Poems by William Wetmore Story

Marcus, abiding in Jerusalem,
Greeting to Caius, his best friend, in Rome!
Salve! these presents will be borne to you
By Lucius, who is wearied with this place,
Sated with travel, looks upon the East
As simply hateful—blazing, barren, bleak,
And longs again to find himself in Rome.
After the tumult of its streets, its trains
Of slaves and clients, and its villas cool
With marble porticoes beside the sea,
And friends and banquets,—more than all, its games,—
This life seems blank and flat. He pants to stand
In its vast circus all alive with heads
And quivering arms and floating robes,—the air
Thrilled by the roaring fremitus of men,—
The sunlit awning heaving overhead,
Swollen and strained against its corded veins,
And flapping out its hem with loud report,—
The wild beasts roaring from the pit below,—

The wilder crowd responding from above
With one long yell that sends the startled blood
With thrill and sudden flush into the cheeks,—
A hundred trumpets screaming,—the dull thump
Of horses galloping across the sand,—
The clang of scabbards, the sharp clash of steel,—
Live swords, that whirl a circle of gray fire,—
Brass helmets flashing 'neath their streaming hair,—
A universal tumult,—then a hush
Worse that the tumult—all eyes straining down
To the arena's pit—all lips set close—
All muscles strained,—and then that sudden yell,
Habet!—That's Rome, says Lucius: so it is!
That is, 't is his Rome,—'t is not yours and mine.

And yet, great Jupiter, here at my side
He stands with face alive as if he saw
The games he thus describes, and says, “That's life!
Life! life! my friend, and this is simply death!
Ah! for my Rome!” I jot his very words
Just as he utters them. I hate these games,
And Lucius knows it, yet he will go on,
And all against my will he stirs my blood;
So I suspend my letter for a while.

A walk has calmed me—I begin again—
Letting this last page, since it is written, stand.
Lucius is going; you will see him soon
In our great Forum, there with him will walk,
And hear him rail and rave against the East.
I stay behind,—for these bare silences,
These hills that in the sunset melt and burn,
This proud, stern people, these dead seas and lakes,
These somber cedars, this intense still sky,
To me o'erwearied with Life's din and strain,
Are grateful as the solemn blank of night
After the fierce day's irritant excess;
Besides, a deep, absorbing interest
Detains me here, fills up my mind, and sways
My inmost thoughts,—has got as 't were a gripe
Upon my very life, as strange as new.
I scarcely know how well to speak of this,
Fearing your raillery at best,—at worst
Even your contempt; yet, spite of all, I speak.

First, do not deem me to have lost my head,
Sun-struck, as that man Paulus was at Rome.
No, I am sane as ever, and my pulse
Beats even, with no fever in my blood.
And yet I half incline to think his words,
Wild as they were, were not entirely wild.
Nay, shall I dare avow it? I half tend,
Here in this place, surrounded by these men,—

Despite the jeering natural at first,
And then the pressure of my life-long thought
Trained up against it,—to excuse his faith,
And half admit the Christus he thinks God
Was, at the least, a most mysterious man.
Bear with me if I now avow so much;
When next we meet I will expose my mind,
But now the subject I must scarcely touch.

How many a time, while sauntering up and down
The Forum's space, or pausing 'neath the shade
Of some grand temple, arch, or portico,
Have we discussed some knotty point of law,
Some curious case, whose contradicting facts
Looked Janus-faced to innocence and guilt.
I see you now arresting me, to note
With quiet fervor and uplifted hand
Some subtle view or fact by me o'erlooked,
And urging me, who always strain my point
(Being too much, I know, a partisan),
To pause, and press not to the issue so,
But more apart, with less impetuous zeal,
Survey as from an upper floor the facts.

I need you now to rein me in, too quick
To ride a whim beyond the term of Truth,
For her a case comes up to which in vain
I seek the clue: you could clear up my mind;
But you are absent—so I send these notes.

The case is of one Judas, Simon's son,
Iscariot called—a Jew—and one of those
Who followed Christus, held by some a god,
But deemed by others to have preached and taught
A superstition vile, of which one point
Was worship of an ass; but this is false!
Judas, his follower, all the sect declare,
Bought by a bribe of thirty silver coins,
Basely betrayed his master unto death.
The question is,—Did Judas, doing this,
Act from base motives and commit a crime?
Or, all things taken carefully in view,
Can he be justified in what he did?

Here on the spot, surrounded by the men
Who acted in the drama, I have sought
To study out this strange and tragic case.
Many are dead, as Herod, Caiaphas,
And also Pilate,—a most worthy man,
Under whose rule, but all without his fault,
And, as I fancy, all against his will,
Christus was crucified. This I regret:
His words with me would have the greatest weight;
But Lysias still is living, an old man,
The chief of the Centurions, whose report
Is to be trusted, as he saw and heard,
Not once, but many a time and oft, this man.
His look and bearing, Lysias thus describes:—

“Tall, slender, not erect, a little bent;
Brows arched and dark; a high-ridged lofty head;
Thin temples, veined and delicate; large eyes,
Sad, very serious, seeming as it were
To look beyond you, and whene'er he spoke
Illumined by an inner lamping light,—
At times, too, gleaming with a strange wild fire
When taunted by the rabble in the streets;
A Jewish face, complexion pale but dark;
Thin, high-cut nostrils, quivering constantly;
Long nose, full lips, hands tapering, full of veins;
His movements nervous: as he walked he seemed
Scarcely to heed the persons whom he passed,
And for the most part gazed upon the ground;
Or lifting up his eyes, seemed as it were
To look far through you to some world beyond.

“As for his followers, I knew them all—
A strange, mad set, and full of fancies wild—
John, Peter, James—and Judas, best of all—
All seemed to me good men without offense,—
A little crazed,—but who is wholly sane?
They went about and cured the sick and halt,
And gave away their money to the poor,
And all their talk was charity and peace.
If Christus thought and said he was a god,
'T was harmless madness, not deserving death.
What most aroused the wealthy Rabbis' rage
Was that he set the poor against the rich,

And cried that rich men all would go to hell,
And, worst of all, roundly denounced the priests,
With all their rich phylacteries and robes,—
Said they were hypocrites who made long prayers,
And robbed poor widows and devoured their means,
And were at best but whited sepulchres:
And this it was that brought him to the Cross.

“Those who went with him and believed in him
Were mostly dull, uneducated men,
Simple and honest, dazed by what he did,
And misconceiving every word he said.
He led them with him in a spell-bound awe,
And all his cures they called miraculous.
They followed him like sheep where'er he went,
With feelings mixed of wonder, fear, and love.
Yes! I suppose they loved him, though they fled
Stricken with fear when we arrested him.”

“What! all—all fled?” I asked. “Did none remain?”

“Not one,” he said, “all left him to his fate.
Not one dared own he was a follower,—
Not Peter surely, he denied him thrice;
No one gave witness for him of them all.
Stop! When I say not one of them, I mean
No one but Judas,—Judas, whom they call

The traitor,—who betrayed him to his death.
He rushed into the council-hall and cried,
‘'T is I have sinned—Christus is innocent.’”

And here I come to what of all I 've heard
Most touched me,—I for this my letter write.
Paulus, you know, had only for this man,
This Judas, words of scorn and bitter hate.
Mark now the different view that Lysias took!
When, urged by me, his story thus he told:—

“Some say that Judas was a base, vile man,
Who sold his master for the meanest bribe;
Others again insist he was most right,
Giving to justice one who merely sought
To overthrow the Church, subvert the law,
And on its ruins build himself a throne.
I, knowing Judas—and none better knew—
I, caring nought for Christus more than him,
But hating lies, the simple truth will tell.
No man can say I ever told a lie;
I am too old now to begin. Besides,
The truth is truth, and let the truth be told.
Judas, I say, alone of all the men
Who followed Christus, thought that he was God.
Some feared him for his power of miracles;
Some were attracted by a sort of spell;
Some followed him to hear his sweet, clear voice,
And gentle speaking, hearing with their ears,
And knowing not the sense of what he said;

But one alone believed he was the Lord,
The true Messiah of the Jews. That one
Was Judas,—he alone of all the crowd.

“He to betray his master for a bribe!
He last of all. I say this friend of mine
Was brave when all the rest were cowards there.

“His was a noble nature: frank and bold,
Almost to rashness bold, yet sensitive,
Who took his dreams for firm realities;
Who once believing, all in all believed;
Rushing at obstacles and scorning risk,
Ready to venture all to gain his end;
No compromise or subterfuge for him,
His act went from his thought straight to the butt.
Yet with this ardent and impatient mood
Was joined a visionary mind that took
Impressions quick and fine, yet deep as life.
Therefore it was that in this subtle soil
The master's words took root and grew and flowered.
He heard, and followed, and obeyed; his faith
Was serious, earnest, real—winged to fly;
He doubted not, like some who walked with him;
Desired no first place, as did James and John;
Denied him not with Peter: not to him
His master said, ‘Away! thou 'rt an offense;
Get thee behind me, Satan!’—not to him,
‘Am I so long with ye who know me not?’

Fixed as a rock, untempted by desires
To gain the post of honor when his Lord
Should come to rule—chosen from out the midst
Of sixscore men as his apostle—then
Again selected to the place of trust,
Unselfish, honest, he among them walked.

“That he was honest, and was so esteemed,
Is plain from this,—they chose him out of all
To bear the common purse, and take and pay.
John says he was a thief, because he grudged
The price that for some ointment once was paid,
And urged 't were better given to the poor.
But did not Christus ever for the poor
Lift up his voice,—‘Give all things to the poor;
Sell everything and give all to the poor!’
And Judas, who believed, not made believe,
Used his own words, and Christus, who excused
The gift because of love, rebuked him not.
I, for my part, see nothing wrong in this.
Did he alone of Christus' followers
Condemn this gift? ah, no! by all of them
It was condemned, all cried indignantly
‘Why is this waste?’ not Judas more than they.

“Thief! thief indeed! If Christus was a God
Or even a Prophet, or, far less, a man,
Endowed with common judgment, insight, mind,
He must have known and seen what Judas was,
With whom he lived in constant fellowship;

And yet he chose him out of all of them
To bear the purse and give alms to the poor!—
He chose a thief, and none remonstrated,
Not even John, for all he now may say.”

“But why, if Judas was a man like this,
Frank, noble, honest,”—here I interposed,—
“Why was it that he thus betrayed his Lord?”

“This question oft did I revolve,” said he,
“When all the facts were fresh, and oft revolved
In later days, and with no change of mind;
And this is my solution of the case:—

“Daily he heard his master's voice proclaim,
‘I am the Lord! the Father lives in me!
Who knoweth me knows the Eternal God!
He who believes in me shall never die!
No! he shall see me with my angels come
With power and glory here upon the earth
To judge the quick and dead! Among you here
Some shall not taste of death before I come
God's kingdom to establish on the earth!’

“What meant these words? They seethed in Judas' soul.
‘Here is my God—Messias, King of kings,
Christus, the Lord—the Saviour of us all.
How long shall he be taunted and reviled,
And threatened by this crawling scum of men?

Oh, who shall urge the coming of that day
When he in majesty shall clothe himself
And stand before the astounded world its King?’
Long brooding over this inflamed his soul;
And, ever rash in schemes as wild in thought,
At last he said, ‘No longer will I bear
This ignominy heaped upon my Lord.
No man hath power to harm the Almighty One.
Ay, let man's hand be lifted, then, at once,
Effulgent like the sun, swift like the sword,
The jagged lightning flashes from the cloud,
Shall he be manifest—the living God—
And prostrate all shall on the earth adore!’”

“This is a strange solution,” here I cried.
“Find you a better, if you can,” said he.
“I cannot. Taking all the facts in view,
Or rather the reports, the truth of which
I cannot vouch,—but, taking them as facts,
I see no other. Strange to you and me
Of course it seems, but not so strange to one
Like Judas with a mind ideal half,
Enthusiastic, visionary, quick
To set ablaze, and yet half positive,
Fixed, practical, and ever prone to force
Mere dreams into the world of acts and facts.

“Others might think the words that Christus used
Were vague and wild: to Judas they seemed plain.

Christus was God, not man, and being such
Must of necessity desire the hour
When man should end, and God should be revealed.
Judas was sure he had divined this wish,
Sure that his own thought Christus had divined,
And sure as Christus said, the hour had come.

“This is, at least, the only key I know
That fits the wards of this mysterious case.”

Here let me interrupt this narrative
With comments of my own, and words, acts, facts,
Unknown to Lysias, testified by those
Who knew, loved, followed Christus, and, 't would seem,
Thought him a sort of God. From their reports
I take the facts they state, the words they use,
Striving to find through this entangled maze,
The simple clue of truth, no more, no less.

“Divined his thought,” says Lysias. Was his thought
So hidden that a sympathetic heart
Could not at once divine it? If to some,
Wanting the sense to apprehend, his words
Seemed riddles hard to guess, to me at least
The wonder seems that any could mistake,
So clearly, with such iterance, they were said.

“Divined his thought.” What was there to divine?
What else could mean those sayings strange and strong,
So oft repeated? What for instance this?
“I to Jerusalem must go, and there
Be taken, suffer, and be slain, and then
I shall arise triumphant over all.
Then you shall see in glory and in power
The son with all his Father's angels come.”
And then it was, when Peter, answering back,
Rebuked him saying, “Be it far from thee,
This shall not be unto thee,” he, half vexed
To be thus thwarted in his wish, cried out,
“Get thee behind me, Satan, thou to me
Art an offense.” And so again he said:
“I lay my life down, no man taketh it
Away from me. I lay it down myself,
As I have power to take it up again;
And I will lift up all the earth to me.”
And yet again: “I go my way, but where
You cannot follow,”—and at this his friends
Whispered, “What means this? Will he kill himself?”

'T is plain at last this one thought haunted him.
He longed for sacrifice, as all such souls,
Exalted, fired with high ideal thoughts,
Long for their martyrdom and cannot rest
Till by their death they consecrate their faith.

Them the fire burns not, them the wild beasts' fangs
Are powerless to torment,—the torturing rack,
The red-hot pincers break and rend in vain.
The spirit overpowers and scorns the flesh,
And pain is but the promise of reward.

Weary of teaching where none understood,
Tired of life and all its mean mad strife,
Eager he longed to greet the end of all.
“I have a baptism and must be baptized
Thereunto, and am straitened till 't is done.”
Thus cried he, and his words seem plain enough,
So plain indeed that some among them deemed
He meant to take his life. Some, to avert
His purpose, strove like Peter, and in vain.
And of the common crowd of followers
Many abandoned him as one half mad.

But not to press this further and repeat
His many other sayings strange and wild,
Let these suffice! You will perceive how strong
They bear upon the matter to explain
The sad mistake of Judas,—if indeed
He did mistake,—or show he but obeyed
The will of Christus and direct command.
You, who have seen how glad some victims go
To meet their death,—ay, greet and covet it,—
Will see that Christus, being, let us say,
Inspired,—all men with high and noble thoughts

Are what we call inspired,—a prophet too—
Almost a God—so deemed at least by some,
Even by himself, 't would seem,—lifted at least
Above the herd of ignorant wicked men
In all his hopes and aims, misunderstood
Even by his friends, pursued by enemies,
Should weary of the heavy task his God
Had laid on him and long to consecrate
By sacrifice his life, and end it all.

Upon his spirit, in his later years,
A change had come. The teaching sweet and calm,
The universal love for all mankind,
Which in his early years was all in all,
Had given way to other thoughts and hopes.
No more the simple teacher as of yore,
Now, though at times he said he was mere man,
At other times he claimed to be a God.
The son of God, Messiah of the Jews,
The coming one to whom all power was given
To judge the quick and dead, who, of himself,
In three days' space could hurl their temple down,
And build it up,—mere madness as it seemed
To those who heard and laughed and pitied him.
This overcast his spirit, and at times
His words were bitter (as when he denounced
The Pharisees and priests), at times his acts
(As when he drove from forth the Temple's gates
The changers, crying they had made God's house

A den of thieves). Through all these later days
A spirit ruled him different from the old.
Whether he thought, in truth, that he was God,
And Death, or what to others seemed the end,
Was but the door through which from human life
He to a life divine should pass, and man
So become God and back to earth return
Triumphant, glorious, with angelic hosts,—
Or whether Death he deemed would quail and crouch,
And powerless at his presence drop its sword
And justify his claim to all the world,—
Whatever were his thoughts, he longed to try
The sharp conclusion, once for all, and prove
He was Messiah, God, the King of all.

I hazard this. It may be so, at least
This way his words would clearly seem to point.
If so, then Judas may have shared his thoughts;
If not so, ample ground there surely was
For misconception without thought of wrong.

So much for this; what followed let us see.
The records are not clear, but still enough
To show the way to truth, for one at least
Trained as you are to balance evidence.

One thing is amply proved: that he alone,
When safe beyond the reach of enemies,
Ordained this journey to Jerusalem,

Alone decreed the time, place, circumstance,
Against his followers' wish when they should meet.
Why did he go, unless to brave his foes,
To court betrayal, and to seek his death?

But be this as it may, thither he went;
There in the house appointed met his friends;
There, knowing he was sought for by his foes,
Sat down with Judas and the rest to sup.
And as they supped, he said, “Among you here
Is one that shall betray me.” At these words
Did all start up amazed, indignant, each
With horror struck, protesting, crying out.
Each questioning each? ah, no! each simply said,
“Lord is it I? Lord is it I?” Yes, all!
Ay! every one of them cried, “Is it I?”
And he: “The one who dippeth in his sop
With mine into the dish, he is the one
That shall betray me.” Judas in the dish
Then dipped his sop—or Christus gave it him,
And said “Now go! and what thou hast to do
Do quickly;” and then Judas rose and went.
But ere he rose and left them Christus said,
“Now shall the Son of man be glorified!”
Strange words, that Judas well might think to mean
His master should be glorified through him.

Here let us pause and look these simple facts
Full in the face. Either the act itself

Which Judas was to do was infamous,
Or simply right and justified by all.
Setting aside all question of mistake,
Which was it, that's the question, right or wrong?

What was betrayal? merely pointing out
The person of their leader, at such time,
Such place as he commanded; and what need
Even of this? He did not hide himself,
He was well known, he daily walked abroad
Attended by his followers, preached to crowds,
Healed those who sought his healing, openly,
Roundly denounced the scribes and Pharisees,
Avowed his doctrines and proclaimed his faith.
What need of Judas or of any one
To point him out, betray him as 't is called?
All knew him and could take him when they pleased.
Betray indeed! what was there to betray?
'T was but the after tragedy alone
That threw a backward, lurid light on it
And made this act of Judas seem so vile.

Suppose the act was infamous, or, at least,
So deemed by any one among the twelve,
Is it not clear that none of them had cried
“Lord is it I?” What! every one of them
Imagined he might be the traitor meant
And do the very act that now the world
Brands as accursëd. No, impossible!

Else they were traitors every one of them,
Traitors in will and thought, if not in deed.

Plainly the act that Judas had to do,
Call it by any ugly name you will
(Names do not alter acts), to none of them
Seemed base, wrong, infamous as now 't is held,
Or all alike were base, vile, infamous,—
Not Judas only, but the whole of them.

Suppose, again, they all were honest men,
Devoted to their leader heart and soul,
And Judas only vile; that they were shocked
At thought of such betrayal, how explain
Their questioning, “Is it I?” and how explain
Their after silence, with no word to him
Of stern remonstrance, friendly counsel, prayers
To stay his purpose; failing these, no hand
Lifted to hold him, stop him by main force?

Not only they did naught by word or act,
But Christus' self cried, “What thou hast to do,
Go and do quickly;” laying as it were
Commands upon him thus to go and act.

What! Christus urged him on, or let him go
To consummate an act of infamy
Without one warning word to hold him back?
It cannot be. This clearly seems to prove
He acted by command. He undertook

A duty laid upon him, no vile thought
Or wish impelling,—else had Christus sought
To save him, turn his mind away from crime,
Remonstrate with him, and not urge him on
To his destruction, as it seems he did.

Suppose, again, a band of men conjoined
For noble purposes and aims like these,
Or even a band of foul conspirators,
With murder in their minds, or what you will.
And suddenly their leader points them out
A traitor sitting with them. “There is he
Who will betray me.” Would not all at once
Rise and cry out, remonstrate, threaten, pray,
Seek every means to break his purpose down,
And all these failing, with compelling strength
Seize him and bind him, force him to renounce
His plotted crime; ay, more, when all else failed
Slay him and save their leader by his death?
And he, the traitor, would not he cry out,
Protest, deny, declare, even though in fact
Traitor he meant to be, his innocence?

Ay! they were men of peace, preached love, I know,
Forgiveness; and to raise a stave, a sword,
Was in their estimation wrong. Why, then,
Went they out armed? Two swords at least they had,
And, later, Peter drew his sword and smote

The high priest's servant and cut off his ear.
He wore a sword, at least, and he could strike
When the occasion called,—this did not call.

They did not understand? a poor excuse!
The words were plain, and Judas understood.
How? why? he any more than they?
'T would seem that every one among them there
Knew the intent of Christus, must have known
From all he said before, as well as then.
And, knowing it, approved it, or at least,
Did not oppose it, but let Judas go.
They grieved, indeed! Why did they grieve? at what?
The act of Judas, or their Lord's resolve?

One moment more, when Judas had gone out,
Christus remained with all the rest, and then,
What said he to them? Did he once reprove
This contemplated crime of Judas? No!
Them he reproved, and said, “If me you loved
You would rejoice, because I said I go
Unto the Father. 'T is expedient, too,
That I should go away, for otherwise
The Comforter will never come to you,
And he will glorify me when he comes.”
And more he said, and every word implied
That death he courted, with determined mind.

Then they set forth to their accustomed place
Beyond the brook of Cedron, as agreed,

Decided, fixed upon, as Judas knew.
Had Christus then desired to avert his fate,
What easier? He had simply not to go
To the appointed spot. No one could force
His steps to take that path. But his own will
Was fixed; there he would go and only there;
Once only his high spirit seemed to fail,
When, at Gethsemane, he prayed the cup
Might pass away from him; then strong again
He onward went with firm, unfaltering step.

Here I commence the narrative again,
So interrupted, and perhaps too long.
Still, all this weighs so strongly on the case
I could not pass it over. And besides
This, Lysias did not know, or scarcely knew,
And then by vague report.—Now to resume.

“Judas,” says Lysias, “when the rest he left,
Came straight to where I was with the high priests,
Not as a coward, stealing in to do
A dastard act, but with an open face,
And clear, bold voice, and said, ‘Behold me here,
Judas, a follower of Christus! Come!
I will point out my master whom you seek!’
And out at once they sent me with my band;
And as we went, I said, rebuking him,
‘How, Judas, is it you who thus betray
The lord and master whom you love, to death?’

And, smiling, then he answered, ‘Fear you not;
Do you your duty; take no heed of me.’
‘Is not this vile?’ I said; ‘I had not deemed
Such baseness in you.’ ‘Though it seem so now,’
Still smiling, he replied, ‘wait till the end.’
Then turning round, as to himself he said,
‘Now comes the hour that I have prayed to see,—
The hour of joy to all who know the truth.’

“‘Is this man mad?’ I thought, and looked at him;
And, in the darkness creeping swiftly on,
His face was glowing, almost shone, with light;
And rapt as if in visionary thought
He walked beside me, gazing at the sky.

“Passing at last beyond the Cedron brook,
We reached a garden, on whose open gate
Dark vines were loosely swinging. Here we paused,
And lifted up our torches, and behold
Against the blank white wall a shadowy group,
There waiting motionless, without a word:
A moment, and with rapid, nervous step,
Judas alone advanced, and as he reached
The tallest figure, lifted quick his head;
And crying, ‘Master! Master!’ kissed his cheek.
We, knowing it was Christus, forward pressed.
Malchus was at my side, when suddenly

A sword flashed out from one among them there,
And sheared his ear. At once our swords flashed out,
But Christus, lifting up his hand, said, ‘Peace,
Sheathe thy sword, Peter—I must drink the cup.’
And I cried also, ‘Peace, and sheathe your swords.’
Then on his arm I placed my hand, and said,
‘In the law's name.’ At this he turned and stood
A moment, mute, and then stretched forth his arms
Saying as if to justify himself,
And show that Judas understood him right,
‘Think'st thou, if I my Father now beseech,
Even now, he will not send to aid me more
Than legions twelve of angels? But, if so,
How should the Scriptures be fulfilled? I taught
Daily within the temple to you all,
And yet you took me not! This is your hour.
The cup my father gives me I must drink.’

“We took him then and bound his hands with cords,
He offering no resistance to our will.
This done, I turned, but all the rest had fled,
And he alone was left to meet his fate.

“My men I ordered then to take and bear
Their prisoner to the city; and at once

They moved away. I, seeing not our guide,
Cried, ‘Judas!’—but no answer; then a groan
So sad and deep it startled me. I turned,
And there, against the wall, with ghastly face,
And eyeballs starting in a frenzied glare,
As in a fit, lay Judas; his weak arms
Hung lifeless down, his mouth half open twitched.
His hands were clutched and clenched into his robes,
And now and then his breast heaved with a gasp.
Frightened, I dashed some water in his face,
Spoke to him, lifted him, and rubbed his hands.
At last the sense came back into his eyes,
Then with a sudden spasm fled again,
And to the ground he dropped. I searched him o'er,
Fearing some mortal wound, yet none I found.
Then with a gasp again the life returned,
And stayed, but still with strong convulsion twitched.
‘Speak, Judas! speak!’ I cried. ‘What does this mean?’
No answer! ‘Speak, man!’ Then at last he groaned:
‘Go, leave me! leave me, Lysias. O my God!
What have I done? O Christus! Master, Lord,
Forgive me, oh, forgive me!’ Then a cry
Of agony that pierced me to the heart,
As groveling on the ground he turned away

And hid his face, and shuddered, in his robes.
Was this the man whose face an hour ago
Shone with a joy so strange? What means it all?
Is this a sudden madness? ‘Speak!’ I cried.
‘What means this, Judas? Be a man and speak!’
Yet there he lay, and neither moved nor spoke.
I thought that he had fainted, till at last
Sudden he turned and grasped my arm, and cried,
‘Say, Lysias, is this true, or am I mad?’
‘What true?’ I said. ‘True that you seized the Lord!
You could not seize him—he is God the Lord!
I thought I saw you seize him. Yet I know
That was impossible, for he is God!
And yet you live—you live. He spared you, then.
Where am I? What has happened? A black cloud
Came o'er me when you laid your hands on him.
Where are they all? Where is he? Lysias, speak!’

“‘Judas,’ I said, ‘what folly is all this?
Christus my men have bound and borne away;
The rest have fled. Rouse now and come with me!
My men await me, rouse yourself, and come!’

“Throwing his arms up, in a fit he fell,
With a loud shriek that pierced the silent night.
I could not stay, but, calling instant aid,
We bore him quick to the adjacent house,
And placing him in kindly charge, I left,
Joining my men who stayed for me below.

“Straight to the high priest's house we hurried on,
And Christus in an inner room we placed,
Set at his door a guard, and then came out.
After a time there crept into the hall,
Where round the blazing coals we sat, a man,
Who in the corner crouched. ‘What man are you?’
Cried some one; and I, turning, looked at him.
'T was Peter. ‘'T is a fellow of that band
That followed Christus, and believed in him.’
‘'T is false!’ cried Peter; and he cursed and swore,
‘I know him not—I never saw the man.’
But I said nothing. Soon he went away.

“That night I saw not Judas. The next day,
Ghastly, clay-white, a shadow of a man,
With robes all soiled and torn, and tangled beard,
Into the chamber where the council sat
Came feebly staggering: scarce should I have known
'T was Judas, with that haggard, blasted face;

So had that night's great horror altered him.
As one all blindly walking in a dream
He to the table came—against it leaned—
Glared wildly round awhile;—then stretching forth
From his torn robes a trembling hand, flung down,
As 't were a snake that stung him, a small purse,
That broke and scattered its white coins about,
And, with a shrill voice, cried, ‘Take back the purse!
'T was not for that foul dross I did the deed—
'T was not for that—oh, horror! not for that!
But that I did believe he was the Lord;
And that he is the Lord I still believe.
But oh, the sin!—the sin! I have betrayed
The innocent blood, and I am lost!—am lost!’
So crying, round his face his robes he threw,
And blindly rushed away; and we, aghast,
Looked round,—and no one for a moment spoke.

“Seeing that face, I could but fear the end;
For death was in it, looking through his eyes.
Nor could I follow to arrest the fate
That drove him madly on with scorpion whip.

“At last the duty of the day was done,
And night came on. Forth from the gates I went,

Anxious, and pained by many a dubious thought,
To seek for Judas, and to comfort him.
The sky was dark with heavy, lowering clouds;
A lifeless, stifling air weighed on the world;
A dreadful silence like a nightmare lay
Crouched on its bosom, waiting, grim and gray,
In horrible suspense of some dread thing.
A creeping sense of death, a sickening smell,
Infected the dull breathing of the wind.
A thrill of ghosts went by me now and then,
And made my flesh creep as I wandered on.
At last I came to where a cedar stretched
Its black arms out beneath a dusky rock,
And, passing through its shadow, all at once
I started; for against the dubious light
A dark and heavy mass, that to and fro
Swung slowly with its weight, before me grew.
A sick, dread sense came over me; I stopped—
I could not stir. A cold and clammy sweat
Oozed out all over me; and all my limbs,
Bending with tremulous weakness like a child's,
Gave way beneath me. Then a sense of shame
Aroused me. I advanced, stretched forth my hand,
And pushed the shapeless mass; and at my touch
It yielding swung, the branch above it creaked,
And back returning struck against my face.
A human body! Was it dead, or not?
Swiftly my sword I drew and cut it down,
And on the sand all heavily it dropped.

I plucked the robes away, exposed the face—
'T was Judas, as I feared, cold, stiff, and dead:
That suffering heart of his had ceased to beat.”

Thus Lysias spoke, and ended. I confess
This story of poor Judas touched me much.
What horrible revulsions must have passed
Across that spirit in those few last hours!
What storms, that tore up life even to its roots!
Say what you will—grant all the guilt—and still
What pangs of dread remorse—what agonies
Of desperate repentance, all too late,
In that wild interval between the crime
And its last sad atonement!—life, the while,
Laden with horror all too great to bear,
And pressing madly on to death's abyss:
This was no common mind that thus could feel—
No vulgar villain sinning for reward!

Was he a villain lost to sense of shame?
Ay, so say John and Peter and the rest;
And yet—and yet this tale that Lysias tells
Weighs with me more the more I ponder it;
For thus I put it: Either Judas was,
As John affirms, a villain and a thief,
A creature lost to shame and base at heart;
Or else, which is the view that Lysias takes,
He was a rash and visionary man,
Whose faith was firm, who had no thought of crime,
But whom a terrible mistake drove mad.

Take but John's view, and all to me is blind.
Call him a villain who, with greed of gain,
For thirty silver pieces sold his Lord.
Does not the bribe seem all too small and mean?
He held the common purse, and, were he thief,
Had daily power to steal, and lay aside
A secret and accumulating fund;
So doing, he had nothing risked of fame,
While here he braved the scorn of all the world.
Besides, why chose they for their almoner
A man so lost to shame, so foul with greed?
Or why, from some five-score of trusted men,
Choose him as one apostle among twelve?
Or why, if he were known to be so vile,
(And who can hide his baseness at all times?)
Keep him in close communion to the last?
Naught in his previous life, or acts, or words,
Shows this consummate villain that, full-grown,
Leaps all at once to such a height of crime.

Again, how comes it that this wretch, whose heart
Is cased to shame, flings back the paltry bribe?
And, when he knows his master is condemned,
Rushes in horror out to seek his death?
Whose fingers pointed at him in the crowd?
Did all men flee his presence till he found
Life too intolerable? Nay; not so!
Death came too close upon the heels of crime.
He had but done what all his tribe deemed just:

All the great mass—I mean the upper class—
The Rabbis, all the Pharisees and Priests—
Ay, and the lower mob as well, who cried,
“Give us Barabbas! Christus to the cross!”
These men were all of them on Judas' side,
And Judas had done naught against the law.
Were he this villain, he had but to say,
“I followed Christus till I found at last
He aimed at power to overthrow the State.
I did the duty of an honest man.
I traitor!—you are traitors who reprove.”
Besides, such villains scorn the world's reproof.

Or he might say: “You call this act a crime?
What crime was it to say I know this man?
I said no ill of him. If crime there be,
'T was yours who doomed him unto death, not mine.”

A villain was he? So Barabbas was!
But did Barabbas go and hang himself,
Weary of life,—the murderer and thief?
This coarse and vulgar way will never do.
Grant him a villain, all his acts must be
Acts of a villain; if you once admit
Remorse so bitter that it leads to death,
And death so instant on the heels of crime,
You grant a spirit sensitive to shame,—
So sensitive that life can yield no joys
To counterbalance one bad act; but then

A nature such as this, though led astray
When greatly tempted, is no thorough wretch.
Was the temptation great? Could such a bribe
Tempt such a nature to a crime like this?
I say, to me it simply seems absurd.

Peter at least was not so sensitive.
He cursed and swore, denying that he knew
Who the man Christus was; but after all
He only wept—he never hanged himself.

But take the other view that Lysias takes,
All is at once consistent, clear, complete.
Firm in the faith that Christus was his God,
The great Messiah sent to save the world,
He, seeking for a sign,—not for himself,
But to show proof to all that he was God,—
Conceived this plan, rash if you will, but grand.

“Thinking him man,” he said, “mere mortal man,
They seek to seize him. I will make pretense
To take the public bribe and point him out,
And they shall go, all armed with swords and staves,
Strong with the power of law, to seize on him,—
And at their touch he, God himself, shall stand
Revealed before them, and their swords shall drop,
And prostrate all before him shall adore,

And cry, ‘Behold the Lord and King of all!’”
But when the soldiers laid their hands on him,
And bound him as they would a prisoner vile,
With taunts, and mockery, and threats of death—
He all the while submitting—then his dream
Burst into fragments with a crash; aghast
The whole world reeled before him; the dread truth
Swooped like a sea upon him, bearing down
His thoughts in wild confusion. He who dreamed
To unbar the gates of glory to his Lord,
Oped in their stead the prison's jarring door,
And saw above him his dim dream of Love
Change to a Fury stained with blood and crime.
And then a madness seized him, and remorse
With pangs of torture drove him down to death.

Conceive with me that sad and suffering heart,
If this be true that Lysias says—Conceive!
Alas! Orestes, not so sad thy fate,
For thee Apollo pardoned, purified,—
Thy Furies were appeased, thy peace returned;
But Judas perished, tortured unto death,
Unpardoned, unappeased, unpurified.
And long as Christus shall be known of men
His name shall bear the brand of infamy,
The curse of generations still unborn.

Thus much of him: I leave the question here,
Touching on naught beyond, for Lucius waits;

I hear him fuming in the courts below,
Cursing his servants and Jerusalem,
And giving them to the infernal gods.
The sun is sinking—all the sky 's afire—
And vale and mountain glow like molten ore
In the intense full splendor of its rays.
A half-hour hence all will be dull and gray;
And Lucius only waits until the shade
Sweeps down the plain, then mounts and makes his way
On through the blinding desert to the sea,
And thence his galley bears him on to Rome.

Salve et vale!—may good fortune wait
On you and all your household! Greet for me
Titus and Livia—in a word, all friends.

University of Virginia Library

A ROMAN LAWYER IN JERUSALEM.

FIRST CENTURY.