“As pilgrims, sigh,Some cool green spot to meet,But to pass by!”
“As pilgrims, sigh,Some cool green spot to meet,But to pass by!”
“As pilgrims, sigh,Some cool green spot to meet,But to pass by!”
“As pilgrims, sigh,
Some cool green spot to meet,
But to pass by!”
The scenes of Eastern travel are continually calling up suchmental pictures, and out of a very little incident or scene the mind readily spreads out a map of history in motion, which seems to unfold itself into dimensions all but illimitable. The Sacred Record becomes illumed, and its scenery indelibly printed upon the mind, leading on to mental enjoyment of the highest class, surely not unprofitable. I think some such feeling suggested to the poet his “quiet hermitage,” and if it were possible, which is very questionable, might almost realize his boast—“My mind to me a kingdom is.”
A single example will perhaps best illustrate my meaning under this head:—Standing in “Pilate’s Judgment Hall” at Jerusalem, the mind readily pictures to itself that most remarkable private interview between Jesus and Pilate eighteen hundred years ago—between the representative of earthly government and Him “by whom kings rule and princes decree justice.” Begun by the regal Epicurean in a half kindly patronizing way, how completely does their respective positions change—the culprit calmly assuming the place of the judge, and questioning the questioner! Evasion is tried in vain. Then comes forth with mysterious solemnity the gracious but incisive sentence—“For this cause came I into the world”—and “Every one that is of the Truth heareth My voice.” Brief as the narrative is, the mind dwells upon the scene, and sees this awed Roman—the representative of this world’s greatness—thoroughly discomfited and conscience-stricken, turning away with an affected sneer. Something here quite beyond all precedent, yet imagination may fill up the blanks in their most minute details. His wife—his own half-superstitious dread—that washing of his hands—his secret struggle with his own sense of justice—his vain resolution to be neutral—his declaration of the prisoner’s innocence; and then, and then—marvellous inconsistency—his loss of moral courage to do the right! finally handingover thisKingto his murderers, with an “Ecce Homo.” Alas! poor Pilate was evidently not “of the Truth.”
And now in bidding adieu to the East and its marvellous ruins, this thought impressed me, as it had done before when gazing at the Egyptian Sphinx, perhaps the most ancient of them all—How can we, standing before her ancient works of art, entertain the idea that the improvement and civilization of our race have been progressive, and that to trace mankind backward leads us down to barbarism? Taking the most ancient writers, Moses and Homer, the same feeling prevails. Is it possible to think of Joseph the Governor of Egypt, or of the patriarch Job as half-educated savages? or of Sarah or Rebekah as less noble and refined than the most educated Sultana of our own day? Improvement is evidently not continuous nor in a straight line, or, at least, has not been so in the past, judging from the glimpses we have got of the prehistoric ages. It may have been in cycles, but neither evident nor continuous.
THE END.