THE WALLS HAVE EARS
The world looks like a multiplication‐table, or a mathematical
equation, which, turn it how you will, balances itself. Take
what figure you will, its exact value, not more, nor less, still
returns to you. Every secret is told, every crime is punished,
every virtue rewarded, every wrong redressed, in silence and
certainty. What we call retribution is the universal necessity
by which the whole appears wherever a part appears.—EMERSON.
The sun was drinking up the morning dew which rested lightly upon the
reeds, grasses, and climbing vines that thinly fringed the steeps and
cliffs of the hill‐country of Mount Ephraim, a little to the northwest of
Jerusalem. Through this broken district, the road which led from the
seaport of Cæsarea to the Holy City wound along near the bottom of a
shallow wady, and ere long between scarred bluffs through a long,
irregular valley, and then ascended, leading over a considerable elevation
before passing through the Mount Ephraim gate into the city.
In these early morning hours, a small caravan might be seen, winding along
the beaten track in slow, serpentine fashion. It was composed of a few
well‐laden camels and asses, accompanied by men, women, and children, who,
having just struck their tents, were now nearing the end of their journey.
An eager air of anticipation and unwonted interest was visible in the
little company; and the brightness of the morning, and the near approach
to the Capital, infused every one with new life, in view of what was soon
to open to their vision.
What a tale this road might unfold of the various companies of pilgrims,
princes, captains, and panoplied armies, which, before and since, have
trod its tortuous windings! What victories and defeats, what surprises and
disappointments, what inspiration and suffering! What vain hopes destroyed
and heroism rewarded! What eruptions of invaders, who at intervals have
despoiled the ancient city,—Chaldeans, Assyrians, Romans, and later the
great armies of Rome under Titus; and long afterwards, Turks and
crusaders, like great tidal waves, have surged through this and the other
beaten highways that converge in the city of Mount Zion.
In the little procession were some who for the first time were to have a
vision of the Temple, the city’s long, curving, battlemented walls, its
proud palaces, its frowning towers, its graceful cenotaphs and pillared
courts, and others to whose eyes all these were familiar. Within two or
three furlongs of the city wall on the northwest, the road passes over a
considerable elevation, from which Jerusalem lies spread out upon its
native hills, with the bluish‐purple slopes of the Mount of Olives in the
background to the southeast. On this high ground the road skirted a large
open garden, or park, that sloped toward the city, which contained seats,
arbors, flowers, and shrubbery, the whole forming a place of public
resort. Interspersed by small trees, and shaded by bushes and vines, were
a series of graded terraces, each of which commanded a fine view of the
city. It was a favorite resort in the milder seasons of the year.
The caravan passed on through the gateway into the city; but a young man,
somewhat below medium size, with strongly marked Jewish features, left it,
and turning to the right, entered the garden to enjoy the prospect, and
call up a few reminiscences before the final completion of his journey.
It was no other than Saulus!
After an absence of a few years in his native city, he was again near the
scene of his more youthful education and adventures. The sun was already
warm; and, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, he sat down in a
small arbor, which was covered overhead, and partly sheltered before and
behind by hedges and hanging vines. The fragrance of many blossoms loaded
the morning air, and the cheery song of birds echoed from the trees far
and near.
As Saulus looked out over the familiar landmarks of the city, his bosom
heaved, his cheeks reddened, and his eyes dilated at the panorama that was
again unrolled before him. His thoughts ran quickly back over the long
history of the Chosen People, their many trials and conquests, their glory
and their captivity. There was much to inspire, but more to sadden. What a
history of numberless vicissitudes was written in stone, masonry, and
marble! How many conflicts, successes, and disasters were wrapped up in
the massive city wall built by good King Hezekiah! What a long line of
events were cast into the haughty Towers of Hippicus, Phasælus, and
Mariamne, whose proud heads lifted themselves high into the air directly
to the southward! Still beyond, in the same direction, the royal hill of
Mount Zion was crowned by the great Herodian palace. What a long line of
fragrant memories of patriarchs and judges, of anointed kings, including
David and Solomon, covering many bright days of Hebrew history, were there
solidified into visible form! Upon the same historic site stood the house
of Caiaphas, the Roman prætorium, and the great central synagogue.
Was the time coming when the proud Roman would be thrust out, and Jewish
dominion again centre with undimmed lustre upon these consecrated heights?
How long, oh, how long! before the God of Israel would rally and inspire
the multitudes of his people, bring back his scattered captives, and lead
them forth, a conquering host?
Farther to the east, and directly above the great massive Tower of
Antonia,—which Saulus recognized with a frown,—the sacred Temple‐crowned
summit of Moriah caused a throb of rejoicing and patriotic pride. His eye
rested with satisfaction upon the great pile of snowy whiteness, founded
by Solomon, and rebuilt by Herod, with its long lines of marble pillars,
gates of Corinthian brass, and numerous towers and pinnacles overlaid with
silver and gold. How many courts, each encircling others within, lifted
themselves, tier above tier, to the Tabernacle and Holy of Holies, which
formed the sacred centre from which Jehovah radiated his glory in a
special and peculiar manner.
The sun ascended higher, and the whole scene melted into a dream of
shimmering whiteness and beauty. What an attraction and inspiration to
every Jew in all ages! Fitting type to him of all that is patriotic,
glorious, and heavenly! The soft green western slopes of Olivet formed a
peaceful and refreshing background to the busy haunts of men.
Such were some of the thoughts that passed in a trooping procession
through the mind of Saulus; and now, what of the present and future? What
of his own duties, hopes, dreams, and ambitions? What of the new heretical
sect, whose overthrow was to be his especial business and gratification?
What of the Rabban, his former companions, Serenus, the people at the inn?
Last, but far, oh, far from least, what of Cassia?
“O Cassia! little one! Will thy heart beat quickly, thy cheeks flush, and
thine eyes glisten at my coming? Hast thou dreams of my arrival, and hath
absence endeared me to thee? Hast thou often thought of him to whom thou
so faithfully and tenderly ministered? Thy messages seem not to have been
so warm and frequent of late. Surely thou hast not lost the image of
Saulus from thy heart?”
The young man was suddenly aroused from his prolonged revery by the
approach of a party of men, women, and children from the city. Some were
laden with small baskets and wallets containing wheaten wafers, and others
carried fruits, and skins of wine. It was a pleasure excursion of Hebrew
families for relaxation and enjoyment. They distributed themselves
promiscuously in groups among the shady and secluded seats and arbors,
dispersing in little parties, often of two or three, in the most informal
manner.
Almost before Saulus was aware of it, a young man and woman had seated
themselves immediately in front, their backs almost hidden by a light
hedge which was covered by running vines. Their seats were very near. His
first impulse was to retire, but that was impossible without observation;
and during a moment’s hesitation he heard something of remarkable
interest. A word distinctly uttered chained him to the spot. His position
was such that he plainly saw the backs of the young pair, just in front
and below him, through the interstices of the hedge, while he was entirely
concealed. He was no eavesdropper, but fate transfixed him.
“O my little Cassia! What a delightful place! What sayest thou? Shall we
not sit down and enjoy the prospect? Our friends seem to have scattered,
and left us to care for ourselves.”
“Which we are very well able to do, Barnabas. One might sit here and dream
over the Holy City.”
“Thou speakest truly, Cassia! Dreams and visions pertain not alone to
sleep and night. Thinkest thou not that a large part of life is unfolded
through them?”
“My wakeful visions are very real to me.”
“Yea, Cassia, thou judgest rightly! Day‐dreams are often true prophecies
of the future. The Greek philosophy, of which I learned something while at
the feet of Gamaliel, teacheth that our dreams of the future are like
patterns, and that as we hold them before our gaze, day by day, the things
we shape in our own minds really come about, and more, that we
unconsciously grow into their image. In other words, they take such hold
that we are slowly transformed by them.”
“Is such a doctrine peculiar to the Greeks? Do we not all have visions by
day as well as night? And do they not prophesy, and even promise much?
Nothing would tempt me to part with the pictures of the future that I
carry with me.”
“Ah, little Cassia! Are they, then, so precious to thee? Wilt thou give me
some hint of what they promise? I pray thee, canst thou not lend me a
share in them?”
“Peradventure they cannot be divided.”
“But at least they may be sketched in outline, if not shared. Wilt thou
not interpret for me the brightest vision that comes to thee?”
“How can I?”
“Peradventure I can divine it.”
“Peradventure thou canst not.”
“Knowest thou not, Cassia, that there are some who say they can read the
thoughts of their neighbor, much as they would an unrolled parchment?”
“Claimest thou such power for thyself?”
“I answer thee not as to my claim. But wilt thou that I try to be thy
interpreter?”
Cassia cast a curious but shy glance at her companion, who seemed much
absorbed in the distant mountain slopes.
“Yea; if thou wilt essay to play the part of a seer, and prophesy of my
future, I will listen. I would try thy powers.”
“It is not so much thy future, as thy thought of thy future, that I would
divine just now,” said Barnabas, with a half‐hidden smile. “Wilt thou tell
me if I interpret rightly?”
She again turned a searching glance toward his face, but his gaze was
still fastened upon the mountain landscape.
“Peradventure yea, and peradventure nay,” she replied, with a light flush;
“but please proceed.”
Barnabas bade adieu to the distant mountain, and with some vigor of manner
turned his face toward the maiden as if to read her thoughts.
“Almon, thy father, hath told me that Saulus is soon to return for a
season to the Holy City, and will sojourn at the inn of the Sheepmarket.
Nay, more! that he may arrive at any hour. Behold thy bright vision!”
The figure just beyond the hedge gave such a start that only the vital
interest of the twain in the topic of their conversation prevented a
discovery.
Little Cassia, who was not greatly disconcerted, pouted her lips a bit,
toyed with her fan, and took her turn in gazing at the mountain.
“O Barnabas! I would counsel thee, that thou set not up for an
interpreter. Seership is not befitting to thee.”
“Thou dost say neither yea nor nay.”
“I say that thou hast altogether missed thy calling.”
“It seemeth strange; but verily, I find much contentment in my error, if
my interpretation be not true.”
“It hath been told me by my father that Saulus is to return to Jerusalem,
in order that he may vex the new pestilent sect of heretics, which is said
to be gathering strength. I wot not more of his sojourn or plans.”
“I say unto thee again, that it rejoiceth me that my seership be at
fault.”
“True prophets are not usually so fickle.”
There was a slight tinge of cheery, though defiant, sarcasm in her tone,
and the flush on her cheek had heightened. Then a little period of silence
followed, during which Barnabas again gave himself to the mountain. On the
other side of the thin hedge a heart was beating so loudly that its throbs
were almost audible.
At length Barnabas turned, and gently picked up the little hand which was
temptingly near, and raising it, touched it to his lips, and as reverently
lowered it, after which it was slowly withdrawn.
“O my little Cassia! I again take up my seership! I have a bright new
dream of the future! our future—share and share. I am inspired by a love,
sweet, irresistible, and endless. The vision shows me that thine is the
soul that responds, and thy heart the one that beats in unison. I love
thee with every drop of my blood, and every thought that stirs my being.
We shall know happiness, peace, and devotion. Cassia, dear! I now proclaim
seership for thee! Behold now this bright vision with me!”
Gently his arm found its way around her slender form, and there was no
actual resistance. She was so near that her warm breath fell upon his
cheek.
The pent‐up forces in the soul that had been forced to listen burst forth
in an involuntary groan; and this, with a sudden shaking of the hedge,
startled the twain, when, at a glance, feeling the presence of a stranger
near, they turned quickly down the nearest pathway, and rejoined their
friends. The stranger, who was a stranger still to them, was left to his
own devices.