University of Virginia Library

I found my prisoner was the Prophet, Jesus,
Whom I had sometime heard of as a kind
Of Hebrew Stoic, like our Seneca,
But practising, as well as preaching, that
Hard and high doctrine. Certain words of his
Had reached me now and then, like thistledown
Blown i' th' air, which had the ring in them
Of true philosophy: but other some
Were dreamy; part, good coin, and part too fine
A metal for this world to traffic in.
I'd heard too that he had the singular art
Of healing them by faith, imagination—
Whate'er it be—which filled their minds with wonder,
So that some deemed a god had come to earth.
Half curiously I scanned him. Homely clad,
Like those his fellow-workmen; broken, too,
By toil and travel and poverty and sorrow,
And all unlike the Immortals, as our Poets
Conceive them, and our sculptors fashion them.
Yet there was something in his look and bearing
That overawed me. As I looked on him,
There rose in me a memory of my mother
White as a lily and sweet, and of the days
When I was like a white bud on her bosom,
That now am so bedraggled. What could it mean?
Those women of the Court who rave about him
Cry up his beauty; but whom they admire
They clothe with loveliness, and Socrates
Himself should walk in guise of bright Apollo,
Not like a satyr, were he but their hero.
And this man's beauty, if beautiful he were,
Was not like th' young Augustus. This, at least,
I could have sworn, that he was innocent,
Whate'er these Jews might say. But here was I
In this mad tragi-comedy of life
Playing the part of Judge, while he stood there
To plead with me for life!—But that he did not.
No, not so much as one word did he utter
To win our grace, but looked me in the face,
Silently searching me, as who should say,
“Thou, my Judge, Thou!” until I quailed before him,
Feeling the mockery of justice, where
The power was mine, the righteousness was his.
But how to save him, guiltless, from their guile?
So I went forth, and asked them:

“What have ye
Against this man?” He called himself a King,
And they would have no king but only Cæsar.
The lying rogues had plotted against Cæsar,
Raised tumults, broke into rebellions, cursed
His Prætors, Publicans, and legionaries,
And at that very hour were scheming treasons:
Yet they would have no king but only Cæsar!
I could not hide my scorn. Since when had they
Become so loyal to the imperial throne?
So deep devoted to the power they cursed
At all their feasts? Thereon they clenched their teeth,
And muttered something about blasphemy,
And making himself God. Therefore I bade them
Take him away, and judge him by their law—
They had no power o'er life—because our law
Held it no crime for one to be a god;
Cæsar was one, so were the great twin-brethren,
And Hercules, and other mighty men.
I had no jurisdiction o'er the gods,
And this man might be one of them, for aught
I knew or cared. Then rose a yell of rage,
Deep-throated, fierce, malignant, from the pit
Of Acheron; “Thou art not Cæsar's friend,
If thou let this man go.”

So I went back,
Knowing that I had raised a storm might dash me
A broken wreck at Annas' feet. And there
He stood, this King o' th' Jews, bent low and bound,
Yet with that lofty, overawing look
Which made my eyes droop—Majesty uncrowned
Of noble manhood, not yet stained by falls
In the arena.

“Art thou, then, a King?”
But not a syllable he answered, only
Gazed on me with a look of pity. It was
A foolish question; for of course I knew,
Not for such crime had Annas brought him here,
Who would have prayed and sacrificed and poured
The consecrating oil on any head
That in brief triumph had been lifted up
Against great Cæsar. Oh, I know the man!
Nothing were less a crime among these Jews
Than treason against Rome. I've had to crush
A score of their rebellions, and this Annas
Was in them all, although his hand was hidden;
Chief plotter he of all. A foolish question!
Better if I had frankly asked him, why
Do these your countrymen so hate you that
They do accuse you falsely? But somehow,
Seeing that broken, poor, and pitiful
Rival of Cæsar, I must say to him:
“A King, then, are you?” He despised me for it,
And held his peace, which partly fretted me,
And partly my own sense of being wrong.
So then I said: “Dost thou not know that I
Have power to take thy life?” But calmly he:
“Thou hast no power, but as 'tis given to thee;
So much the more their guilt who brought me here.”
What could he mean? These Jews are cunning dogs;
Of course, I had no power but what I got
From Cæsar. What, if Annas meant to drive me
To stretch my large commission till it rent?
I must be wary.

Just then came a note,
Sent by my wife, and bidding me take heed,
Nor harm this man. She had some dream about him,
And dreams are from the gods. Pshaw! let the women
See to their own affairs, not meddle with
The course of justice. No doubt, Chusa's wife—
She's wild about this prophet—came to her,
And they between them had conspired to stay
The law by this device. I'd half a mind
To do the very thing they wished me not,
Just for their meddling; but thought better of it.
My wife has a sharp tongue.

Then I went forth
Once more to face these Jews: “I find no fault
Worthy of death, by our law, or of bonds
In this your King, or God, or whatsoe'er
The poor man calls himself. So, I will scourge him,
And let him go”—though why he should be scourged
'Twere hard to tell, except to humour those
Who should have had the scourge on their own backs
Laid roundly; but a man who is accused,
We come to think has reason to be thankful,
If he escape with scourging. Anyhow,
More bitterly malignant than before,
The mob of smiths and cobblers roared at me,
And my weak plan. My nerves had been unstrung,
I tell you, or I had not heeded them.
Pilate was never coward.

Then some one said
Something about the Nazarene, whereat
I grasped as any drowning man. “He is
A Galilean then, King Herod's subject,
And Herod is in town to keep the feast;
'Tis his affair: A letter shall be writ;
A guard ho! take him to the king; let Herod
Settle this business. It is none of mine.”
A happy thought that! Herod had been cool
Of late, or worse than cool; and this would please
The old fox's vanity, delivering me
From the so tangled hank, and let me break
My fast in peace.—I saw the meal laid out
In tempting grapes, and dates, and figs, and melons,
And old Falernian, and I longed to grasp
The silver cup and quaff it. Laughing, then,
At this rare stroke, I hurried them away,
But scarce came from the bath refreshed, when lo!
The wave rolled back. Herod had been well pleased
With our sweet courtesy, but could not think
Of meddling with the Imperial jurisdiction
In treasonable affairs; so sent the man,
After some rough and ribald jesting back,
Robed in a mockery of regal purple,
And crowned with thorns. O irony of Fate!
Whom even the gods escape not: what fell spite
Led thee to bind this burden now on me?
I was a fool to look for any help
From Herod. He not long ago had killed
Another of their prophets—a brave man,
And eloquent, and true. I heard him preach
At the King's Court once, and he made us all
Willing, for half an hour at least, to strip
Our purple and fine linen off, and send
The banquet, getting ready, to feed the poor.
And since that deed, his conscience pricking him,
The crafty I dumean had turned coward,
And thought this Jesus might be John come back
From Hades to amaze his murderer,
And haunt him.

As I turned to Jesus now,
Weary he looked and broken, as a man
Done with the world; and half in pity I said,
“So thou art come back crowned? A king then truly?”
“Thou say'st,” he answered; “Yea, I am a King;
Only my kingdom is not of this world,
But therefore am I come, to witness of
The truth, and who are of the truth hear me.”
“Truth! what is truth?” I asked. “Where is it? Can
I see, or touch, or taste, or smell it?” Was
This man a dreamer, being no longer boy,
But wearing beard unblemished, that he spake
Of truth as of his kingdom where he reigned
Supreme?—an airy realm, ungrudged, I ween,
By Cæsar! We were youths, my Lucius, once,
And wasted many a night in barren talk
About the truth; when in the Agora
We breathed the air that Plato used to breathe
While Athens still was Queen, and wore her crown
With majesty; but, since we came to manhood,
We've had to act, not dream. Nor did this man
Look like a dreamer; and I must admit
These Jews, whate'er they be, are not like some
Of those strange Eastern peoples whom I've seen,
Squatting for years in some uneasy posture,
Fed on a lettuce, or a stalk of garlic,
Talking of truth, and dreaming in the sun
That blistered them by day, and in the moon
That all the night bedewed them, being held
Divinely wise because most mad. The Jew
Is shrewd, and has a bottom of good sense
Beneath his superstitions, like the stones
And gravel over which a river runs.
He trades, and lends on usury, and gains
Shekels where you'd scarce find an obolus;
Keen at a bargain, hard as any flint,
And nowise given to dreaming. Yet this man
Could speak of truth, and of a kingdom there!
“Truth—what is truth?” So I went forth again.