 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
VI.—“THE OUTCAST.”
We will now behold another scene in the Divine Master's life. To the
very rock of Nazareth, we will trace the truths of the immortal Declaration.
The scene changes yet once more. We are in Nazareth, that city built
on a cliff, with the white walls of its synagogue arising in the calm blue
sky, above the mansions of the rich, the cottages of the poor. Let us still
our hearts with awe, let us hush our breath with deep reverence, for it is the
Sabbath, and we are in the Synagogue.
Yonder from the dome overhead, a dim, solemn light steals round the
place, while a sacred silence pervades the air.
Four pillars support that dome, four pillars inscribed with burning words
from the book of God.
In the centre of the place behold the ark, in which is placed the holy
scroll of the law. Beside the ark a small desk arises where the reader of
and desk, from the light of the dome to the darker corners of the place,
throng the people of Nazareth sitting on benches which encircle the centre
of the temple. Yonder, behind the ark and desk, on loftier benches are
the elders, their white beards trailing on each breast, the flowing robes
wound about each portly form, the broad phylactery on each wrinkled brow.
These are the rich men that rule the synagogue.
In the dark corners, you see the gaunt faces, the ragged forms of the poor,
who have skulked into the temple, ashamed of their poverty, yet eager to
hear the word of the Lord. Around the altar are seated all classes of life,
the merchant with his calculating face, the mechanic with his toil-worn
hands, the laborer with his sunburnt visage.
But here, on the right of the altar, amid that throng of women, beheld a
matron seated in front of the rest, her form, with its full outlines, indicating
the prime of womanhood, just touched, not injured by age, while her serene
face, relieved by brown hair, silvered with grey, is lighted by large blue
eyes. There are wrinkles on that brow, yet when you gaze in those earnest
eyes, you forget them all.
This is Mary the mother of Jesus. The sunbeam stealing from yonder
dome, light up her serene face, and reveals that smile, so soft, and sad, and
tender.
Her son is to preach to day in the Synagogue; his fame is beginning to
stir the world. The mother awaits his appearance with a quiet joy, while
yonder, in that toil-wrung man with the grey hair and sunburnt face, who
leans upon his staff with clasped hands, you behold Joseph the Carpenter.
A deep silence pervails in the temple.
Yonder, in front of the elders is seated the Minister (or Reader) of the
Synagogue, venerable in his beard, broad in his phylactery, with the scroll
of the law in his hand. He has just finished the prayers of the Sabbath;
and all is silent expectation. They wait for the appearance of this Jesus,
who the other day, was toiling with his father, at the carpenter's bench.
Now, it is said he has become an eloquent Preacher; his name is bruited
on every wind; it is even said that he worked miracles yonder in Galilee.
He, Jesus, the carpenter's son!
A murmur deepens through the synagogue. Eyes are cast toward the
door; faces turned over the shoulder; whispers resound on every side.
The mother yonder rises from her seat; how her blue eye fires! The
father lifts his head from his staff; a flush warms his wrinkled brow.
He comes! Yes, his rude garments, travel-worn, his long hair floating
to his shoulders, embrowned by the roadside dust, he comes, the object of
every eye, walking through the agitated crowd towards the altar.
The poor, yes the ragged, toil-trodden poor, bend over the shoulders of
the rich, eager to catch the gleam of those mild deep eyes, the silent eloquence
of that white brow, the love of those smiling lips. For it is said,
pomp of broad phylacteries and venerable beards. So the rumor runs.
Jesus advances; one glance to that Dear Mother, and their eyes kindle
in the same blaze, one reverent inclination to that Father, and he passes into
the desk.
Every eye beholds him!
Do you not see him also, standing calm and erect, as his large earnest
eyes slowly pass from face to face, while his countenance already glows
with inward emotion? He is there before me, one hand laid upon the unopened
scroll, while the other rises in an earnest gesture.
The silence grows deeper.
He opens the scroll; it is the book of the Prophet Isaiah, that Poet and
Seer, whose burning words are worth all your Virgils and Homers, were
their beauties multiplied by thousands.
Hark, that voice, how it rings through the temple:
“The Spirit of Jehovah is upon me!' he exclaims, as he stands there,
glowing with Divinity; He hath anointed me to preach good tidings to
the Poor!”
A deep murmur fills the synagogue. The Elders bend forward in
wonder, the Poor start up from their dark corners with a silent rapture.
Mary clasps her hands and looks into the face of her Son. Still that bold,
earnest voice rings on the Sabbath air.
“He hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to
the captive, sight to the blind, liberty to them that are bruised!—”
Then while the murmur deepens, while the Elders start from their seats,
and the Poor come hurrying forward, do you see that frame dilate, that eye
burn, as his voice swells again through the temple,
“To preach the acceptable Year of the Lord.—”
Yes, freedom to the slave, hope to the Poor, the Great Millenium of God
—when Beauty shall dwell on earth forever—to all the Sons of Men!
Then while wonder and indignation and rapture and scorn thrill round
the temple, this Jesus closes the book and from that desk, proclaims himself
the ANOINTED ONE of God, the Redeemer of the Poor!
Ah, what eloquence, what soul, what fire! How he pictures the degradation
of Man, now crouching under the foot of Priest and King, how he
thunders indignant scorn into the face of Pharisee and scribe, how, stretching
forth his arms, while his chest heaves and his eye burns, he proclaims the
coming of that blessed day, when Man shall indeed be free!
He stood there, not like an humble pleader for the right, but with the
tone and look and gesture of Divinity, who exclaims, Let there be light and
light there was!
Yet look! Those bearded men with broad phylacteries, have started
from their seats; they encircle him with flushed faces and eyes gleaming
scorn.
I see the most reverend of them all, stand there, with the sneer deepening
over his face, while his straightened finger points to the face of Jesus—
Look! he cried, turning to his brethren, Is not this Joseph the Carpenter's
son?
Is not this the man of toil, who, the other day was working at a rude
bench? Behold his mother—a poor woman! Behold his father—a carpenter?
Does he come to teach us, the Elders of the synagogue, broad in
our phylacteries, flowing in our robes, voluminous in our prayers?
But the Poor press forward too, and one rude son of toil kneels there
before him, pressing the hem of his gaberdine, while his eyes are lifted to
his face. Mary—ah, let us pity the poor Mother now!—for starting to her
feet, she clasps her hands, while her lips part and her eye dilates as she
awaits the end.
Joseph has buried his head upon his bosom.
Jesus rises supreme above them all. Yes, unawed by the scowling
brows, unmoved by the words of scorn, he spreads forth his arms, his
voice rings on the air once more!
—“A Prophet is not without honor save in his own country and his own
house!—”
These words have scarce passed his lips, when the uproar deepens into
violence.
Forth with him! the cry yells through the synagogue, Forth with him,
blasphemer! Forth with him from the synagogue and the city! To the
rock, to the rock with the Infidel!
With one accord they hurl him from the desk, they, the venerable elders,
with the broad phylacteries. Rude hands grasp him, demoniac voices yell
in his ear. At this moment, even as they drag him from the desk, a little
child, with flowing hair and dilating eyes, affrighted by the clamor, steals
up to Jesus, seizing his robe with its tiny hands. His face, alone calm and
smiling in the uproar, seems to promise shelter to the startle child.
Through the passage of the synagogue they drag him, and now he is in
the open air, with the Sabbath sun pouring upon his uncovered brow. Along
the streets, from the city, over the flinty stones—to the rock with the
blasphemer!
The city is built upon a rock, which yawns over an abyss. Plunged
from this rock, dashed into atoms on the stones below, this blasphemer shall
blaspheme no more!
All the while, poor Mary, weeping, trembling, clasping her hands in anguish,
follows the crowd, imploring mercy for her son. Do you see the
finger of scorn pointed at her face, the brutal sneer levelled at her heart?
Joseph humbled and abashed, has gone quietly away, perhaps to his carpenter
shop, to weep that this bold Jesus ever dared to beard the Synagogue.
Out from the city with shouts and yells and curses! Out along the
flinty path—behold the crowd attains the rock.
Surrounded by these forms, trembling with passion, these faces scowling
with rage, Jesus looks calmly over the abyss, while a rough hand pinions
each arm. It is an awful sight, that steep wall of rock, rising from the
ravine below. Even the elders, who hold this Carpenter's son on the verge
of the rock, start back affrighted. The dizzy heighth appals their souls.
The shouts, cries, curses, deepen. Man never looks so much like a
brute, as when engaged in an act of violence, but when this act is mob violence,
where many join to crush a solitary victim, then man looks like a
brute and devil combined.
There is not one face of pity in that frenzied crowd. From afar some
few poor men, slaves of the rich and afraid to brook their anger, gaze upon
the crowd with looks of sympathy for Jesus stamped upon their rude faces.
Mary too, do you not see her kneeling there, some few paces from the
crowd, her hands uplifted, while her brown hair, slightly touched with grey,
floats wildly to the breeze. She has sunken down, exhausted by the conflict
of emotions, even yet she shrieks for mercy, mercy for this Jesus,
her Son!
Jesus looks over the dizzy rock.
Nearer they urge him to its verge, nearer and nearer; ah—he is on the
edge—another inch and he is gone—hark! his foot brushes the earth from
the brink; you hear it crumbling as he stands there, looking into the abyss,
At this moment, pinioned by rude arms, he turns his face over his shoulder;
he gazes upon that crowd.
O, the immortal scorn, the withering pity of that gaze! His brow glows,
his eyes fire, his lips wreathe in a calm smile.
As one man the crowd shrink back, they cannot face the lustre of those
eyes. Behold—the Pharisees who grasp the arm of Jesus, fall on their
knees with their faces to the flint. That radiant brow strikes terror to their
souls.
In a moment he is free, free upon the edge of the cliff, the glory of Divinity
radiating in flashes of light around that white brow, while the rough
carpenter's robes seem to change into new garments, flowing as the morning
mist, luminous as sunshine. Even his long hair, falling to his shoulders,
seems to wave in flakes of light.
Give way ye Pharisees, give way ye bearded Elders, give way ye makers
of long prayers, with your flowing robes and broad phylacteries, for Jesus
the Carpenter's son would pass through your midst!
And he comes on from the verge of the cliff, even through their midst.
Jesus comes in silent grandeur.
Where are these men who shouted Infidel—Dog—Blasphemer—a moment
ago? Crouching on the earth, their faces to the flint, their flowing
robes thrown over their heads, there they are, these solemn men, with venerable
beards and broad phylacteries.
Jesus passes on.
Silently, his beautiful countenance beaming with immortal love, his arms
folded on his breast, he passes on.
Yes, it is written in the book of God; “He passing from the midst of
them, went his way.”
He is gone from their city. They raise their affrighted faces, while
malice rankles in their hearts, and follow his form with flashing eyes.
Mary gazes upon him, also, weeping bitterly for Jesus, her Outcast son,
now a wanderer and exile from the home of his childhood.
Can you imagine a picture like this?
Yonder on the summit of a hill, the last which commands a view of
Nazareth, its synagogue and rock, just where the roadside turns and follows
the windings of a shadowy valley, stands Jesus, resting his clasped hands
on his staff, while his eyes are fixed upon the distant city.
Who may picture the untold bitterness of that gaze?
It is home, the town in which he was reared, beneath the fond light of a
Mother's eyes. There is the carpenter shop in which he toiled; there the
walks of his solitary hours, nay, the temple in which he was wont to kneel
in prayer.
And now, with scorn and curses and rude hands, they have thrust him
forth, AN OUTCAST from his home.
It was his earnest, yearning desire to do good in that town; to reveal
his high mission there; to proclaim the great year of Jehovah, to the people
of his childhood's home.
And now he stands there, gazing upon the town, while the mark of their
rude grasp yet reddens on his arms, while the words, Blasphemer, Infidel,
Dog, yet echo in his ears.
He is an Outcast, this Jesus the Carpenter's son.
O, if there is one drop in the cup of persecution more bitter than another,
it is the galling thought of neglect and wrong which sinks into the heart of
that Man, who has been driven forth like a venomous snake, from his childhood's
home, even in the moment when his soul burned brightest with its
love for God and Man!
Welcome indeed is the grasp of a friend in a foreign land, but dark and
terrible is the blow which hurls us from the threshhold of our HOME!
God in all his dispensations of affliction, with which he visits us for our
good, has no darker trial than this!
My friends, I confess from the fulness of my heart, as I behold the
solemn lesson which this passage in our Saviour's life, has for the man of
genius, the student, the seeker after the beautiful, I am wrapt in wonder, in
pity, in awe, that one man of intellect ever doubted the truth of this Revelation.
Behold the lesson!
Here on this rock of the hill-top, stands Jesus the Outcast, gazing on his
childhood's home. Godly Pharisees have thrust him forth; sanctimonious
Elders have hissed the words, Infidel, dog, blasphemer in his ears!
The day will come, when the beards and phylacteries of these men will
have crumbled in the same forgotten grave, where their flesh and bones rot
into dust. Their paltry town will be the abiding place of the Gentile and
the scoffer; their religion crushed beneath the horse's hoofs of invading
legions.
That town will claim a name in history, only because it was once the
Home of Jesus. That religion be remembered only, because it prepared
the way for the Religion of Jesus. Yes, the name of the Outcast, who now
stands upon this hill, gazing upon the distant town, will one day cover the
whole earth; it will throb in the heart of Universal Man, like the Presence
of a God!
Who will remember the Pharisees, who record the names of the Elders?
Into what dim old grave shall we look for their dust?
Where are the hands that smote the Lord Jesus, where the tongues that
hissed Blasphemer! in his ears?
Eighteen centuries have passed, and the name of this Jesus—where
does it not shine?
Shouted on the scaffold, with the last gasp of martyrs, whose flesh was
crumbling to cinder, breathed by the patriot, dying on the battlefield for the
rights of man, echoed by millions of worshippers, who send it up to Heaven,
with prayer and incense, every hour of the day, every moment of the hour,
that NAME has dared the perils of untrodden deserts, ascended hideous
mountains, traversed unknown seas, encompassed the globe with its glory.
It has done more than all—it has survived the abuses with which Pharisees
and Hypocrites, like their fathers of old, have not hesitated to darken
its light, through the long course of eighteen hundred years.
Even the fang of the Dishonest Priest has failed to tear that name from
the heart of Man.
Even long and bloody religious wars, crowding the earth with the bodies
of the dead, darkening the heaven with their blood-red smoke, have not
effaced this name of Jesus!
Not even the fires of Smithfield, nor that Hell revealed on earth, the Inquisition,
nor that cold-blooded murder, done by a remorseless Bigot, in the
open square of Geneva, the victim a weak and unoffending man, nor a
thousand such fires, inquisitions and murders, all working their barbarities
in this Holy Name, have been able to drag it from the altar where it shines,
the only hope of Man.
Still the Name of Jesus lives; who shall number the hearts in which it
throbs, with every pulsation of love and joy and hope? Who shall number
the sands on the shore, or count the beams of the sun?
And when that blessed day shall come—and come it will, as sure as
Jehovah lives!—When Kings and Priests shall be hurled from their thrones
of wrong and superstition, when Labor shall be no longer trodden down, by
the feet of task-masters, when every man who toils shall receive his equal
portion of the fruits of the earth, when a church gorgeously appareled in
all the splendor of lofty temples, uncounted revenues, hosts of pensioned
ministers shall be demanded no more, when this Earth shall indeed be the
Garden of God, and men indeed be Brothers—
Then crowning the great work with its awful and blessed benediction,
one name shall swell to the sky, echoed by the voices of innumerable Millions,
the name of Him whom Pharisees and Elders thrust ignominiously
forth, from the synagogue of Nazareth, the Friend of the Poor, the God of
Washington and the signers—the name of Jesus.
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |