This is the anniversary of Herod’s birthday. The palace is lighted. The
highways leading thereto are all ablaze with the pomp of invited guests.
Lords, captains, merchant princes, and all the mighty men of the land are
coming to mingle in the festivities.
The table is spread with all the luxuries that royal purveyors can
gather. The guests, white robed and anointed and perfumed, come and sit
at the table.
Music! The jests evoke roars of laughter. Riddles are propounded.
Repartee is indulged. Toasts are drank. The brain is befogged. The wit
rolls on into uproar and blasphemy. They are not satisfied yet. Turn on
more light. Pour out more wine. Music! Sound all the trumpets. Clear
the floor for a dance. Bring in Salome, the beautiful and accomplished
princess. The door opens, and in bounds the dancer. The lords are
enchanted. Stand back and make room for the brilliant gyrations. These
men never saw such “poetry of motion.” Their souls whirl in the reel and
bound with the bounding feet.
Herod forgets crown and throne and every thing but the fascinations of
Salome. All the magnificence of his realm is as nothing compared with
the splendor that whirls on tiptoe before him. His body sways from side
to side, corresponding with the motions of the enchantress. His soul is
filled with the pulsations of the feet and bewitched with the taking
postures and attitudes more and more amazing.
After a while Herod sits in enchanted silence, looking at the flashing,
leaping, bouncing beauty, and as the dance closes and the tinkling
cymbals cease to clap and the thunders of applause that shook the palace
begin to abate, the enchanted monarch swears to the princely performer:
“Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me I will give it thee, to the half of my
kingdom.”
Now, there was in the prison at that time a minister of the Gospel by
the name of John the Baptist, and he had been making a great deal of
trouble by preaching some very plain sermons. He had denounced the sins
of the king and brought down upon him the wrath of the women of the royal
household.
At the instigation of her mother, Salome takes advantage of the
extravagant promise of the king, and says: “Bring me the head of John
the Baptist on a dinner plate.”
Hark to the sound of feet outside the door and the clatter of swords! The
executioners are returning from their awful errand. Open the door. They
enter and present the platter to Salome.
What is on this platter?
A new glass of wine to continue the uproarious merriment? No. Something
redder and far more costly--the ghastly, bleeding head of John the
Baptist. The death glare is still in the eyes; the locks are all dabbled
with gore; the features are still distressed with the last agony.
Salome, this enchantress who had whirled so gracefully in the dance,
bends over the awful burden without a shudder. She gloats over the blood,
and with as much indifference as a waiting maid might take a tray of
empty glassware out of the room after an entertainment Salome carries the
dissevered head of John the Baptist, while all the banqueters shout with
laughter. They regarded it as a capital joke that in so easy and quick a
way they have got rid of an earnest and outspoken minister of the true
Gospel.
Well, there is no harm in a birthday festival. All the kings from
Pharaoh’s time had celebrated such occasions, and why not Herod? No harm
in kindling the lights. No harm in spreading the banquet. No harm in
arousing music. But from the riot and wassail that closed the scene of
that day every pure nature revolts.