Tides of music’s golden sea
Selling toward eternity.
But to-day his heart was a rock that stood motionless. The flood passed
by and left him unmoved.
Looking out from his place at the foot of the pillar, he saw a man
standing far off in the lofty bema. Short and slender, wasted by
sickness, gray before his time, with pale cheeks and wrinkled brow, he
seemed at first like a person of no significance--a reed shaken in
the wind. But there was a look in his deep-set, poignant eyes, as he
gathered all the glances of the multitude to himself, that belied his
mean appearance and prophesied power. Hermas knew very well who it was:
the man who had drawn him from his father’s house, the teacher who was
instructing him as a son in the Christian faith, the guide and trainer
of his soul--John of Antioch, whose fame filled the city and began to
overflow Asia, and who was called already Chrysostom, the golden-mouthed
preacher.
Hermas had felt the magic of his eloquence many a time; and to-day, as
the tense voice vibrated through the stillness, and the sentences moved
onward, growing fuller and stronger, bearing argosies of costly rhetoric
and treasures of homely speech in their bosom, and drawing the hearts
of men with a resistless magic, Hermas knew that the preacher had never
been more potent, more inspired.
He played on that immense congregation as a master on an instrument.
He rebuked their sins, and they trembled. He touched their sorrows, and
they wept. He spoke of the conflicts, the triumphs, the glories of their
faith, and they broke out in thunders of applause. He hushed them into
reverent silence, and led them tenderly, with the wise men of the East,
to the lowly birthplace of Jesus.
“Do thou, therefore, likewise leave the Jewish people, the troubled
city, the bloodthirsty tyrant, the pomp of the world, and hasten to
Bethlehem, the sweet house of spiritual bread. For though thou be but a
shepherd, and come hither, thou shalt behold the young Child in an inn.
Though thou be a king, and come not hither, thy purple robe shall profit
thee nothing. Though thou be one of the wise men, this shall be no
hindrance to thee. Only let thy coming be to honour and adore, with
trembling joy, the Son of God, to whose name be glory, on this His
birthday, and forever and forever.”
The soul of Hermas did not answer to the musician’s touch. The strings
of his heart were slack and soundless; there was no response within
him. He was neither shepherd, nor king, nor wise man; only an unhappy,
dissatisfied, questioning youth. He was out of sympathy with the eager
preacher, the joyous hearers. In their harmony he had no part. Was it
for this that he had forsaken his inheritance and narrowed his life to
poverty and hardship? What was it all worth?
The gracious prayers with which the young converts were blessed and
dismissed before the sacrament sounded hollow in his ears. Never had he
felt so utterly lonely as in that praying throng. He went out with his
companions like a man departing from a banquet where all but he had been
fed.
“Farewell, Hermas,” they cried, as he turned from them at the door. But
he did not look back, nor wave his hand. He was already alone in his
heart.
When he entered the broad Avenue of the Colonnades, the sun had already
topped the eastern hills, and the ruddy light was streaming through the
long double row of archways and over the pavements of crimson marble.
But Hermas turned his back to the morning, and walked with his shadow
before him.
The street began to swarm and whirl and quiver with the motley life of a
huge city: beggars and jugglers, dancers and musicians, gilded youths in
their chariots, and daughters of joy looking out from their windows, all
intoxicated with the mere delight of living and the gladness of a
new day. The pagan populace of Antioch--reckless, pleasure-loving,
spendthrift--were preparing for the Saturnalia. But all this Hermas had
renounced. He cleft his way through the crowd slowly, like a reluctant
swimmer weary of breasting the tide.
At the corner of the street where the narrow, populous Lane of the
Camel-drivers crossed the Colonnades, a storyteller had bewitched
a circle of people around him. It was the same old tale of love and
adventure that many generations have listened to; but the lively fancy
of the hearers rent it new interest, and the wit of the improviser drew
forth sighs of interest and shouts of laughter.
A yellow-haired girl on the edge of the throng turned, as Hermas passed,
and smiled in his face. She put out her hand and caught him by the
sleeve.
“Stay,” she said, “and laugh a bit with us. I know who you are--the son
of Demetrius. You must have bags of gold. Why do you look so black? Love
is alive yet.”
Hermas shook off her hand, but not ungently.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “You are mistaken in me. I am
poorer than you are.”
But as he passed on, he felt the warm touch of her fingers through the
cloth on his arm. It seemed as if she had plucked him by the heart.
He went out by the Western Gate, under the golden cherubim that the
Emperor Titus had stolen from the ruined Temple of Jerusalem and fixed
upon the arch of triumph. He turned to the left, and climbed the hill to
the road that led to the Grove of Daphne.
In all the world there was no other highway as beautiful. It wound for
five miles along the foot of the mountains, among gardens and villas,
plantations of myrtles and mulberries, with wide outlooks over the
valley of Orontes and the distant, shimmering sea.
The richest of all the dwellings was the House of the Golden Pillars,
the mansion of Demetrius. He had won the favor of the apostate Emperor
Julian, whose vain efforts to restore the worship of the heathen gods,
some twenty years ago, had opened an easy way to wealth and power for
all who would mock and oppose Christianity. Demetrius was not a sincere
fanatic like his royal master; but he was bitter enough in his professed
scorn of the new religion, to make him a favourite at the court where
the old religion was in fashion. He had reaped a rich reward of his
policy, and a strange sense of consistency made him more fiercely loyal
to it than if it had been a real faith. He was proud of being called
“the friend of Julian”; and when his son joined himself to the
Christians, and acknowledged the unseen God, it seemed like an insult
to his father’s success. He drove the boy from his door and disinherited
him.
The glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, the repose of the
well-ordered garden, still blooming with belated flowers, seemed at once
to deride and to invite the young outcast plodding along the dusty road.
“This is your birthright,” whispered the clambering rose-trees by the
gate; and the closed portals of carven bronze said: “You have sold it
for a thought--a dream.”’