The Prince of the House of David

by J. H. Ingraham

My last letter ended with an account of the Roman escort, under the authority of the young Roman centurion who, as I have before written to you, with so much courtesy proffered its protection to our little party. The day was yet early, and the air was of that buoyant elasticity so agreeable to breathe, and which strikes me as one of the peculiar blessings of this holy land of our fathers. As I rode along, I felt as if I would gladly mount the Arabian of the desert and fly across the sandy seas of Edom, with the fleetness which amazes me whenever I see the children of the desert ride; for a band of thirty came boldly near us from a gorge as we approached Bethany, and after watching us a few moments, scoured away into the recesses of the hills like the wind, as a detachment of our Roman escort was ordered to gallop towards them. We were fortunate in having such strong protection.

We soon afterwards reached the summit of the ridge above Bethany, from which eminence we had a gorgeous view of the Holy City of God, with its lofty Temple glittering in the sunbeams. The Tower of Antonia darkly contrasted with its splendor, and the citadel of David frowned over the walls with a warlike majesty that deeply impressed me. I drew rein, and entreated Rabbi Amos to delay a few moments while I surveyed Jerusalem, but he was too far ahead to hear me, and the centurion, riding up to my side, stopped respectfully with a portion of his command, and said he would await my leisure. I could not but thank him for his civility, and then turning towards the city, I was soon lost to all else but the awful contemplation of it.

"You should see Rome," said the centurion, who had watched my emotion evidently with surprise. "It is a city of grandeur unequalled. It covers six times more space than this city, and it contains three hundred and sixty-five temples, while Jerusalem contains but one!"

"There is no God but one," I answered, impressively.

"We believe there is one God, who is the author of a great multitude of lesser gods, and to each we erect a temple," he said firmly, yet respectfully.

Upon this, touched with pity that one so noble in mind and person should be so ignorant of the truth, I began to show him from the Prophets that God was one, and that all things were made by him. But he, plucking a blossom from a tree within reach, said:

"It is beneath the dignity of the Father of the gods, the great Jove, to descend to make a flower like this, or shape a crystal, or color the ruby, or create that golden-eyed humming-bird which flutters among those fragrant blossoms. He made the sun, and moon, and stars, and earth, but left the lesser works to inferior deities. Talk to me of thy one God, and prove to me, maiden, that he made all things, and is one, and thy God shall be my God."

We now rode forward through the street of Bethany, and soon came to the house of our former friend, Rabbi Abel, who died many years ago at Alexandria, when he went there with merchandise, and after the welfare of whose children you desired me to make inquiries. It was a plain and humble dwelling before which Rabbi Amos assisted me to alight; but there was an air of neatness and sweet domestic repose about it that at once came home to my heart, and made me love the place even before I had seen the inmates. On hearing of my arrival, there came out a fair young girl of twenty-two, with the most amiable expression of affectionate welcome, and approaching me with mingled respect and love, she embraced me, while Rabbi Amos pronounced our names to each other. I felt immediately as if I were in a sister's arms, and that I should love her always. Next came forth a young man of about thirty years of age, with a countenance of an exceedingly interesting expression, full of intellect and good will. He was pale and habitually thoughtful, but a fine friendly light beamed in his dark, handsome eyes, as he extended his hand to welcome me. You have already had a full description of him, and of his character, in one of my former letters, and need not be told that it was Lazarus, the son of your friend. At the threshold Martha, the eldest sister, met me, but with more ceremony, and made an apology for receiving me, the rich heiress of Alexandria, as she termed me, into so lowly a dwelling; but I embraced her so affectionately that this feeling passed away instantly. Martha busied herself at once to prepare refreshments for us, and soon set before us a frugal but agreeable repast. Mary, in the meanwhile, and Lazarus, sat on either side of me, and asked me many questions about Alexandria.

I cannot describe to you the loveliness of the person of Mary, and yet not so much the perfection of features as the soul which animates them, and lends them a charm that I cannot adequately convey to you.