The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 21, 1902, Page 3

» » » Y e, Gy ey, beginni: THE FUNDAY CALL, i His eyes, like those of the watchers upon the roof of the Temple at Jerusalem, were turned toward the Holy City. Suddenly he clasped his bands and bowed his tur- baned head in silent prayer. The first ray of sunlight had touched the spread- ing branches of the huge oak that: in ancient days had given shelter to Abra- ham, and it was day at Hebron. No dumb mother bleated” for missing off- Eprimg, no innbcent lamb ped away its breath, no column of blood-scented smoke ascended waveringly, hesitatingly, toward heaven, yet nowhere that bright morning in the Tempie, in all Palestine, through- out the whole world, wherever men cail upon the name of God, was a better s e made, more perfect and acceptable praise offered to him. His devotions ended, the worshiper raised his right hand above his eves an b gun carefully scrutinizing the great road that passes hard by Kerioth, ar >ts it wich Jerusalem and the Gen- e world. ¥rom afar I discerned that noble figure, d, as promising to me, as to my Lad been the cloud and pillar d their wandert 3 B 1 knew U father—no priest-ar; nged Shema s and useiess repetitions, but pure and ous offering of a trusting heart—contained a pe Iy present safety and speed) ‘When his eves began sweeping alon; shadow-darkened road I knew, nd had been his o searched for the cox g th absent, well-beloved, ever and was no more cold, hu: and friendless. Acting upon the resol whatever personal father and the cu instantly quitted ik dation and b hopeless journ my struggies, sufferin; ments. ated resolution and at last 1 approached ha infancy. E Suddenly my father started, stepped to the very edge of the terrace and leaned eagerly forward, as if seeking to anu hilate the distance that separated u. This done, he waved his hand and ai appeared from view. Divining his inten- tion, 1 quite forgot my bieeding fee wearied limbs and almost famished body and ran swiftly forward over the rough, unyielding stoues. ‘We met upon the very spot where we had last parted, the spot where Josgph Manasseh had so nearly encountered death at the hands of the mob. “My son! my long lost son! Blessed be the name of the Lord who hath re- stored him to me.” With these words my father fell upon my neck, kissed me, mingled his tears with mine. In that supreme mo- ment how insignificant appeared all my ldple:\surm‘ all my recent sufferings. bad received forgiveness before I had been able to ask for it. Surely, I thought, God is not less loving than this old man. He also hath pardonéd my heavy trans- gressions. Father,” 1 began as soon as I was able to speak, “I have sorely sinned.” he interrupted. understand as thyself, the.victory thou must needs have won over thyself before thou determined to return to me in this sad plight, for we were ever a proud family. I regret thy suiferings, du: re- Jjoice In this proof of thy love and duty.” *“l bave spent and lost all that thou v'st me,” 1 faltered, “and am come to thy servant.” “As thou ever hast been, and must be, whilst I live, my son and servant. But come; we have small excuse to stand bab- bling here whilst thou sorely lackest food and raiment,” and removing his mantle he wrapped it about my now shivering form, seized my arm and hurried me away from the spot. That the family pride of which my father had spoken still lived in him was evident from the circumstance that, in- stead of passing through the grinclpa.l street of the town to his house, he chose & circuitous route secure from the in- quisitive eves of busy neighbors, many of whom were already astir. Tears filled my eyes as I gazed upon the low but very extensive limestone struc- ture to which my childhood and youth were indissolubly attached. There I was born, as my father had been before me. There 1 grew to youth and early manhood under the loving eves and fostering care of one who might well be placed among the most deserving of Jewish mothers. There 1 received her last admonition, her last look of farewell, her last look of ten- derness when the power of speech had de- ted. The tears I shed were a tribute owed to nature, to filial duty, to true religion—I had been an ingrate and an infidel had they not flowed. Without an instant’s ‘delay my father conducted me to the apartments that 1 had occu since my boyhood days. They remained exactly as I had left them, to the smallest detail. My first bows and arrows hung upon the wall. A pair of well-worn sandals rested invitingly upon the tanned skin of the first fox I had ever slain. On a table in the larger room, beside the musical instruments that had beguiled the leisure hours of my young manhood, rej the worn and battered balls, tops and other toys of my boy- hood. In the smaller apartment stood my bed—how inviting it looked to one who for months had slept on the hard ground. It was not composed of mats and carpets that could be readily rolled up and car- ried away, like those most in use, but ‘was solidly buflt of sweet-smelling cedar and sendalwood, provided witha mattress, the softest of pillows and a beautifully embroidered coverlid, the work of my mother’'s own loving hands. Every famil- iar article of furniture was there, not one having been removed from its accustomed place. Over the door hung the Mezuzzah of my youth. The cylindrical box had been fashioned by the viliage carpenter, but the lictle roll of parchment it con- tained was mine own handiwork. The roudest and happlest day of my life ad been that upon which I completed its two-and-twenty sacred lines from the Torah, enjoining love to God and detaii- ing the divine blessings certain to follow the observance of his commandments. After I had broken my long fast, bathed and dressed myself—there was an abund- ance of mine own clothing at hand—may father placed upon my finger a ring that my mother had given him upon the day of their betrothal. Then he threw over my shoulders a beautiful robe that I ‘well knew his loving foresight had caused to be prepared against the day of my return. “Is this a fitting reward for my neglect and sinfulness, father?” I asl sadly, for the fine garment suggested thoughts of the official robe of Pontius Pilate, which, in my mad folly, I had once hoped e to wear. “Rather a recognition of thy repentance and fillal love,” responded the old man. “Am I not to rejoice and return thanks to God, who hath dellvered thee, like a young dove that had strayed from the m&:&n of the snare of the fowler, hath plu thee out of the ravening mouth of famine, removed thee from the seduc- wm:n o{ iniguity, found for me that which I h X Then he ‘hastened to summon the house servants, all of whom greeted me very warmly, for I had ever been a favorite with them. “Let a choice repast be prepared,” he commanded, “against the coming of my eldest son, who hath gone early to the fields with the laborers. Spare nothing, not_even those.things that have been set aside in anticipation of the feast of Purim, for the deliverance of my son’ from the hands of the gentiles is as dear to me as the rescue of my people from the power of the wicked Haman through the inter- cession of Queen Esther. ~And let the youths and maidens be bidden, for this day we will rejoice and be glad.” While the preparations for the impro- wvised feast went briskly and merrily on, my father and myself i‘éfi‘i’." in an earn- est conversation. I noted that he kad not asked after Joseph, for whom he had for- merly manifested an almost fatherly af- fection, and ascribed his reticence to a feeling that some most serjous misfortune had overwhelmed the young man. Ac- cordingly, 1 determi: to reverse the usual method of announcing bad news, and began with the statement that I had become separated from my friend, and that he was, 1 sadly feared, hopelessly possessed of demons. While my father was sensibly affected by my terrible and rather abrupt an- nounccment, is was less pro- nounced than I had anticipated. “] knew that the son of mine old friend Michael would not have deserted son of mine,” said he after a momentary si- lence. “There was fidelity In his blood, love and honor in his eye. But be not too much cast down, Judas. God is gond, as thou um‘n"enj -ttha‘!uflron:& thine ov{n perjence, osep] yet return S Gectored to his right mind. But tell at the beginning nothing of importance. Thou vilege of a returned traveler, . where thou are znd omit lmrec‘l’ue mo- love and charity and sinful posscssed of to tives and situations, and lrabfl.lhllflln means squandered all my time, and, during my scjourn in Alexandria, had made decided advancement in the acquisition of knowl- edge. During this portion of my narra- tive my father's eves glowed and the color mounted to his checiis, attesting the paternal pride he felt of his son. At times as, when 1 explained how Joseph had _established his reputation as a prophet by playing upon the jealousy of Enos, he smiied, but for the most part he was grave, and more than once shed tears at the dire misfortunes,of mysel? and friends. The condyct of Fiberius and Pollio called forth expressions of severe cond ation, in which I saw something t hatred which every Jew feels for an oppressor, while the sad fate ngs of the miser- he King of Wretched- nder heart to the very el ory entertaineth like that of To- , and teaches, I think, quite as valu- le a lesson,” said my , when I had made an end of m W will discuss it in detail during the come. We must give over now, for the music hath be; which tells’ us that the guests are commencing to arrive. But one word before we go, Why uld not God have resérved great things ? He Gid not more sureiy deliver the idren of Israel out of the kands of the days to and death and delivered hands. i believe not in heathen divinations, vet the entr a fish drove tl the thee ana saved the of IEdna, from thé de- ate of the wicked devil. More- over, a portion of them opered tiae blind cyes of Fobit. Did not God ca raoh to dream propiet 10 , if_ thou to be 1, it will be in the cause of God, since thou hast set sin and folly behind the Despair_not, either, unt of J thy friend. The ldren and serv f patient, faithful eturned unto him alive afler many s, and God hath not changed his mau- ner of dealing with men.” ¥ew young men of Kerloth had ever been_farther from home than Jerusalem, or Joppa at and 1 was looked upon a n, a ver- itable wonaer. reception w of the warmest Bitter en was not mamfest, since nong of them could hope to rival my mentgl achive- iraveler in far w aifferent wou'd have begn , had a single cye, save that of ther, seen the sad plight ia nderer returned. @ begun in the court he icast only awai and fame as a es. H serving arrivai of my brother, when vne of the servants entered and spoke o my father, apart. He had said nothing 10~ me of knos, beyond mentioning o me that he was well and that Ann his wife, in an- ticipation of the Purim feast, had de- ed for Jerusalem/ to avide in the use of her father, Rabbi scant speech 1 well knew that I couid not expect any very cordial reception at the hands of Enos, who had never iiled an elder brother’'s place toward me. Ac- cordingly, 1 hailf anticipated the cause of the iroubled look upon my father's face as he approached me. *““Phy brother is without and refuses to enter the house,” said he, when we had stepped aside. ‘‘Come with me; we will speak with him together.” We found Enos in the street, walking moodily up and down, his head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back. At the sound of my father's voice he stopped and tutned his scowling face tpon us. “Enos,” began the old man_sternly, Knowest “why hast thou sent for me? not thy brother?” “I know him well encugh; too well, I fancy.”” was the sulled résponse. *“I sent for thee because i saw that thou had'st made a feast, and wished not to intrude myself upon thy fine company.” 3 “Thou hast acted wisely, considering thy present temper. What would'st thou of me?” “To complain of thy injustice. These many years have 1 diligently served thee, obeying thy commandments and watching thy interests, yet did’st thou never make a Teast for me. But now that ihy fine son, ever thy favorite, hath returned from his long pleasure trip, thou hast seen fit to change the Law and move backward the feast of Purim that he might not be -lacking of honors.” “Son,” answered my father sgdly, yet .firmly, “shou doest wrong to /reproach my gray bairs. Thou.art now mine heir, and thou knowest that I have never de- nied thee any request. Is it not meet to rejoice over the safe return of one whom I had almost come to mourn as lost? Greet now thy brother, and come into tne house that mine old face be not ashamed before our guests.” “It concerns me not. I am in no mood for dancing and making merry.’ - Enos folded his arms doggedly and turned his back upon the house. Much as I was moved at his bitter words touch- ing myself, deep as was my indignation at his insults to the best of fathers, the noblest of men, I still saw, that, from his selfish standpoint, he had been ag- grieved. “Brother,” said I, approaching and lay- ing my hand upon his arm, “let there be peace betwixt us. Mine own portion is gone, but I have not come hither to dis- turb thee in the possession of thine. Our father’s feast, a coal of fire within the heart of one who hath so long neglected him, is really a credit to him who hath ever served, honored, obeyed and abided 1ast beside him, instead of going selfishly forth to see the world. Be not angry, but rather rejoice that thou hast no cause to repent for having grieved his heart, as have.” The vanity to whica I appealed, the as- surance that he would lose nothing by my coming, the mild sarcasm concealed in my words, his ow ture; some, perhaps all of these reasons combined, wrought a speedy and decid change in my brother's manner. He embraced me fraternally, comed me home, asked the pardon of our father and entered the house with us. The next day I accompanied my father to the house of Peleg, the silversmith, to inform him of the sad situation in which I had left his daughte Though shocked and grieved at the information, the old man was not so greatiy cast down as I had anticipated. At his request I again recounted my adventures, par- ticularly those in which Ruth and Joseph had been concerned. His eyes sparkled with pride when I praised her virtues and spoke of her triumphs in Rome, though he shook his head when I told of her dancing in public. “She will return safe ard sound and bring her husband with her,” declared he when 1 had finished. “'I do not regret let- ting her go, for she hath had more pieas- vre with him in three years than she would without him in a fong lifetime. Let the cause of her aisappcarance remain a mystery; to discover il now would lead to no end of foolish gossip and profit nothing. I will send Jonathan, mine eldest eon, in quest of Ler.” “Father,” began I, as we walked home together after dining with the silversmith, “at the risk of appearing ungrateful——' “Thou wert otherwise ungrateful, in- deed,” interrupted my father. “I read thy thoughts, for 1 know thy heart. Thou would’st go in_search of Joseph the son of Michael. In thy company I have pieasure as great as I had in that of thy mother when she first promised me, but:t would be changed to pain if thou neglect- ed one who has been such a friend 0 thee. Thou must tarry here only until thou hast recovered thy strength. Thou hast thought much and deeply on the subject; if Joseph escaped the wild beasts and savage Gentiles, whither would he be most likely to go.” “Almost the last words I heard him ut- ter declared his intention to go to his sis- ter in Galilee.” “Then thou would'st seek him there?" *'Tis a promising clew, and o that 1 will_surciy follow, i 1 fail to Hnd hira nearer home.” “Thou_thinkest that he may come to Kerioth?” “If he were in his right mind he surely would; as it is, I think the association here would tend to keep him away. In his youth Joscph visitcd that strange community ‘known as the Essenes. The quiet of the place, the grave solemnity of the priests, the blind obedience of the acolytes, ihe simple democracy of their government, their universal charity and pure religion left a lasting impression upon his mind. When wearied with the aitairs of business and the duties of en- tertaining he uscd often to speak of them and wish that he was safe within that quiet little republic of peace. T think it is not unlikely ihat the strong impres- sions of his youth may have directed him thither. “On Pollio’s galley, before the demons had taken possession of him, he spoke of going there.” “I know something of them,” rejoined my father, “principally from their secu- lar members, whom I have often met at Jerusalem and elsewhere. consistency to the verge of foolishness, yet are regarded as a_most pious people. Before departing for Galilce thou wilt do well to Vi journey. money, “‘After Enos’ most unbrotherly conduct yesterday I can take nothing that of right beiongs to him.” “True, though I trust that he is now in a better frare of mind. When I divided my living with thee I foresaw that thou might’st fall upon evil days, and gave thee not half of all I possessed. Besides, it was meet that I should retain sufficient for myself. I could supply ali thy needs Wwithout encroaching upon the portion of thy brother, even if thou possessed noth- ing of thine own."” “‘One Flavius Polllo is now enjoying the reversion of the entire estate I so foolish- ly forfeited,” was my smiling reply. ““If that be thy notion 1 have a surprise for thee. Less than a year ago Joseph was in Jerusalem, at the house of Joel, my banker. ~'It was then that he withdrew the last l_f"my portion; 1 gave him an order for They carry their city; 'tis but a short ere remaineth the matter of Instead of doing that he gave Joel ugh to make the amount up to a full t!v.cutdnu of she ot gold. ‘I have am- ple without it said he to the banker, and ie may stand Judas in good stead in case our plans misearry and he becomes reduced to want. Thou mayest well con- o self for the faie of such a se words of my father overwhelmed ULough swall in comparison to in Rome, a thousand iy a large sum, here money was low. But my the thought that it for the benefit of him, se brotherly generosity I owed its possession. L waited not. for the feast of Purim, which was but a few days ant, but, having been supplied with money and a camel by my loving father, set out, a week later, in quest of my dearly beloved friend. L. 1 departed on my journey alone. My ather offered to send a trusted servant with me, fearing that evil might betall T O, 2 W particularly from rob- bers, which were frequently encountered by travelers. I persuaded him, however, that a single servant would furnish scant protection, and set out unattended. Ior a time my way lay through a populous country, Smiling with green fieids and vineyards. No people in tne worid are S0 courteous and hospitable as the Jews, when they meet those of their own biood, whom they universally regard as broth- ers. Pleasing as were at first the numer- ous salutations I received, they soon grew ‘Wwearisome. ‘Well clothed, excellently mounted and provided with every con- Venience for tr: ling, I attracted much attention, and was often compelled to en- gage in long conversations, which serious- Iy delayed my progress. After a time I ceased to salute those I encountered and the change in my reception was often amusing, and even instructive, as show- ing the feeling of the people toward strangers. The pious and flattering expressions, “‘Peace be with thee” and ‘“‘Blessed be thy mother,” almost magically changed W “Dog of a Gentile’ and “Accurscd be the name of her who bore thee,’ while smiling faces and most respectful salaams save place to haughty visages, uplifted staves and clenched hands. As I advanced the character of the country gradually changed; the ground was less highly cultivated, the dwellings less numero and I had soon left all us of civilization behind me and en- tered the great desert of Judah. Barren as was the wide wilderness, it was more easily traversed than the hill country through which I had been journeying and 1 made such good progress that, before nightf: I had passed the low range of mountains that border the Sea of Salt and entered tne fertile little oasis of En- gedi, whose extent - is scarcely greater in any direction than the two thousand cubits that constitute a Sabbath day's Journey. Halting my wearied camel, I curiously, eagerly surveyed the historic sce: Wit the words of Jesus, the son of Sirach, pre. sented themselves to my mi “1 was exaited iike a palm tree in Engedi, and as a rose plant in Jericho, as a iair olive tree in a pleasant field, and grew up as a plane tree by the waters.” Here, in the days of Abraham, dweit the Amorites, and here gathered the great multitude that went forth to make war upon Je- hoshaphat, the King of Judah. It was to the strongholds of these mountains that Saul retreated during the war with lhg Philistines. 1t was here that he pursue David with three thousand men, and it was in_a cave hard by that the future King of Israel privily cut away the skirt of the sleeping Saul. To the north and east, within piain view, arise the moun- tains of Moab, among them the one from whose top Moses viewed the land prom- ised by the Lord. This favored spot in the wide wilderness is surely not less productive, less dili- gently cultivated than in those far-oft days when it bore the name Hazezon Ta- mer—the pruning of the palms. Surround- ed by rocky mountains, barren wastes and & decp sea, wherein no fish can live, the oasis owes its existence to a most abundant fountain that gushes forth, far above, in a defile of the mountains. 'The ,plain, that slopes gracefully away to the salt-lined border of,the sea, is covered with date paims, fig trees and vines, and yields abundant vests of grain. I not- ed that vegetation was much further ad- vanced than at Kerioth, the barley being already well grown, although the flelds were still red with the flowers of spring. What 1 am to write touching the man- ners, customs, religious beliefs and ob- servances of the Essenes may prove a weariness to some and foolishness to others, Yet little is known, even in Jerusalem, of this strange people, who go not beyond the strict pale with which they have hemmed in their lives, narrow- ing with opportunity, the desires of sin- fulness and selfish’ gratification, and knowledge concerning them may at once interest and instruct. But, above all, they appear to be the divinely appointed fore- runners of a greater and purer Israel; a theocracy greater than that of David, purer than that of Abraham. As 1 sat contemplating the beautiful scene and regarding curiously a number of low, exceedingly plain buildings of White ‘limestone, the evident dwelling places of the community, a tall young man left a cluster of palm trees near by and advanced toward me. He was dressed in a robe of purest white linen, confined by a leathern girdle, from which depgnded an ax and a long napkin or apron. His bearing was erect, his face frank and open, his mganner sincere and pleasing. ! “Peace be with thee, brother,” said he, making a most ceremonious and profound salaam. “Ard with thee, also, brother,” I re- sponced, saluting him a8 well as my posi- tion on the back of the camel permitted. “] am pleased to see thee here, friend Judas,” said the other, advancing as he spoke. “Thou knowest me not in-\this dress. Art come to join us as a noviee?” 1 now recognized in the youngsman a former pupil of Philo, named Gabriel Yoma, whom I had met shortly after my arrival in Alexandria. “Not so, friend Yoma,” rejoined I, over- joyed at stumbling upon one 1 knew so well; “I come in quest of my friend Ma- nasseh, the same thou met with me in Alexandria.” “He is not here, nor hath been these three years or more. During that time I served my novitiate and not once have I set foot beyond the limits of Ingedi since the day of my arrival. But come with me, it is the hour for our evening meal and I must not absent myself.”” Giving my camel into the keeping of a youthful novice, Yoma led ‘"~ way to one of the low structures, where he con- Gucted me to a small Foom, Or more prop- erly, cell, unfurnished ekcept for a stool ard a roll of matting for a bed. In a few minttes the same novice appeared bearing a _jug of water, a dish of dates and a picce of barley bread. The Essenes are most hogpitable, but they abhor the sight of blood and never eat the flesh of ani- mals. My simple but satisfying meal ended, I arose and sought the outer air. No one was in sight and I employed the time in more closely scrutinizing the houses of the little commonwealth. They were all built after the same general plan, over the door of each being the legend: ine is thine and thine is min “Thou hast hit upon the very essence of our: system,” Yoma who had ap- proached noiselessly and found me in the act of reading one of these inscriptions, rudely carved in the limestone rock. “I. Ga- briel Yoma, possess nothing, not even this robe, this girdle and these worn sandals, Vet all thou seest; these buildings, those date trees, yonger vines—everything around us—is mine. I have no food in my cell, yet the last scrap in the great storeroom is mine. ve not a zuz, nor a purse to put it in, yet all the mane{ in the scrip of our treasurer, to the last coin, belongs to me. g‘ fine, that which each hath is the property of all and the proverty of all belongs to/each.” “A most admirable system,” said I. “In w?rkmg for others you work for your- selves.” ““And what is a far better, and hence wiser thing, in working for ourselves we work for others. But we labor not-alone for the benefit of our own community; we love the lowly, the feeble and the poor, and minister to their wants. We possess rare skill in medicine and nurse them when they are sick. Through prayer and long contemplation of the nature and ex- celience of God some of us are able to perform miracies, and are especially gift- ed in the casting out of devils. Besides, we can sometimes foretell the Philo taught much that was good, but our philosophy far surpasseth his. Thou wilt do well to cast thy fortunes with us, Iscariot.” An hour before- I had repented under- taking the journey, for, upon reflection, I had concluded that the chances of finding Joseph-among the Essenes was very re- mote. But now I was most glad that' I had come. The miraculous signt of these holy men might pierce the veil that ob- scured him from view, while their gift of exoreising might, when found, rid him of the wicked demons that possessed him. “I will think of it, Gabriel,” I replied. “I am well nigh wearied of the world, but 1 cannct abandon it, even for works of charity and a life of holiness, while the man whom I love as my father wanders aimlessly up and down its byways, with no iriends, not even his own unclouded reason, to succor him. Until I find him, or lcarn fate, 1 can have no other business or calling in this life. With the 1 light of moerning I must be on my ay to Galilee, where 1 have hopes of se- curing some trace of him.” “We have houses on the other side of the sca,’ responded Yoma. “We are in constant cominunication - with them and nge food and other commodities as 1ons requires. Some of the brethren wrrive here the day after to-morrow hange honey with us for dates and mporiance with our b is tuere or hatn Superiors. been there, know it. Thou wiit do well to abide ntil they come, AS (his seemed an excelient suggestion, 1 decided to remain at fingedi for the present. Failing to learn anything of Joseph, I might then endeavor to consult one of their holy seers. 1 spent the greater part of the following day with Yoma, who was relieved from his ordi- ry duties to entertain e, and arrived A tolerably clear understanding of the character and mission of the Essenes. And first, y are Jews, and not, as many would have it, Gentiles—Greeks, Alexandrians or heathen from the Eas! They were originally of that strict party, whose very name suggests piety, the Chasidim, that revolted with Judas Mac- cabeus, who, scme two centuries ago, overthrew the foreign oppressors of our nation, purified the Lemple and re-estab- lished the true worship of God throughout Israel. It was in the wilderness of Ju- dah, in the fasinesses of these very moun- tains, that they rallied for God and coun- ‘From the Chasidim sprung the Pha- Sees. Wearied with war, and the al- most equally bitter discussions that en- sued, some four thousand decided to de- vote their lives to loving brotherhocd, -pure worship and a contemplation of the excellence of the Deity. Tney withdrew to the wilderness and were scarcely missed from the bustling, wrangling world they left behind them. Here, for generations, they have maintained their numbers without apparent diminution. This has been accompiished by means of novices, for their regulations and vows do not permit them to marry. Through Sy- riac corruption the name of Chasidim hath been transformed into Essene. They live, not only apart from the world, but, to a large extent, from each other, spending no time in idle talk and only s:mversing upon matters of import- at ance.\ Thus they are largely dreamers, thoug] ambition, wealth, lust and the thousand like fancies that compose the visions of men of the world have no part in their dreams. The simplicity and morality of these people surpass that of any I have ever encountered. They eat and drink, not to satisfy their taste or appetite, but only to sustain life. All the pleasures of sense they regard as sinful. They wear - their shoes to shreds, thelr clothes to tatters, and only reject them when they will no longer hold togeflher. They will accept no money unless they have absolute need for it, and then none that bears the im- press of king or potentate, for they strict- iy obey the law and will have naught to do .with graven images. They always speak the truth and under no circum- stances will they take an oath. Pharisees, who despise them, calling them “Pious imbeciles,” for they -will have no slaves, belleving that ali men should be free. All Essenes regard themselves as priests, in consequence of which they ab- Stain entirely from wine. Blind obedience 1is the fundamental principle - that underlies their en- ire system, ‘and to this it owes its existence. Every house belong- ing to the society is managed, to the smallest detail, by a council, which is chosen by baliot, and whose orders are implicitly obeyed. . .-mong them are four classes; children, two grades of novices and those who have arrived at the full dignity of mem- bership. Novices serve one year, when they are given a white robe, a girdle, and an ax, and become Essenes. But they must serve two years of probation before they take their vow and are ad- mitted to’ common meals of the sect. The ax 1s the emblem of industry, as the white robe is of purity, to each of which they have devoted their lives and, surely, the two are strictly complementary. The Essenes arise at dawn and offer prayer to Ggfl upon the appearance of the Sun, as the priests do in the Temple. Then they apply themselves to their daily vocations, which consist for the most part of agricultural labor. At the fifth hour, having removed all their clothing except a linen girdle, they plunge into a cold bath. This is in the nature of a re- ligicus purification, and _hath led the Pharisees to call them ‘Baptizers in the morning.”” Then those who have arrived at full membership assemble in the com- mon room, where, amid the deepest si- lence, they partake of food, only bread and one plain dish. This simple and most frugal meal begirs and ends with prayer. Then they labor on till evening, when they again assemble for a second like meal. S Their greateést care appears to be the avoidance of all defilement. 1f a member and a novice chance to touch each other, the former is defiled and both must be ified by bathirg. They carry a nfp- attached to their girdle upon which to wipe their hands after touching divers things. They very strictiy observe the Sabbath and prepare no food on that day. They grow no olives and .never anoint themselves with oil lest it ‘may have come from the press of a Gentile, or hath not paid the proper tithes. They have a treasurer Who takes care of their common money and makes all disburse- ments. Seldom do they travel abroad, and never visit towns and cities; not even going to Jerusalem for the feast of the Passover, though they send gifts to the Temple. All of the Essenes do not dwell here end on the other side of the sea, some living in cities and mixing with the peo- ple. These are called the secular Es- nes, and_ while practicing the highest rtues and Hving the strictest of lives, have not\ renounced the world. They sometimes marry, but, before doing so, sperd three years studying the charac- fer of the woman upon whom they have placed their affections. Thus, starting from a common source, the KEssenes and Pharisees have much in common, the chief difference being that while the Pharisees talk the Rs- senes act, the latter carry out to the furthest limit the teachings and specu- Jations of the former. Each expresses a contempt for wealth, which the Essenes alone exemplify in their iives; both are great sticklers for purification,"which the latter carry to thd extent\ of purifying their lives and their hearts. In word, the Essenes aspire to be perfect Jews, living, literally and stricily, according to the law of Moses. In their minds they cannot separate humility from poverty, and expect that the coming of the Mes- siah will see the establishment of the kingdom of the poor. Their views of the soul of man, its past and future, differ widely from those of the Sadducees, who believe not in a fu- ture life, and likewise from that of the Pharisees, who look for a resurrection of the body and have no conception of mind as_distinet from matter. 3 They hold that souls existed before matter, in the state of pure, unbedied epirits, created so by the will of God. For these spirits, matter possesses a strong attraction, which comes in time to be irrcsistible. Thus they are seduced away from the pure ether that has for ages been their happy dwelling-place, and are shut up in human bodics, veritable prison-houses, from which death offers a blest refief, they then returning to their happy homes, leaving_ their bodies to molder back to dust. Yet to break from th: gyves that bind them to a most dis- tasteful existence by ending their own lives would be a icvous crime, since their imprisonment here is a penance for the sin and folly of yielding to the se- ductions of matter. In one* respect they are surely superior to the, Thus, though Jews, professing to derive their religion from Sxe law and the prophets, they have completely reversed the opinions of the Pharisees and ap- proacn quite nearly to the faith of the advanced and philosophical Greeks, who believe in the tuture life while rejecting the resurrection of the bedy. Strange as are the tenets of this sect, who prove their faith by lives of poverty, labor and aevotion to “others, I believe that they are destifed to exert a decided influence upon the future opinions and actions of -men. future, In studying the history, philosophy and usages oI these ‘‘exaggerated Jews” the time passed swiftly. 1 had not yet fully recovered from the hard rebuff I had re- ceived at the hands of fortune, and the quiet of the cloisters, the low tones and still more impressive silence of the mem- bers, who secmed almost constantly en- gaged in prayer, ‘exerted a most health- ful influence upon my weakened body and distracted mind. On the morning of the second day, shortly after I had broken my fast, Yo- ma presented himself and informed me that Sotah, the head of the order at Ea- gedi, whose acquaintance I had already made, was waitng to speak with m I found the priest, a very venerlble man, whose countenance indicated a strange mingling of benevolence and se- verity, engaged in conversation with two middle-aged Essenes, whe, as.Yoma in- formed me, had just arrived from the settiement across the sea. “These brethren,” began Sotah, indicat- ing his companicns- by, a wave of his hand, ‘gnow noting of thy friend, who hath visited none or their houses. stay,” he added, as I turned to depart, “ihere came cne with them who goeth . much about, having, as he believech, a divine sion to perform, who may give thee tidings.” - As he spoke the only door of the long, low aparunent cpened, and a strange per- sonage entered. He was a man i the prime of ‘life, tall and broad-shouldered, but gaunt almost to the point of emacia~ tion. Sctah need not ve told me that lie aeparted somewhat from the rules of the regular Essenes, since his appearance amply indicaied it. iustead of a white linen robe, he was clad in a rough garment of camel’s-hair, with a girdle, made of the skin of a wild fox, about his loins. He wore no sandals upon his feet and his long, un- kempt biack hair was unconfined by tur- ban. His eyes, which were far sunken in his head, glowed almost with the bril- liancy of coals of fire, - while his lips moved as though he were communing with himself or engaged in prayer. A more striking or remarsaole figure I had not encountered since my brief sojourn in the Kingdom of Wretchedness. “1 greet thee, brother,” said he, speak- ing rapidly, excitedly, “as one predes- tined by God to carry forward the work I am just beginning. He hath given me power o see that which he hath hidden from many. 1 greet thee in his name.” Tne commanding bearing, .rude dress and carnest, almost impassioned manner of the man, affected me even more than his remarkable words. For a moment I gazed at him in astonishment, thinking him a half-demented person. ““Who art thou?” I asked, when I had recovered somewhat from mine astonish- ment. “I am the voice of ome crying in wilderness; prepare ve the way of “the Lord, make his paths straight.” As he repeated, in_a shrill_monotone, these words of the Prophet Isaiah, the newcomer drew himself up to what seem- cd a_ towering height. Then, with his clenched hanas uplifted and his eyes shining with an altogether unnatural light, he exclaimed in a loud voice: “Repent ye, for the Kingdom of Heav- en is at hand!” = N “Repent ye, for the Kingdom of Heav- en is at hand!” < ‘With increased emphasis the strange personage repeated these warning: words of prophecy. 1 stood as one confounded, overpowered, fascinated. I no longer noted the tall and wasted form, bronzed and sunken cheeks, distorted face, tan. gled bair and nervously clenched hand ceased to observe the rude, almost bar- baric dress. The words scarcely impress- ed me, so intently was my gaze fixed upon those luminous, tlashing eyes, which geemed the very embodiment of a hu- man soul that had lately been face to face with its maker. So Moses might have looked as he listened to the thunder on Mount Horeb and bore the tablets of éhe law down the rugged side of Mount inal. But the terrible experiences through which 1 had so recently passed preciuded the lcng continuance of the overwhelming attraction, and 1 was soomn able to breathe, to move, to think. . . That he claimed the gift of prophecy was evident both from his words and, the marner in which he uttered them. Such men had long been common in Palestine, \be oppressive rule of our foreign con- querors having awakened fresh interest in the coming of the long-promised Mes- siah and induced many to proclaim his speedy advent. So far as I have ever heard they were all possessed of a sort of frenzy, which produced a profound impression upon those with whom they ame incantact. This had usually been ut transitory, since evidence of delusion and possession speedily manifested them- selves, to the discredit of the prophet. The frequency with which such im- postors—or, more usually, self-deceived enthusiasts—had presented themselves, had tended to greatly weaken the faith of the people, who not infrequently de- rided them as béing possessed of devils. This sentiment had been increased by the circumstance that some had actually an- nounced themselves ad the Messiah and had succeetied in deceiving numbers of the pecple. Despite the spell which the self-an- nounced prophet and fulfiller of prophe- cies had momentarily cast over me I did not doubt but he was one of those whom fasting and long vigils had raised to that peculiar ecstasy so closely allied to mad- ness as to be scarcely distinguishable from it. The thougnt that he was afflicted like my poor friend aroused my decpest sympathnies, and I resolved to humor his fancies; besides, as Sotah had suggested, he might well know something of Manasseh’s whereabouts. “Then thou thinkest,” said 1, “that the words of our great prophet find their ful- filiment in thee?” “I did think so,” he replied, speaking more calmly, “'and it was that belief that sent me, NOW SiX years past, to this quiet place and the society of these holy men. But I no more speculate touching the matter, for it hath been given me to know. God hath spoken unto me and I 1o longer doubt. It was this knowledge, more certain than things seen, heard and felt, that sent me forth into the wilder- ness to announce his coming.” The coherency and earnesiness of the sgeakcr impressed me far more deeply than the frenzy that had controlled him at first, and I regarded him with renewed interest. 5 “During thy wanderings in the dis- charge of thy mission hast chanced to meet one Joseph Manasseh, of Kerioth?'" I asked. *“The hand of the Lord hath been laid heavily upon him, and he hath passed under the dominion of demons. I know not, indeed, if he yet liveth. ‘‘He hath never crorsed my path, yet I see_him now?” “Where?” 1 cried, after glancing eager- at the open doorway, which framed no gure. “I know not,” replied the prophet, his eves staring it vacancy, ‘bat e 1& bes side a spring among the rocks.” ‘““Then he lives; he is safe?” I cried. ‘“The devils seize him; he struggles; they prevail and throw bim bleeding to the ground. But grieve not; thy faith will deliver him, for thou art to serve the Messiah, whose coming I proclaim, but whose glory I am not to see.” “Who is he? Whence cometh me?’ I asked eagerly, whilo the sgn-a? Essenes pressed closer and nervou: wiped their hands upon their napkins. * “I know mnot, but the veil will soon be lifted. He liveth, and waiteth but the moving of the spirit to come’forth and redeem Israel. The glory of Abraham and David shall grow dim beside the light of the fire that he will kindle in the land. AlL flesh shall see the salvation of God.” “Who art thou?” 1 asked again. My tone was different now, for I no long- er,saw a madman or a mere enthusiast bt one whom the hand of God had touchpd and who spoke by divine au- thority. ‘1 am John, the son of Zacharias,” he replied, “‘and’ I am come to preach the baptism of repentance for the remission of sins. I baptize with water, prasing to God for grace, but he whom I am_ most unworthy to proclaim, whose sandals I am not fit to loosen, shall baptize with fire and with the Holy Ghost.” ‘My heart beat high at the glowing words of this poor Essene, who was car- rying to the people the baptism of his sect. Surely a brighter day was dawn- ing for Israel, which still remained the chosen people of God. In the great scenes that were to ensue I was destined to play a part; the predictions of Manlius and Diogenes had lorced by the mouth of the Lord’s latest prophet. At that moment a hty ambition arose within me—an ambition that looked to the But approval of God, as well as the ap- plause of men—I would be remembered 10 the end of time as one of the founders of the new theocracy, one of the govern- ing ministers of the Messiah. “Now is the kingdom of the poor about to be established!” cried Sotah, with a fervor and excitement second only to that which John had manifested. ‘‘Verily the wind bloweth from the south, and the poor have reason to be glad. A de- spised EsSSene were a most unfitting her- ald to announce to the rich the coming of ‘the Messiah. The time draweth nigh when brother shall give to brother, when life shall be robbed of half its miseries, death come to be less desired. But give us of this, thy baptism, John, for we sure- ly stand in need of it, our sins being many and grievous.” ‘With a sorrowful hear®I gazed upon the venerable speaker. For mere than sixty years had he lived in those calm cloisters serving Ged in prayer,,in the restraint of his passions and in laboring for the good of others. If such a man had need of baptism all the seething waters of the tumultuous Jordan couM scarce make me worthy to serve the éxpected Messiah, With a humility surpassing even that which pervaded my heart on that deci- sive night in Gaul when I resolved to quit my unclean charges and return unto my father, 1 followed the four pious men from the room. The tall baptizer led the way to a build- ing that contained a basin of masonry, filled to the brim with limpid water. There we severally confessed our sins and were immersed in the water. The simple rite is not altogether wanting in the Jewish ritual, a Gentile convert to Judaism being purified by a total im- mersion in water. Not all the solemn ceremonies I had witnessed in the Tem- ple had so moved my heart and exalted my mind. The high priest, when he tremblingly enters the holy of holles, cannot more certainly feel himself in the presence of God than did I that day. “And now, Judas—praise of the Lord said John, in solemn yet affeetion- ate tones, “return to thy home and do thy duty as it is given thee to see it. Seek thy friend, and when thou hast found him, as thou surely wilt, the Mes- siah will have found a faithful and most worthy servant.” I hastily said farewell, mounted my camel and rode away to the westward. Supreme happiness reigned in my heart. I had found faith and peace and felt as- sured of the restoration of my friend. I saw a brother in every man I met, and saluted all as such, not heeding the delay the courtesy cost me. Night had fallen when I_reached my home in Kerioth and gave my camel into the keeping of a servant. Thinking to surprise my father, who would scarcely expect me to return for some days, I loosened the strap that secured the dou- ble doors and softly entered the common room. On a tall stand was the large sil- ver lamp, that I remembered as a boy. Its two burners were lighted and I saw at a glance that the apartment was un- tenanted. I had barely entered when I heard footsteps in the next room and my father’s voice, saying: “Judas will be overjoyed to see thee.” “I feel that he will return to-night.” The voice in which these words were uttered set my heart bounding like a roe on the mountains, yet rooted me to the floor. Softer, gentler, the effect, I concluded, of weakness, the tones were those of my loved and lost friend. An instant later the massive form of my father appeared in view, and behind him in the n;ncenaln light I caught a glimpse of the face, lacking only the black, curl- ing beard, that for months had scarcely been absent from mine inward vision. “Joseph!” I cried, springing’ forward and clasping the approaching figure in my arms. In an instant I discovered my error and retreated in confusion. The form was plainly that of a woman. “Not Joseph,” said my father, as he caught me in his strong embrace, ‘“but one who should be scarcely less dear to -thee; his only sister, Miriam, arrived not an hour ago from Galilee.” Pleased at the meeting, though embar- rassed at my very natural mistake, I sa- luted the maiden with the best grace I could command. Manasseh had not in- dulged ln that compliméntary extrava- gance common to~Us Jews when he compared his sister to a rose of Sharon. T soon came to know that she was beau- tiful beyond any of her sex that I had ever séen, not excepting the daughter of the silvepsmith. But that night 1 saw only thé loved features of my afflicted friend, which seemed, to my eyes, repro- duced in her. Eight years had elapsed since I had last seen Miriam, then a shy, awkward girl of ten, and but for her re- markable resemblance to her brother I would not have recognized her. “Knowest thou aught of Joseph?” I asked as soon as I had recovered some measure of my composure. “Naught,” she replied, sadly. ‘‘About a year“ago ‘he paid me a brief visit in Galilee, since which time until now I have heard nothing of him. Fearing that ill fortune had fallen to his portion, I came hither with a caravan bound for Egypt, only to 1€arn— Here the tender-hearted girl interrupt- ed her speech with a flood of tears. “And how resulted thy journey, Judas?” asked my father. “I fear but badly, since thou art so soon returned.” “Well or ill,” I replied, “as thou pos- sessest or lackest faith to believe the strange revelation I have received.” ‘‘By faith the walls of Jericho erum- bled to thkeir foundations; by faith the rocks sent forth water in the waste places of the wilderness; by faith they brazen serpent possessed the power of heallng. Hath not God ever exacted faith from his people, and thinkest thou it hath depart- ed from Israel? If the faith of my house will restore Joseph, the son of Michael, to his friends, then Joseph, the son of Michael, will surely be restored.” As my father spoke his form straight- ened, his eyes glowed with a peculiar light that might well have been reflected from the burnished and bejeweled throne of the Most High, while a beatific look settled upon his face. “Joseph, the son of Michael, will surely be restored,” I repeated fervently. “Now for thy story, Judas,” said the old man, as he seated Miriam beside him upon a couch. “Tell us of this strange revelation, whose conclusion I accepted because I saw that thou believed'st it. Shall I trust my son and lack faith in Ghod? Tell us all that hath befallen thee.” *“Joseph, the son of Michael, will in- deed be restored to us,’ commented my father gravely, when I had finished a de- tailed account of my short journey. “But, great as will be the joy with which we will all welcome him, it should be as sor- row when compared with that attendant on the coming of the Messiah, the ex- vulsion of the proud and cruel Romans and the restoration of the reign of God in Israel. Often have I been deceived by false and self-persuaded prophets, but now cometh one who speaketh the word and announceth the will of the Lord. Let us no longer mourn for Joseph, nor for Ruth, nor yet for Israel. whose glory is about to be re-established.” The enthusiasm of my father, rein- forced by the calm faith that shone trust- fully in the luminous depths of Miriam’s dark, Jewish eyes, removed the last doubt that lingered in my heart, lifted the last shadow that. clouded my mind, set me quite free from the hideous thralldom of uncertainty that had so long possessed my waking hours, troubled my nightly dreams. The following day, in compliance with Miriam’s request, I told her the story of Joseph’s wanderings and adventures. I might well have termed it mine own story, since our lives had been so inter- woven ag to render them inseparable in a connected narrative. I noted, not with- out pleasure, that she seemed quite as interested in occurrences pertaining to me as in those that more ciosely concerned her brother. That Joseph had sounded my praises to her I did not doubt; besides, she could not well choose but be attracted by the strange history of one who was so evidently devoted to him. It was at this time that her wondrous beauty forced itself upon my attention. It was not alone that she possessed-a fair face and a shapely, graceful form; there was about her a simple earnest- seh impelled me toward his sister. I saw Joseph in her face and gestures, heard him in_her musical voice, felt him in her penetrating eyes and in_that mysterious something that pervaded her entire per- sonality, and to which I can give “no name, except to say t it seemed to ;Iouch a responsive chord in mine own eart. Joseph was present with me, yet it was a Joseph refined, exalted, * freed from many imperfections that had manifested themselves, even to my love- prejudiced eyes. B On her own 3:11 Mirfam had very little to tell. Her girlhood had passed happily in the house of her Uncle Simeon, near the half-gentile city of Tiberius, She had acquired an education far or to that which usually falls to the lot of Jewish maidens, and was almost as familiar with the law as I myself. She was possessed of ample means, her brother having real men it The Dour 18 at hand God #nish quite a sum with his uncle for her use and benefit. Two days later Miriam accompanied my father and myself to Jerusaiem, where she was to meet her Uncle Simeon, who always attended the feasts in the Holy City. The 13th and Mlth days .of the month of Adar, on which the feast of m, commemorating the deliverance of’the Jews under Abasuerus, was ob- served, having passed, she departed with Simeon, a grave and pious, but kind and affectionate man, for her Galilean home. The same day my father rfeturned to Ke- rioth with Encs, who had come to Jeru- salem before us. As for myself, I re- mained in the city, where I had hopes of learning something of Joseph's where= abouts from either the Roman or Jewish authorities, whom I could not well con~ sult during the bustle and confusion ates tendant on feast days. ' v, I permitted but one day to elapse be= fore beginning my inquiries and, after carefully considering the matter, deter= \guned to first apply to the Sanhedrim. hough greatly Limited by the Romans, the funections of this ancient body are still numerous and important. It makes the laws, so far as the Jews are permit- ted to frame their own reguiations. It sits also as a court and possesses the most exclusl&e judicial powers. It settles question of dcctrine, and before its bar blasphemers and false prophets are ar- raigned. It fixes the limits of towns and preserves records of all Jews living therein. It was for this last reason that I en= tertained strong hopes of finding in the archives of the Sanhedrim some report touching the whereabouts of my afilicted friend. The prospect was increased by the circumstance that they contained also genealogical tables of all the leading Jew- ish families, within which category that of Joseph Manasseh clearly fell. Accordingly, the third day after my father’'s departure, I repaired to the house of the chief ruler of the Jewish people, Joseph Caiaphas, who had been appointed high priest upon the nomination of Valerius Gratus about six years before my departure from Judea. He was also president of the Sanbedrim, and his as- sistance would prove of great value. 1 was informed that Caiaphas was in the Hall of Hewn Stones, in the Tem= ple, where he was presiding over a meetw ing of the Sanhedrim. [ obtained, how= ever, an audience with Annas, his fathere in-law, who, after serving as chief priest for nine years, was deposed the year after Tiberius became Emperor of Rome. While Wwe have but one kigh priest, at the same time the- title is, by courtesy, conferred upon all who have ever filled that ex- alted position, and also upon certain in- fluential members of their families. Since the death of Herod the Great no Jew has exercised such authority in Je= rusalem as Annas, and well may he bear the proud title of high priest. Though removed from office, he had still suffi- cient influence with the Romans to se- cure the appointment of several ¢f his sons, and afterward his son-in-law, to the same high position. Through all these years he had continued the secret power in control af Jewish affairs. A man pos- sessed of greater ability and less con= science hath not appeared in Judea dur- ing this generation. A hard-faced man with,a cold, calcu- lating eye, he seemed still possessed of unlimited courtesy, or, rather, licy, and received me with a great shgnol kind- ness, asked after my father, whom he said he had known for many years, and directed the subject of my inquiry to be at once investigated. I was soon fnform- ed that the archives of the office con- tained nothing touching Joseph Manas- seh, and was preparing, quite sorrowful- ly, to depart, when the high priest and Rabbi Samsuel entered the room. The fore mer was a comparatively young man, whose sacerdotal character seemed to be= gin and e with his fine, priestly robes. His face Indicated a weak, vain, self-in- dulgent man, whose course might well be molded by his designing and ambitious father-in-law. “And so, Judas, thou hast returned to Judea,”” said Rabbi Samuel. *“An old pu- pil of mine, and a most promising one.* e continued, addressing the high priest. “I am right glad to know that thy re- ligion and native land proved greater at- tractions than pagan phncsog‘h'y and the pleasures of the Gentile worl Art come to renew thy studies with me?” ‘There was in the rabbi’'s manner noth- ing to suggest that aught but the best of good feeling had ever existed betweenm us. I credited this to the circumstance that my brother had married his daugh= ter, and resolved to say nothing calcu- lated to disturb existing relations. “For more than two years I studled i Alexandria,” I repiied. “I have now no plans for the future, since I am in sore perplexity and trouble.” “f'am right sorry to hear thee say that. Myself and two other doctors would soom salute thee as Rabbi Judas. What Is the nature of thy trouble? Thou art in the presence of rare advisers.” ‘ As he spoke, the rabbi bowed low and deferentially to the two priests. To con- stitute a student rabboni nothing is re- quired save that three recognized rabbins formally and publicly salute him as rabbi. The offer was at once kind and flattering, and blushing no doubt, I bowed my thanks. “I fear, rabbl, that I am unworthy the high honor thou art so good as to suge- gest for me,” I replied. y trouble con- cerns the misfortunes of a friend, who, something more than three years incurred thy displeasure at Kerioth.” “Joseph, the son of Michael. I knew him not at the time, or there would have been no wrangle. My zeal for religion may have carried me somewhat too far, though the young man spoke’ most flip- pantly of sacred things and holy person- ages. What is the nature of his misfore tune? I am not one to bear malice against my neighbor.” Without entenng into particulars, I stated that I had become separated Joseph in Gaul, and described his ment condition. “I fear it is a visitation for his blas- phemy,” commented the rabbi, serlously. “Since nothing can be learned here thou must apply to the Romans. But, stay.” he added, seeing that I was makg- ing ready to depart, “it may be that thou canst give us information of value touching a matter which the Sanhedrim hath been most seriously considering to- day. Knowest thou aught of ome Johm, lhe"?ori of Z.‘ac%an .dwho b.pm on the lower Jordan reaching ‘wilderness of Judah?" ke un- bl I started at this abrupt and most expected question. Why should Rabi Samuel expect that I, newly returned to the country from a long ence, knew anything of the baptizer? The flashed upon me that Enos, to whom myg father had spoken of the matter upon our arrival in_ Jerusalem, enjoining se- crécy, had made a confidant of his rich and powerful father-in-law. If my con- jecture was correct the latter was act- ing a part of duplicity. The old feeling with which I had regarded him :evig:d with new éore‘e. and I resolve o on my guard at every point. the same time I would not deviate b: the truth, so far as I spoke touching the matter. T have met this John—"* “Say’st so?” interrupted Annas, spring- ing to his feet and approaching me “What manner of man is he? Doth he claim the gift of prophecy? Speak! ‘tis a matter of the last importance. We have heard of him, but only by the re- ports of persons of small experience. The opinion of one whom our learned col-. league here stands ready to salute as rabbi will prove of great weight. Doth he claim to be the Messiah?™ Never had I been placed in a so embarrassing. I possessed great faith in the tall baptizer, and was neither afraid nor ashamed to avow it, but T feared the effect that such . an _ opinion might have on the prospects of John and the great cause he evidently I had no choice in the matter, but must needs !P«l. I told briefly of visit to Engedi and my meeting with Jz there. I said nothing of his prophecy cone cemln'i..lmvh and myself, g\fl otherwise gave substance of all he had said. “Thou must call another meeting of the coming one who x redeem them from the bondage e Qllml ro! sin?" T asked, -% -dignantly, forgetting my caution warmth of my feelings. -0u must acquire man, before thou art Judas. Think’'st tha anal r idea of the glory of Israel, wlfi-"e m:.x 't‘l’I:u'" nl’tfl giatm..m %. may come ears of ate, . and furnish him m a further oppressing our nation. in foolish efforts that but save all against the Messiah, who can be