"And they went up out of Egypt, and came unto the land of Canaan
unto Jacob their father, and told him, saying, Joseph is yet
alive, and is governor over all the land of Egypt.
"And Jacob's heart fainted, for he believed them not.
"And they told him all the words of Joseph, which he had said unto
them: and when he saw the wagons which Joseph had sent to carry
him, the spirit of Jacob their father revived:
"And Israel said, It is enough; Joseph my son is yet alive: I will
go and see him before I die."
If you read the story of Joseph through from start to finish, you will
see that it is a perfect narrative of the life of a man without
fault, who suffered much but without resentment, was great of heart in
evil days, and, when Fortune placed him in a position of glory and
greatness, showed a stainless magnanimity and a brotherly love that
nothing could abate. It is the first and most perfect story in
literature of the nobility of man's soul, and as such it must remain a
treasured and priceless possession to the world's end.
In the short Book of Ruth there lies embalmed in the finest English a
very tender love story, set in all the sweet surroundings of the ripening
corn, the gathered harvest, and the humble gleaners. Nothing can be
more delightful than the direction of Boaz, the great land-owner, to his
men, after he had espied Ruth in her beauty gleaning in his fields:--
"And when she was risen up to glean, Boaz commanded his young men,
saying, Let her glean even among the sheaves, and reproach her
not:
"And let fall also some of the handfuls on purpose for her, and
leave them, that she may glean them, and rebuke her not."
This little gem in the books of the Bible inspired Hood to write one of
his most perfect lyrics:--
"She stood breast high amid the corn
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
* * * * *
Thus she stood amid the stocks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.
Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean
Where I reap thou should'st but glean;
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home."
That the Bible was translated into English at the time when the
language was spoken and written in its most noble form, by men whose
style has never been surpassed in strength combined with simplicity,
has been a priceless blessing to the English-speaking race. The land of
its birth, once flowing with milk and honey, has been for long centuries
a place of barren rocks and arid deserts: Persians and Greeks and
Romans and Turks have successively swept over it; the descendants
of those who at different times produced its different books are
scattered to the ends of the earth; but the English translation has for
long years been the head corner-stone in homes innumerable as the
sands of the sea in number.
No upheavals of the earth, no fire, pestilence, famine, or slaughter, can
ever now blot it out from the ken of men.
When all else is lost we may be sure that the old English version of the
Bible will survive. "Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words
shall not pass away."
Do not think it enough therefore, Antony, to hear it read badly and
without intelligence or emotion, in little detached snippets, in church
once a week.
Read it for yourself, and learn to rejoice in the perfect balance,
harmony, and strength of its noble style.
Your loving old
G.P.
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