My Dear Father:
The street in which we dwell is elevated, and from the roof of the
house, where I love to walk in the evening, watching the stars that
hang over Egypt, there is commanded a wide prospect of the Holy City.
Yesterday morning I was early on the house-top, to behold the first
cloud of the day-dawn sacrifice rise from the bosom of the Temple.
When I had turned my gaze towards the sacred summit, I was awed by
the profound silence which reigned over the vast pile that crowned
Mount Moriah. The sun was not yet risen; but the east blushed with a
roseate purple, and the morning star was melting into its depth. Night
and silence still held united empire over the city and the altar of
God. I was awe-silent. I stood with my hands crossed upon my bosom
and my head reverently bowed, for in the absence of man and his voice
I believed angels were all around in heavenly hosts, the guardian
armies of this wondrous city of David. Lances of light now shot upward
and across the purple sea in the East, and fleeces of clouds, that
reposed upon it like barks, catching the red rays of the yet unrisen
sun, blazed like burning ships. Each moment the darkness fled, and the
splendor of the dawn increased; and when I expected to see the sun
appear over the battlemented heights of Mount Moriah, I was thrilled by
the startling peal of the trumpets of the priests; a thousand silver
trumpets blown at once from the walls of the Temple, and shaking the
very foundations of the city with their mighty voice. Instantly the
house-tops everywhere around were alive with worshipers. Jerusalem
started, as one man, from its slumbers, and, with their faces towards
the Temple, a hundred thousand men of Israel stood waiting. A second
trumpet peal, clear and musical as the voice of God when he spake to
our father Moses in Horeb, caused every knee to bend, and every tongue
to join in the morning song of praise. The murmur of voices was like
the continuous roll of the surge upon the beach, and the walls of
the lofty Temple echoed it back. Simultaneously with the billow-like
swell of the adoring hymn, I beheld a pillar of black smoke ascend
from the midst of the Temple, and spread itself above the court like a
canopy. It was accompanied by a blue wreath of lighter and more misty
appearance, which threaded in and out and entwined about the other,
like a silvery strand woven into a sable cord. This latter was the
smoke of the incense which accompanied the burnt sacrifice. As I saw it
rise higher and higher, and finally overtop the heavy cloud, which was
instantly enlarged by volumes of dense smoke that rolled upward from
the consuming victim, and slowly disappeared, melting into heaven, I
also kneeled, remembering that on the wings of the incense went up the
prayers of the people; and ere it dissolved wholly, I entrusted to it,
dear father, prayers for thee and me.
The evening sacrifice is, if possible, more imposing than that of
the morning. Just as the sun dips beyond the hill of Gibeah, there
is heard a prolonged note of a trumpet blown from one of the western
watch-towers of Zion. Its mellow tones reach farthest ear within the
gates of the city. All labor at once ceases. Every man raises his face
towards the summit of the house of God. A deep pause, as if all held
their breath in expectation, succeeds. Suddenly the very skies seem
to be riven and shaken with the thunder of the company of trumpeters
that rolls wave on wave of sound, from the battlements of the Temple.
The dark cloud of sacrifice ascends in solemn grandeur, and, sometimes
heavier than the evening air, falls like a descending curtain around
the Mount, till the whole is veiled from sight; but above it is seen to
soar the purer incense to the invisible Jehovah, followed by a myriad
eyes, and the utterance of a nation's prayers. As the daylight faded,
the light of the altar, hidden from us by the lofty walls of the outer
court of the Temple, blazed high and beacon-like, and lent a wild
solemnity to the towers and pinnacles that crowned Moriah.
[Illustration: PANORAMA OF JERUSALEM]
There was, however, my dear father, last evening, one thing which
painfully marred the holy character of the sacred hour. After the
blast of the silver trumpets of the Levites had ceased, and while all
hearts and eyes were ascending to Jehovah with the mounting wreaths
of incense, there came from the Roman castle adjoining the city of
David, a loud martial clangor of brazen bugles, and other barbarian
war instruments of music, while a smoke, like the smoke of sacrifice,
rose from the heights of David's fortified hill. I was told that it was
the Romans engaged in worshiping Jupiter. Alas! How truly now are the
prophecies fulfilled, which are to be found in the Lamentations: "The
Lord hath cast off his altar, he hath given up into the hands of the
enemy the walls of her palaces: they have made a noise in the house of
the Lord, as in the day of a solemn feast." For these things I weep, my
dear father.
Nearly three hundred years have passed since we have had a
prophet--that divine and youthful Malachi. Since his day, Rabbi Amos
confesses that Jehovah has made no sign of having heard the prayers
or heeded the sacrifices that have been offered to him in his time.
I inquired of the intelligent Rabbi if it would always be thus. He
replied that when Shiloh came, there would be a restoration of all
things--that the glory of Jerusalem then would fill the whole earth
with the splendor of the sun, and that all nations should come up from
the ends of the world to worship in the Temple.
My conversation with Rabbi Amos, dear father, led me to examine the
Book of the Prophet Malachi. I find that after plainly alluding to our
present shame, and reproaching the priests "for causing the people to
stumble," he thus prophesies: "Behold, I will send my messenger, and
he shall prepare the way before me; and the Lord whom ye seek shall
suddenly come to his Temple, and he shall sit as a refiner and purifier
of silver, and he shall purify the sons of Levi, and purge them as
gold and silver, that they may offer unto the Lord an offering in
righteousness. Behold," adds the divine seer, "I will send you Elijah
the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the
Lord."
These words I read to-day to Rabbi Amos--indeed I was reading them
when Rabbi Ben Israel came in to say that he departs to-morrow.
The excellent Amos looked grave. I feared I had offended him by my
boldness, and, approaching him, was about to embrace him, when I saw
tears were sparkling in his eyes. He took my hand, and smiling, while
a glittering drop danced down his snow-white beard and broke into
liquid diamonds upon my hand, he said, "You have done no wrong, child;
sit down by me and be at peace with thyself. It is too true, in this
day, what the Prophet Malachi writeth, O Ben Israel," he said sadly to
the Alexandrian Rabbi. "The priests of the Temple have indeed become
corrupt, save a few here and there. It must have been at this day the
prophet aimed his words. Save in the outward form, I fear the great
body of our Levites have little more true religion and just knowledge
of the one God Jehovah, than the priests of the Roman idolatry. Alas, I
fear me, God regards our sacrifices with no more favor than he looks
upon theirs. To-day, while I was in the Temple, and was serving at the
altar with the priests, these words of Isaiah came into my thoughts
and would not be put aside: 'To what purpose is the multitude of your
sacrifices unto me? saith the Lord. I am full of the burnt offerings
of rams, and the fat of fed beasts; and I delight not in the blood of
bullocks, or of lambs, or of he-goats. Bring no more vain oblations;
incense is an abomination unto me; I am weary to bear them; yea, when
ye spread forth your hands I will hide mine eyes from you; yea, when ye
make many prayers I will not hear; your hands are full of blood. Wash
you; make you clean. Cease to do evil; learn to do well.'"
"I have noticed," said Ben Israel, "that there is less reverence now in
the Temple than when I was in Jerusalem a young man; but I find that
the magnificence of the ceremonies is increased."
"Yes," responded Rabbi Amos, with a look of sorrow, "yes, as the soul
of piety dies out from within, they gild the outside. The increased
richness of the worship is copied from the Romans. So low are we
fallen! Our worship, with all its gorgeousness, is as a sepulchre
white-washed to conceal the rottenness within!"
You may be convinced, my dear father, that this confession, from such a
source, deeply humbled me. If, then, we are not worshiping God, what do
we worship? Naught! We are worse off than our barbarian conquerors, for
we have no God; while they at least have gods many and lords many, such
as they are.
Since writing the last line I have been interrupted by Mary, who has
brought to see me a youth, nephew of a noble Jewish ruler, who was
slain by the Romans for his patriotic devotion to his country. He
dwells near the Gaza gate, with his widowed mother, who is a noble
lady, honored by all. Between this young man, whose name is John, and
Mary, there exists a beautiful attachment, which is each day ripening
into the deepest emotion. He has just returned from the vicinity
of Jericho, where he has been for some days past, drawn thither by
curiosity to see and hear the new prophet, who is drawing thousands
into the wilderness, to listen to the eloquence that flows from his
mouth. The young man had been giving Mary so interesting an account of
him that she desired me also to be a listener. In my next I will write
you all I heard.
Your affectionate and devoted daughter,
Adina.