St. Nicholas, about to pick the page up by his hair
The tales of good St. NicholasAre known in every clime;Told in painting, and in statues,And in the poet’s rhyme.In England’s Isle, alone, to-day,Four hundred churches standWhich bear his name, and keep it wellRemembered through the land.And all the little childrenIn England know full wellThis tale of good St. Nicholas,Which I am now to tell.The sweetest tale, I think, of allThe tales they tell of him;I never read it but my eyesWith tears begin to swim.There was a heathen king who rovedAbout with cruel bands,And waged a fierce and wicked warOn all the Christian lands.And once he took as captiveA little fair-haired boy,A Christian merchant’s only son,His mother’s pride and joy.He decked him in apparel gay,And said, “You’re just the ageTo serve behind my chair at meat,A dainty Christian page.”Oh, with a sore and aching heartThe lonely captive childRoamed through the palace, big and grand,And wept and never smiled.And all the heathen jeered at him,And called him Christian dog,And when the king was angryHe kicked him like a log.One day, just as the cruel kingHad sat him down to dine,And in his jeweled cup of goldThe page was pouring wine,The little fellow’s heart ran o’erIn tears he could not stay,For he remembered suddenly,It was the very dayOn which the yearly feast was keptOf good St. Nicholas,And at his home that very hourWere dancing on the grass,With music, and with feasting, allThe children of the town.The king looked up, and saw his tears;His face began to frown:“How now, thou dog! thy sniveling tearsAre running in my cup;’Twas not with these, but with good wine,I bade thee fill it up.“Why weeps the hound?” The child replied,“I weep, because to-day,In name of good St. Nicholas,All Christian children play;And all my kindred gather home,From greatest unto least,And keep to good St. Nicholas,A merry banquet feast.”The heathen king laughed scornfully:“If he be saint indeed,Thy famous great St. Nicholas,Why does he not take heedTo thee to-day, and bear thee backTo thy own native land?Ha! well I wot, he cannot takeOne slave from out my hand!”Scarce left the boastful words his tongueWhen, with astonished eyes,The cruel king a giant formSaw swooping from the skies.A whirlwind shook the palace walls,The doors flew open wide,And lo! the good St. NicholasCame in with mighty stride.Right past the guards, as they were not,Close to the king’s gold chair,With striding steps the good Saint came,And seizing by the hairThe frightened little page, he boreHim, in a twinkling, highAbove the palace topmost roof,And vanished in the sky.Now at that very hour was spreadA banquet rich and dear,Within the little page’s homeTo which, from far and near,The page’s mourning parents calledAll poor to come and prayWith them, to good St. Nicholas,Upon his sacred day.Thinking, perhaps, that he would healTheir anguish and their pain,And at poor people’s prayers might giveTheir child to them again.Now what a sight was there to see,When flying through the air,The Saint came carrying the boy,Still by his curly hair!And set him on his mother’s knee,Too frightened yet to stand,And holding still the king’s gold cupFast in his little hand.And what glad sounds were these to hear,What sobs and joyful cries,And calls for good St. Nicholas,To come back from the skies!But swift he soared, and only smiled,And vanished in the blue;Most likely he was hurryingSome other good to do.
The tales of good St. NicholasAre known in every clime;Told in painting, and in statues,And in the poet’s rhyme.In England’s Isle, alone, to-day,Four hundred churches standWhich bear his name, and keep it wellRemembered through the land.And all the little childrenIn England know full wellThis tale of good St. Nicholas,Which I am now to tell.The sweetest tale, I think, of allThe tales they tell of him;I never read it but my eyesWith tears begin to swim.There was a heathen king who rovedAbout with cruel bands,And waged a fierce and wicked warOn all the Christian lands.And once he took as captiveA little fair-haired boy,A Christian merchant’s only son,His mother’s pride and joy.He decked him in apparel gay,And said, “You’re just the ageTo serve behind my chair at meat,A dainty Christian page.”Oh, with a sore and aching heartThe lonely captive childRoamed through the palace, big and grand,And wept and never smiled.And all the heathen jeered at him,And called him Christian dog,And when the king was angryHe kicked him like a log.One day, just as the cruel kingHad sat him down to dine,And in his jeweled cup of goldThe page was pouring wine,The little fellow’s heart ran o’erIn tears he could not stay,For he remembered suddenly,It was the very dayOn which the yearly feast was keptOf good St. Nicholas,And at his home that very hourWere dancing on the grass,With music, and with feasting, allThe children of the town.The king looked up, and saw his tears;His face began to frown:“How now, thou dog! thy sniveling tearsAre running in my cup;’Twas not with these, but with good wine,I bade thee fill it up.“Why weeps the hound?” The child replied,“I weep, because to-day,In name of good St. Nicholas,All Christian children play;And all my kindred gather home,From greatest unto least,And keep to good St. Nicholas,A merry banquet feast.”The heathen king laughed scornfully:“If he be saint indeed,Thy famous great St. Nicholas,Why does he not take heedTo thee to-day, and bear thee backTo thy own native land?Ha! well I wot, he cannot takeOne slave from out my hand!”Scarce left the boastful words his tongueWhen, with astonished eyes,The cruel king a giant formSaw swooping from the skies.A whirlwind shook the palace walls,The doors flew open wide,And lo! the good St. NicholasCame in with mighty stride.Right past the guards, as they were not,Close to the king’s gold chair,With striding steps the good Saint came,And seizing by the hairThe frightened little page, he boreHim, in a twinkling, highAbove the palace topmost roof,And vanished in the sky.Now at that very hour was spreadA banquet rich and dear,Within the little page’s homeTo which, from far and near,The page’s mourning parents calledAll poor to come and prayWith them, to good St. Nicholas,Upon his sacred day.Thinking, perhaps, that he would healTheir anguish and their pain,And at poor people’s prayers might giveTheir child to them again.Now what a sight was there to see,When flying through the air,The Saint came carrying the boy,Still by his curly hair!And set him on his mother’s knee,Too frightened yet to stand,And holding still the king’s gold cupFast in his little hand.And what glad sounds were these to hear,What sobs and joyful cries,And calls for good St. Nicholas,To come back from the skies!But swift he soared, and only smiled,And vanished in the blue;Most likely he was hurryingSome other good to do.
The tales of good St. NicholasAre known in every clime;Told in painting, and in statues,And in the poet’s rhyme.In England’s Isle, alone, to-day,Four hundred churches standWhich bear his name, and keep it wellRemembered through the land.
The tales of good St. Nicholas
Are known in every clime;
Told in painting, and in statues,
And in the poet’s rhyme.
In England’s Isle, alone, to-day,
Four hundred churches stand
Which bear his name, and keep it well
Remembered through the land.
And all the little childrenIn England know full wellThis tale of good St. Nicholas,Which I am now to tell.The sweetest tale, I think, of allThe tales they tell of him;I never read it but my eyesWith tears begin to swim.
And all the little children
In England know full well
This tale of good St. Nicholas,
Which I am now to tell.
The sweetest tale, I think, of all
The tales they tell of him;
I never read it but my eyes
With tears begin to swim.
There was a heathen king who rovedAbout with cruel bands,And waged a fierce and wicked warOn all the Christian lands.And once he took as captiveA little fair-haired boy,A Christian merchant’s only son,His mother’s pride and joy.
There was a heathen king who roved
About with cruel bands,
And waged a fierce and wicked war
On all the Christian lands.
And once he took as captive
A little fair-haired boy,
A Christian merchant’s only son,
His mother’s pride and joy.
He decked him in apparel gay,And said, “You’re just the ageTo serve behind my chair at meat,A dainty Christian page.”
He decked him in apparel gay,
And said, “You’re just the age
To serve behind my chair at meat,
A dainty Christian page.”
Oh, with a sore and aching heartThe lonely captive childRoamed through the palace, big and grand,And wept and never smiled.And all the heathen jeered at him,And called him Christian dog,And when the king was angryHe kicked him like a log.
Oh, with a sore and aching heart
The lonely captive child
Roamed through the palace, big and grand,
And wept and never smiled.
And all the heathen jeered at him,
And called him Christian dog,
And when the king was angry
He kicked him like a log.
One day, just as the cruel kingHad sat him down to dine,And in his jeweled cup of goldThe page was pouring wine,The little fellow’s heart ran o’erIn tears he could not stay,For he remembered suddenly,It was the very dayOn which the yearly feast was keptOf good St. Nicholas,And at his home that very hourWere dancing on the grass,With music, and with feasting, allThe children of the town.
One day, just as the cruel king
Had sat him down to dine,
And in his jeweled cup of gold
The page was pouring wine,
The little fellow’s heart ran o’er
In tears he could not stay,
For he remembered suddenly,
It was the very day
On which the yearly feast was kept
Of good St. Nicholas,
And at his home that very hour
Were dancing on the grass,
With music, and with feasting, all
The children of the town.
The king looked up, and saw his tears;His face began to frown:“How now, thou dog! thy sniveling tearsAre running in my cup;’Twas not with these, but with good wine,I bade thee fill it up.
The king looked up, and saw his tears;
His face began to frown:
“How now, thou dog! thy sniveling tears
Are running in my cup;
’Twas not with these, but with good wine,
I bade thee fill it up.
“Why weeps the hound?” The child replied,“I weep, because to-day,In name of good St. Nicholas,All Christian children play;And all my kindred gather home,From greatest unto least,And keep to good St. Nicholas,A merry banquet feast.”
“Why weeps the hound?” The child replied,
“I weep, because to-day,
In name of good St. Nicholas,
All Christian children play;
And all my kindred gather home,
From greatest unto least,
And keep to good St. Nicholas,
A merry banquet feast.”
The heathen king laughed scornfully:“If he be saint indeed,Thy famous great St. Nicholas,Why does he not take heedTo thee to-day, and bear thee backTo thy own native land?Ha! well I wot, he cannot takeOne slave from out my hand!”
The heathen king laughed scornfully:
“If he be saint indeed,
Thy famous great St. Nicholas,
Why does he not take heed
To thee to-day, and bear thee back
To thy own native land?
Ha! well I wot, he cannot take
One slave from out my hand!”
Scarce left the boastful words his tongueWhen, with astonished eyes,The cruel king a giant formSaw swooping from the skies.A whirlwind shook the palace walls,The doors flew open wide,And lo! the good St. NicholasCame in with mighty stride.
Scarce left the boastful words his tongue
When, with astonished eyes,
The cruel king a giant form
Saw swooping from the skies.
A whirlwind shook the palace walls,
The doors flew open wide,
And lo! the good St. Nicholas
Came in with mighty stride.
Right past the guards, as they were not,Close to the king’s gold chair,With striding steps the good Saint came,And seizing by the hairThe frightened little page, he boreHim, in a twinkling, highAbove the palace topmost roof,And vanished in the sky.
Right past the guards, as they were not,
Close to the king’s gold chair,
With striding steps the good Saint came,
And seizing by the hair
The frightened little page, he bore
Him, in a twinkling, high
Above the palace topmost roof,
And vanished in the sky.
Now at that very hour was spreadA banquet rich and dear,Within the little page’s homeTo which, from far and near,The page’s mourning parents calledAll poor to come and prayWith them, to good St. Nicholas,Upon his sacred day.Thinking, perhaps, that he would healTheir anguish and their pain,And at poor people’s prayers might giveTheir child to them again.
Now at that very hour was spread
A banquet rich and dear,
Within the little page’s home
To which, from far and near,
The page’s mourning parents called
All poor to come and pray
With them, to good St. Nicholas,
Upon his sacred day.
Thinking, perhaps, that he would heal
Their anguish and their pain,
And at poor people’s prayers might give
Their child to them again.
Now what a sight was there to see,When flying through the air,The Saint came carrying the boy,Still by his curly hair!And set him on his mother’s knee,Too frightened yet to stand,And holding still the king’s gold cupFast in his little hand.
Now what a sight was there to see,
When flying through the air,
The Saint came carrying the boy,
Still by his curly hair!
And set him on his mother’s knee,
Too frightened yet to stand,
And holding still the king’s gold cup
Fast in his little hand.
And what glad sounds were these to hear,What sobs and joyful cries,And calls for good St. Nicholas,To come back from the skies!But swift he soared, and only smiled,And vanished in the blue;Most likely he was hurryingSome other good to do.
And what glad sounds were these to hear,
What sobs and joyful cries,
And calls for good St. Nicholas,
To come back from the skies!
But swift he soared, and only smiled,
And vanished in the blue;
Most likely he was hurrying
Some other good to do.
Raphael of Urbino is called the prince of painters. And a true prince he was in physical beauty, in graciousness of manner, in kindness of soul, and in power to command the love and admiration of all people with whom he came in contact.
It would almost seem that the gentleness of St. Francis himself had fallen upon him, for Raphael, too, was born among the Apennines near the old town of Assisi. The rugged mountains still rise hill upon hill to the distant blue sky. Assisi, almost deserted, may still be visited, and you may stand in the very house where Raphael was born. You will find it on a steep hillside in the little town of Urbino.
Urbino is built upon a jutting mountain cliff beneath which is a rushing torrent. In the far distance one may see on a clear day the blue Mediterranean. Urbino was once a prosperous town over which a powerful duke ruled, but now it is a quaint village whose one treasure is the house on the steep hillside.
Raphael’s father was Giovanni Santi, a painter of some ability. His mother was the daughter of a rich merchant. Raphael was born April 6, 1483.
No shadow fell across the path of the child until he was eight years of age. Then a great sorrow befell him. His mother died. His father, anxious that the child should not miss a mother’s care, married again. His stepmother treated him with all tenderness, and thus the child grew strong and beautiful in the bright Italian sunshine and the loving atmosphere of home.
He had few companions besides his father and mother. He played much in his father’s studio, and like Angelo learned in babyhood to use the tools of art which later would bring him renown.
In 1494, while the boy was still young, his second misfortune came. His father died. Raphael was left under the guardianship of his stepmother and his father’s brother, a priest.
For a time nothing was done toward his further education. But an uncle who seemed to realize that the lad had unusual genius for painting at last gained permission to send him away to a master. He was placed under the instruction of Perugino, who, it is said, remarked, “Let him be my pupil; he will soon be my master.”
Raphael remained in the studio of Perugino at Perugia nearly nine years. Other students were with him who afterwards became great artists.
A master like Perugino would often receive many orders for pictures or frescoes which he could not execute alone. So the less important work would be left to students. This not only aided the artist, but it made it possible for students to show their power. If a young man had unusual talent, he was sure to seize this opportunity to show his ability and attract the master’s attention. Raphael’s earliest work was done to assist Perugino.
After the death of Perugino, Raphael returned for a time to Urbino. Here he painted for the reigning duke St. George slaying the Dragon and St. Michael attacking Satan. Both of these pictures are now in the Louvre gallery at Paris.
But Raphael wanted especially to see the pictures of Angelo and Leonardo, whose fame had spread to the most remote valleys of the rugged Apennines. So with a letter of introduction to the ruler of Florence, Raphael in 1504 started upon his travels. His letter, he knew, would insure him a welcome in Florence at least.
As he walked through the streets of this beautifulcity he felt like a fairy prince in a land of magic. Now he stood beneath the bell tower which Giotto had designed, now he passed the wonderful bronze gates which Ghiberti had cast, and now he studied the pictures of Leonardo or Angelo which were in all the brilliancy of fresh color.
New ideas crowded upon him, new inspiration roused him. He was sure he could do more, much more, than he had ever dreamed of doing before. Eagerly he began to paint, and within a few months three Madonnas were marked with his name. A fresco painting of the Last Supper, which was probably executed by him this same year, was discovered on the wall of a convent dining room in 1845.
He had been gone not quite a year when he returned to Urbino to complete some work which he had before undertaken. The influence of Florence was seen at once in both color and form. He was a finer artist.
All that northern Italy could offer, Raphael had now seen. But the art of Rome excelled the art of Florence. Angelo was at that very time hard at work upon the ceiling frescoes of the Sistine Chapel. Leonardo in Milan had amazed Italy and the world by his Last Supper. He, too, was soon to be in Rome. Hither, in 1506, Raphael went.
A young man of handsome, courtly appearance and gracious manners, with many friends and no enemies, fortune truly favored him! The Pope received him gladly and soon commissioned him to decorate the hall of the Vatican.
Two of the greatest artists of any age were now working almost side by side, Michael Angelo and Raphael of Urbino. Often one or the other would stand by his rival and watch his brush. Yet neither ever spoke. Each admired the other and each was known to defend the other under the attacks of inferior artists.
Raphael worked steadily in the Vatican hall. Perhaps the most pleasing of these frescoes is the one which shows the Church in heaven and the Church on earth.
The fresco is divided into two sections. The upper one shows the Almighty Father in the midst of angels. Below Him is Christ enthroned, with the Virgin and St. John the Baptist. Beneath the throne is the Dove of the Holy Spirit. In the lower fresco appear St. John, St. Ambrose, St. Augustine, and St. Gregory.
At No. 124 Via Coronari, near the St. Angelo bridge, is the four-story house where Raphael lived during his first four years in Rome.
Raphael was admitted in 1514 into the Fraternity of the Body of Christ, and his many Madonnas of rare beauty were doubtless inspired by his devout spirit.
During his stay in Rome Raphael set up a studio to which many students flocked. They loved him both as friend and master, and he was untiring in his efforts to instruct and inspire them.
He was commissioned by the Pope with the task of making certain decorations for the Sistine Chapel. They were to take the form of tapestries with which the chapel would be adorned on great festival occasions. There were ten of these, all telling some Bible story in the life of Christ or one of His immediate followers.
The last of the series is the Coronation of the Virgin. It shows Christ on his throne crowning the Madonna. The Father and the Holy Spirit are seen above and St. Jerome and St. John the Baptist below.
As yet nothing has been said of the painting by which the name of Raphael is best known, the Sistine Madonna. It was painted in 1518 for the Benedictine Monastery of San Sisto at Piacenza. In 1754 it was purchased by Augustus III, Elector of Saxony, forforty thousand dollars. It was received in Dresden with great rejoicing, and the throne of Saxony was moved to give it a suitable place. It is now in the Dresden gallery.
Another favorite is the Madonna of the Chair. This shows the Madonna, seated, holding the child. “The dress of the mother is light blue; the mantle about her shoulder is green with red and willow-green stripes and a gold-embroidered border; her sleeves are red faced with gold at the wrists. A grayish-brown veil with reddish-brown stripes is wound around her head. The child’s dress is orange colored; the back of the chair is red.” Such is the description given by Grimm.
At the time of his death Raphael was putting forth every effort to finish his noble conception of the Transfiguration. It is now, as he left it, in the Vatican.
On the night of Good Friday, April 6, 1520, at the age of thirty-seven, Raphael died. In his beautiful home, where the people of Rome might do him honor, the unfinished Transfiguration beside him, in the midst of lighted tapers, he lay in state until the body was carried to the Pantheon. In the procession also was carried the great picture.
Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloomLead Thou me on!The night is dark, and I am far from home—Lead Thou me on!Keep Thou my feet, I do not ask to seeThe distant scene—one step enough for me.I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that ThouShouldst lead me on.I loved to choose and see my path, but nowLead Thou me on!I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it stillWill lead me on,O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone;And with the morn those angel faces smileWhich I have loved long since, and lost awhile.—Cardinal Newman.
Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloomLead Thou me on!The night is dark, and I am far from home—Lead Thou me on!Keep Thou my feet, I do not ask to seeThe distant scene—one step enough for me.I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that ThouShouldst lead me on.I loved to choose and see my path, but nowLead Thou me on!I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it stillWill lead me on,O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone;And with the morn those angel faces smileWhich I have loved long since, and lost awhile.—Cardinal Newman.
Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloomLead Thou me on!The night is dark, and I am far from home—Lead Thou me on!Keep Thou my feet, I do not ask to seeThe distant scene—one step enough for me.
Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home—
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet, I do not ask to see
The distant scene—one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that ThouShouldst lead me on.I loved to choose and see my path, but nowLead Thou me on!I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
I was not ever thus, nor pray’d that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it stillWill lead me on,O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone;And with the morn those angel faces smileWhich I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
—Cardinal Newman.
A certain man went down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell among robbers, who also stripped him: and having wounded him went away leaving him half dead.
And it chanced that a certain priest went down the same way: and seeing him, passed by.
In like manner also a Levite, when he was near the place and saw him, passed by.
But a certain Samaritan being on his journey, came near him: and seeing him was moved with compassion.
And going up to him, bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine: and setting him upon his own beast brought him to an inn, and took care of him.
And the next day he took out two pence, and gave to the host, and said: Take care of him: and whatsoever thou shalt spend over and above, I at my return will repay thee.
Which of these three in thy opinion was neighbor to him that fell among the robbers?
—Lukex. 30-36.
Painting by PlockhorstThe Good Samaritan
Painting by Plockhorst
The Good Samaritan
Loud roared the din of battle, fierce,Bloody and wild,With Ulster men and Connaught menThe field was piled.Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,In the mad frayWounded to death and well-nigh spentAnd dying lay.A Druid came with healing balmOf herb and leaf,He poured it in the gaping wound,To give relief;The wound was healed, “Yet,” said the leech,“Beware, my Liege!Of war’s alarm or battle fray,Sally or siege;“No more o’er mere and fen with thee,Oh! noble king,Brave Knight and Lady fair will striveFor bittern’s wing;No more thou’lt ride thy prancing steedAfter the doe,No more thou’lt tilt at tourney brave’Gainst gallant foe;“For thee the fireside’s tranquil calm,Lest sudden riftOf wound break forth and cause thy deathIn anguish swift!”Quiet and calm, in war or peace,No more to roam,Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,Abode at home.One day, when woods were green and fair,And hearts were light,Swiftly the gleaming mid-day sunGrew dark as night;Black portents unto Erin fairIt seemed to bring.“What means this, mighty Druid?” askedThe anxious king.“Far, far away, across the sea,”The Druid said,“Jesu, the Christ, upon a crossBends low His head.Their King upon the shameful tree,With mocking cry,And scornful gibe, the cruel JewsNow crucify.”King Connor cried, “What crime had thisMan done, I pray?”“But to be good were crime enoughFor such as they,My King,” the answer came. “He wasTo death enticed,Then broke His tender, loving heart,This fair, white Christ!”A generous flush o’erspread his cheek,Mac-Nessa sprangQuick to his feet; his quivering voiceIn anger rang.“Ah! wicked deed! Ah! poor, white Christ!They murder Thee!Why didst thou not unto the KingOf Erin flee?“Thy battles he would fight to death,Poor, guiltless One,Ulster’s great chieftain ne’er could seeInjustice done!”Then dashed he from the hall and seizedWith vigorous handHis keen and sharp-edged clevy—A wondrous brand!Under the turquoise sky, uponThe emerald turf,His anger raged like foaming crestOf frothy surf.He hacked and hewed the giant treesWith his keen sword.“Thus would I slay Thy foes, poor Christ,With blood out-poured!”Then quickly his forgotten woundSprung gaping wide.He reeled and fell: “I go to Thee,Oh! Christ!” he sighed,For the King Christ he loved unseen,With flowers bespread,Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s KingLay cold and dead!—M. F. N.-R.
Loud roared the din of battle, fierce,Bloody and wild,With Ulster men and Connaught menThe field was piled.Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,In the mad frayWounded to death and well-nigh spentAnd dying lay.A Druid came with healing balmOf herb and leaf,He poured it in the gaping wound,To give relief;The wound was healed, “Yet,” said the leech,“Beware, my Liege!Of war’s alarm or battle fray,Sally or siege;“No more o’er mere and fen with thee,Oh! noble king,Brave Knight and Lady fair will striveFor bittern’s wing;No more thou’lt ride thy prancing steedAfter the doe,No more thou’lt tilt at tourney brave’Gainst gallant foe;“For thee the fireside’s tranquil calm,Lest sudden riftOf wound break forth and cause thy deathIn anguish swift!”Quiet and calm, in war or peace,No more to roam,Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,Abode at home.One day, when woods were green and fair,And hearts were light,Swiftly the gleaming mid-day sunGrew dark as night;Black portents unto Erin fairIt seemed to bring.“What means this, mighty Druid?” askedThe anxious king.“Far, far away, across the sea,”The Druid said,“Jesu, the Christ, upon a crossBends low His head.Their King upon the shameful tree,With mocking cry,And scornful gibe, the cruel JewsNow crucify.”King Connor cried, “What crime had thisMan done, I pray?”“But to be good were crime enoughFor such as they,My King,” the answer came. “He wasTo death enticed,Then broke His tender, loving heart,This fair, white Christ!”A generous flush o’erspread his cheek,Mac-Nessa sprangQuick to his feet; his quivering voiceIn anger rang.“Ah! wicked deed! Ah! poor, white Christ!They murder Thee!Why didst thou not unto the KingOf Erin flee?“Thy battles he would fight to death,Poor, guiltless One,Ulster’s great chieftain ne’er could seeInjustice done!”Then dashed he from the hall and seizedWith vigorous handHis keen and sharp-edged clevy—A wondrous brand!Under the turquoise sky, uponThe emerald turf,His anger raged like foaming crestOf frothy surf.He hacked and hewed the giant treesWith his keen sword.“Thus would I slay Thy foes, poor Christ,With blood out-poured!”Then quickly his forgotten woundSprung gaping wide.He reeled and fell: “I go to Thee,Oh! Christ!” he sighed,For the King Christ he loved unseen,With flowers bespread,Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s KingLay cold and dead!—M. F. N.-R.
Loud roared the din of battle, fierce,Bloody and wild,With Ulster men and Connaught menThe field was piled.Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,In the mad frayWounded to death and well-nigh spentAnd dying lay.
Loud roared the din of battle, fierce,
Bloody and wild,
With Ulster men and Connaught men
The field was piled.
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,
In the mad fray
Wounded to death and well-nigh spent
And dying lay.
A Druid came with healing balmOf herb and leaf,He poured it in the gaping wound,To give relief;The wound was healed, “Yet,” said the leech,“Beware, my Liege!Of war’s alarm or battle fray,Sally or siege;
A Druid came with healing balm
Of herb and leaf,
He poured it in the gaping wound,
To give relief;
The wound was healed, “Yet,” said the leech,
“Beware, my Liege!
Of war’s alarm or battle fray,
Sally or siege;
“No more o’er mere and fen with thee,Oh! noble king,Brave Knight and Lady fair will striveFor bittern’s wing;No more thou’lt ride thy prancing steedAfter the doe,No more thou’lt tilt at tourney brave’Gainst gallant foe;
“No more o’er mere and fen with thee,
Oh! noble king,
Brave Knight and Lady fair will strive
For bittern’s wing;
No more thou’lt ride thy prancing steed
After the doe,
No more thou’lt tilt at tourney brave
’Gainst gallant foe;
“For thee the fireside’s tranquil calm,Lest sudden riftOf wound break forth and cause thy deathIn anguish swift!”Quiet and calm, in war or peace,No more to roam,Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,Abode at home.
“For thee the fireside’s tranquil calm,
Lest sudden rift
Of wound break forth and cause thy death
In anguish swift!”
Quiet and calm, in war or peace,
No more to roam,
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King,
Abode at home.
One day, when woods were green and fair,And hearts were light,Swiftly the gleaming mid-day sunGrew dark as night;Black portents unto Erin fairIt seemed to bring.“What means this, mighty Druid?” askedThe anxious king.
One day, when woods were green and fair,
And hearts were light,
Swiftly the gleaming mid-day sun
Grew dark as night;
Black portents unto Erin fair
It seemed to bring.
“What means this, mighty Druid?” asked
The anxious king.
“Far, far away, across the sea,”The Druid said,“Jesu, the Christ, upon a crossBends low His head.Their King upon the shameful tree,With mocking cry,And scornful gibe, the cruel JewsNow crucify.”
“Far, far away, across the sea,”
The Druid said,
“Jesu, the Christ, upon a cross
Bends low His head.
Their King upon the shameful tree,
With mocking cry,
And scornful gibe, the cruel Jews
Now crucify.”
King Connor cried, “What crime had thisMan done, I pray?”“But to be good were crime enoughFor such as they,My King,” the answer came. “He wasTo death enticed,Then broke His tender, loving heart,This fair, white Christ!”
King Connor cried, “What crime had this
Man done, I pray?”
“But to be good were crime enough
For such as they,
My King,” the answer came. “He was
To death enticed,
Then broke His tender, loving heart,
This fair, white Christ!”
A generous flush o’erspread his cheek,Mac-Nessa sprangQuick to his feet; his quivering voiceIn anger rang.“Ah! wicked deed! Ah! poor, white Christ!They murder Thee!Why didst thou not unto the KingOf Erin flee?
A generous flush o’erspread his cheek,
Mac-Nessa sprang
Quick to his feet; his quivering voice
In anger rang.
“Ah! wicked deed! Ah! poor, white Christ!
They murder Thee!
Why didst thou not unto the King
Of Erin flee?
“Thy battles he would fight to death,Poor, guiltless One,Ulster’s great chieftain ne’er could seeInjustice done!”Then dashed he from the hall and seizedWith vigorous handHis keen and sharp-edged clevy—A wondrous brand!
“Thy battles he would fight to death,
Poor, guiltless One,
Ulster’s great chieftain ne’er could see
Injustice done!”
Then dashed he from the hall and seized
With vigorous hand
His keen and sharp-edged clevy—
A wondrous brand!
Under the turquoise sky, uponThe emerald turf,His anger raged like foaming crestOf frothy surf.He hacked and hewed the giant treesWith his keen sword.“Thus would I slay Thy foes, poor Christ,With blood out-poured!”
Under the turquoise sky, upon
The emerald turf,
His anger raged like foaming crest
Of frothy surf.
He hacked and hewed the giant trees
With his keen sword.
“Thus would I slay Thy foes, poor Christ,
With blood out-poured!”
Then quickly his forgotten woundSprung gaping wide.He reeled and fell: “I go to Thee,Oh! Christ!” he sighed,For the King Christ he loved unseen,With flowers bespread,Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s KingLay cold and dead!
Then quickly his forgotten wound
Sprung gaping wide.
He reeled and fell: “I go to Thee,
Oh! Christ!” he sighed,
For the King Christ he loved unseen,
With flowers bespread,
Connor Mac-Nessa, Ulster’s King
Lay cold and dead!
—M. F. N.-R.
It was very late in the night when the sentence was pronounced, and the prisoner was asleep. The lieutenant was unwilling to disturb his rest for that time, and so did not awaken him, but in the morning before five of the clock he came to him in his chamber in the Bell Tower, and found him yet asleep in his bed.
He awakened the good father, and explained that he was come to him on a message from the king. Then, with some persuasion, he said that he should remember himself to be an old man, and that he could not expect by course of nature to live much longer. Finally he informed him that he was come to signify unto him that the king’s pleasure was he should suffer death that forenoon.
“Well,” answered this blessed father, “if this be your errand, you bring me no great news. I have long expected this message. And I most humbly thank the king’s majesty that it has pleased him to rid me from all this worldly business, and I thank you also for yourtidings. But I pray you, Mr. Lieutenant, when is mine hour that I must go hence?”
“Your hour,” said the lieutenant, “must be nine of the clock.”
“And what hour is it now?” said he.
“It is now about five,” said the lieutenant.
“Well, then,” said he, “let me by your patience sleep an hour or two, for I have slept very little this night. My rest has been very much broken, not for any fear of death, I thank God, but by reason of my great infirmity and weakness.”
“The king’s further pleasure is,” said the lieutenant, “that you should not talk much. Especially you must not say anything touching his majesty, whereby the people should have any cause to think ill of him or of his proceedings.”
“For that,” said the father, “you shall see me order myself well. For, by God’s grace, neither the king, nor any man else, shall have occasion to mislike my words.”
The lieutenant then departed from him, and so the prisoner, falling again to rest, slept soundly two hours and more.
After he was waked again he called to his man to help him up. Then he commanded him to take awaythe shirt of hair (which he was accustomed to wear on his back) and to convey it secretly out of the house. Then he bade him bring a clean white shirt, and all the best apparel he had, as cleanly bright as possible.
While he was dressing himself, he appeared to have more curiosity and care for the fine and cleanly wearing of his apparel that day than had ever been his wont before. His man asked him what this sudden change meant, since he must know well enough that he must put off all again within two hours and lose it.
“What of that?” said the father. “Dost thou not mark that this is our wedding day, and that it is necessary for us to use more cleanliness for solemnity of the marriage?”
About nine of the clock the lieutenant came again to his prison. Finding him almost ready, he said that he was now come for him.
“I will wait upon you straight,” said the father, “as fast as this thin body of mine will give me leave.” Then he turned to his man and said, “Reach me my fur cape to put about my neck.”
“Oh, my lord,” said the lieutenant, “why need you be so careful for your health for this little while? Your lordship knoweth that it is not much above an hour.”
“I think no otherwise,” said this blessed father. “But in the meantime I will keep myself as well as I can, till the very time of my execution. I have, I thank our Lord, a very good desire and willing mind to die at this present time, and so trust of His infinite mercy and goodness He will continue this desire. Nevertheless, I will not willingly hinder my health for one minute of an hour. Indeed, I will prolong the same as long as I can by such reasonable ways and means as Almighty God hath provided for me.”
Then, taking a little book in his hand, which was a New Testament lying by him, he made a cross on his forehead and went out of his prison door with the lieutenant. He was so weak that he was scarce able to go down the stairs, and at the stairs-foot he was taken up in a chair between two of the lieutenant’s men. These carried him to the Tower gate to be delivered to the sheriffs of London for execution.
When they were come to the farthest wall of the Tower, they rested there with him a space; and an officer was sent on before to know in what readiness the sheriffs were to receive him. As they were resting here, the father rose out of his chair, and stood on his feet, leaning his shoulder to the wall. Then, lifting his eyes towards heaven, he opened his little book in hishand, and said, “O Lord, this is the last time that ever I shall open this book; let some comfortable place now chance unto me whereby I thy poor servant may glorify Thee in this my last hour.”
Then he opened the book, and the first thing that came to his sight were these words: “This is life everlasting, that they may know Thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent. I have glorified Thee upon earth, I have finished the work Thou gavest me to do.” Having read these words, he shut the book together and said, “Here is even learning enough for me to my life’s end.”
The sheriff was now ready for him. So he was taken up again by certain of the sheriff’s men, and, guarded by many armed men, he was carried to the scaffold on Tower Hill, otherwise called East Smithfield. He was seen to be praying all the way, and pondering upon the words that he had read.
When he was come to the foot of the scaffold, they that carried him offered to help him up the stairs; but he said, “Nay, masters, since I have come so far let me alone, and you shall see me shift for myself well enough.” So he went up the stairs without any help, so lively that it was a marvel to them that knew before of his weakness. As he was mounting up the stairs,the southeast sun shined very bright in his face. Observing this, he said to himself these words, lifting up his hands, “Come ye to Him and be enlightened; and your faces shall not be confounded.”
By the time he was on the scaffold, it was about ten of the clock. The executioner, being ready to do his office, kneeled down to him (as the fashion is) and asked his forgiveness.
“I forgive thee,” said the father, “with all my heart, and I trust thou shalt see me overcome this storm lustily.”
Then was his gown and fur cape taken from him, and he stood in his doublet and hose, in sight of all the people. There was to be seen a long, lean, and slender body, having on it little other substance besides the skin and bones. Indeed, so thin and emaciated was he that those who beheld him marveled much to see a living man so far consumed. Therefore, it appeared monstrous that the king could be so cruel as to put such a man to death as he was, even though he had been a real offender against the law.
If he had been in the Turk’s dominion, and there found guilty of some great offense, yet methinks the Turk would never have put him to death being already so near death. For it is an horrible and exceedingcruelty to kill that thing which is presently dying, except it be for pity’s sake to rid it from longer pain. Therefore, it may be thought that the cruelty and hard heart of King Henry in this point passed all the Turks and tyrants that ever have been heard or read of.
After speaking a few words the father kneeled down on his knees and said certain prayers. Then came the executioner and bound a handkerchief about his eyes. This holy father, lifting up his hands and heart to heaven, said a few other prayers, which were not long but fervent and devout, which being ended, he laid his holy head down over the midst of a little block.… And so his immortal soul mounted to the blissful joys of Heaven.
—The Rev. T. E. Bridgett, C. SS. R.
A nightingale, that all day longHad cheered the village with his song,Nor yet at eve his note suspended,Nor yet when eventide was ended,Began to feel, as well he might,The keen demands of appetite;When, looking eagerly around,He spied far off, upon the ground,A something shining in the dark,And knew the glowworm by his spark;So, stooping from the hawthorn top,He thought to put him in his crop.The worm, aware of his intent,Harangued him thus, right eloquent:“Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he,“As much as I your minstrelsy,You would abhor to do me wrongAs much as I to spoil your song;For ’twas the selfsame Power divineTaught you to sing and me to shine;That you with music, I with light,Might beautify and cheer the night.”The songster heard this short oration,And, warbling out his approbation,Released him, as my story tells,And found a supper somewhere else.—William Cowper.
A nightingale, that all day longHad cheered the village with his song,Nor yet at eve his note suspended,Nor yet when eventide was ended,Began to feel, as well he might,The keen demands of appetite;When, looking eagerly around,He spied far off, upon the ground,A something shining in the dark,And knew the glowworm by his spark;So, stooping from the hawthorn top,He thought to put him in his crop.The worm, aware of his intent,Harangued him thus, right eloquent:“Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he,“As much as I your minstrelsy,You would abhor to do me wrongAs much as I to spoil your song;For ’twas the selfsame Power divineTaught you to sing and me to shine;That you with music, I with light,Might beautify and cheer the night.”The songster heard this short oration,And, warbling out his approbation,Released him, as my story tells,And found a supper somewhere else.—William Cowper.
A nightingale, that all day longHad cheered the village with his song,Nor yet at eve his note suspended,Nor yet when eventide was ended,Began to feel, as well he might,The keen demands of appetite;When, looking eagerly around,He spied far off, upon the ground,A something shining in the dark,And knew the glowworm by his spark;So, stooping from the hawthorn top,He thought to put him in his crop.
A nightingale, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glowworm by his spark;
So, stooping from the hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,Harangued him thus, right eloquent:“Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he,“As much as I your minstrelsy,You would abhor to do me wrongAs much as I to spoil your song;For ’twas the selfsame Power divineTaught you to sing and me to shine;That you with music, I with light,Might beautify and cheer the night.”
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
“Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he,
“As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong
As much as I to spoil your song;
For ’twas the selfsame Power divine
Taught you to sing and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.”
The songster heard this short oration,And, warbling out his approbation,Released him, as my story tells,And found a supper somewhere else.
The songster heard this short oration,
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
—William Cowper.
If thou couldst be a bird, what bird wouldst thou be?A frolicsome gull on the billowy sea,Screaming and wailing when stormy winds rave,Or anchored, white thing! on the merry green wave?Or an eagle aloft in the blue ether dwelling,Free of the caves of the lofty Helvellyn,Who is up in the sunshine when we are in shower,And could reach our loved ocean in less than an hour?Or a stork on a mosque’s broken pillar in peace,By some famous old stream in the bright land of Greece;A sweet-mannered householder! waiving his stateNow and then, in some kind little toil for his mate?Or a heath bird, that lies on the Cheviot moor,Where the wet, shining earth is as bare as the floor;Who mutters glad sounds, though his joys are but few—Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies cold and blue?Or, if thy man’s heart worketh in thee at all,Perchance thou wouldst dwell by some bold baron’s hall;A black, glossy rook, working early and late,Like a laboring man on the baron’s estate?Or a linnet, who builds in the close hawthorn bough,Where her small, frightened eyes may be seen looking through;Who heeds not, fond mother! the oxlips that shineOn the hedge banks beneath, or the glazed celandine?Or a swallow that flieth the sunny world over,The true home of spring and spring flowers to discover;Who, go where he will, takes away on his wingsGood words from mankind for the bright thoughts he brings?But what! can these pictures of strange winged mirthMake the child to forget that she walks on the earth?Dost thou feel at thy sides as though wings were to startFrom some place where they lie folded up in thy heart?Then love the green things in thy first simple youth,The beasts, birds, and fishes, with heart and in truth,And fancy shall pay thee thy love back in skill;Thou shalt be all the birds of the air at thy will.—F. W. Faber.
If thou couldst be a bird, what bird wouldst thou be?A frolicsome gull on the billowy sea,Screaming and wailing when stormy winds rave,Or anchored, white thing! on the merry green wave?Or an eagle aloft in the blue ether dwelling,Free of the caves of the lofty Helvellyn,Who is up in the sunshine when we are in shower,And could reach our loved ocean in less than an hour?Or a stork on a mosque’s broken pillar in peace,By some famous old stream in the bright land of Greece;A sweet-mannered householder! waiving his stateNow and then, in some kind little toil for his mate?Or a heath bird, that lies on the Cheviot moor,Where the wet, shining earth is as bare as the floor;Who mutters glad sounds, though his joys are but few—Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies cold and blue?Or, if thy man’s heart worketh in thee at all,Perchance thou wouldst dwell by some bold baron’s hall;A black, glossy rook, working early and late,Like a laboring man on the baron’s estate?Or a linnet, who builds in the close hawthorn bough,Where her small, frightened eyes may be seen looking through;Who heeds not, fond mother! the oxlips that shineOn the hedge banks beneath, or the glazed celandine?Or a swallow that flieth the sunny world over,The true home of spring and spring flowers to discover;Who, go where he will, takes away on his wingsGood words from mankind for the bright thoughts he brings?But what! can these pictures of strange winged mirthMake the child to forget that she walks on the earth?Dost thou feel at thy sides as though wings were to startFrom some place where they lie folded up in thy heart?Then love the green things in thy first simple youth,The beasts, birds, and fishes, with heart and in truth,And fancy shall pay thee thy love back in skill;Thou shalt be all the birds of the air at thy will.—F. W. Faber.
If thou couldst be a bird, what bird wouldst thou be?A frolicsome gull on the billowy sea,Screaming and wailing when stormy winds rave,Or anchored, white thing! on the merry green wave?
If thou couldst be a bird, what bird wouldst thou be?
A frolicsome gull on the billowy sea,
Screaming and wailing when stormy winds rave,
Or anchored, white thing! on the merry green wave?
Or an eagle aloft in the blue ether dwelling,Free of the caves of the lofty Helvellyn,Who is up in the sunshine when we are in shower,And could reach our loved ocean in less than an hour?
Or an eagle aloft in the blue ether dwelling,
Free of the caves of the lofty Helvellyn,
Who is up in the sunshine when we are in shower,
And could reach our loved ocean in less than an hour?
Or a stork on a mosque’s broken pillar in peace,By some famous old stream in the bright land of Greece;A sweet-mannered householder! waiving his stateNow and then, in some kind little toil for his mate?
Or a stork on a mosque’s broken pillar in peace,
By some famous old stream in the bright land of Greece;
A sweet-mannered householder! waiving his state
Now and then, in some kind little toil for his mate?
Or a heath bird, that lies on the Cheviot moor,Where the wet, shining earth is as bare as the floor;Who mutters glad sounds, though his joys are but few—Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies cold and blue?
Or a heath bird, that lies on the Cheviot moor,
Where the wet, shining earth is as bare as the floor;
Who mutters glad sounds, though his joys are but few—
Yellow moon, windy sunshine, and skies cold and blue?
Or, if thy man’s heart worketh in thee at all,Perchance thou wouldst dwell by some bold baron’s hall;A black, glossy rook, working early and late,Like a laboring man on the baron’s estate?
Or, if thy man’s heart worketh in thee at all,
Perchance thou wouldst dwell by some bold baron’s hall;
A black, glossy rook, working early and late,
Like a laboring man on the baron’s estate?
Or a linnet, who builds in the close hawthorn bough,Where her small, frightened eyes may be seen looking through;Who heeds not, fond mother! the oxlips that shineOn the hedge banks beneath, or the glazed celandine?
Or a linnet, who builds in the close hawthorn bough,
Where her small, frightened eyes may be seen looking through;
Who heeds not, fond mother! the oxlips that shine
On the hedge banks beneath, or the glazed celandine?
Or a swallow that flieth the sunny world over,The true home of spring and spring flowers to discover;Who, go where he will, takes away on his wingsGood words from mankind for the bright thoughts he brings?
Or a swallow that flieth the sunny world over,
The true home of spring and spring flowers to discover;
Who, go where he will, takes away on his wings
Good words from mankind for the bright thoughts he brings?
But what! can these pictures of strange winged mirthMake the child to forget that she walks on the earth?Dost thou feel at thy sides as though wings were to startFrom some place where they lie folded up in thy heart?
But what! can these pictures of strange winged mirth
Make the child to forget that she walks on the earth?
Dost thou feel at thy sides as though wings were to start
From some place where they lie folded up in thy heart?
Then love the green things in thy first simple youth,The beasts, birds, and fishes, with heart and in truth,And fancy shall pay thee thy love back in skill;Thou shalt be all the birds of the air at thy will.
Then love the green things in thy first simple youth,
The beasts, birds, and fishes, with heart and in truth,
And fancy shall pay thee thy love back in skill;
Thou shalt be all the birds of the air at thy will.
—F. W. Faber.
About six hundred years after the birth of Christ, a child named Mohammed was born in the city of Mecca in Arabia. The father of Mohammed died when the child was still a babe, and his mother was very poor. During his boyhood he earned a scanty living by tending the flocks of his neighbors, and much of his time was spent in the desert.
Even when young, Mohammed seemed to be religious. He often went to a cave a few miles from Mecca, and stayed there alone for days at a time. He claimed that he had visions in which the angel Gabriel came down to him, and told him many things which he should tell the people of Arabia. When he was forty years old, he went forth to preach, saying that he was the prophet of God.
At the end of three years he had forty followers. The people of Mecca, however, did not believe him to be a prophet. They were for the most part idolaters, andas Mohammed preached against idolatry, they finally drove him from the city.
He and his followers then went to the city of Medina. The inhabitants of that city received them kindly, and Mohammed was able to raise an army with which to overcome his enemies.
Mohammed was a very shrewd man, and among other things he was careful to teach his followers that the hour of each man’s death was fixed. Hence one was as safe in battle as at home. This belief, of course, helped his soldiers to fight bravely.
The number of Mohammed’s followers now increased very fast; and ten years after his flight to Medina, he returned to Mecca at the head of forty thousand pilgrims. Soon all Arabia was converted to his faith, and idolatry was no longer known in Mecca.
After Mohammed’s death, his followers formed the plan of converting the whole world by means of the sword. In course of time their armies overran Persia, Egypt, and northern Africa. They also entered Spain, and having established themselves there, they hoped to conquer the whole of Europe.
Soon the Moslems, as the followers of Mohammed were called, took possession of Palestine and of Jerusalem, where was the sacred tomb of our Saviour.
After the earliest churches had been established by the apostles of Christ, it had been the custom of Christians to make pilgrimages to Jerusalem to see the tomb of our Saviour. Each pilgrim carried a palm branch and wore a cockleshell in his hat. The branch was the token of victory; the shell a sign that the sea had been crossed. After the Moslems had gained possession of the Holy Land, as Palestine is often called, the pilgrims often suffered much from persecution. Then, too, they were required to pay a large sum for permission to visit the tomb and other sacred places.
Church of the Holy Sepulcher(Present Day)
Church of the Holy Sepulcher
(Present Day)
It was to free the pilgrims, who came from Europe, from this persecution that the crusades, or holy wars, were undertaken. These crusades were begun through the effortsof one zealous man, a priest commonly known as “Peter the Hermit.”
Peter the Hermit was born in France. He was in turn a soldier, a priest, and a hermit. At length he made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. On reaching Jerusalem, he saw with such sadness the wrongs suffered by the Christians that he said in his heart, “I will rescue the tomb of our Lord from the heathen.”
During his stay in the Holy City, he went often to the Church of the Resurrection. One day he beheld in a vision the Lord, who directed him to go forth and do his work. He at once returned to Europe. His plan was to raise a great army and with it drive the Moslems from the Holy Land. But he must first obtain the consent and aid of Pope Urban II.
So he traveled to Rome and was permitted to tell the Pope his plan. What a picture they made! The Pope sat in state clothed in rich robes. His cardinals and attendants were around him. Before him stoodthe pilgrim, his face tanned with exposure and his clothes all travel-stained, telling of the grievous wrongs suffered by the Christians in Jerusalem. No wonder Pope Urban wept. The Pope gave his sanction to Peter to preach throughout Europe, urging the people to go and rescue the blessed tomb.