the
antiquated mould; and he was a stickler for orthodox observances. No logic
or rhetoric, however eloquent and convincing, could ever have shaken him
from his Pharisaic attachments. The miraculous interposition of heaven was
necessary to turn him from the service of the Jewish Sanhedrim.
Not without influence also in preparing us for the new era, was the
character of John the Hermit, afterward known as John the Baptist. For
several years we paid two annual visits to the tomb of our father, and to
the cave of the extraordinary young man who had befriended him in his last
illness. One of these visits was made when the angel of spring had touched
the snow-wreaths of winter with her silver wand and turned them into
flowers. The other was made when the forests of autumn clothed themselves
in their festal robes of crimson and gold, to celebrate the approach of
death with its prophecy of resurrection.
We chose one beautiful and cloudless morning, and making an early start,
mounted upon sure-footed mules, and well provided against those demons of
the desert—hunger and thirst—we crept slowly along over the brown hills
and through the desolate hollows. Ethopus and two or three more stout
domestics always attended us as a bodyguard. We made a picturesque party,
encamping in the mouth of the sacred cavern, startling the silence of the
wilderness with happy voices, and breaking its wild solitudes with the
enchanting presence of beauty and love.
John always received us with a graceful suavity, which seemed strange in
one so unaccustomed to society. We first paid our visit to our father’s
grave, and offered our tribute of tears to the ashes and memory of the
beloved. The prophet would improve the occasion to our spiritual
advantage, by repeating with simple eloquence many appropriate verses of
Scripture. We then returned to the cavern and conversed with the
heavenly-minded recluse, startling the echoes of his lonely hermitage with
incidents of life and travel and society, and with scraps of history,
biography, poetry and philosophy, brought from the gay and busy circle in
which we moved.
The prophet bore a quiet share in our animated talk, and partook sparingly
of our ample repast. He was full of childlike earnestness and credulity,
easily excited to smiles, easily moved to tears. The sphere of his
thoughts and feelings was as different from that of the priests and
scribes, as though he had been an angel descended from heaven,—full of
love and wisdom, without creed, without doctrine, without forms, without
ceremonies,—to mock with his sublime perfection the puny ritualist who
imagined no religion possible without them all.
The young prophet seemed to enjoy these semi-annual disturbances of his
thoughtful solitude. He always accompanied us on our return as far as the
great highway. He was so fully convinced that he was driven into the
wilderness by the Spirit of God, that we did not strive to allure him back
to the haunts of men. I regarded him as a gentle and amiable fanatic.
Martha pronounced him to be a young man of great promise, destined no
doubt to be a prophet or leader in the Church. Mary’s criticism was
limited to noting the extraordinary sweetness of his voice and the
softness of his hazel eyes. Once also a tear trickled down her cheeks,
when we spoke of his lonely days and nights in his self-inflicted
solitude.
It was in the third year after Beltrezzor’s return, that, on approaching
the cave of the hermit we saw a poor, emaciated creature, the skeleton,
the shadow, of a man, seated on the stone at its mouth. It was long before
we could recognize in this pitiable object, my generous deliverer, the Son
of the Desert. On feeling the premonitory symptoms of a dangerous fever,
he had left his band, which was then prowling about the Jordan, and had
come to the cave of the young hermit.
“You nursed my wounded friend. Take care also of me. I am sick in soul and
body. You are the only good man in the world. You alone make me believe in
God.”
These were the words with which he threw himself down upon the pallet of
skins. Long weeks of illness had passed away—and he was restored, standing
now on the border of life like a phantom flitting from the tomb. His
great, sad, earnest eyes seemed to say that he neither cared to live nor
was afraid to die.
We took a deep interest in this forlorn robber, who seemed to act, think
and feel so little like a robber. This proud, handsome man, without name,
without friends, was an enigma to us. He had sternly declined all reward
for his eminent services to us, and we felt under painful obligations to
him. When we bade him adieu with ardent wishes for his speedy restoration,
Martha, with great dignity and self-possession, took a ring from her
finger and deliberately placed it upon his.
“Do not forget us,” said she. “Our fates may part us, but the invisible
binds. On this ring is engraven the name of an angel. I give you my
guardian-spirit as your own. May he lead you into peace.”
He bowed his head low upon her hand; and when he raised it, there were
tears in his eyes.
I noticed after a while that these visits to the desert had a singular
effect upon Mary. For some time preceding them, there was an exhilaration
of spirits, a flush of expectation, a vivacity of manner, which added a
new lustre to her charms, a new glow to her beauty. During the visit,
however, she was timid, reticent and abstracted: and afterward for weeks
there was an unusual quietness of demeanor, as well as a tearfulness of
the eye and a pallor of the cheek.
“Lazarus,” said Martha to me one day, “had we not better bring our
father’s remains to Bethany and bury them with our mother’s? It would
spare us these long trips to the desert.”
Keen-sighted, motherly sister! But I—who had not then met with Helena and
knew nothing of love—I answered:
“Oh no! these visits to John are the most delightful events of the year.”
On the fourth spring of these visits Mary took down a little flower-pot
with a rose in it for John.
“I bring you a gem,” said she, “of nature’s light—a lamp, a star, to
illumine the darkness of the desert.”
That evening when returning, Mary and John fell behind the rest of us, and
when I turned to look after them, he was pointing out to her some rare
beauty of the clouds about the setting sun; and her face, turned full upon
him, was all aglow with a radiance not reflected from terrestrial skies.
The fall visit was looked forward to with unusual pleasure. It was a
glorious day. Why was it that the desert seemed more solitary than usual?
As we approached the cavern, the silence was appalling. There were no
recent footprints on the sands. The spiders had spun their webs across the
mouth of the cave. It was utterly deserted. John had gone. He had taken
away his pallet of skins, his earthen vessels for food and drink, his
sandals, his long staff. The flower-pot lay upon the ground with the
little rose-bush in it, long withered and dead.
The sisters burst into tears; and Martha kissed the little one most
tenderly on the cheek.
The Spirit of God, which impels men to the great missions of the world,
drives them away from the bloom of nature and from the gardens of the
soul,—away into the wilderness, where, tempted of devils and sustained by
angels, they gather strength for the doom and glory which await them!
Our father’s remains were brought to Bethany. Mary’s cheek grew paler. The
dew of tenderness trembled always in her eye. She searched the Scriptures
all day long for the coming Messiah. At night she dreamed—
Ah! what?
Of the withered rose-leaves in the deserted cavern.
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]
IX.
_SACRIFICE._
[Illustration: Initial]
My uncle summoned me one day into his presence, and told me that he wished
me to enlarge my education by travel.
“You must visit Egypt, Greece and Italy,” said he, “the typical centres of
the world, and converse with the master-spirits in art, science and
philosophy. I have made arrangements to keep you amply supplied with money
at Alexandria, Athens and Rome, and with letters to agreeable and
influential people.
“This will consume three years of your life; and if you are wise and
prudent, they will be pleasantly and profitably spent. When you return I
will surrender your father’s estate into your hands, and make a handsome
settlement upon your sisters from my own means. I am growing old and shall
need but little for the rest of my pilgrimage.”
“Then,” he continued to my surprise and sorrow, “then I shall go back to
the great East—nearer to the sun—to die.”
“Go back to the East?” I exclaimed with trepidation. “Why so? Your old age
requires the presence of loving friends and relatives. What can we—made
your children by your kindness—what can we do without you?”
“Ah! my child, the grass soon grows in the footprints of man. We are
easily forgotten. I shall be loved like one dead. I am weary of this
Judean air; of this corrupt and discordant society; of these Roman
trumpets and banners. I want peace and repose. I long to see once more the
sacred fire burning upon the altars. After twenty years of life in Persia,
one cannot be satisfied with the Mosaic sacrifices and the olive groves of
Bethany.”
Knowing my uncle’s firmness of resolution, and how long he had restrained
his natural restlessness for our benefit, I hung my head in mournful
silence.
“Well, well!” said he in a cheerful voice, “we have time enough to talk
about the whole matter. Get ready now for the scenes which fill the heart
of a thinking man with supreme delight.”
This plan of perfecting my education by travel, by coming in contact with
idolatrous people and studying heathen philosophies, excited the fears of
my good sisters, so contrary was it to the custom of the Jews. They
regarded it, indeed, as almost a crime. My uncle, however, was grandly
cosmopolitan in all his sentiments, and he had imbued my own mind with his
enlightened charity.
Ethopus accompanied me as my body-servant. We had taught the dumb African
to read and write after he was released from the bondage of Magistus and
Simon. He acquired these accomplishments in a moderate degree with great
celerity, so that our anticipations of rapid mental progress were sadly
disappointed by the result. When he reached the intellectual development
of a white child at twelve years, his onward march was arrested. No study,
no assiduity could advance him a step farther. He was organically a child.
His thoughts, his feelings, his opinions, his manners were all child-like;
and so they remained.
Such is the general result of my observation and study of the African
species. Susceptible as they are of a beautiful and indefinite moral
culture, the development of their intellectual faculties is limited by the
thick scull, the small brain, the black skin which they have inherited as
a national curse. May it be different in the future! I have received
nothing but kindness at their hands, and I feel nothing but kindness for
them in my heart.
We learned from Ethopus, through the medium of writing, that he had been
stolen by a party of marauding soldiers from his quiet and happy home in
Abyssinia, where his father was a petty prince. He had been sold to some
magicians in Egypt, who made him a slave, a football, a victim of cruel
and unnatural experiments. He had been fed upon toads and serpents and
creeping things. The blood of various animals had been injected into his
veins. The operation of poisons was studied upon his body. Degradation and
terror were imprinted upon his soul. He had been deprived of his manhood
and his speech, to bring him into total subjection to his diabolical
tyrants.
When I told him that I should go first into Egypt, he trembled; for the
memory of Simon and his own early life troubled his mind. I could scarcely
have induced him to accompany me at all, had it not been for the beautiful
gem which my uncle Beltrezzor had given him. In its prophylactic powers
against magic and magicians he enjoyed implicit faith. He had hitherto
carried it always in his pocket. He now bound it over his heart, carefully
secured in a leathern bag. He then declared himself ready for the journey.
Less fortunate than he, I had nothing wherewith to fortify myself against
evil spirits and the dangers of land and sea, but the consolations of
Zoroaster’s religion and scraps of the Platonic philosophy.
I had only one misgiving on leaving my sisters in the care of such an old
man as our excellent uncle. The wicked Magistus was still living in the
same house, separated from us only by a stone wall. He guarded my aunt in
the same cruel seclusion, and no doubt kept himself informed by her
clairvoyant powers of everything going on in our house as well as in
others. He had never made any advances toward us, and there was no
communication between us. I knew, however, that a fierce desire for
revenge rankled in his heart; and his power was now greater than ever,
since he had become a prominent member of the Sanhedrim, and his friend
Caiaphas had been appointed high-priest of the temple.
I spent about a year in exploring the wonders of Egypt, and had reached
Alexandria for a reluctant departure from that land of fascinations, when
a letter was delivered at my door by some one who disappeared as soon as
he gave it to the servant. This occasioned me some surprise, and I opened
it immediately. On a little piece of parchment which fell out as I did so,
I found these words:
“The original bearer of this letter was killed in a skirmish with our
troop. I find it contains something which you will be interested to know.
I therefore transmit it to you at some risk. Do not forget the
unforgetting
“SON OF THE DESERT.”
The epistle was from my sister Martha. It ran as follows:
“A wonderful thing has occurred, my dear brother, since I last wrote.
John, the young hermit of the desert, whom we have mourned as lost or
dead, has appeared on the banks of the Jordan, baptizing the multitudes
and preaching repentance and the remission of sins. He claims to be the
forerunner of the Messiah, announcing the speedy approach of the King of
kings. Crowds are flocking to him from all Judea and Galilee, and even
from distant regions. His eloquence is so astonishing that many who go out
of curiosity or sport, are stricken to the heart and receive his baptism.
“Mary and I have listened to the preaching of this inspired friend, and
are convinced of its truth and power. We have been baptized also,
confessing our sins, and vowing a life of repentance and good works. I
assure you, my dear brother! when the prophet laid his hand on our heads,
blessing us in the name of the Messiah, our minds were filled with a
heavenly ecstasy, and we could scarcely refrain from shouting aloud for
joy.
“When I came up out of the water, the first face I saw was that of our
strange friend who calls himself the Son of the Desert. He was standing
with many others on the bank near the prophet, and gazing earnestly at his
seraphic countenance. When his eyes met mine, he looked down as softly as
a young girl, and quickly withdrew from the crowd.
“My heart warms toward this poor, outcast stranger, who befriended you so
nobly, and who leads, I fear, such an evil life. Is it not strange that
the noble instincts, which he certainly possesses, do not cause him to
revolt against his base surroundings? His name is continually in my
prayers. Oh that he also would be baptized of John, forsake the troublous
ways of the world, and receive the sweet delicious peace of the new life!
“Mary is so happy again! A new rose has come to her cheek, a new buoyancy
to her step, a new beauty to her smile.
“Our good uncle accompanied us to the Jordan, although he despises crowds
and excitements. His criticism on the preaching and baptism of John shows
how thoroughly pagan are all his conceptions. He said he was a young man
of splendid enthusiasm, who would have been a disciple of Zoroaster if he
had studied the philosophy of fire instead of that of water.
“Perhaps the shining of this new star will guide you sooner home to our
eyes and hearts. You linger in that old, frightful, sand-beleagured
magic-stricken Egypt, when this herald of the Messiah, Aurora prophesying
the sun, is filling Judea with Divine light! Hasten with love, soon, very
soon, to your loving sisters.”
I was still meditating on this letter when Ethopus rushed into my chamber
with a face full of alarm. I soon learned from his expressive pantomime
that he had seen Simon Magus in one of the public squares, exhibiting some
magical tricks to a great crowd.
“Did he recognize you?” said I, anxiously.
The African shook his head hopefully.
“Then we will take ship for Athens to-morrow. Get everything ready for the
voyage.”
Ethopus seemed delighted at these words, and proceeded with the greatest
alacrity to execute my orders; not, however, until he had so disguised
himself that I positively did not know him when he appeared before me. He
was then so long absent on my errands that I became apprehensive for his
safety. He suddenly entered the room with an expression of countenance
which puzzled my practiced wit to decipher. It was the wildest joy
strangely mingled with sadness. He found it impossible to convey his ideas
by pantomime. The scene was ludicrous as well as pathetic. After several
frantic and fruitless efforts, he seized a burnt coal from the hearth and
scribbled on the white wall in great sprawling characters:
“I HAVE FOUND MY BROTHER!”
and making signs for me to follow him, he darted from the room.
We passed rapidly through the streets, Ethopus looking suspiciously about
him all the while, until we reached a grand bazaar, where thousands of
articles were exposed for sale. We forced our way through crowds of
merchants, each crying his wares; through buyers and sellers and idlers of
every description, chattering and chaffering in all the languages of the
world. We came presently to some little rooms or stalls where a great many
slaves on sale were exposed, almost naked. Ethopus pointed triumphantly to
a tall young African of handsome and even noble features, and falling upon
his neck, they wept together.
“They are brothers,” said the trader. “Their meeting was both amusing and
affecting. This dumb fellow recognized the other first, and fell upon his
face, shoulders and hands with frantic kisses. The younger one, not
comprehending such a useless outburst of affection, resented it as an
intrusion, and would have belabored his brother soundly, had he not been
so heavily ironed. The older one was in despair, but suddenly bethought
himself of taking off a lot of false hair and beard, and baring his neck
and bosom for inspection. The recognition was then soon effected, and they
laughed and wept alternately in each other’s arms.”
“He is a slave?” said I.
“Yes—and a most unruly one. He was captured in the late war with the
Abyssinians, and although very young, they say he was a superb soldier. I
can well believe it. He has already passed through several hands, and was
quickly got rid of by them all, on account of his fierce and dangerous
character.”
I studied the young man’s physiognomy carefully, but could discover no
trace of ferocity about the features. He seemed to be about twenty years
of age, and had a manly and dignified bearing as he stood there manacled
and exposed to the public gaze. I read his secret at once. He was a brave
and high-spirited youth, accustomed to freedom, war, and perhaps to the
exercise of power; and he did not submit to his chains as quietly as his
owners desired.
The slave-dealer must have divined the admiration with which I regarded
him, for he added with a quiet sneer:
“His braveries are at an end now, for he has been bought for Drusus
Hortensius.”
“And who is Hortensius?”
“Have you lived in the desert, that you never heard of Hortensius?
Hortensius is the richest man in the world at present, and the greatest
epicure in Rome. He imitates Lucullus, at least in pride and luxury. He
makes suppers for his friends, of incalculable magnificence. His demand
for nightingales’ tongues has silenced half the bird-music in the world.”
“Is Hortensius in the city?”
“In the city? No! He lives in Rome, which, he complains, is altogether too
small for him. He has an agent in Alexandria, who has a standing order to
send him about fifty refractory and incorrigible slaves every year.”
“What does he want them for?”
“Want them for?” laughed the dealer. “Well, you must know that Hortensius
has the greatest and rarest fish-ponds in the world. They are miracles of
beauty. Hortensius is fond of fish as well as of nightingales’ tongues.
But common fish do not tempt his august appetite. Lucullus discovered, in
the course of his epicurean studies, that fish fed upon human flesh have a
remarkably fine flavor; and moreover that these aquatic cannibals have a
special relish for the African species of the genus homo.”
“Wretch!” I muttered.
“Therefore,” continued the trader, without noticing my indignation,
“Hortensius, imitating Lucullus, has a negro slave cut into small pieces
and thrown into his fish-ponds every week. His children are taken out by
their nurses to witness this choice method of refining the pleasures of
the table.”
Anthony, for so they had re-named the brother of Ethopus, had picked up a
good deal of Latin, in which language the dealer was speaking. He had
listened intently and had caught the horrible meaning of his words. The
disdainful and defiant look of the young soldier, contemplating the fate
which awaited him, was a study for an artist.
“How can I save him from this cruel bondage, from this hideous death?”
“He was purchased yesterday and will be called for to-day, as the ship
sails this evening.”
“Will you cancel that bargain and sell him to me?” said I eagerly.
“Yes—for a grand consideration.”
I reflected that I had drawn my last funds from my uncle’s Egyptian agent.
Still, I might possibly borrow largely from him and wait a remittance. I
named what I considered a liberal price. The trader coldly shook his head.
I added a third more to it, determined to sacrifice a year’s travel in
order to save Anthony from the fish-ponds of the luxurious Roman. The
trader declined without hesitation. I could make no greater offer without
consultation with my uncle, and that was impossible. My countenance fell
in despair.
The brothers had watched our conversation with intense interest; and
although they did not comprehend its full meaning, they saw that I had
made a great effort to redeem Anthony and had failed. The face of Ethopus
was full of grief, that of Anthony of sad resignation. Ethopus suddenly
sprang up smiling, as if some great idea had illumined his mind. He tore
open his robe, and producing a little bag from his bosom, he took out the
precious stone which my uncle Beltrezzor had given him. He extended the
brilliant gem to the trader with one hand and pointed to Anthony with the
other.
“Oh do not take that,” I exclaimed. “This poor fellow values that stone
more than life itself. Nothing but the most intense affection could prompt
him to such a sacrifice. He believes that stone has delivered him from the
bondage of a terrible magician, and wears it over his heart as a
protecting genius. Accept my offer instead, which is of greater money
value than his gem.”
This speech had a singular effect. The slave-dealer had no generosity, but
boundless superstition. He either had an intense fear of magic himself, or
he was in collusion with magicians. He immediately acceded to Ethopus’
offer, struck the chains from Anthony’s arms and feet, and put the price
of his slave smilingly into his pocket.
“I will replace him with that old fellow there, who would smoke his pipe
as he is now doing if we were burying him alive. The agent of Hortensius
counts heads and never looks into faces.”
Anthony comprehended that an exorbitant price had been paid for his
liberty, involving some great sacrifice on the part of Ethopus and he
insisted on resuming his fetters, until I assured them both that the stone
with such magical properties should be replaced by one similar, as soon as
I could communicate with Beltrezzor.
Ethopus was now in a state of feverish anxiety to get aboard the Athenian
vessel. The addition of Anthony to our company seemed to increase his
fears and his sense of responsibility. I conveyed my baggage and my two
servants to the ship, and put them in charge of the captain, while I
returned into the city to finish my business and to make a few purchases.
When I reached the vessel again, Ethopus had disappeared! Anthony was in
great distress, and the captain and sailors were highly excited. The story
they told was a curious one. A tall, wild-looking man, fantastically
dressed, came and sat down on the shore near the planks of the ship.
Busily engaged in carrying on the small freight which crowds in just
before a vessel leaves, the sailors paid no attention to him.
This man was heard to make some very curious sounds, a kind of double
whistle, a signal which he repeated at intervals with increasing vehemence
and impatience. Ethopus then came slowly out of the vessel, reeling and
groping like one blind or drunk. He advanced slowly toward the stranger
and knelt at his feet. The poor fellow suddenly started up with a great
shriek and endeavored to escape. Several of the sailors rushed forward to
rescue him from the man who had seized him and was dragging him off. The
magician, for such he was, drew a huge yellow serpent from his robe, and
flourished it like a whip at his assailants. Some of the sailors declared
also that a jet of blue flame darted from his bosom. Certain it is that by
some magical trick he so terrified them that they fell back in awe, and he
escaped with his victim through the crowd which was gathering.
Poor Anthony, who had never seen a ship before, was walking about the
vessel in childlike wonder while this terrible abduction was taking place.
I was in the deepest distress. I took Anthony and the baggage back to my
quarters. I remained a fortnight in Alexandria instituting the most
thorough search after our lost friend. It was all in vain. I sailed at
last for Athens with a heavy, heavy heart, and a new servant, leaving the
poor dumb eunuch in the clutches of Simon Magus.
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]
X.
_AT ATHENS._
[Illustration: Initial]
I lived at Athens a year, studying the philosophy and poetry of the
Greeks. I longed to see my beautiful sisters and my good old uncle; but I
cannot disguise the fact that I was greatly fascinated with Grecian life
and manners. I frequently wished that I had been born a Greek and not a
Jew, and that I could spend my days in sight of the marble-crowned
Acropolis and the blue Ægean Sea.
I taught Anthony to read and write, hoping that he would prove to be of
superior mental calibre to his brother. But the result was the same. He
surprised me at first by his brightness and afterward by his stupidity. He
was more impetuous than Ethopus, and braver; but then his spirit had not
been broken and subdued by contact with the magicians of Egypt, those
subterranean devils who defied the assaults of reason against their
pretensions and the vigilance of government against their crimes. Ceasing
to be a good soldier and incapable of becoming a philosopher, he proved an
invaluable servant.
The letters from my sisters, who wrote alternately, were full of
tenderness and piety. They continued to give glowing accounts of the power
and progress of the teaching of John the Baptist. Martha quoted all the
passages in the prophets alluding to the forerunner of the Messiah, and
Mary dwelt upon the influence of his doctrines and baptism upon the hearts
and lives of the people. Mary perceived intuitively that the only valuable
thing in a religion is the life which it induces one to lead. One day I
received a letter from this enthusiastic young girl, which indicated that
some great spiritual ferment was working in the land of Judea:
“DEAREST LAZARUS:
“The hunger and thirst of our souls will soon be satisfied. I have seen
him with my own eyes—him, the Son of God, the Messiah. Oh what grace! what
wisdom! what goodness! what power!
“Do not think I am dreaming! Some time ago John baptized a young man, whom
he pronounced by heavenly vision to be the Messiah, or as he styled him,
the Lamb of God. This mysterious person disappeared from sight. It was
rumored that he had retired into the wilderness, to undergo some terrible
combat with the powers of hell, preparatory to his great mission upon
earth. Our hearts have been watching eagerly for his reappearance.
“After a while we heard that a great prophet had arisen in Galilee, who
had astonished all men by the wonderful spirituality of his preaching. He
had also exhibited miraculous power by turning water into wine at a
marriage-feast in Cana. Perhaps this Jesus of Nazareth was the promised
deliverer! But how could the ignoble names of Nazareth and Galilee be
connected with the Prince of the house of David?
“Not long afterward a strange incident occurred in the temple. The
miracle-worker of Cana appeared, and assuming extraordinary authority, as
if the temple were his own house, he drove out all the traders and
money-changers and idlers who have so long desecrated the holy place by
the connivance of the corrupt and wicked priests. They would no doubt have
destroyed him in their anger; but the people, and indeed the better class
of Pharisees also, applauded the courageous act of the man, who dared,
single-handed, to vindicate the holiness of the Lord’s house, and to
scourge the profaners out of the sacred precincts.
“I was pondering over this incident, when our good and kind friend
Nicodemus came in, and told us he had witnessed the scene himself, and
that this Jesus of Nazareth was the same person whom he saw baptized by
John in Jordan, at the time when John bare witness that he saw the Spirit
of God descending upon him in the shape of a dove.
“Was not this cleansing of the temple prophetic of his spiritual cleansing
of the Church, as well as of the purification of those little temples and
churches, our own hearts?
“The good Nicodemus, who inquires into everything quickly, but into
nothing thoroughly, paid Jesus a visit at night and drew him into
conversation. He was astonished and puzzled at the new ideas of this
spiritual teacher. Now, my dear brother, do not laugh at me when I assure
you, that what seemed so unintelligible to a learned ruler in Israel, was
a sun-burst of truth and beauty to the heart of your poor little sister
Mary.
“How strange it is that I can see clearly what seems hidden from the eyes
of those so much more capable than myself!
“Jesus said to Nicodemus:
“‘Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.’
“How stupid it was in the good old doctor to stumble at this sublime
sentence, and to ask:
“‘How can a man be born again when he is old?’
“And the reply of Jesus, how beautiful!—
“‘Verily I say unto you, Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit,
he cannot enter into the kingdom of God.
“‘That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the
Spirit is spirit.’
“I understand it, Lazarus; I see, feel, know, comprehend the whole
mystery. It may be the flower comprehends the sun better than the
philosopher.
“We were born of water through the baptism of John. By the repentance and
obedience taught by him, we are washed of the uncleanness and sensuality
of our old life and enter upon the sweetness and purity of the new. Jesus
will baptize us with the Spirit of divine love, as John did with the
spirit of divine truth; and we shall be new creatures, born again as it
were, into a spiritual kingdom of light and peace.
“The Sabbath after my interview with Nicodemus, I started with Martha to
the temple, hoping to see Jesus with my own eyes. And I saw him, Lazarus,
not only with my eyes, but with my heart and soul. We had reached the pool
of Bethesda by the sheep-market, and were looking at the crowd of feeble
and paralytic people, who were waiting for the periodical moving of the
water, when a murmur arose: ‘The prophet, the prophet of Nazareth!’ I
looked and saw Jesus standing in one of the porches on the first step that
leads down into the water.
“The moment I saw his face I believed. My heart beat audibly within me. A
divine ardor burned in my soul. A faith, strong as the mountains or the
ocean, took possession of my whole being. My impulse was to rush forward,
fall at his feet and proclaim him the Messiah to the assembled multitude.
Martha held me back and said: ‘Listen! he speaks!’
“Yes—he spoke; and I heard that voice I had so often heard in my dreams,
dreaming of the restoration of Israel!
“He spoke to the oldest, the feeblest, the most forlorn-looking person in
the crowd:
“‘Wilt thou be made whole?’ he said, in a voice of infinite tenderness and
beauty.
“Strangely enough, before the sick man answered, the same question entered
into my own soul. I felt a deadly, paralytic sensation throughout my
spiritual frame, and I knew that I needed to be made whole even more than
the poor creature on the steps. The Divine question was put to the sick
man, to me, to the Church, to the whole world. It was infinite. While I
was ejaculating internally, ‘Yes, Lord! yes! entirely whole,’ the
paralytic replied:
“‘I have no one, sir, when the water is troubled to put me into the pool,
but while I am coming, another steppeth down before me.’
“Poor, old, helpless, friendless creature! Others had relatives or friends
who assisted them to descend into the restorative waters; and day after
day the selfish ones had pushed aside the weak, slow, pallid wretch. But
the great Friend had come!
“Jesus, stretching forth his hand over the prostrate form, with a majesty
indescribable, exclaimed:
“‘Rise, take up thy bed and walk.’
“And the paralytic arose amid the exclamations and plaudits of the crowd,
which pressed about them until he and Jesus were concealed from our sight.
“I have seen the Messiah several times since that miracle. He was walking
the streets with several fishermen of Galilee, whom they say he has chosen
to be his apostles. The greatest takes up the least to connect all the
intermediates with himself. The group is always followed at a distance by
a woman clad in deep mourning, and wearing a thick black veil. She never
approaches near enough to speak or be spoken to. No man knows where she
lodges or how she lives; but the first dawn of light always reveals her
dark figure opposite the house in which Jesus has slept.
“Who can she be? says every one to himself and to others. Whoever she is,
her humility and devotion are very touching; and the Power which can work
miracles no doubt reads her heart and is leading her to himself.
“Martha is profoundly impressed and greatly bewildered by the miracles and
character of Jesus; but she cannot yet believe that he is the veritable
Messiah predicted by the prophets. She thinks the Messiah must be a great
Prince, who will restore the power of David and the glory of Solomon to
the Jewish nation, and make our temple the temple of the whole world. Our
hearts, I think, our purified hearts, are the temples in which he is to
reign!
“Our dear, good, pagan uncle smiles quietly at my enthusiastic faith, and
encourages Martha’s doubts by telling us of great and good magi in Persia,
who performed greater miracles than those of Moses.
“Ah, Lazarus! How can you linger away off in those beautiful and wicked
cities of Greece, buried in spiritual darkness, and studying their foolish
or insane philosophies, when the Source of all light has risen, and the
Fountain of all truth has been opened in your own country! Oh hasten to
your home in our hearts and see these great things for yourself. If you
cannot share my faith, you will at least receive and reciprocate my love.
“Ever your MARY.”
If these strange things had occurred soon after my father’s death, when
the spirit of religious inquiry was strong, and when I loved to search the
Scriptures with my sisters, I would have been deeply, intensely interested
in them. But the hardest thing in the world is to make a devotee out of a
man who thinks himself a philosopher.
My uncle had not converted me to the doctrines of Zoroaster, but he had
convinced me that Zoroaster, Moses, and all the great leaders of religious
thought derived their inspiration from the same source. I came tacitly to
believe that no special Messiah was coming to the Jews, any more than to
the Persians or Egyptians or Romans, all of whom needed deliverance from
mountains of sin and wildernesses of error, quite as much as the Hebrew
nation which constituted so small a fraction of the human race.
Moreover the influence of travel, and especially my free and happy life at
Athens, had quite denationalized me. I was no longer a Jew.
I had breathed the mystic and magical air of Egypt, and had peeped into
one of the very cradles of the human race; where I found everything so
strange and so unlike what I had been taught by our childish Hebrew
traditions.
I had trodden all the glorious and beautiful grounds hallowed in the
immortal history and songs of Greece. I no longer wondered at the host of
gods and goddesses which were conjured from the misty deeps of antiquity,
to guard a nature so prolific and fair, and a people so perfect in form
and so gifted in spirit.
The traditio
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