THE CALVARY.
This was the vision of Herodias: On the summit of a high, steep, rocky
mountain, there stands a cross. The sun is sinking, even as when the
Jewess herself, worn out with fatigue, entered the ruins of St. John's
Abbey. The great figure on the cross--which looks down from this Calvary,
on the mountain, and on the vast, dreary plain beyond--stands out white
and pale against the dark, blue clouds, which stretch across the heavens,
and assume a violent tint towards the horizon. There, where the setting
sun has left a long track of lurid light, almost of the hue of blood--as
far as the eye can reach, no vegetation appears on the surface of the
gloomy desert, covered with sand and stones, like the ancient bed of some
dried-up ocean. A silence as of death broods over this desolate tract.
Sometimes, gigantic black vultures, with red unfeathered necks, luminous
yellow eyes, stooping from their lofty flight in the midst of these
solitudes, come to make their bloody feast on the prey they have carried
off from less uncultivated regions.
How, then, did this Calvary, this place of prayer, come to be erected so
far from the abodes of men? This Calvary was prepared at a great cost by
a repentant sinner. He had done much harm to his fellow-creatures, and,
in the hope of obtaining pardon for his crimes, he had climbed this
mountain on his knees, and become a hermit, and lived there till his
death, at the foot of this cross, only sheltered by a roof of thatch, now
long since swept away by the wind. The sun is still sinking. The sky
becomes darker. The luminous lines on the horizon grow fainter and
fainter, like heated bars of iron that gradually grow cool. Suddenly, on
the eastern side of the Calvary, is heard the noise of some falling
stones, which, loosened from the side of the mountain, roll down
rebounding to its base. These stones have been loosened by the foot of a
traveller, who, after traversing the plain below, has, during the last
hour, been climbing the steep ascent. He is not yet visible--but one
hears the echo of his tread--slow, steady, and firm. At length, he
reaches the top of the mountain, and his tall figure stands out against
the stormy sky.
The traveller is pale as the great figure on the cross. On his broad
forehead a black line extends from one temple to the other. It is the
cobbler of Jerusalem. The poor artisan, who hardened by misery, injustice
and oppression, without pity for the suffering of the Divine Being who
bore the cross, repulsed him from his dwelling, and bade him: "Go ON! GO
ON! GO ON!" And, from that day, the avenging Deity has in his turn said
to the artisan of Jerusalem: "GO ON! GO ON! GO ON!"
And he has gone on, without end or rest. Nor did the divine vengeance
stop there. From time to time death has followed the steps of the
wanderer, and innumerable graves have been even as mile-stones on his
fatal path. And if ever he found periods of repose in the midst of his
infinite grief, it was when the hand of the Lord led him into deep
solitudes, like that where he now dragged his steps along. In passing
over that dreary plain, or climbing to that rude Calvary, he at least
heard no more the funeral knell, which always, always sounded behind him
in every inhabited region.
All day long, even at this hour, plunged in the black abyss of his
thoughts, following the fatal track--going whither he was guided by the
invisible hand, with head bowed on his breast, and eyes fixed upon the
ground, the wanderer had passed over the plain, and ascended the
mountain, without once looking at the sky--without even perceiving the
Calvary--without seeing the image upon the cross. He thought of the last
descendants of his race. He felt, by the sinking of his heart, that great
perils continued to threaten him. And in the bitterness of a despair,
wild and deep as the ocean, the cobbler of Jerusalem seated himself at
the foot of the cross. At this moment a farewell ray of the setting sun,
piercing the dark mass of clouds, threw a refection upon the Calvary,
vivid as a conflagration's glare. The Jew rested his forehead upon his
hand. His long hair, shaken by the evening breeze, fell over his pale
face--when sweeping it back from his brow, he started with surprise--he,
who had long ceased to wonder at anything. With eager glance he
contemplated the long lock of hair that he held between his fingers. That
hair, until now black as night, had become gray. He also, like unto
Herodias, was growing older.
His progress towards old age, stopped for eighteen hundred years, had
resumed its course. Like the Wandering Jewess, he might henceforth hope
for the rest of the grave. Throwing himself on his knees, he stretched
his hands towards heaven, to ask for the explanation of the mystery which
filled him with hope. Then, for the first time, his eyes rested on the
Crucified One, looking down upon the Calvary, even as the Wandering
Jewess had fixed her gaze on the granite eyelids of the Blessed Martyr.
The Saviour, his head bowed under the weight of his crown of thorns,
seemed from the cross to view with pity, and pardon the artisan, who for
so many centuries had felt his curse--and who, kneeling, with his body
thrown backward in an attitude of fear and supplication, now lifted
towards the crucifix his imploring hands.
"Oh, Messiah!" cried the Jew, "the avenging arm of heaven brings me back
to the foot of this heavy cross, which thou didst bear, when, stopping at
the door of my poor dwelling, thou wert repulsed with merciless
harshness, and I said unto thee: 'Go on! go on!'--After my long life of
wanderings, I am again before this cross, and my hair begins to whiten.
Oh Lord! in thy divine mercy, hast thou at length pardoned me? Have I
reached the term of my endless march? Will thy celestial clemency grant
me at length the repose of the sepulchre, which, until now, alas! has
ever fled before me?--Oh! if thy mercy should descend upon me, let it
fall likewise upon that woman, whose woes are equal to mine own! Protect
also the last descendants of my race! What will be their fate? Already,
Lord, one of them--the only one that misfortune had perverted--has
perished from the face of the earth. Is it for this that my hair grows
gray? Will my crime only be expiated when there no longer remains in this
world one member of our accursed race? Or does this proof of thy powerful
goodness, Lord, which restores me to the condition of humanity, serve
also as a sign of the pardon and happiness of my family? Will they at
length triumph over the perils which beset them? Will they, accomplishing
the good which their ancestor designed for his fellow creatures, merit
forgiveness both for themselves and me? Or will they, inexorably
condemned as the accursed scions of an accursed stock, expiate the
original stain of my detested crime?
"Oh, tell me--tell me, gracious Lord! shall I be forgiven with them, or
will they be punished with me?"
The twilight gave place to a dark and stormy night, yet the Jew continued
to pray, kneeling at the foot of the cross.