——
A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.The lady of his love was wed with oneWho did not love her better.Byron.
A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.The lady of his love was wed with oneWho did not love her better.Byron.
A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love was wed with one
Who did not love her better.
Byron.
Two years had passed away since Durzil Bras-de-fer set sail on the Virginia voyage, and from that day no tidings had been heard of him in England.
In the meantime, changes, dark melancholy changes, had altered every thing at Widecomb. The two old men, whom we last saw conversing cheerfully of times long gone, and past joys unforgotten, had both fallen asleep, to wake no more but to immortality. Sir Miles St. Aubyn slept with his fathers in the bannered and escutcheoned chapel adjoining the Hall, wherein he had spent so many, and those the happiest, of his days; while William Allan—he had preceded his ancient friend, his old rival, but a few weeks on their last journey—lay in the quiet village church-yard, beneath the shade of the great lime-trees, among the leaves of which he had loved to hear the hum of the bees in his glad boyhood. The leaves waved as of old, and twinkled in the sunshine, and the music of the reveling bees was blithe as ever, but the eye that had rejoiced at the calm scenery, the ear that had delighted in the rural sound, was dim, and deaf forever.
Happy—happy they. Whom no more cares should reach, no more anxieties, forever—who now no more had hopes to be blighted, joys to be tortured into sorrows, and, worst of all, affections to breed the bitterest griefs, and make calamity of so long life. Happy, indeed, thrice happy!
There was a pleasant parlor, with large oriel windows looking out upon the terrace of Widecomb Hall, and over the beautiful green chase, studded with grand old oaks, down to the deep ravine through which the trout stream rushed, in which the present lord of that fair demesne had so nearly perished at the opening of my tale.
And in that pleasant parlor, within the embrasure of one of the great oriels, gazing out anxiously over the lovely park, now darkening with the long shadows of a sweet summer evening, there stood as beautiful a being as ever gladdened the eye of friend, husband, or lover, on his return from brief absence home.
It was Theresa—Allan no longer, but St. Aubyn; and with the higher rank which she had so deservedly acquired, she had acquired, too, a higher and more striking style of beauty. Her slender, girlish stature had increased in height, and expanded in fullness, roundness, symmetry, until the delicate and somewhat fragile maiden had been matured into the perfect, full-blown woman.
Her face also was lovelier than of old; it had a deeper, a more spiritual meaning. Love had informed it, and experience. And the genius, dormant before, and unsuspected save by the old fond father, sat enthroned visibly on the pale, thoughtful brow, and looked out gloriously from those serene, large eyes, filled as they were to overflowing with a clear, lustrous, tranquil light, which revealed to the most casual andthoughtless observers, the purity, the truth, the whiteness of the soul within.
But if you gazed on her more closely,
You saw her at a nearer viewA spirit, yet a woman too.
You saw her at a nearer viewA spirit, yet a woman too.
You saw her at a nearer viewA spirit, yet a woman too.
You saw her at a nearer viewA spirit, yet a woman too.
You saw her at a nearer view
A spirit, yet a woman too.
You saw that how pure, how calm, how innocent so-ever, she was not yet exempt from the hopes, the fears, the passions, and the pains of womanhood.
The woman was more lovely than the girl, was wiser, greater, perhaps better—alas! was she happier?
She had been now nearly two years a wife, though but within the last twelve months acknowledged and installed as such in her husband’s house. It had been a dark mystery, her love, the child of sorrow and concealment, although she might thank her own true heart, guided by principle, and lighted by a higher star than any earthly passion, even the love of God, it had not been the source of shame.
Artfully, yet enthusiastically, had that bold, brilliant, fascinating boy laid siege to her affections; and soon, by dint of kindred tastes, and feelings, and pursuits, he had succeeded in winning the whole perfect love of that pure, overflowing soul.
She loved him with that fervor, that devotion, of which women alone are perhaps capable, and of women, only those who are gifted with that extreme sensibility, that exquisite organization, which, rendering them the most charming, the most fascinating, and the most susceptible of their sex, too often renders them the least happy.
And he, too, loved her—as well, perhaps, as one of his character and temperament could love any thing, except himself; he loved herpassionately; he admired her beauty, her grace, her delicacy, beyond measure. He understood and appreciated her exquisite taste, her brilliancy, her feminine and gentle genius. He was not happy when he was absent from her side; he could not endure the idea that she should love, or even smile upon another, he coveted the possession of a creature so beautiful, a soul so powerful, and at the same time so loving. Above all, he was proud to be loved by such a being.
But beyond this he no more loved her, than the child loves its toy. He held her only in his selfishness of soul, even before his passion had
“Spent as yet its novel force,Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.”
“Spent as yet its novel force,Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.”
“Spent as yet its novel force,Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.”
“Spent as yet its novel force,Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.”
“Spent as yet its novel force,
Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.”
But he knew nothing, felt nothing, understood nothing of her higher, better self; he saw nothing of her inner light—guessed nothing of what a treasure he had won.
He would have sacrificed nothing of his pleasures, nothing of his prejudices, nothing of his pride, had such a sacrifice been needed to make her the happiest of women. While she would have laid down her life for the mere delight of gaining him one moment’s joy—would have sacrificed all that she had, or hoped to have, save honor, faith and virtue. And to yield these he never asked her.
No! in the wildest dream of his reckless, unprincipled imagination, he never fancied to himself the possibility of tempting her to lawless love. In the very boldest of his audacious flights, he never would have dared to whisper one loose thought, one questionable wish in the maiden’s ear. It had, perhaps, been well he had done so—for on that instant, as the night-mists melt away and leave the firmament pure and transparent at the first glance of the great sun, the cloud of passion which obscured her mental vision would have been scattered and dispersed from her clear intellect by the first word that had flashed on her soul conviction of his baseness.
But whether the wish ever crossed his mind or not, he never gave it tongue, nor did she even once suspect it.
Still he had wooed her secretly—laying the blame on his father’s pride, his father’s haughty and high ambition, which he insisted would revolt at the bare idea of his wedding with any lady, who could not point to the quarterings of a long, noble line of ancestry; he had prevailed on her, first to conceal their love, and at length to consent to a secret marriage.
It was long, indeed, ere he could bring her to agree even to that clandestine step; nor, had her father lived but a few weeks longer, would he have done so ever.
The old man died, however, suddenly, and at the very moment when, though she knew it not, his life was most necessary to his daughter’s welfare. He was found dead in his bed, after one of those strange, mysterious seizures, to which he had for many years been subject, and during which he had appeared to be endowed with something that approached nearly to a knowledge of the future. Although, if such were, indeed, the case, it was scarce less wonderful that on the passing away of the dark fit, he seemed to have forgotten all that he had seen and enunciated of what should be thereafter.
Be this, however, as it may, he was found by his unhappy child, dead, and already cold; but with his limbs composed so naturally, and his fine benevolent features wearing so calm and peaceful an expression, that it was evident he had passed away from this world of sin and sorrow, during his sleep, without a pang or a struggle. Never did face of mortal sleeper give surer token of a happy and glorious awakening.
But he was gone, and she was alone, friendless, helpless and unprotected.
How friendless, how utterly destitute and helpless, she knew not, nor had even suspected, until the last poor relics of her only kinsman, save he who was a thousand leagues aloof on the stormy ocean, had been consigned to the earth, whence they had their birth and being. Then, when his few papers were examined, and his affairs scrutinized by his surviving, though now fast declining friend, St. Aubyn, it appeared that he had been supported only by a life-annuity, which died with himself, and that he had left nothing but the cottage at the fords, with the few acres of garden-ground, and the slender personal property on the premises, to his orphan child.
It was rendered probable by some memoranda and brief notes, found among his papers, the greater part of which were occupied by abstruse mathematical problems, and yet wilder astrological calculations, that he had looked forward to the union of his daughter with the youth whom he had brought up as his ownson, and whose ample means, as well as his affection for the lovely girl, left no doubt of his power and willingness to become her protector.
What he had observed, during his sojourn at the cottage, led old Sir Miles, however, who had assumed as an act of duty, no less than of pleasure, the character of executor to his old friend, to suspect that the simple-minded sage had in some sort reckoned without his host; and that on one side, at least, there would be found insuperable objections to his views for Theresa’s future life. And in this opinion he was confirmed immediately by a conversation which he had with the poor girl, so soon as the first poignant agony of grief had passed from her mind.
In this state of affairs, an asylum at the manor was offered by the old cavalier, and accepted by the orphan with equal frankness, but with a most unequal sense of obligation—Sir Miles regarding his part in the transaction as a thing of course, Theresa looking on it as an action of the most exalted and extraordinary generosity.
In truth, it had occurred already to the mind of the old knight, so soon as he was satisfied within himself that Theresa’s affections were not given to her wild and dangerous cousin, that he would gladly see her the wife of his own almost idolized boy. For, though of no exalted or ennobled lineage, she was of gentle blood, of an honorable parentage, which had been long established in the county, and which, if fallen in fortunes, had never lost caste, or been degraded, as he would assuredly have deemed it, by participation in any mechanical or mercantile pursuit. He had seen enough of courts and courtiers to learn their hollowness, and all the empty falsehood of their gorgeous show—he had mingled enough in the great world to be convinced that real happiness was not to be sought in the hurly-burly of its perilous excitements, and incessant strife; and that which would have rendered him the happiest, would have been to see Jasper established, tranquilly, and at his ease, with domestic bonds to ensure the permanency of his happiness, before his own time should come, as the Lord of Widecomb.
And such were his views when he prevailed on Theresa to let the House in the Woods be her home, until at least such time as news could be received of her cousin; who, certainly, whatever might be the relative state of their affections, would never suffer her to want a home or a protector.
He had observed that Jasper was struck deeply by the charms of the sweet girl; he knew, although he had affected not to know it, that, under the pretence of fishing or shooting excursions, he had been in the almost daily habit of visiting her, since the accident which had led to their acquaintance; and he was, above all, well assured that the girl loved him with all the deep, unfathomable devotion of which such hearts as hers alone are capable.
Well pleased was he, therefore, to see the beautiful being established in the halls of which he hoped to see her, ere long, the mistress; and if he did not declare his wishes openly to either on the subject, it was that he was so well aware of his son’s headstrong and willful temper, that he knew him fully capable of refusing peremptorily the very thing which he most desired, if proffered to him as a boon, much more urged upon him as the desire of a third party—which he was certain to regard as an interference with his free will and self-regulation—while, at the same time he feared to alarm Theresa’s delicacy, by anticipating the progress of events.
Thus, with a heart overflowing with affection for that wild, willful, passionate boy, released from the only tie of obedience or restraint that could have bound her, poor Theresa was delivered over, fettered as it were, hand and foot, to the perilous influence of Jasper’s artifices, and the scarce less dangerous suggestions of her own affections.
It was strange that, quick as she was and clever, even beyond her sex’s wonted penetration, where matters of the heart are concerned, Theresa never suspected that the old cavalier had long perceived and sanctioned their growing affection. But idolizing Jasper as she did, and believing him all that was high and generous and noble, seeing that all his external errors tended to the side of rash, hasty impulse, never to calculation or deceit, she saw every thing, as it were, through his eyes, and was easily induced by him to believe that all his father’s kindness and father-like attention to her slightest wish, arose only from his love for her lost parent, and compassion for her sad abandonment; nay, further, he insisted that the least suspicion of their mutual passion would lead to their instant and eternal separation.
It was lamentable, that a being so bright, so excellent as she, believing that such was the case, and bound as she was by the closest obligations, the dearest gratitude to that good old man, should have consented, even for a moment, to deceive him, much more to frustrate his wishes in a point so vital.
But she was very young—she had been left without the training of a mother’s watchful heart, without the supervision of a mother’s earnest eye—she was endowed marvelously with those extreme sensibilities which are invariably a part of that high nervous organization, ever connected with poetical genius; she loved Jasper with a devotedness, a singleness, and at the same time a consuming heat of passion, which scarcely could be believed to exist in one so calm, so self-possessed, and so innocently-minded—and, above all, she had none else in the wide world on whom to fix her affections.
And the boy profited by this; and with the sharpness of an intellect, which, if far inferior to hers in depth and real greatness, was as far superior to it in worldly selfishness and instinctive shrewdness, played upon her nervous temperament, till he could make each chord of her secret soul thrill to his touch, as if they had been the keys of a stringed instrument.
The hearts of the young who love, must ever, must naturally resent all interference of the aged, who would moderate or oppose their love, as cold, intrusive tyranny; and thus, with plausible and artful sophistry, abetted by the softness of her treacherous heart, too willing to be deceived, he first led her to regard his father as opposed to the wishes of that true love, which, for all the great poet knew or had heard, “never did run smooth,” and thence to resent that opposition asunkind, unjust, tyrannical; and thence—alas! for Theresa!—to deceive the good old man, her best friend on earth—ay, to deceive herself.
It is not mine to palliate, much less to justify her conduct. I have but to relate a too true tale; and in relating it, to show, in so far as I can, the mental operations, the self-deceptions, and the workings of passion—from which not even the best and purest of mankind are exempt—by which an innocent and wonderfully constituted creature was betrayed into one fatal error.
She was persuaded—words can tell no more!
It was a grievous fault, and grievouslyTheresaanswered it.
When ill things are devised, and to be done, ill agents are soon found, especially by the young, the wealthy, and the powerful.
The declining health of Sir Miles St. Aubyn was no secret in the neighborhood—the near approach of his death was already a matter of speculation; and already men almost looked on Jasper as the Lord,in esse, of the estates of Widecomb Manor.
The old white-headed vicar had a son, poor like himself, and unaspiring—like himself, in holy orders; and for him, when his own humble career should be ended, he hoped the reversion of the vicarage, which was in the gift of the proprietor of Widecomb. The old man had known Jasper from his boyhood, had loved Theresa, whom he had, indeed, baptized, from her cradle. He was very old and infirm, and some believed that his intellect was failing. Between his affection for the parties, and his interest in his son’s welfare, it was easy to frame a plausible tale, which should work him to Jasper’s will; and with even less difficulty than the boy looked for, he was prevailed upon to unite them secretly, and at the dead of night, in the parish church at the small village by the fords.
The sexton of the parish church was a low knave, with no thought beyond his own interest, no wish but for the accumulation of gain. A gamekeeper, devoted to the young master’s worst desires, a fellow who had long ministered to his most evil habits, and had in no small degree assisted to render him what he was, only too willingly consented to aid in an affair which he saw clearly would put the young heir in his power forever.
He was selected as one of the witnesses—for without witnesses, the good but weak old vicar would not perform the ceremony; and he promised to bring a second, in the person of his aged and doting mother, the respectability of whose appearance should do away with any scruples of Theresa’s, while her infirmity should render her a safe depository of the most dangerous secret.
And why all this mystery—this tortuous and base deviation from the path of right—this unnecessary concealment, and unmeaning deceit?
Wherefore, if the boy were, indeed, what he has been described, and no more, impulsive, willful, rash, headlong, irresistible in his impulses—if not a base traitor, full of dark plots, deep-laid beforehand—wherefore, if he did love the girl, with all the love of which his character was capable, if he had not predetermined to desert her—wherefore did he not wed her openly in the light of day, amid crowds of glad friends, and rejoicing dependents? Why did he not gladden the heart of his aged father, and lead her to the home of his ancestors a happy and honored bride, without that one blot on her conscience, without that one shadow of deceit, which marred the perfect truthfulness of her character, and in after days weighed on her mind heavily?
[To be continued.
THE FOUNTAIN IN WINTER.
———
BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
———
The northern winds are raw and cold,And crust with ice the frozen mould;The gusty branches lash the wallWith icicles that snap and fall.There is no light on earth to-day—The very sky is blank and gray;Yet still the fountain’s quivering shaftLeaps upward, as when Spring-time laughed.No diamonds glitter on its brink,No red-lipped blossoms bend to drink,And on the blast, its fluttering wingIs spread above no kindred thing.The drops that strike the frozen mouldMake all the garden doubly cold,And with a chill and shivering painI hear the fall of sleety rain.The music that, in beamy May,Told of an endless holyday,With surly Winter’s wailings blent,Becomes his dreariest instrument.The water’s blithe and sparkling voice,That all the Summer said, “rejoice!”Now pours upon the bitter airThe hollow laughter of despair.So, when the flowers of Life lie deadBeneath a darker Winter’s tread,The songs that once gave Joy a soulBring to the heart its heaviest dole.The fresh delight that leaped and sungThe sunny bowers of Bliss among,But gives to Sorrow colder tears,And laughs to mock our clouded years.
The northern winds are raw and cold,And crust with ice the frozen mould;The gusty branches lash the wallWith icicles that snap and fall.There is no light on earth to-day—The very sky is blank and gray;Yet still the fountain’s quivering shaftLeaps upward, as when Spring-time laughed.No diamonds glitter on its brink,No red-lipped blossoms bend to drink,And on the blast, its fluttering wingIs spread above no kindred thing.The drops that strike the frozen mouldMake all the garden doubly cold,And with a chill and shivering painI hear the fall of sleety rain.The music that, in beamy May,Told of an endless holyday,With surly Winter’s wailings blent,Becomes his dreariest instrument.The water’s blithe and sparkling voice,That all the Summer said, “rejoice!”Now pours upon the bitter airThe hollow laughter of despair.So, when the flowers of Life lie deadBeneath a darker Winter’s tread,The songs that once gave Joy a soulBring to the heart its heaviest dole.The fresh delight that leaped and sungThe sunny bowers of Bliss among,But gives to Sorrow colder tears,And laughs to mock our clouded years.
The northern winds are raw and cold,And crust with ice the frozen mould;The gusty branches lash the wallWith icicles that snap and fall.
The northern winds are raw and cold,
And crust with ice the frozen mould;
The gusty branches lash the wall
With icicles that snap and fall.
There is no light on earth to-day—The very sky is blank and gray;Yet still the fountain’s quivering shaftLeaps upward, as when Spring-time laughed.
There is no light on earth to-day—
The very sky is blank and gray;
Yet still the fountain’s quivering shaft
Leaps upward, as when Spring-time laughed.
No diamonds glitter on its brink,No red-lipped blossoms bend to drink,And on the blast, its fluttering wingIs spread above no kindred thing.
No diamonds glitter on its brink,
No red-lipped blossoms bend to drink,
And on the blast, its fluttering wing
Is spread above no kindred thing.
The drops that strike the frozen mouldMake all the garden doubly cold,And with a chill and shivering painI hear the fall of sleety rain.
The drops that strike the frozen mould
Make all the garden doubly cold,
And with a chill and shivering pain
I hear the fall of sleety rain.
The music that, in beamy May,Told of an endless holyday,With surly Winter’s wailings blent,Becomes his dreariest instrument.
The music that, in beamy May,
Told of an endless holyday,
With surly Winter’s wailings blent,
Becomes his dreariest instrument.
The water’s blithe and sparkling voice,That all the Summer said, “rejoice!”Now pours upon the bitter airThe hollow laughter of despair.
The water’s blithe and sparkling voice,
That all the Summer said, “rejoice!”
Now pours upon the bitter air
The hollow laughter of despair.
So, when the flowers of Life lie deadBeneath a darker Winter’s tread,The songs that once gave Joy a soulBring to the heart its heaviest dole.
So, when the flowers of Life lie dead
Beneath a darker Winter’s tread,
The songs that once gave Joy a soul
Bring to the heart its heaviest dole.
The fresh delight that leaped and sungThe sunny bowers of Bliss among,But gives to Sorrow colder tears,And laughs to mock our clouded years.
The fresh delight that leaped and sung
The sunny bowers of Bliss among,
But gives to Sorrow colder tears,
And laughs to mock our clouded years.
A PARTING SONG.
———
BY PROFESSOR CAMPBELL.
———
Free—as the lonely eagle free—A leaden sky is o’er me—I’m out upon a leaden sea—A wide, cold world before me.Wait’st thou to woo a breeze, my bark?The eager wave’s upheavingChideth thy stay—the little larkHer upward way is cleaving.Hymn-bird, how oft thy glorious noteHath trumpeted the day,When bark and I were both afloatUpon our wandering way.For I have wandered many an hour,My trusty bark, with thee,And culled full many a breathing flowerOf wildest Poesy.In those bright hours, when gliding downEach flower-reflecting stream,When health, hope, fancy—all had thrownTheir light o’er boyhood’s dream—Ah! little did I dream, my boat,That thou and I should beAlone upon the world, afloatUpon the wide, wide sea.Yet speed we forth—what care I nowThat once those bright hours shone?Is there a blight upon my brow?No—’tis enough, they’re gone.Then speed we forth—we leave behindA home still passing fair,Some spot to call a home to find—I know not—care not where.Be it but distant, distant far,Across the billowy deep,Where thought and passion cease to war—Where misery may sleep.Sleep! no—’tis but a foolish thought,That may not, cannot be—O’er the wide world there is no spotOf sleep for misery.Wherever winds the ocean fan,To-morrow’s born and dies,Wherever man deceiveth man,And woman lisps and lies—In city, or in solitude,In banquet-hall, or cell—The past—the past will still intrude—Memory—the wretch’s hell.Chance choose the clime—I only seek—To what else tortures bound—The spirit feel no vulture beakOf pity in the wound.Then speed we forth—ay, speed we forth—I know not—care not where;Thou’lt build on any spot of earthThy lone, proud home, Despair.So leap, so leap, brave heart, brave will—Misery hath taught to knowStill the fierce strength invincible,That springs to meet the blow.False friends—fond hopes—mad joys of oldMay not forgotten be—But room, and hurrah! for joys untoldOf brave heart’s victory.This joy’s infectious—bounds my bark,As prouder far to bearHer master, now the heav’ns are dark,Than when they smiled most fair.The purpling waters, as they leapAround her eager prow,Laugh out in sympathy, and keepDark commune with me now.On, on, my bark, thy gallant keelIs bounding merrily—Tossing the white foam, thou dost feelThat now we both are free.And we are free—oh! we are free—A sky of storms is o’er us—A glorious strife, to end with lifeAnd victory, before us.
Free—as the lonely eagle free—A leaden sky is o’er me—I’m out upon a leaden sea—A wide, cold world before me.Wait’st thou to woo a breeze, my bark?The eager wave’s upheavingChideth thy stay—the little larkHer upward way is cleaving.Hymn-bird, how oft thy glorious noteHath trumpeted the day,When bark and I were both afloatUpon our wandering way.For I have wandered many an hour,My trusty bark, with thee,And culled full many a breathing flowerOf wildest Poesy.In those bright hours, when gliding downEach flower-reflecting stream,When health, hope, fancy—all had thrownTheir light o’er boyhood’s dream—Ah! little did I dream, my boat,That thou and I should beAlone upon the world, afloatUpon the wide, wide sea.Yet speed we forth—what care I nowThat once those bright hours shone?Is there a blight upon my brow?No—’tis enough, they’re gone.Then speed we forth—we leave behindA home still passing fair,Some spot to call a home to find—I know not—care not where.Be it but distant, distant far,Across the billowy deep,Where thought and passion cease to war—Where misery may sleep.Sleep! no—’tis but a foolish thought,That may not, cannot be—O’er the wide world there is no spotOf sleep for misery.Wherever winds the ocean fan,To-morrow’s born and dies,Wherever man deceiveth man,And woman lisps and lies—In city, or in solitude,In banquet-hall, or cell—The past—the past will still intrude—Memory—the wretch’s hell.Chance choose the clime—I only seek—To what else tortures bound—The spirit feel no vulture beakOf pity in the wound.Then speed we forth—ay, speed we forth—I know not—care not where;Thou’lt build on any spot of earthThy lone, proud home, Despair.So leap, so leap, brave heart, brave will—Misery hath taught to knowStill the fierce strength invincible,That springs to meet the blow.False friends—fond hopes—mad joys of oldMay not forgotten be—But room, and hurrah! for joys untoldOf brave heart’s victory.This joy’s infectious—bounds my bark,As prouder far to bearHer master, now the heav’ns are dark,Than when they smiled most fair.The purpling waters, as they leapAround her eager prow,Laugh out in sympathy, and keepDark commune with me now.On, on, my bark, thy gallant keelIs bounding merrily—Tossing the white foam, thou dost feelThat now we both are free.And we are free—oh! we are free—A sky of storms is o’er us—A glorious strife, to end with lifeAnd victory, before us.
Free—as the lonely eagle free—A leaden sky is o’er me—I’m out upon a leaden sea—A wide, cold world before me.Wait’st thou to woo a breeze, my bark?The eager wave’s upheavingChideth thy stay—the little larkHer upward way is cleaving.
Free—as the lonely eagle free—
A leaden sky is o’er me—
I’m out upon a leaden sea—
A wide, cold world before me.
Wait’st thou to woo a breeze, my bark?
The eager wave’s upheaving
Chideth thy stay—the little lark
Her upward way is cleaving.
Hymn-bird, how oft thy glorious noteHath trumpeted the day,When bark and I were both afloatUpon our wandering way.For I have wandered many an hour,My trusty bark, with thee,And culled full many a breathing flowerOf wildest Poesy.
Hymn-bird, how oft thy glorious note
Hath trumpeted the day,
When bark and I were both afloat
Upon our wandering way.
For I have wandered many an hour,
My trusty bark, with thee,
And culled full many a breathing flower
Of wildest Poesy.
In those bright hours, when gliding downEach flower-reflecting stream,When health, hope, fancy—all had thrownTheir light o’er boyhood’s dream—Ah! little did I dream, my boat,That thou and I should beAlone upon the world, afloatUpon the wide, wide sea.
In those bright hours, when gliding down
Each flower-reflecting stream,
When health, hope, fancy—all had thrown
Their light o’er boyhood’s dream—
Ah! little did I dream, my boat,
That thou and I should be
Alone upon the world, afloat
Upon the wide, wide sea.
Yet speed we forth—what care I nowThat once those bright hours shone?Is there a blight upon my brow?No—’tis enough, they’re gone.Then speed we forth—we leave behindA home still passing fair,Some spot to call a home to find—I know not—care not where.
Yet speed we forth—what care I now
That once those bright hours shone?
Is there a blight upon my brow?
No—’tis enough, they’re gone.
Then speed we forth—we leave behind
A home still passing fair,
Some spot to call a home to find—
I know not—care not where.
Be it but distant, distant far,Across the billowy deep,Where thought and passion cease to war—Where misery may sleep.Sleep! no—’tis but a foolish thought,That may not, cannot be—O’er the wide world there is no spotOf sleep for misery.
Be it but distant, distant far,
Across the billowy deep,
Where thought and passion cease to war—
Where misery may sleep.
Sleep! no—’tis but a foolish thought,
That may not, cannot be—
O’er the wide world there is no spot
Of sleep for misery.
Wherever winds the ocean fan,To-morrow’s born and dies,Wherever man deceiveth man,And woman lisps and lies—In city, or in solitude,In banquet-hall, or cell—The past—the past will still intrude—Memory—the wretch’s hell.
Wherever winds the ocean fan,
To-morrow’s born and dies,
Wherever man deceiveth man,
And woman lisps and lies—
In city, or in solitude,
In banquet-hall, or cell—
The past—the past will still intrude—
Memory—the wretch’s hell.
Chance choose the clime—I only seek—To what else tortures bound—The spirit feel no vulture beakOf pity in the wound.Then speed we forth—ay, speed we forth—I know not—care not where;Thou’lt build on any spot of earthThy lone, proud home, Despair.
Chance choose the clime—I only seek—
To what else tortures bound—
The spirit feel no vulture beak
Of pity in the wound.
Then speed we forth—ay, speed we forth—
I know not—care not where;
Thou’lt build on any spot of earth
Thy lone, proud home, Despair.
So leap, so leap, brave heart, brave will—Misery hath taught to knowStill the fierce strength invincible,That springs to meet the blow.False friends—fond hopes—mad joys of oldMay not forgotten be—But room, and hurrah! for joys untoldOf brave heart’s victory.
So leap, so leap, brave heart, brave will—
Misery hath taught to know
Still the fierce strength invincible,
That springs to meet the blow.
False friends—fond hopes—mad joys of old
May not forgotten be—
But room, and hurrah! for joys untold
Of brave heart’s victory.
This joy’s infectious—bounds my bark,As prouder far to bearHer master, now the heav’ns are dark,Than when they smiled most fair.The purpling waters, as they leapAround her eager prow,Laugh out in sympathy, and keepDark commune with me now.
This joy’s infectious—bounds my bark,
As prouder far to bear
Her master, now the heav’ns are dark,
Than when they smiled most fair.
The purpling waters, as they leap
Around her eager prow,
Laugh out in sympathy, and keep
Dark commune with me now.
On, on, my bark, thy gallant keelIs bounding merrily—Tossing the white foam, thou dost feelThat now we both are free.And we are free—oh! we are free—A sky of storms is o’er us—A glorious strife, to end with lifeAnd victory, before us.
On, on, my bark, thy gallant keel
Is bounding merrily—
Tossing the white foam, thou dost feel
That now we both are free.
And we are free—oh! we are free—
A sky of storms is o’er us—
A glorious strife, to end with life
And victory, before us.
THE LIGHT OF LIFE.
———
BY MRS O. M. P. LORD.
———
Thou can’st not dream of darkness now,My child! so full of radiant lightThy morning breaks, with song of birds;That beaming eye no gloomy nightDiscerns, when weary petals close,And birds with folded wing repose.Nor would I change this fair design;As well the dew might fall at noon,Or fierce December’s coming blastAssail the shrinking flowers of June,As fall o’er hearts in light arrayed,From dim, prospective ill, a shade.And yet, my darling child, the night,With starless depths, may come, and day,The sunniest e’en, hath gloomy hours;What then will cheer the darkened way?Lo here! where deepest shade appals,The Saviour’s constant footstep falls.Seek thou, my child, the record oft,When faint thy weary heart, and dimWith tears thine eye; our varied lifeRevealed in his appears; from himA light doth pierce the shadows through,Which fall on heaven’s long avenue.
Thou can’st not dream of darkness now,My child! so full of radiant lightThy morning breaks, with song of birds;That beaming eye no gloomy nightDiscerns, when weary petals close,And birds with folded wing repose.Nor would I change this fair design;As well the dew might fall at noon,Or fierce December’s coming blastAssail the shrinking flowers of June,As fall o’er hearts in light arrayed,From dim, prospective ill, a shade.And yet, my darling child, the night,With starless depths, may come, and day,The sunniest e’en, hath gloomy hours;What then will cheer the darkened way?Lo here! where deepest shade appals,The Saviour’s constant footstep falls.Seek thou, my child, the record oft,When faint thy weary heart, and dimWith tears thine eye; our varied lifeRevealed in his appears; from himA light doth pierce the shadows through,Which fall on heaven’s long avenue.
Thou can’st not dream of darkness now,My child! so full of radiant lightThy morning breaks, with song of birds;That beaming eye no gloomy nightDiscerns, when weary petals close,And birds with folded wing repose.
Thou can’st not dream of darkness now,
My child! so full of radiant light
Thy morning breaks, with song of birds;
That beaming eye no gloomy night
Discerns, when weary petals close,
And birds with folded wing repose.
Nor would I change this fair design;As well the dew might fall at noon,Or fierce December’s coming blastAssail the shrinking flowers of June,As fall o’er hearts in light arrayed,From dim, prospective ill, a shade.
Nor would I change this fair design;
As well the dew might fall at noon,
Or fierce December’s coming blast
Assail the shrinking flowers of June,
As fall o’er hearts in light arrayed,
From dim, prospective ill, a shade.
And yet, my darling child, the night,With starless depths, may come, and day,The sunniest e’en, hath gloomy hours;What then will cheer the darkened way?Lo here! where deepest shade appals,The Saviour’s constant footstep falls.
And yet, my darling child, the night,
With starless depths, may come, and day,
The sunniest e’en, hath gloomy hours;
What then will cheer the darkened way?
Lo here! where deepest shade appals,
The Saviour’s constant footstep falls.
Seek thou, my child, the record oft,When faint thy weary heart, and dimWith tears thine eye; our varied lifeRevealed in his appears; from himA light doth pierce the shadows through,Which fall on heaven’s long avenue.
Seek thou, my child, the record oft,
When faint thy weary heart, and dim
With tears thine eye; our varied life
Revealed in his appears; from him
A light doth pierce the shadows through,
Which fall on heaven’s long avenue.
THE RECREANT MISSIONARY,
JUDAS ISCARIOT:
“Who also betrayed Him.”
———
BY CAROLINE C——.
———
Thus always, the last mentioned among the holy Apostles, and with the brand of shame attached to his name, is Judas Iscariot, the traitor, brought before us. And inasmuch as from the lives of them, who in all circumstances continued faithful to their Lord, lessons of the highest benefit may be drawn by the teachable mind, I am constrained to think there comes to us a lesson and a warning we may not lightly heed, from him who “by transgression fell.” He, too, when the Voice was heard crying in the wilderness gave willing heed; he, too, amid the eager crowd was seen listening anxiously to the inspired word of John the Baptist; he, too, when the meek Saviour came, attended on His preaching, and his heart was stirred by the words of entreaty and condemnation that he heard. He, too, would fain believe, and be forgiven, and be numbered among the disciples of the new king.
When, as one of the twelve Apostles, he was chosen, and in a peculiar manner recognized by the Saviour as one of his own household, Judas rejoiced—for he doubtless conceived that if Christ’s kingdom was to be of an earthly nature, it was certainly a great advancement, and a high honor, to be chosen publicly as one of His chief ministers. How then must he have listened to the words of Jesus, when, after he had selected the Twelve, he charged them with their duty, and told them all that they must bear and suffer for His sake. “In the world ye shall have tribulation and sorrow—but, be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” One cannot but think that the latter part of this declaration must have fallen with little weight on the disappointed heart of Judas. The Saviour had consecrated them to their holy work—to the lives of persecution, and sorrow, and pain, which He knew awaited them—he was calling down the power of his spirit to rest and abide with each of them, the power which should enable them to release guilty humanity from its load of sin, wherever it should be felt in its oppressiveness—and while in humility the eyes of some of those disciples were fixed upon the ground, unto his majestic countenance others were raised, catching from his fervid devotion the spark of heavenly fire that was to make them indeed beacon lights on the mountain of Truth! By the words he uttered, he bade them remember the difficulties which would beset them—fully pointing out to them the thorny path which they must tread. Not with the conviction that a life of ease was before them went they forth. They had enlisted as soldiers in His service, it was therefore meet that they should know the dangers of the hostile country through which they were to pass. “Behold I send you forth as sheep amidst wolves!” Danger, privation, and perchance a horrible death were the foes they were to meet.
But, those dangers all revealed, He did not leave them struck down, as it were, by the heavy weight of the cross they had chosen to bear—kind words, encouraging promises, assurances of his fatherly protection and guidance fell from his lips, and comforted and cheered them.
There was one heart on which the words of the Saviour fell with chilling force—in his hearing, was now forever decided the question as to the nature of Christ’s kingdom and service. When Judas heard that calm, deep voice telling of the power of the enemy into whose hands they were voluntarily placing themselves—when he became convinced of the danger and wo which would encircle them on every side—that the prison might prove their place of abode—that the scourge and instruments of torture would be the welcoming extended to them in the world—that contumely, shame and reproach, and despiteful treatment would inevitably meet them in all their wanderings, he shrunk back—when he listened to the promises Jesus made to them of rest in heaven, of the continued care of God, which nevertheless might not preserve them from a death of torture and ignominy—when he reflected that the rewards promised were none of them of a temporal nature, and were to be made good only in the dim future, in another existence that was called eternal, he shrunk from the prospect of so much present misery, to be endured for a reward so vague—he forgot the weight of glory that was to be revealed, or, if he remembered it at all, the future of bliss was so far distant, and the promises so obscure, that they fell like dust in the balance of that scale where wo, vexation and privations innumerable were to be weighed. Better, ah far better, he thought, that former life of labor and obscurity he had led, than a life of such publicity and danger as he was now to lead. None ever molested himthen, quietly and peacefully he had lived till that hour when he lent too willing an ear to the compassionate words of Him who spoke, not as man, but as God and Saviour.
And yet despite this irresoluteness, when the young man thought of his companions who were setting forth so zealously on the path at whose very threshold he faltered, he was almost constrained to rush boldly onward with them. His pride shrunk from the thought of proving so soon recreant to the cause which he had espoused so gladly and earnestly.
That first moment when he wavered in his zeal—when his determination faltered—we may count as the moment of his downfall, of his fearful ruin—thatmoment when the first bewildering thought rushed into his brain, what shall I gain by this life of self-denial?—that moment when the chilling conviction of the folly of his enthusiasm in the service of Christ crept over him—that moment of unguarded temptation when Satan obtained a hearing, that was his trial-time—then he was found wanting—then he fell—then was he lost to the cause he had vowed to support.
And yet in that moment of hesitation it is not to be supposed that Judas had the courage, or even the wish, forever to reject and disown his master, Jesus. We cannot believe that he had crept into the camp of Salvation under false colors, merely to spy out its secrets, its most vulnerable points, that so he might deliver the great chief of the army into the hands of his enemy. Not so. It was impossible for the man to harden in unbelief; for such convincing proof of the might and divinity of Jesus had been given him, as it was not possible for him to reject. And as he pondered on the gentle and touching loving kindness that Master had shown toward him and his apostolic brethren, it may be that the desire to aid and to serve him became for the time stronger even than his natural cowardice and selfishness. And this may be the reason why he resolved for a little time, at least, to be considered by the people as one of the followers of Jesus. And in making this decision there may possibly have revived in the man’s heart a little of that fervor of spirit which he had once felt for the sacred cause.
So it was, that again his face turns toward the upward path, and for a season he will continue therein. Thus goes he forth on his mission, entertaining in his heart two guests, whose hopes and aspirations, whose every end and aim are totally at variance. Love of the world, of his former life of careless sin, and of money, that root of all evil, was there; and there also was a standard bearer from the camp of Heaven, who came upholding a banner which, at the will of the entertainer, he would have gladly unfurled upon the highest battlement of the castle of his soul—against which the powers of sin and darkness were knocking, and demanding entrance, with voices which reverberated through every secret corner of the tenement.
That banner once unfurled, the importunate foe would flee in haste—oh, why was the word not spoken—the word which would so speedily have scattered those convulsing legions? Because—ponder upon it, thou who art halting between two opinions—because the master of that castle faltered at his post through fear and indecision.
He has gone forth now on the path of discipleship, and his works of miraculous power proclaim him. At his call and command the gates of oblivion are opened, and the dead come back to life—the sick, laid on their couches of pain and agony, arise and walk at his word; and the gospel of mercy and salvation sounds with marvelous success when its blessings are proclaimed by his eloquent tongue to the weary, and the poor, and the heavy-laden. The evil spirits suffered to torment them who would fain tread in the right path are cast forth, and then the sorrowing repentant goeth on his way rejoicing! But, as he works all this good for others, his own mind is tormented by the conflicting voices which are calling to him. He stills the tempests in the minds of the distressed, and those burdened with cruel doubts, but in his own breast there is a storm raging continually, which hecannotcommand to silence. He holds up to the parched and dying creatures surrounding him a cup, while he proclaims, “Ho ye that thirst! buy wine, buy milk, without money and without price!” “Drink, and ye shall not thirst again!” while he himself is dying of thirst—and ever as he raises to his own lips the cup which contains the healing for the nations, his spirit shrinks back from the draught—it will not drink—it is gall and wormwood to him!
He lifts his voice, and conviction and peace fall upon them who listen to him. Repentance is hurled to the sinful heart with the words, “His yoke is easy, and His burden light!” while himself is drooping and fainting under the weight of deceit which is upon him. Wherever he goes he proclaims “Peace!” to the children of men—and peace visits all who will hearken to him. But in his own breast—ah,thereis warfare and strife, the accusings of conscience, the warnings of wrath to come! In the chambers of sickness, where the dying were restored to health; by the wayside, where the foully diseased were cleansed—before the opened tomb, whence at his call the dead came clothed once again with the garment of life, amid the multitudes who listened with deepest interest to his most forcible words, alone, in the solitude of his own heart, or when in holy communion of thought with the faithful brethren, alike at all times, and in all places, heard he the still small voice of his accusing spirit.
The outward form of grace was his, but the purification had not penetrated into the recesses of his heart! The agonizing knowledge that at each onward step he was plunging deeper and deeper into the sin which could not be forgiven—the continual remembrance that he was dispensing to others the mercy of that God who would forget to be gracious to him, may be easily conjectured; but may Heaven spare us all from such agony of conflicting thoughts and hopes as must have been the daily and nightly companion of Judas Iscariot, long before he came out from the disciples’ ranks to betray his lord into the hands of sinners!
In the magnificent chambers of the High Priest, adorned with so much costliness and luxury, Caiaphas sat in state. Ushered in by menials, a young man enters timidly to the presence of the haughty potentate.
The dignity of mien which once distinguished the ambassador of the Lord, which would not bend to the splendor of court or king, is no longer to be seen in Judas. The meanness of servility speaks in every motion, every word of the man—his self-respect is gone, and with it all the confidence of manhood. But if the craftiness of the stranger’s appearance struck most unfavorably on the High Priest, how much more must he have been startled and amazed, as Judas unfolded the reason of his appearance there; and it was not till his mission was fully revealed that Caiaphas recognized in the craven supplicant one of those far-famed Apostles, with whose names he was already familiar.
The proud man must have shrunk back in horror from the revolting proposal of Judas—for, though it placed within his reach the accomplishment of one of the highest wishes of his life, (the deliverance of Christ into his hands,) yet the means by which he was offered the capture were opposed to all the principles of his creed of manly honor. Could he in all his high mightiness stoop to receive the prisoner at the hands of one who had been his friend—his companion and ministering servant? No—he must certainly at the first have turned away contemptuously from the detail of such consummate villainy; it must surely have been more than even he could countenance—for though not wont to cavil at the means employed, when any wished for end was to be gained, yet Caiaphasmusthave wondered, as the question burst from the covetous impatient heart of Judas, “What will ye give me, and I will deliver him unto you?” But as the High Priest pondered on that question, gradually his spirit ceased its noble revolting, he began to lose sight of the contemptible, horrible treachery of the man on his knees before his throne, and he felt something like rejoicing in the thought, that the object he had so longed to accomplish, was within his reach at last. Therefore it was not long ere he turned with a more readily listening ear, and began tobargainwith the Apostle!
At length the agreement was made—the covenant formed—the price of the Saviour’s life was set, and the thirty pieces of silver were paid into the hands of Judas! And then the traitor arose, and went from the presence-chamber of Caiaphas, but faintness was within his dastard heart, and the flush of shame upon his forehead, and with downcast eyes, and hasty step he went, for in his hands he bore the proofs of his condemning guilt and sordid meanness; knowing also that even the enemies of Christ, gladly as they would receive Him into their power, had shrunk from taking the prisoner from an apostle’s hands. But, the contract was made, the wages of sin were in his hands; for Judas there was no going back; onward—onward—onward he was impelled by the unchained fiend within him, to work out his own eternal ruin.
He must know rest neither day nor night—constantly he must be on the alert, that Jesus should not altogether escape him—and when the favorable moment arrived, he was to deliver Him up to the rulers!
And with that price of the innocent blood in his hands he dared still to labor and associate with the holy Apostles, dared to express submission and reverence for the God who read his every inmost thought. It seems a thing almost incredible—for the paltry sum of money he had dared appoint himself the judge to deliver the prisoner into the executioner’s hands! Already he had been guilty of taking money from the common purse of the disciples, which was entrusted to him, in order that he might gratify his selfish desires—and this guilt was known to Jesus, but the compassionate Saviour had refrained from making it known; it would have brought down dishonor on the holy cause which Judas at the best served so unfaithfully, and would have heaped on the sinful man’s own head shame and condemnation, had the transaction been made known publicly—thus he was still suffered to retain his post of trust and honor.
Were we not daily beholding crimes, only less heinous than those of Judas, it would be difficult indeed for us to conceive his guilt! We could not believe it possibly within the range of human capability to sin, that he would sacrifice even his God for money! The Saviour’s blood—it was indeed a high price to pay for thirty pieces of silver! But, though his crime was such as has placed the name of Judas the very first on the long, long list of human guilt—though, from the very nature, and necessity of things, there never can be another soul stained with sin so deep and dreadful, though now, when as a completed whole we survey our blessed Saviour’s life on earth, we stand aghast as we think on his betrayer, yet, my reader, who among us shall dare to say that had we lived in those days we surely would have been guiltless of the blood of that just man? There is nothing easier than to accuse our “first parents,” Adam and Eve, of an unaccountable transgression—it is very easy tosaythat nothing could ever have temptedusto the commission of a crime so great—I would assuredly be the last todareuphold Judas in his deadly sin, or to endeavor to cleanse from his name the terrible blackness of the crime attached to it—it was monstrous guilt of which he through all the ages has stood convicted, but I repeat, by no means was it unaccountable!
Think of our world, and of human nature as it is now, after so many centuries have passed, and the light of knowledge has spread far and wide. Consider what the covetousness, the folly, the ambition of the heart work among us now; behold even at this hour, what multitudes are there among us who are scoffers, and deniers, and mockers of the Lord who bought them! Ah, were it a veritable truth which the Jews believe and assert, that the Messiah has not yet come, even now would not be found wanting the vengeful unbelievers, the betrayer, the judge, the proud religion, the cross, and the thorny crown, and earth and heaven would be rent again with that cry which a false-hearted people wrung from Him who died upon the cross!
The feast of the Passover was at hand, and the little band of apostles which had been widely dispersed, fulfilling every where they went their onerous duties, met together once more to celebrate the feast.
And at eventide the holy men assembled in the “upper room” of a house to which Jesus had directed them, wherein they had made ready for the ceremonial celebration. But it was a new feast, to partake of which the Saviour had called them together. The forms of the ancient days were being fast set aside; there was no more need that the lamb should be slain in commemoration of the mercy of God in a time when his people were in most dire necessity—soon was a Lamb to be sacrificed whose efficacious blood was to save, and cleanse from sin all who would have faith in God and his crucified Son. And it was meet thatthatnight, when the feast of the Passover was wont to be celebrated, should be chosen for the superseding of a dead form by a more living faith. The consecrated bread and wine, the emblems of His sacred body andblood, these were the symbols to be used—there was not any longer need for the shedding of the blood of beasts.
The twelve were all together. They had come rejoicing that they might meet again with their Master in safety and peace, that they might once more listen to His words and counsel whom they loved so well. In their short time of separation they had met all of them with wonderful success, and the scornful, harsh rebukes they had oftentimes been forced to listen to, they had patiently, ay, gladly endured, for it was all for Him, and they could not but rejoice that they were counted worthy to suffer shame for His name. But reproach, and contumely, and condemnation of the world, was not all that they had met; they had looked on eyes their words had caused to brighten with joy—they had heard voices, sad and desponding, raised in hymns of thanksgiving and rejoicing—they had seen many hopeful manifestations of repentance, had pointed out to many the straight path and the narrow way leading to eternal life. Well might they come as faithful stewards with gladness and haste at the call of their Lord!
Did I sayallcame with rejoicing to look upon their Master’s face again? nay, verily,not all!
One in their midst whose words had flown far over the land, who had besought sinners most effectually to repent, who had given to many a most blessed hope, came among them to partake of the feast of the Passover, to offer to his brethren the hand of fellowship, wherein he had so recently clapped with greedy joy the infamous price of the Redeemer’s blood!
Hecame with a troubled mind, feeling that he had no right to commune with the more faithful eleven, and dreading to meet the glance of the Searcher of Hearts. He knew full well, that though his brethren and fellow-laborers beheld his successful preaching with gladness, that they could see no further—they could do no more than judge him by his outward acts, which had, as far as their knowledge went, been always blameless—but he also knew that He who had bidden them to the supper gazed with more than human power of vision into his evil heart, that He saw and beheld the vile thing which he had done; full well the fearful sinner knew that the flimsy veil he had been able to fling over his guilt, was far from being efficient to screen him from the scrutinizing gaze of his Lord.
Oh, how like the knell of condemnation must those mournful words have fallen on the ear of Judas:
“Verily I say unto you that one ofyoushall betray me!”
It was the sudden death of every hope of concealment.
Fear and wonder filled the minds of the faithful eleven. One ofthembetray their beloved Master? It was a thought inconceivable to them. With astonished looks they turned from one to another, and with full confidence in the integrity of their hearts they asked, “Lord, is it I?”
Solemnly upon the stillness broke that answer.
“He that dippeth his hand into the dish with me, the same shall betray me, and wo unto that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed, it had been good for that man had he never been born.”
When these fearful words of warning were pronounced, and every voice was hushed, and every heart was awe-struck, again was heard the trembling voice of Judas the guilty, echoing faintly, and as though irresistiblycompelledto utter the words, “Master, is itI?”
The sad eyes of the eleven were fixed upon their brother and their Lord, and oh what a thrill of horror must have run through every heart as the answer “Thou hast said,” was whispered in a tone of sorrowful reproach by the Saviour, who knew that he was already betrayed!
When Judas saw the reproachful expression that every face wore, and was thus assured that his treachery was known, he felt his place was no longer amid the faithful followers and servants of Jesus—he knew well enough the just horror with which the holy men surrounding him would look upon his ingratitude and soul-destroying guilt. He had still sense enough left to feel that he should no longer remain among those who had such cause to deeply deplore the desecration he had done the service of Christ; and, too, his inclination for, and pleasure in that service, and his desire to remain in that holy company was gone. He had chosen another master, even the Evil One—he must fight under another banner, even that of the Blackness of Darkness!
Publicly he had parted with his heavenly portion for a mere handful of silver, and now what part or lot had he in the work, to do which a clean heart and a right spirit were so pre-eminently required? Self-forgetfulness, constancy, devotion, truth, he lacked all these! how then couldhefurther the cause of the Redeemer? Judas must have gone from that chamber of mournful feasting feeling himself to be a doomed man, bearing upon himself the full weight of the heavy curse of God!
An impassable barrier, an unfathomable gulf lay now between him and the works of holiness—a separating wall built even by his own willing hands up to the portal of heaven, shut him forever from the hope of mercy or the possibility of repentance!
It is night. Over the Garden of Gethsemane is spread the shadow of a dark cloud. The moon’s light is obscured; or, where at intervals it appears between the broken clouds, its dim rays render the sadness and silence of the place only more mournful still. To the quietness and retirement of that garden, One has come whose soul is filled with sorrow even unto death! He has spoken kindly words of love to his disciples, he has bidden them tarry in the garden to watch with Him; but though Jesus would fain have them nigh, his agony and suffering were too great for any but the Father to witness, therefore he went apart from them, and falling on his face, in the depth of anguish he prayed, “Oh! my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me—nevertheless not as I will, but as Thou wilt!”
Bending submissively to the will of that Father in all things, he could drink even the bitterness of that cup wherein was garnered a whole world’s sin. Threetimes was the agonized prayer repeated, and still the aid from heaven was not sent, nor the bitter cup removed! Oh, reader, by that night of unexampled agony, by the blood-drops which burst fromourSaviour in the extremity of His anguish, bedewing the ground of Gethsemane—by the remembrance of the cross-planted Calvary—by the bitterness of that draught the dregs of which were not spared, how are we taught, and warned, and implored to consider well the value of that sacrifice which He has madefor us! Can’st thou think on that night of unexampled agony and longer refrain from flinging thyself wholly, with no reserve, at the foot of the blood-stained cross? Oh never suffer the remembrance of that night of passion to fade from thy mind or from thy heart—let it cling to thee continually, inciting to patience, and courage, and faith, till thou hast learned by them to enter the path from which His death has taken the sorrow, to which His agony has lent the glory! Thus shall the cross-crowned Calvary prove to thee a sure reliable ray that shall guide thee to heaven; thus shall the blood-dew shed in Gethsemane, spread a reviving freshness over the dying tree of Faith, which perchance is drooping even at this moment in thy heart!
The Saviour’s last prayer is breathed forth when the sound as of a multitude breaks on his ear—full well He knoweth who it is that is now hastening on and entering the Garden sanctified by His presence to take Him captive. Foremost among the ruthless intruders comes one whose treacherously smiling face tells of guilt, and ill-concealed shame, and remorse. He treads through the else silent garden, where the night blooming flowers are just opening, shedding their rich perfumes abroad; but Judas heeds not the beauty and tranquillity of that place—carelessly his feet trample upon the fair blossoms unfolding, which though crushed still rise again as the weight is removed, and their perfumes ascend to heaven on the evening air, a living witness against him.
The multitude come armed as if to the fray—swords and staves are in their hands, curses and execrations escape their lips, and thoughts of fiery vengeance and hatred fill their minds. He whom they seek stands awaiting them. He makes no effort to escape, though had He willed it, His Father had instantly sent legions of angels to deliver him. No—his hour was come! the hour for which He left the brightness of the heavenly kingdom—the hour for which he had put on mortality had arrived—he would not delay it.
The torches which the arch-traitor and his companions bore fell on the little group of men they sought—the defiant Apostles, and the calm and unmoved son of Mary. The multitude faltered in their purpose as they looked upon these men—the bold, brave-hearted Peter, the loving John, the humble, faithful, affectionate James, and the man Christ Jesus whom they came to make captive. Sorrow, such as never beamed from the eyes of a mortal being, and the consciousness of a power that was able to scatter at once, as chaff, those who had come out to make Him captive, spoke from His countenance distinctly and audibly to their sin-hardened minds.
But Judas—Judas hesitated not. When he saw the Man he was to betray standing before him, making no effort to escape, he dropped the torch which had lighted him on his awful mission, and flinging his arms around the Divinity,he kissed Him! and as he embraced with the lips the God he had offered to betray, Judas cried aloud in a tone of affectionate and joyful recognition, “Master! Master!”
Aside from the horrible, daring guilt of Judas, there is something humiliating and revolting in the thought of the traitor’s assuming friendliness, and love even, as the guise under which to make successful his nefarious scheme. A kiss, the most fond, familiar greeting; by that Christ was made known to those who came to take Him by violence, as though He were a thief, or a common offender, or breaker of the laws of the land!
Of the remainder of that night the Scriptures tell us naught of the betrayer. We do not hear of his appearing before Caiaphas as a witness against his Lord—all his part in that most awful transaction seems to have been fulfilled—the accusation and condemnation were for others to make. It is no pleasant task to picture to the fancy the manner in which the remaining hours of Judas’ life must have passed. The torturing of conscience—the deadly fear—the sting and constant consciousness of guilt whichmusthave tormented him, is what the mind shrinks from contemplating, but to which it returns, as if of necessity, again and again.
The deed was accomplished, there remained nothing further for him to do, and so he went out from the sacred garden by himself, that he might be alone, and count over in security and feast his eyes on the fruits of his guilt. Ah, that shining treasure! those thirty pieces of silver! At the moment when for the first time a full conviction of the iniquity of his deed swept over his thought, and could be kept back no longer by his will, then it was, if ever, that heneededto strengthen his covetous heart; and how better could he accomplish that than by keeping in constant sight the much loved riches he had gained?
But while he counted over the glittering heap, how very strange! he did not rejoice in it as he had thought to! Possession had robbed anticipation of all allurements and pleasure, and while alone, watched only by the eye of his God he counted over the riches, constantly haunted him those words Jesus spoke on the night of the feast of the Passover, “it were better for that man had he never been born!” Judas already was accursed—already was given over to the power of the tormentors; already his terrified mind was conjuring up the death and sufferings of the Saviour he had betrayed, and that coveted, cherished silver was as a stone hanging about his neck, dragging him down, down to the depths of the sea of perdition!
When the first rays of daylight streamed over Jerusalem, might have been seen, I fancy, the form of Judas Iscariot wandering through the city, seeking to escape from his condemning thoughts; oh, the accusations, so fraught with everlasting wo, his heart must have whispered to him, when the sunlight fell upon him and the fresh breeze of morning fanned his brow!
Before the palace where the judges still slept, the wretched man paced to and fro, bearing with him the thrice accursed silver which burned his bosom—burnedhis soul. As yet there were few signs of life in the silent streets. Only the humblest laborers had come forth to begin with the earliest light their day of toil. Judas gazed on them as they went calmly and cheerfully about their accustomed tasks, oh, how wistfully! Couldheonly once more know that lightness of heart which innocence alone confers! Couldhebut look on the glad light of the sun, and see there no accusing form which now incessantly uprose before his imagination! Could he but listen to the voice of Nature, without feeling that for him she sung only a far-resounding chorus of condemnation! Could he only go forth to his peaceful labor, and forget that fearful looking for of judgment which now alone awaited him!
As by degrees the streets filled with men, and women, and little children, how suspiciously and consciously his eyes glanced at all who passed by him, the greetings of the companions of former days were unreturned, or misunderstood, for Judas wondered how thatanyshould speak tohim! And when the Pharisee went by, folding his robes closely about him, lest they might come in contact with the garments of the poor publican, when with a supercilious look which said so plainly, “Stand back, for I am holier than thou!” he felt the justice of the unspoken rebuke though it did come from sinful humanity. And when troops of gay and innocent children passed on, their voices of mirth and gladness filling the air which was ere long to echo with the dying Saviour’s cry and the mocking shouts of unbelieving Jews, he crept more closely to the wall, fearing lest his sin penetrated garments might by a touch convey contamination!
At last the palace-gates were opened, and breathlessly Judas rushed within, and entered unbidden, unannounced and alone the presence chamber of Caiaphas, where he had stood so recently to bargain for the blood of Jesus Christ!
Already the chief priest, and the scribes and rulers had gathered together to confer respecting the fate of their prisoner. How astonished must they have looked upon the haggard, guilt-stricken man who came so suddenly before them! No wonder if they started in fear as they saw the despairing look of his blood-shot eyes, for the glare of a maniac was in them. With outspread hands he held the dear-bought money toward them, while the wailing of a spirit doomed forever to despair broke forth in the words, “I have sinned! I have betrayed the innocent blood!”
In fearful mockery and derision came back the answer, “What is that to us! See thou to that!”
Vainly did he look for sympathy there! Hardened, selfish, sinful, they could not even feel for him who had been all too late aroused by the tortures of remorse to a sense of his most awful guilt. It was a vain thing to appeal to them to receive again the silver and let the precious prisoner go free!
Oh, what marvel that the wretched man should have shrunk from an existence which he was well assured would never be blessed by one hour free from the maddening tortures of his conscience? What wonder that he hastened from the presence of the fiendish Caiaphas to die before the sentence of condemnation had been passed on the Master whom his treachery had given to the cross? What wonder, reader, that the wretched man perished by his own hands? and can the wildest hoper believe that his was not an eternal death?