Chapter VII: The Search Renewed (3)

This is even more evident in our case; for the foundation of the relation between two ubications is an entity altogether extrinsic to the ubications themselves, as we have already shown. Evidently, such an entity cannot be the relativity of those ubications. The relation of distance is neither absolute nor relative space, but only the mode of being of one term in space with respect to another term in space. Now, surely no one who has any knowledge of things will maintain that space, either absolute or relative, is a mode of being. The moon is distant from the earth; and therefore there is space, and possibility of movement, between the moon and the earth. But is this space _the relation_ of distance? No. It is the ground of the relation. The relation itself consists in the mode of being of the moon with respect to the earth; and, evidently, this mode is not space.

The assumption that the entity of the relation is the entity of its foundation may be admitted in the case of transcendental relations, inasmuch as the actuality of beings, which results from the conspiration of their essential principles, identifies itself _in concreto_ with the beings themselves. But the same cannot be said of predicamental relations. It would be absurd to say that the dependence of the world on its Creator is the creative act; nor would it be less absurd to say that the relativity of a son to his father is the act of generation, or that the fraternity of James and John is the same thing as the identity of Zebedee, their father, with himself. And yet these absurdities, and many others, must be admitted, if we admit the assumption that the entity of predicamental relations is the entity of their foundation. Hence the assumption must be discarded as false; and the objection, which rested entirely on this assumption, needs no further discussion.

We must, however, take this opportunity to again warn the student of the necessity of not confounding under one and the same name the relative space with the relations of things existing in space. This confusion is very frequent, as we often hear of distances, surfaces, and volumes of bodies spoken of as “relative spaces,” which, properly speaking, they are not. We ourselves are now and then obliged to use this inaccurate language, owing to the difficulty of conveying our thoughts to common readers without employing common phrases. But we would suggest that, to avoid all misconstruction of such phrases, the relative space, of which we have determined the notion, might be called “_fundamental_ relative space,” whilst the relations of things as existing in space might receive the name of “_resultant_ relative spaces.” At any rate, without some epithets of this sort, we cannot turn to good account the popular phraseology on the subject. Such a phraseology expresses things as they are represented in our imagination, not as they are defined by our reason. Distances are intervals between certain points in space, surfaces are intervals between certain lines in space, volumes are intervals between certain surfaces in spaces; but these intervals are no _parts_ of space, though they are very frequently so called, but only relations in space. Space is one, not many; it has no parts, and, whether you call it absolute or relative, it cannot be cut to pieces. What is called an interval _of_ space should rather be called an interval _in_ space; for it is not a portion of space, but a relation of things in space; it is not a length of space, but the length of the movement possible between the extrinsic terms of space; it is not a divisible extension, but the ground on which movement can extend with its divisible extension. In the smallest conceivable interval of space there is God, with all his immensity. To affirm that intervals of space are distinct spaces would be to cut God’s immensity into pieces, by giving it a distinct being in really distinct intervals. It is therefore necessary to concede that, whilst the intervals are distinct, the space on which they have their foundation is one and the same.

Pantheists have taken advantage of the confusion of fundamental space with the resulting relations in space, to spread their absurd theories. If we grant them that _distance is space_, how can we refute their assertion that distance is a form under which divine substance, or the Absolute, makes an apparition? For, if distance is space, and space is no creature, distance consists of something uncreated (and therefore divine) under a contingent form. This is not the place for us to refute Pantheism; what we aim at is simply to point out the need we have of expressing our thoughts on space with philosophical accuracy, lest the Pantheists may shield themselves with our own loose phraseology.

God is everywhere, and touches, so to say, every contingent ubication by his presence to every ubicated thing. But the contingent ubications are not spaces, nor anything intrinsic to space; they are merely extrinsic terms, corresponding to space, as we have explained; and therefore such ubications are not apparitions of the divine substance, but apparitions of contingent things; they are not points of divine immensity, but points contingently projected on the virtuality of God’s immensity. It is as vain to pretend that contingent ubications are points of space, as it is vain to pretend that contingent essences are the divine substance. Pantheists, indeed, have said that, because the essences of things are contained in God, the substance of all things must be God’s substance; but their paralogism is manifest. For the essences of things are in God, not formally with the entity which they have in created things, but eminently and virtually, that is, in an infinitely better manner. The formal essences of things are _only_ in the things themselves, and they are extrinsic terms of creation, imperfect images of what exists perfect in God. In the same manner the ubications of things are not in God formally, but eminently and virtually. They formally belong to the things that are ubicated. So also the intervals of space are in God eminently, not formally; they formally arise from extrinsic terminations, and therefore are mere correlations of creatures. This suffices to show that distances and other relations in space involve nothing divine in their entity, although they are grounded on the existence and universal presence of God, in whom “we live, and move, and have our being.”

_Second difficulty._--If the foundation of local relations is uncreated, it is always the same; and therefore it will cause all such relations to be always the same. Hence, all distances would be equal; which is manifestly false.

This difficulty arises from confounding the absolute entity of the thing which is the foundation of the relation, with the formal manner of founding the relation. The same absolute entity may found different relations by giving to the terms a different relativity; for the same absolute entity founds different relations whenever it connects the terms of the relation in a different manner. Thus, when the entity of the foundation is a generic or a universal notion, it can give rise to relations of a very different degree. Taking _animality_, for instance, as the foundation of the relation, we may compare one hound with another, one wolf with another, one bird with another, or we may compare the hound with the wolf, the wolf with the bird, the bird with the lion, etc.; and we shall find as many different relations, all grounded on the same foundation--that is, on animality. In fact, there will be as many different relations of likeness as there are different animals compared. Now, if one general ratio suffices to do this, on account of its universality, which extends infinitely in its application to concrete things, it is plain that as much and more can be done by the infinite virtuality of God’s immensity, which can be terminated by an infinite variety of extrinsic terminations. It is the proper attribute of an infinite virtuality to contain in itself the reason of the being of infinite terms, and of their becoming connected with one another in infinite manners. This is what the infinite virtuality of divine immensity can do with respect to ubicated terms. Such an infinite virtuality is whole, though not wholly, in every point and interval of space; it is as entire between the two nearest molecules as between the two remotest stars. Hence its absolute entity, though unchangeable itself, can have different extrinsic terminations; and, since it founds the relations in question inasmuch as it has such different terminations, consequently it can found as many different local relations as it can have different extrinsic terminations. A hound and a wolf, as we have said, inasmuch as they are animals, are alike; and the wolf and the bird, also, inasmuch as they are animals, are alike; but the likeness in the second case is not the same as in the first, because the animality, which is one in the abstract, is different in the concrete terms to which it is applied. Hence the difference, or entitative distance, so to say, between the wolf and the hound is less than the entitative distance between the wolf and the bird, although the ground of the comparison is one and the same. In a like manner, the distance from a molecule to a neighboring molecule is less than the distance from a star to another star, although the ground of the relation be one and the same; with this difference, however, that in the case of the animals above mentioned the relation has an intrinsic foundation, because “animality” is intrinsic to the terms compared; whilst in the case of local distances the relation has an extrinsic foundation; for the ubications compared are nothing but extrinsic terms of space.

_Third difficulty._--Distances evidently intercept portions of space, and differ from one another according as they intercept more or less of it. But, if space is the virtuality of divine immensity, such portions cannot be admitted; for the virtuality of divine immensity cannot be divided into parts distinct from one another.

This difficulty arises from the confusion of that which belongs to space intrinsically, with that which belongs to it by extrinsic denomination only. Space in itself has no parts; and therefore distance cannot intercept a portion of the entity of space. Nevertheless, parts are attributed to space by extrinsic denomination, that is, inasmuch as the movements, which space makes possible between given terms, do not extend beyond those terms, while other movements are possible outside of the given terms. Hence, since space is infinite and affords room for an infinite length of movement in all directions, the space which corresponds to a limited movement has been called an interval of space and a portion of space. But this denomination is extrinsic, and does not imply that space has portions, or that the entity of space is divisible. That such a denomination is extrinsic, there can be no doubt, for it is taken from the consideration of the limited movement possible between the terms of the distance, as all distances are known and estimated by movement. Indeed, we are wont to say that “movement measures space,” which expression seems to justify the conclusion that the space measured is a finite portion of infinite space; but, though the expression is much used (from want of a better one), it must not be interpreted in a material sense. Its real meaning is simply that movement “measures the length of the distance” in space, or that movement “measures its own extent” in space--that is, the length or the extent, not of space, but of what space causes to be extrinsically possible between two extrinsic terms.

This will be still more manifest by referring to the evident truth already established, that all ubications as compared with the entity of space are unchangeable, because the thing ubicated cannot have two modes of being in the infinite expanse of space, but, wherever it be, is always, so to say, in the centre of it. This proves that the movement of a point between the terms of a given distance measures nothing else than _its own length_ in space; for, had it to measure _space itself_, it would have to take successively different positions with regard to it, which we know to be impossible. We must therefore conclude that distance does not properly intercept space, though it determines the relative length of a line which can be drawn by a point moving through space; for this line is not a line of space, but a line of movement. In other words, distance is not the limit of the space said to be intercepted, but of the movement possible between the distant terms.

As this answer may not satisfy our imagination as much as it does our intellect, and as our habit of expressing things as they are represented in our imagination makes it difficult to speak correctly of what transcends the reach of this lower faculty, we will make use of a comparison which, in our opinion, by putting the intelligible in contact with the sensible, will not fail to help us fully to realize the truth of what has been hitherto said.

Let God create a man, a horse, and a tree. The difference, or, as we will call it, the entitative distance, between the man and the horse is less than between the man and the tree, as is evident. Yet the man, the horse, and the tree are extrinsic terms of _the same_ divine omnipotence, which neither is divisible nor admits of more or less. Now, can we say that, because the man is entitatively more distant from the tree than from the horse, there must be _more of divine omnipotence_ between the man and the tree than between the man and the horse? It would be folly to say so. The only consequence which can be deduced from the greater entitative distance of the man and of the tree, is, that a greater multitude of creatures (extrinsic terms of divine omnipotence) is possible between the man and the tree, than between the man and the horse. The reader will readily see how the comparison applies to our subject; for the two cases are quite similar. Can we say, then, that, because two points in space are more distant than two other points, there must be _more of divine immensity_, or of its virtuality, between the former than between the latter? By no means. The only consequence which can be deduced from the greater distance of the two former points is, that a greater multitude of ubications (extrinsic terms of immensity) is possible between them, than between the two others. This greater multitude of possible ubications constitutes the possibility of a greater length of movement; and shows the truth of what we have maintained, viz., that distance endues the aspect of quantity through the consideration of the greater or less extent of the movement possible between its terms, and not through a greater or less “portion” of space intercepted.[150]

The difficulty is thus fully answered. Nevertheless, as to the phrases, “a portion of space,” “an interval of space,” “space measured by movement,” and a few others of a like nature, we readily admit that their use, having become so common in the popular language, we cannot avoid them without exposing ourselves to the charge of affectation, nay, we must use them, as we frequently do, in order to be better understood. But we should remember that the common language has a kernel as well as a shell, and that, when we have to determine the essential notions and the intelligible relations of things, we must break the shell that we may reach the kernel.

_Fourth difficulty._--The notions of space and of ubication above given imply a sort of vicious circle. For space is explained by the possibility of ubications, whilst ubications are said to be modes of being in space. Therefore neither space nor ubication is sufficiently defined.

We answer, that then only is a sort of vicious circle committed in defining or explaining things, when an unknown entity is defined or explained by means of another equally unknown. When, on the contrary, we explain the common notions of such things as are immediately known and understood before any definition or explanation of them is given, there is no danger of a vicious circle. In such a case, things are sufficiently explained if our definition or description of them agrees with the notion we have acquired of them by immediate apprehension. We say that _Being_ is that _which is_, and we explain the extension of time by referring to movement, while we also explain movement by referring to time and velocity, and again we explain velocity by referring to the extension of time and movement. This is no vicious circle; for every one knows these entities before hearing their formal definition. Now, the same is true with respect to space and ubication; for the notion of space is intuitive, and before we hear its philosophical definition, we know already that it is the region of all possible ubications and movements.

Moreover, such things as have a mutual connection, or as connote one another, can be explained and defined by one another without a vicious circle. Thus we say that a _father_ is one who has a _son_, and a _son_ is one who has a _father_. In the same manner we define _the matter_ as the essential term of a form, and _the form_ as the essential act of the matter. Accordingly, since ubications are extrinsic terms of absolute space, and space is the formal reason of their extrinsic possibility, it is plain that we can, without any fear of a vicious circle, define and explain the former by the latter, and _vice versa_.

Finally, no philosopher has ever defined space or explained it otherwise than by reference to possible or actual ubications, nor was ubication ever described otherwise than as a mode of being in absolute or in relative space. This shows that it is in the very nature of things that the one should be explained by reference to the other. Hence it is that even our own definition of absolute space, which does not explicitly refer to contingent ubications, refers to them implicitly. For when we say that “absolute space is the virtuality, or extrinsic terminability, of divine immensity,” we implicitly affirm the possibility of extrinsic terms, viz., of ubications.

And here we will end our discussion on the entity of relative space; for we do not think that there are other difficulties worthy of a special solution. We have seen that relative space is entitatively identical with absolute space, since it does not differ from it by any intrinsic reality, but only by an extrinsic denomination. We have shown that space is relative in an active, not in a passive sense, that is, as the formal reason, not as a result of extrinsic relations. We have also seen that these extrinsic relations are usually called “relative spaces,” and that this phrase should not be used in philosophy without some restrictive epithet, as it is calculated to mislead.

Let us conclude with a remark on the known division of space into _real_ and _imaginary_. This division cannot regard the entity of space, which is unquestionably real. It regards the reality or unreality of the extrinsic terms conceived as having a relation in space. The true notion of real, as contrasted with imaginary space, is the following: Space is called _real_, when it is _really_ relative, viz., when it is extrinsically terminated by _real_ terms, between which it founds a _real_ relation; on the contrary, it is called _imaginary_, when the extrinsic terms do not exist in nature, but only in our imagination; for, in such a case, space is not really terminated, and does not found real relations, but both the terminations and the relations are simply a fiction of our imagination. Thus it appears that void space, as containing none but imaginary relations, may justly be called “imaginary,” though in an absolute sense it is intrinsically real.

Hence we infer that the _indefinite_ space, which we imagine, when we carry our thoughts beyond the limits of the material world, and which philosophers have called “imaginary,” is not absolute, but relative space, and is not imaginary in itself, but only as to its denomination of relative, because where real terms do not exist there are only imaginary relations, notwithstanding the reality of the entity through which we refer the imaginary terms to one another.

That absolute space, considered in itself, cannot be called “imaginary” is evident, because absolute space is not an object of imagination. Imagination cannot conceive space except in connection with imaginary terms so related as to offer the image of sensible dimensions. It is, therefore, a blunder to confound imaginary and indefinite space with absolute and infinite space. Indeed, our intellectual conception of absolute and infinite space is always accompanied in our minds by a representation of indefinite space; but this depends on the well-known connection of our imaginative and intellectual operations: _Proprium est hominis intelligere cum phantasmate_; and we must be careful not to attribute to the object what has the reason of its being in the natural condition of the subject. It was by this confusion of the objective notion of space with our subjective manner of imagining it, that Kant formed his false theory of subjective space. He mistook, as we have already remarked, with Balmes, the product of imagination for a conception of the intellect, and confounded his phantasma of the indefinite with the objectivity of the infinite. It was owing to this same confusion that other philosophers made the reality of space dependent on real occupation, and denied the reality of vacuum. In vacuum, of course, they could find no real terms and no real relations, but they could _imagine_ terms and relations. Hence they concluded that, since vacuum supplied nothing but imaginary relations, void space was an imaginary, not a real, entity. This was a paralogism; for the reason why those relations are imaginary is not the lack of real entity in absolute space, but the absence of the real terms to which absolute space has to impart relativity that the relation may ensue. It was not superfluous, then, to warn our readers, as we did in our introduction to this article, against the incursions of imagination upon our intellectual field.

A FRAGMENT.

_David Ben-Aser to his friend, Amri Ephraim, health, love, and greeting_:

MY BEST FRIEND: A month past I would have marvelled greatly that the fame of one seemingly so obscure as he who calls himself Jesus of Nazareth--and what good can come out of Nazareth?--could have travelled to Rome or Damascus.

But the inquiry in thy friendly epistle from the banks of the Tiber, brought me to-day by thy faithful Isaac, assures me that the city of the Emperor has caught wind of the rumors with which Jerusalem is filled, and ’tis but an hour since Yusef, a Damascene merchant, questioned me with interest concerning this new teacher, whose wonderful doctrines and still more wonderful deeds have set all Galilee in a flame.

Strangely enough, it has been my fortune of late to have met him, not once only, but several times, and always under striking circumstances. What seemed less likely when we parted than that I should give more than idle thought to what we both deemed a sensation of the hour; and yet it has come to pass that this prophet, teacher--what you will, so that it be kindly--has occupied my reflections for many moments in many days. Things have so fallen out from a small beginning that I am bidden to dine to-morrow at the house of Simon the Pharisee, in the company of Jesus.

At the present writing, I can gratify thy curiosity to a certain important and strange extent; but after having had opportunity to converse with him, I hope to be able still further to enlighten thee, as well as satisfy myself as to the nature and depth of the impression this strange teacher has made on thy hitherto reserved and unsusceptible friend. I saw him first about a fortnight past.

On my way to the house of Marcus the centurion, with whom I had a money transaction, my attention was attracted by a motley crowd of men, women, and children, all eager to press closer to what seemed to be some prominent figure in their midst.

“What is the cause of this commotion,” I inquired, “and whither are ye bound?”

One of the number made answer thus: “We follow Jesus of Nazareth, who has been sent for by Marcus the centurion, to heal his servant, now lying at the point of death.”

“Which is Jesus?” I asked “and is he also a physician?”

“That is he with the grave face and gentle eyes, and he is not a physician, but a worker of miracles.”

Anxious to obtain a nearer view of him whose name is in every mouth, I endeavored to force my way through the crowd, when a man running at full speed and making wild gestures with his hands called on the multitude to part and give him speech with Jesus, which they did, as soon as they fully understood his meaning and from whence he came. Then he called out, saying: “Lord, my master saith, Trouble not thyself, for I am not worthy that thou shouldst enter under my roof; say but the word, and my servant shall be healed.” Jesus lifted his head, and I saw his face for the first time; nay, but that part which extends from the top of the forehead beneath the eyes. But what eyes--how full of life, and holiness, and truth! And methought they fixed their piercing glance full upon me as he cried aloud: “I say unto you, I have not found so great faith in Israel.”

But the crowd pressed about him and I saw him no more, for he retraced his steps, followed by the multitude, while I pursued my way, filled with curiosity as to the result. As I neared the house of Marcus I heard sounds of thanksgiving, and what was my surprise to hear, and in a moment after see, the man who had been ill, perfectly restored, and fairly dancing and laughing with joy.

Marcus is a man of probity and considerable influence, as you well know, and his faith in the power of Jesus is very great, which can hardly be counted singular.

Having transacted my business, I went on my way, marvelling and reflecting much, albeit I am not given to running after strange prophets, nor to walk in new paths. But once lighted upon, it seemed this untrodden way was to open out fresh scenes to my view.

The next day I betook my steps early to Nain, where my brother-in-law, Jonah, lies sick of the fever, which is now making fearful ravages in that city. Returning in the cool of the evening, I suddenly encountered a funeral procession. A woman deeply veiled followed the corpse, piercing the air with heartrending cries. At the same moment a group of travel-stained men entered the gate of the town. In their leader I recognized Jesus of Nazareth, and at his approach an indefinable feeling possessed me. I cannot describe it save in saying that I would fain have fallen at his feet, as though in the presence of some superior being.

“Whom do you carry?” inquired one of the travellers.

“The only son of his mother, and she is a widow,” was the sad response.

Jesus touched the bier, and the bearers paused. Turning with a look of ineffable compassion to the heartbroken mother, he said, in tones gentle as those of a woman, “Weep not.” Then, in a louder voice, “Young man, I say to thee, Arise.”

My breath came thick and fast, the cold dews gathered on my forehead, for, miracle of miracles: the dead arose, cast aside his grave-clothes, and fell sobbing upon his joyful mother’s breast. This I beheld with my eyes--I heard him speak, I saw his happy tears. But Jesus calmly gathered up his robe and pursued his journey, and once again I fancied--or did I fancy?--that he singled me out from the crowd, and fixed his eyes on mine with an expression that was almost an appeal. My eager gaze followed him till I could no longer catch the outline of his garments; after which, I slowly returned to Jerusalem.

There is much talk in the city concerning this last great miracle, and I have been at pains to learn more of Jesus, of whom it is even said that he calls himself the Messiah. It is argued against him that he consorts with publicans and sinners, and that his most intimate friends and disciples are illiterate fishermen.

However, he preaches that he came not to call the just, but sinners, to repentance; it is therefore but natural and consistent that he should seek out such, if his mission lies among them; and, with regard to his near friends being illiterate, he is himself only a carpenter’s son.

Again, his enemies say that he casts out devils and works prodigies through Beelzebub. But he preaches charity, good-will, hatred of hypocrisy and double-dealing, and surely these are not the weapons of the prince of darkness.

Many of the Pharisees, far wiser than I, are disturbed and thoughtful because of these marvels that are daily occurring, so be not alarmed, nor fear that your David is losing his wits.

Three days ago, on my way from the synagogue, I was joined by Simon, to whom Jesus is well known, and in the conversation which ensued between us, our friend hospitably invited me to dine with him at his house this evening, saying that Jesus would be of the company. Of course I assented, and am all impatience for the hour to arrive. Simon’s recognition of Jesus speaks well for both, the former being a shrewd and careful man, a quick observer, and not slow to detect imposture; and if the qualities of the latter were not sound and commendable, Simon would not thus honor him with his hospitality.

But already the sun dips low in the heavens; till to-morrow, my Ephraim--farewell.

* * * * *

I left you last evening aglow with curiosity to see and hear more of the prophet of Israel, who is agitating all Jerusalem with the fame of his miracles. I return to you awestruck, fascinated, filled with the spirit of reverence and admiration. What I have to say may lose much of its impressiveness by reason of distance and want of actual participation in the events which have taken place. But you cannot fail to be touched by the strangeness and sublimity of the soul embodied in the form of Jesus. Yet you have not seen him, you have not heard the sublime language that falls from his lips whenever he opens them to speak, you have not felt his god-like eye penetrating yours, nor seen his rare and wondrous smile. Therefore, should you scorn my enthusiasm, I shall not blame you, but abide the time when Jerusalem may claim you once more. For the rest, I do not doubt that in this, as in all things else, we two shall be one. But I must hasten to resume my narrative while the events of the past few hours are still fresh in my memory.

The sun had gone down behind a huge bank of crimson clouds, portending a storm, as is not unusual at this wintry season, when we seated ourselves, to the number of twenty or thereabouts, at the well-spread table of Simon the Pharisee. Jesus was already present when I arrived, and sat, the honored guest, at the right hand of the host, while several of his friends or disciples surrounded him in the semicircle formed by the curve of the table. Was I mistaken, or did his eyes rest on me, as I entered, with that half-sad, half-affectionate expression so like an invitation? Remembering the interest I had manifested in our conversation concerning him, Simon kindly placed me as near Jesus as could well be, owing to the proximity of several older guests, but after the first moment of greeting Jesus resumed his discourse, and I had ample opportunity for observing him at my leisure. He wore a single garment of woollen stuff, which fell in graceful folds to his feet, being confined at the waist by a thick cord. The robe was of soft but coarse material, and, though considerably worn, appeared quite free from soil or travel-stain. He sat with hands loosely folded on his knees, and I noticed the peculiar whiteness and transparency of the fingers, which were long and thin. Those hands do not look as though they belonged to a carpenter’s son. His forehead is high and broad, and the hair, tinged with auburn, falls in graceful waves about half-way to the shoulders. The face is oval, each feature perfect, the eyebrows delicately pencilled, the nose of a Grecian rather than our native Hebrew type, the lips not very full, but firm and red. Beard the color of his hair, and slightly cleft, shows the well-formed chin, and barely sweeps his breast. But those eyes--those deep, unfathomable, crystal wells--how can I speak of their many and varied expressions, of that changeful hue between gray and brown so beautiful and yet so rare. They seem to unite in themselves all of majesty and sweetness I have ever dreamed looked forth from eyes of angels--dignity and lowliness, severity and tenderness, sadness and something higher than joy. But their prevailing expression is one of sorrow, as though they had looked out into the world, and, taking in its untold miseries and sins at one deep glance, must hold the mournful picture there for evermore. Indeed, it is said, I know not how truly, that Jesus has never been known to laugh. His voice is low and soft, but very clear. I fancy it would be most melodious in our Hebrew chants. And yet it can grow strong and loud in reproach, as you shall presently hear.

The feast had begun, and the servants were busy attending to the wants of the guests, when a slight noise was heard in the antechamber, as though the porter were remonstrating with some one who desired to enter. Suddenly a woman appeared on the threshold, clothed in a fleecy white tunic, girdled with blue, and bearing an alabaster box in her hand. A murmur went round the assembly. Surely our eyes did not deceive us--it was the notorious courtesan, Mary Magdalen, but divested of the costly robes and ornaments which were formerly her pride, and with her rich golden hair loosely coiled at the back of her head and simply fastened with a silver comb.

I bethought me of a rumor I had heard, that Jesus had once delivered her from the hands of those who were about to stone her, and also that since that time she had renounced her abandoned manner of life. Pale, with eyes downcast, she stood one hesitating instant in the doorway; then, falling on her knees before Jesus, she wept aloud, literally bathing his feet with her tears. He uttered no word of reproach, but suffered her to unbind that beautiful hair whose golden threads had lured so many to destruction. Now, as though seeking to make atonement, she wiped with it his tired feet. Kissing them humbly, and still weeping, she drew from the alabaster box most precious ointment and anointed them profusely. All were silent, but many shook their heads with doubt and suspicion. Simon the Pharisee folded his arms, but spake not, till Jesus, as though divining the thoughts of his heart, said slowly and impressively:

“Simon, I have somewhat to say unto thee.”

And he answered him: “Master, say on.”

Then he said: “There was a certain creditor who had two debtors: the one owed five hundred pence, and the other fifty. And when they had nothing to pay, he frankly forgave them both. Tell me, therefore, which of them will love him most?”

Simon answered and said: “I suppose he to whom he forgave most.”

And he said unto him: “Thou hast rightly judged.” And he turned to the woman, and said unto Simon: “Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet; but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss; but this woman, from the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint, but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment. Wherefore, I say unto thee, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she hath loved much; but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.” And he said unto her: “Thy sins are forgiven.”

No one made answer as the woman silently departed, but the incident had strangely disturbed the spirit of the feast. I marvel how the most critical could have found fault or misjudged what was undoubtedly a spontaneous expression of gratitude and contrition in the repentant sinner. Jesus had saved Mary from death, and humbled her accusers with these remarkable words: “Let he who is without sin among you throw the first stone.” They slunk away mortified and abashed.

Since that time she has seen the error of her ways, and surely, if the God of our fathers pardons sinners, it is but in keeping with his established character for justice and mercy that so perfect a man as Jesus should not rebuke them. I am more and more powerfully drawn towards this wonderful teacher. As the guests dispersed last evening, I contrived to obtain speech with him, and he replied to several questions of mine with great mildness and suavity. And although, by reason of my known wealth and position among the Pharisees, one might suppose he would make some note of the voluntary admiration and respect I did not hesitate to manifest, he soon turned with grave dignity to others who surrounded him, his own friends no doubt, and seemed to forget my presence. They say he goes to-morrow into various towns and villages, for the purpose of preaching and instructing. He will be accompanied by the twelve who always follow him. My interest has been so strongly excited that I am tempted to defer still longer my journey to Rome, which I had intended to begin almost immediately. However, I shall not postpone it sufficiently long to deprive myself of the pleasure of thy company in the capital for some time previous to thy return to Jerusalem.

In any event, I shall write thee soon. Blessings upon thee, dearest friend! I await an answer to this lengthy epistle.

II.

The fury of the first persecution had nearly exhausted itself, and even Nero, that insatiable butcher whose thirst for blood had enkindled the fierce flame, seemed to have well-nigh spent the measure of his inhuman cruelty.

Hiding like criminals in gloomy abodes and obscure retreats, those Christians who had escaped martyrdom seldom ventured forth save when the dusk of evening rendered them less liable to scrutiny or interrogation.

But among the exceptions to this precautionary rule was one, that of a very old, white-haired man, who might be seen at all times in the most public places, and who was well-known to be a fearless and devoted Christian. Indeed, he seemed rather to court danger than avoid it, and it was a marvel to the more timid among his brethren how he had thus far escaped the lion’s jaws or the caldron of boiling oil.

One raw evening in early March, three drunken soldiers were tumbling along a narrow Roman street, lined with small, obscure-looking houses, when a bent figure suddenly issued from one of the low doorways and walked hurriedly in the direction of the Jews’ quarter, not far distant.

“Ho there!” called one of the three, eager for adventure of any kind, “ho there! Who art thou, and whither goest thou?”

The figure paused, and said in reply, “I am an old man, and I go to relieve a fellow-man in distress.”

“Not so fast, not so fast, friend,” retorted the soldier. “In these times, we guardians of the emperor’s peace must be circumspect and vigilant.”

“Ho, ho! It is Andrew, that dog of a Christian who boasteth, I am told, that he is not afraid of our august emperor himself,” said another of the three. “Speak, old man; art thou not a Christian, and brave enough to face thy master, who can, if he so pleases, make a torch of thee to light belated way-farers home?”

“Ay, thou sayest truly, I am a Christian,” replied the old man, folding his arms and standing erect, as he continued: “My name is Andrew; I am well known in the city, and acknowledge no master in the odious tyrant who calls himself Emperor of Rome.”

“Ah! what is this?” said the soldier who had not yet spoken, and who appeared the most sober of the three. “So--so. A traitor and a Christian. There is a double reward set upon thy head, old fellow. Comrades, we would be doing an injustice to the emperor and the state in not apprehending this venomous traitor. Let us away with him to prison, and before this time to-morrow he may know what it is to feel the emperor’s avenging arm.” The old man’s eye brightened, and he would have spoken, but was prevented by him who had first accosted him.

“Nay, nay, comrades,” he said, “let the poor creature go. He has been seen in all public places since the edict, and is well known for a Christian. Yet his age and infirmities have thus far saved him from arrest. Let us to our quarters, and permit him to go free.”

“Not so,” replied his companion gruffly, while the other seized the old man by the cloak. “It won’t do to make fish of one and flesh of another. Besides, there’s the booty, and that’s something not to be despised.”

“Well, so be it,” was the reply; “one against two is but poor odds. Let us go.”

The prisoner made no resistance, walking on silently between his captors, but a strange light shone in his eyes; and when the great iron door of the cell into which he was rudely hurried closed behind him, he fell on his knees exclaiming:

“At last, my God, at last! O Lord! I thank thee--let not this great joy pass from me.”

Morning dawned, and Nero sat dispensing death and torture to the doomed Christians, inventing new cruelties with each death sentence. An old man, heavily manacled, was led in by three guards. His venerable appearance attracted the emperor’s notice, and he cried out:

“Ho, guards! bring forward the patriarch. What offence hath the old Jew committed? Has he been pursuing some unlucky creditor, or hath his last enterprise savored too strongly of usury? What is charged against thee, Jew?”

“He is no Jew, but a bragging Christian, most noble emperor,” exclaimed the foremost guard. “He boasted but last night that he would not acknowledge thee for master, and we have brought him to thy presence that his boast may wither beneath the light of thy august countenance.”

“Art thou not a Jew?” cried Nero, as the prisoner lifted his bowed head, and stood erect.

“I am a Jew by birth, but a Christian by religion,” he replied in a low but audible voice.

“What is thy name?”

“I was baptized Andrew, and so I am called.”

Here a murmur ran through the crowd, and a centurion stepped forward, saying:

“A most bitter enemy of the gods, most noble emperor. He is the same who may be seen at all the public executions of Christians, exhorting and praying with them.”

“I wonder he has never been apprehended until now--it speaks well for the devotion of my adherents,” replied the emperor with a sneer. The centurion drew back somewhat abashed.

“I have often sought death, but my gray hairs have spared me until now,” said the old man.

“Hold thy treacherous tongue, sirrah,” cried one of the guards. “I’ll warrant thee they will not spare thee now.”

“Silence!” cried the emperor. “Old man, art thou the same of whom it is said thou wert a friend of the Galilean ere he went to the gibbet?”

“What I was it matters not. What I desire to be is the faithful servant of my Lord Jesus Christ.”

“Verily, thou art impertinent, and age hath not taught thee humility. Mayhap, it would please thee to have thy old body cut in slices and thrown to the wild beasts.”

“It would be the fulfilment of my most ardent prayers--any death by which I might suffer martyrdom for Jesus Christ. I have longed for it these fifty years.” As he spoke his face seemed transfigured, while that of Nero assumed a new and more malicious expression.

“How old art thou?” he asked.

“I am ninety-two.”

“Where is thy birthplace?”

“Jerusalem.”

“And thou wouldst die for Jesus Christ?”

“Thou knowest it, my judge.”

“Such death would be the greatest boon thy heart desires?”

“My God knoweth it.”

A mocking smile played around the emperor’s lips as he said:

“Then hear thy sentence. Thou shalt be taken from hence to the Appian gate--and there bidden go thy way in peace. Thou art not young enough to be toothsome to the lions, and the sap is so dried in thy veins thou wouldst make but a sorry torch by night. There is so little flesh upon thy bones that thou wouldst not sink in Tiber, and we cannot afford to waste stones in weighting such as thou. Thy withered carcass would not whet the executioner’s knife; there is naught for it but to let thee go. Spend the remainder of thy days as thou hast wasted those that are gone, in longings for martyrdom. Guards! seize your prisoner, and execute sentence upon him.”

The light that had illumined the eyes of the old man slowly faded as the emperor spoke, and great tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks. Clasping his withered hands high above his head, he exclaimed:

“It is not to be--it is not to be! My God, I accept the retribution.”

“What sayest thou?” cried Nero. “Hast thou committed some terrible crime that thou talkest of retribution?”

“Ay, a great crime; but I have suffered much, and striven to make atonement. But my Saviour is not yet satisfied.”

“Accuse thyself. We may be less lenient here than awhile ago.”

The old man’s eyes kindled once more and again he stood erect: “Yes, I will confess,” he cried in a loud voice. “I will let all the world know that he whom his companions have called just is the meanest sinner of them all; I will strive by the whiteness of my gray hairs and the years of sorrow that have passed since that mad day to awaken in thy tyrant heart some pity, some relenting from thy cruel sentence.

“But alas! what do I say? The hand of God is in it--my Saviour refuses me the boon I crave, and thou art but his instrument.” He sighed heavily, wiped the tears from his eyes, and continued in a less agitated voice:

“I am a native of Jerusalem--a descendant of the tribe of Aser; my father was a ruler of much wealth and influence--both of which I inherited. I had luxurious tastes, and gratified them to a certain extent, filling my house with rare and costly furniture and ornaments. I travelled much, and indulged my inclinations to the fullest extent without transgressing the moral law. I esteemed virtue and practised it, more from a sense of pride than a feeling of true religion. I was unmarried and had few intimate friends. One, however, Amri Ephraim, was bound to me by the closest ties of intimacy and association. He was also wealthy. Business called him to Rome about the time our Lord Jesus began to preach the gospel in Galilee. We were both somewhat interested in the new prophet, as he was then called; but from my first meeting with him I was filled with admiration for his teachings, and drawn towards him by an attraction I could not then understand. Alas! I have known its meaning for many sorrowful, repentant years.

“His influence grew upon me. I followed him from place to place; he took kindly notice of me. His gentle looks seemed to beckon me on; his wondrous miracles became convincing proofs of his divine mission; his merciful and consoling teachings entered deep into my soul, and left it glowing with awe and veneration. I felt that he was the Messiah promised by David; I knew it in my coward heart. And yet this world--this glittering, hollow sham--it was that which held me back and lured me to my own perdition. Many times I saw Jesus look upon me with a gaze that told of affection mingled with doubt and sorrow. For days I would absent myself from his side, only to return athirst and filled with new desires.

“One day, as he sat in the shade of a palm-tree with a few of his disciples, I threw myself at his feet and listened to the wisdom that fell from his lips.

“‘Master,’ I said at length, ‘what shall a man do to inherit eternal life?’

“‘Keep the commandments,’ he answered, fixing his eyes upon me as though he would read my soul.

“‘I have kept them from my youth,’ I replied.

“‘Then lackest thou yet one thing,’ he said. ‘Sell all thou hast, give thy treasure to the poor, and come, follow me.’

“The words were spoken--they had appealed to my heart for many days; Jesus loved me, he had singled me from the multitude of whom but little is required--he would have chosen me for a familiar disciple. I saw it in his eye; I heard it in his voice. He had called me to follow him! And I?…

“Before me there swept a vision of lost delights and despised honors. I saw myself hungry and cold, and naked and scorned; I heard the censure of the world, the altered tones of friends, the jibes and sneers of enemies. If I had dared once more to lift my eyes--if I had met that benignant glance, so full of affection and assurance--all would have been well, and the craven heart had never bled these sixty years for that one moment’s loss. But, alas! I cast down my eyes and bowed my head; I arose and went away sorrowful. That night I left Jerusalem and fled to Rome. I say fled, for I was like a criminal fleeing not from a tyrant but a kind and merciful father. My friend, to whom I had written faithfully of my interest in Jesus, passed and missed me on the way to Jerusalem.…”

Here the old man’s voice faltered and his frame shook with sobs. He seemed unconscious of all but his own sorrow as he continued:

“He learned to know Jesus--became a faithful disciple; he witnessed his capture and cruel trial; he followed him to Calvary; he saw the prodigies that occurred at his death; he saw him ascend into heaven. He enjoyed the sweet privilege of conversing with Mary; he received the dead body of Stephen the blessed martyr, and helped to give it decent burial, and his body lies to-day at the bottom of old Tiber--martyred for the faith of Christ; while I--coward that I was--awoke to the sense of my sin when it was too late to return and throw myself at his sacred feet, too late to touch the hem of his garment, too late to follow his bloody footsteps up the frightful Mount of Calvary. One expiation I thought to make--one atonement for my sin; for the poor sacrifice of my wealth was nothing to me. I sought martyrdom. In the public places, in the forum, by the side of dying Christians, at the graves of murdered saints. But I seemed to bear a charmed life. They passed me by, they did not molest me. He is harmless, said one; he is old, said another. And now, when I thought the goal within my reach, when I hoped that my expiation had been accepted, it is again denied me. Be it so, my God, my outraged and despised Saviour, be it so! I rejected thee--thou rejectest me. Thou didst die for me--thou wilt not suffer me to die for thee. Thy will be done!”

The bowed head fell heavily on the clasped hands, and the old man sank slowly on his knees. At that moment a stray sunbeam, the first of a murky morning, touched his white hair as with a crown of brightness, then faded and the clouded heavens grew dark. The guards stooped to lift him. He was dead.

“What a dramatic talent those Christians have!” said the emperor to his friend Apulius, who stood beside his throne. “Pity they do not apply it to better purpose. Guards! let that old man go free--we pity his gray hairs--ha! ha!”

“He is dead, most noble emperor,” replied one of the soldiers, not without something of softness in his voice.