A Jewish Rabbi in Rome
.
With a Commentary by Ben Israel
.
Fifteenth Century. Reign of Sixtus IV
.
Rabbi Ben Esdra to his dearest friend,
Rabbi Ben Israel, greeting—May the Lord
Keep thee in safety ! I am still in Rome,
And, after months of silence, now redeem
My pledge to tell you how this Christian world
(Which here I came to study), nearly viewed,
Strikes me, a Jew born, and with steady faith
In all the Law and Prophets of our land.
Still, though a Jew, it is the Truth I seek,—
Only the Truth,—and, come from whence it will,
I greet it with bent head and reverent heart.
I am a seeker;—though my faith is firm,
I will not tie my mind in knots of creeds.
No more preamble. I am now in Rome,
Where our Jehovah rules not,—but the man
Jesus, whose Life and Fate too well we know,
Is made a God—the cross on which he died
A reverend symbol, and his words the law.
His words, what were they ? Love, goodwill to man.
His kingdom ? Peace. His precepts ? Poverty.
Well, are they followed ? That’s the question now.
What fruit have they produced ?
One moment, first.
I think no ill of him. He was sincere,
Lofty of thought, a pure idealist,
Possessed, indeed, by visionary dreams,
But wishing ill to no one, least of all
To us, and to our Faith, which was his own.
I will not say he was entirely wrong
In the strong censures that he laid on us ;
For we had many faults—were, as he said,
Only too much like whited sepulchres,—
And then, no good man is entirely wrong,
And none entirely right. The truth is vast,
And never was there Creed embraced it all.
Like all enthusiasts he beheld his half,
Deemed it the whole, and with excess of zeal
Pushed his ideal truth beyond the stretch
Of human practice. Most of what he taught
The wise and good of old had said before.
His healing skill, this sect calls miracles,
A hundred others had as well as he ;
And for that claim his followers set up,
And he, perhaps (though here there is much doubt),
Asserted of himself, that he was sent
Messias, King of kings, to save the world,—
This, surely, was no crime deserving death :
No mere opinions, void of acts, are crimes.
Besides, what sect or creed was ever crushed
By cruelty ? Our error was perverse,
Wilful, unwise. Had we but spared his life,
He would have passed away as others pass,—
Simon and John and Apollonius,
Judas of Galilee, and many more.
But, no ! we lifted him above the rest ;
Made him conspicuous by his martyrdom ;
Watered with blood his doctrines ; fired the hearts
Of those who loved him with intemperate zeal
And wild imaginations, till at last
They thought they saw him risen from the dead.
Our folly (call it by its lightest name)
Nourished the seed into this mighty sect,
That takes his name and worships him as God.
Setting aside the superstitious part,
I ask, What were the doctrines that he preached,
And that his followers with their lips profess ?
Love ! Peace ! Goodwill to man ! This was the gist
Of all he taught. Forgive your enemies !
Seek for the lost sheep from the fold that stray !
Harm no one ! For the prodigal returned
Kill the fat calf ! Be merciful to all !
Who are the enemies, prodigals, lost sheep,
To whom their mercy, love, care, gifts are given ?
Not we, the Jews, in truth. Is it for us
They kill the calf ? Are we the enemies
That they forgive ? Have they goodwill for us ?
Not they ! They hold us rather like foul swine,—
Abuse us,—lay great burdens on our backs,—
Spit on us,—drive us forth beyond their walls,—
Force us all slavish offices to do,—
And if we join their sect, scorn us the more.
If those are blessèd, as he says, whom men
Revile and persecute, most blest are we !
Yet was not Jesus, first of all, a Jew,—
Even to his death a Jew? Did he renounce
His strict faith in the Prophets and the Law ?
Never ! “ I come not to destroy,” he said,
“ The Law or Prophets, only to fulfil.”
So, too, his preaching, whatsoe’er it was,
Was to the Jews. The miracles he wrought
Were for the Jews alone. “ I am not sent,”—
These are his words,—“ but unto the lost sheep
Of Israel’s house : my bread is not for dogs.”
Who were the dogs to whom he thus refused
To lend his healing hand ? What had she done
Who asked his service that he scorned her thus ?
She was from Canaan, or a Greek—no, Jew ;
This was her crime. ’Tis true that, touched at last
By those sad humble words of hers, “ The dogs
May eat the crumbs dropped from the master’s board,”
He made her an exception to his rule,—
But still his rule was this. This his first rule.
No ? But it was ! Remember the rich youth
Who prayed to be his follower : “ Two things,”
He said, “ are needful.” First, that you obey
The Law and Prophets—that is, are a Jew ;—
And then the second, that your wealth and goods
You sell, and give the proceeds to the poor.
First be a Jew, then poor. Renounce all wealth ;
Keep nothing back. These are conditions prime,
Refusing which, your following I reject.
I see you gravely shake your head at this ;
But read the records,—you will see I’m right.
Jesus, let me repeat it yet again,
Was first and last a Jew; never renounced
That faith of ours; taught in the Synagogue ;
Quoted the Prophets; reaffirmed the Law ;
Worked with the Jews, and only healed the Jews,
And held all other nations but as dogs.*
* (Commentary by Ben Israel.)
I’ve read the records carefully again :
It goes against my will—still, I admit,
Ben Esdra may be right. Here let me note
One case that he perchance has overlooked—
That of the Publican named Zaccheus.
This man was rich, and, curious, sought to look
On Jesus,—for this purpose climbed a tree.
Jesus, perceiving him, proposed himself
To be his guest ; at which a murmuring went
Among his followers,—for this wealthy man
Was, as they said, a sinner, or no Jew.
But I note this, that Zaccheus on the spot
Surrendered half his goods unto the poor
Ere Jesus went into his house; and then,
And not till then, said Jesus—“ On this house
This day salvation cometh, forasmuch
As he, too, is a son of Abraham ”—
That is,a Jew. Again, where did he send
His twelve disciples (Judas ’mid the rest)
To preach the Gospel ? To the Gentiles? No!
This he forbade,—but “ unto the lost sheep
Of Israel’s house.” And one case more I note,—
That of the woman of Samaria,
To whom he said (his followers murmuring
That he should speak to her): “ Salvation comes
And second (mark this well, and ponder it),
He was a Communist—denied the right
Of private wealth ; ordained a common purse
To be administered for all alike,
And all rejected who refused him this.
“ ’Tis easier for a camel to pass through
A needle’s eye”—these are his very words,—
“ Than that a rich man should inherit heaven.”
A rich man, mind you, whether good or bad.
What was the moral of his parable
Of Lazarus, and Dives ? What offence
Did Dives, that in everlasting fire
He was condemned to suffer ? What good deed
Did Lazarus that he at last should lie
On Abraham’s bosom in eternal bliss ?
Nothing ! The beggar, Lazarus, was poor ;
Dives was rich. This was the crime of one,
The virtue of the other. Not one hint
Of any other reason for the hell
Or heaven that he adjudged them,—not one word
That Dives was not charitable, kind,
Generous, a helper of his brother man ;—
No accusation, save that he was rich.
No word that Lazarus, with all his sores,
Possessed one virtue, save that he was poor.
Nay, more : when Dives in his torment sued
For mercy, what did Abraham say to him ?
You for your evil deeds must suffer now ?
No ! but, “ You had the good things on the earth,
Lazarus the evil. Therefore, now, to thee
Is torment given—comfort unto him.”
Working to pile up wealth Jesus abhorred.
“ Each man for all,” he said, “ and all for each.
Take no thought of to-morrow—for the day
Sufficient will be given. No sparrow falls
Save through God’s law. The ravens of the air
Sow not and reap not, yet God feedeth them.
The lilies of the field nor toil nor spin,
Yet Solomon was not arrayed like them.
Why, then, take thought of raiment and of food ?
But to the Jews.” Doubtless, as well we know,
It was unlawful for a Jew to eat
And bide with those who were uncircumcised.
Upon this point, long after he was dead,
Extreme contention ’mid his followers rose,
If Gentiles, ere they had been circumcised,
Into the Christian faith could be baptised—
Some holding full adherence to the law
A prime condition,—some, that it sufficed
If its main principles were recognised :
But this I merely note. It seems quite clear
That only Jews at first could join the sect.
Leave all to God. Blessèd are ye, the poor !
God’s kingdom shall be yours : but ye, the rich,
Woe unto you.” This was his life and text.
Once only—so the record goes—a rage
Seized upon Jesus, when, with whip and thong,
The money-changers—all who bought and sold—
He from the precincts of the temple drove,
Saying, “ ’Tis writ, This is the house of prayer,
But ye have made it to a den of thieves.”
Let this show what he thought of such as these.
Those who were with him knew and did his will,—
Lived in community of goods, renounced
All private wealth. This doctrine, too, they preached
After his death; and all who joined their sect
Sold their possessions, houses, treasures, lands,
And paid the price into the common store,
To be administered to each one’s need.
They did not seek by subterfuge and trick
To cling to Mammon while they worshipped God.*
What should a Christian do, then, who accepts
The doctrines that this master, nay, this God
(For so they call him), clearly thus appoints ;—
Live by them, should he not ? Not by blank words
Affirm them, but by all his acts and life.
First, love to God—and love to man as well.
Then peace, forgiveness, kindness, poverty.
What is the Christian practice ? War—the sword
As arbiter of all disputes of men—
Reprisals,—persecutions unto death
For all who differ from them—Peter’s sword
That Jesus bade him sheathe,—no simple lives
Of frugal fare and pure beneficence,
But luxury and imperious tyranny
In all high places,—all in earnest strife
To pile up wealth for selfish purposes,—
Each greedy for himself, the wretched poor
Down-trodden, trampled on,—the Church itself,
Splendid with pageant, cruel in its power,—
Pride rampant, hissing through a thousand maws,—
Power, like a ravening wolf among the lambs,
Worrying the weakest,—prayers, lip-deep, no more—
The devil’s work done in the name of God.
Such is the spectacle I see in Rome.
* Here I, Ben Israel, note the curious case
Of Ananias and Sapphira, struck
By sudden death, because of all their wealth
They kept a part back for their private use—
Tempting by this the Lord, as Peter said.
But where are the Almighty’s lightnings now ?
Among the pomps in which this Christian Church
Invests its pageants, oft I think of him
Whom they pretend to worship, and his words
Come back to me with which he once reproved
Our priests of his own days. The world, indeed,
Has but one pattern for its worldliness,—
Or now, or then, ’tis evermore the same.
If we of old were stiff-necked in our pride,
Desiring power instead of godliness,
Avid of pomp,—these Christians are the same :
They will not follow either God or Christ.
“ Thus saith the Lord, Stand in the ways, and see ;
Ask, where is the good way, and walk therein,
And so ye shall find rest unto your souls.
But they replied, We will not walk therein.”
Thus Jeremiah,—Jesus much the same.
Long prayers, low bowings in the market-place,
Chief seats in synagogues, upper rooms at feasts,
Fine linen, costly dresses, pompous rites,
Grand ceremonials, purple trailing robes,
Embroidered hems, and wide phylacteries,—
All this he scorned. Well, still we see the same,
For all his scorn, among his followers.
His very words describe these cardinals
As they were made for them alone,—not us.
Not we alone were whited sepulchres ;
Robbed widows, orphans, every one for greed :
This Church still robs them, wears its purple robes,
Prays at the public corners of the streets,
Nor even the outside of the platter cleans.
And what thinks Jesus of it ?—if, indeed,
He from beyond can look into their hearts,
Who call upon his name and preach of Peace.
Foul hypocrites, who feed their hungry flocks
With husks of dogmas and dead chaff of talk,
And trample virtue down into the mire.
I ask myself, Do these men ever think
Or weigh their master’s teaching, practice, words,
That thus by rote, like empty formulas,
They gabble them, as senseless parrots talk.
Doctrine and life to him were one. To these
Doctrine from life is utterly divorced.
Whatever Jesus was, this Church, these men,
Are none of his,—or ours ; his words alone
They worship like a fetish, without sense,—
His real inner teaching they reject ;
Nay, are afraid to look it in the face
And seek its meaning, lest it come to this,
That they must choose between the things he would,
And what they covet dearer than their life.
Jew as I am, in view of them, at times
I long to see some real Christian sect
Ready to take the system that he taught,
And try it in this world,—not talking Peace,
Good-will to men, Love, Justice, Charity,
But living it in very deed,—a sect
That should abjure all individual greed,
All competition for a selfish end,
And joining, make one common purse for all,
As Jesus did among his followers.
Would it succeed ? Ah, you and I are Jews ;
Jesus has no authority with us.
But were we Christians, and not hypocrites,—
Did we believe that he was really God,
Or even that his mission was divine,—
How should we dare to gloss his teachings o’er,
And twist his doctrines so that they should fit
Our worldly needs, and in the very face
Of his plain orders seek some verbal trick
To warp them to the life we like to lead !
The Eternal One must needs look down and smile
At these base wrigglings of His creatures here,
Filled with sad pity, too, at their offence,—
Seeing them do, with His name on their lips,
All He forbids, and dreaming none the less
They only shall be saved,—all others damned.
Would Jesus’ plan succeed ? The world thus far
Has taken another path,—we most of all,—
Believing not in him, nor in his scheme ;—
But dreaming—shaking, as it were, from me
All usages and habits of the world,
At times I stretch my mind out in the vague,
And seek upon this plan to build a world.
No property, but that which all should own
With equal rights,—the product of all work
Held for the common good in trust for all ;
All, to the lowest, to be clothed, fed, housed,
Freed from necessity and from the wolf
Of hunger, and the pains and pangs of life ;
Each having claims on all to do the task
Best fitted for his powers, tastes, happiness ;
Each as a duty bound to do his share,
And not to be a drone within the hive.
What glory might the world then see !—what joy !
What harmony of work! what large content !
What splendid products of joint industry !
All toiling with one purpose and one heart ;
No war, no waste of noble energies,—
But smiling peace, the enlarging grace of art ;
Humanity a column with its base
Of solid work, and at its summit crowned
With the ideal capital of Love !
This is a dream that turns this world of ours
Quite upside down ;—I’ll say no more of it.
And yet one word more, lest you deem me fool !
Think not I dream : none but a fool could dream
Equality of rights,—that is, the claim
To justice, life, food, freedom in the bound
Of common benefit, involves the claim
To equal virtues, powers, intelligence,—
Since God in these unequal shaped us all,
And fitted each one for his special end.
So should the wise, just, virtuous take the lead,
Or all at once is lawless anarchy ;
For what more fatal, hopeless, than a scheme
Where wise and good, and fool and knave alike,
Own equal powers and rights in government ?
But how secure the leadership to those
Whom God hath made for leaders ? Ah, my friend,
That is the question none hath e’er resolved ;
For liberty, at best a negative—
Mere freedom from restraint—engenders soon
Licence and tyranny,—dire positives ;
Just as Aurelius, best of emperors,
Begot for son the cruel Commodu
Danger on all sides threatens government.
Choose you a king,—the very best is weak,—
And fierce temptation dogs the path of power.
Choose you the Demos,—it perchance is worse ;
For then, as in an agitated sea,
The frothiest ever to the surface swims.
Caprice, rage, panic, interest, sway the mob ;
Justice is overstormed, wisdom lies low,
And noisy ignorance, swollen by the breath
Of blatant demagogues, wrecks the lost state.
Why ?—But because the eager lust of men,
The godless strife of utter selfishness,
Makes of the world a blind and brutal herd,
All crowding on, devoid of common aim,—
Each goring his own way to make his path.
Well, seeing this, and how these blundering schemes
Beget a brood of sin and misery,
Said Jesus to his followers : All is wrong ;
Let it be all reversed,—such life is hate ;
But God is love: try love, then, for your scheme,—
Try God’s law ;—as the Book of Wisdom saith,
“ All hatred stirreth strife; but love hath power
To cover up all sins;” and yet again :
“He who his neighbour scorneth, sins but he ;
Is happy who hath mercy for the poor.”
“ The profit of the earth is made for all,
And riches breed disease and vanity.”
So saith the preacher, just as Jesus said.
Nothing was new in Jesus’ scheme but this,—
To make community a fact—no dream.*
But new or old, his followers obeyed,
Accepting what he taught. Their life was pure,—
They craved no gains, abjured all private wealth;
Preached poverty, and practised what they preached ;
And then, with stealthy step and half-veiled face,
Pride entered, and ambition ; and they shaped
That fair community into the thing
Now called a Church, and on its altar raised
The same false idol he had driven forth ;
And now what is this Church so called of Christ ?
The last and even the most hideous shape
Of tyranny—that spawns upon the world
As love’s true offspring the foul serpent brood
Of superstition, bigotry, and hate.
Thus looking on, and striving as I can
To keep my mind wide open to new thought,
I weave my dream of what the world might be,—
A vague wild dream, but not without its charm.
* And scarcely this, say I, Ben Israel—
Commenting on this letter. We of old
Among the patriarchs ever practised it.
And well it worked, till, into cities packed,
Men grew ambitious, greedy, void of God,
And then confusion came to one and all.
The greed of riches is the curse of man :
Virtue and wisdom only, hand in hand,
Have any rightful claims to power; the wise,
The good, in every age affirm the same,—
Solon, Confucius, Plato, Thales, all.
“ Flee greed, choose equal rights,” Menander says.
When Greece made question of her wisest men
What is the best form of all government,
Thales replied, “ Where none are over-rich,
None over-poor ;” and Anacharsis said,
“ Where vice is hated—virtue reverenced.”
So Pittacus—“ Where honours are conferred
But on the virtuous ;” and Solon, too,
In thought, if not in words, like Jesus spoke,—
“ Where any wrong unto the meanest done
Is held to be an injury to all.”
So also Solomon,—“ Remove me far.
From vanity and lies ; and give to me
Nor poverty nor wealth. Blessed is he
Who for the poor and needy giveth thought :
The Lord shall help him in his time of need.”
Since nothing in our Law forbids to us
The trial of this scheme, suppose we Jews—
(Nay, do not smile)—suppose we very Jews
Go on and do even this, the Christians’ work :
They will not do it,—oh, be sure of that !
No more of this : oh, my Jerusalem !—
Thou whom again we shall rebuild in power—
Let Justice be thy strong foundation-stones,
And Love the cement that shall knit them close.
Firm in our Faith—at last—at last, O Lord !
When we have suffered to the bitter end,
Thy chosen people Thou wilt lift again,
And sweep Thy enemies before Thy path.
Come not to Rome,—it is the sink of vice :
Its grandeur is decayed ; its splendid days
Are faded. Famine, War, and Pestilence—
Tempest and inundation and fierce hordes—
Have o’er it swept, with ruin in their track.
The herdsman tends his flocks upon the Hill
Where Manlius drove the Gauls. The Capitol
Scarcely exists in name : its temples proud
Are wrecked and ruined. In the Forum herd
Horned cattle; and beyond the Flaminian gate,
Where once triumphant swarmed the crowds of Rome,
Spreads a flat marsh, o’ergrown with rustling canes,
Where flocks of whirring wild-fowl make their home.
Death haunts the temples, once so full of life.
Life crowds the tombs where the dead Cæsars lie,
And fortifies their wrecks for deadly feud.
The arts have perished. Prone upon the earth
Lie shattered the proud statues of their gods,
While the rude builder breaks them with his pick,
Or burns them into lime. The games are o’er ;
The streets are filled with ruffian soldiery,
Quick at a quarrel ; and the deadly knife
Of treachery stabs the unsuspecting foe.
Upon the Castle every week are seen
Black corpses, nailed along the outer walls.
The city throngs at night with bravos hired,
Who after murder find a safe retreat
In many a priestly palace. In a word,
Rapine and murder, rape and parricide,
Ay, ev’ry crime, with or without a name,
Ravage the city. Justice, with sad face,
Weeping, hath fled, and Mercy’s voice is dumb.
Is this the reign of Christ—or Belial ?
Yet still I linger here : I scarce know why.
There is a charm that, all beyond my will,
Allures me, holds me, will not let me go.
’Tis not indeed like our Jerusalem ;
Yet in its age, its sorrows and its wrongs,
It is allied to her,—a city sad,
That, like a mourner weeping at a tomb,
Sits clad in sackcloth, grieving o’er the past,
Hoping for nothing, stricken by despair.
Sad, lonely stretches compass her about
With silence. Wandering here, at every step
We stumble o’er some ruin, once the home
Of happy life ; or pensive, stay our feet
To ponder o’er some stern decaying tomb,
The haunt of blinking owls. Nor all in vain
Doth kindly nature strive to heal the wounds
Of Time and human rage : with ivy green,
With whispering grasses, reeds, and bright-eyed flowers,
Veiling its ruin; and with tremulous songs
Of far larks hidden in the deep blue sky,
Lifting the thoughts to heaven.
Here many a day
Alone I stray, and hold communion sad
With dreams that wander far on boundless ways
Of meditation vague, recalling oft
The passages of Prophets in our Land.
At times Isaiah seems to speak, and say
To Rome, as once unto Jerusalem :
“ Judah is fallen, ruin hath involved
Jerusalem. What mean ye that ye beat
My people into pieces ? that ye grind
The faces of the poor ? The Lord shall take
The bravery of thy ornaments away ;
Thy men shall perish by the sword in war ;
Thy mighty ones shall perish, and thy gates
Lament and mourn; and thou, being desolate,
Shalt sit upon the ground. Woe unto them
That draw iniquity with the weak cords
Of vanity, and call the evil good,—
Their roots shall be as rottenness, like dust
Their blossoms perish,—for they cast away :
The Lord’s law, and despise his Holy Word.”
And then in sorrow for this grievous fate
In which we are plunged, I comfort me with this—
That He, the Eternal One, hath promised us
That we at last shall from our sorrows rest,
And from our fear, and from our bondage dire,
And build again our new Jerusalem.
And yet once more. Hear Jeremiah speak :
“How doth the city solitary sit
That once was filled with people ! How is she
Become a widow, that among the powers
Was great, and princess in the provinces ?
She weepeth sorely in the night ; her tears
Are on her cheeks; and of her lovers none
Will comfort her.” Ah, my Jerusalem !
Thy sister here is Rome, and sins like thee,
And she shall suffer also like to thee.
As she hath suffered for her heathen pride
And worship of false gods, and now is cast
Headlong to earth with all her temples proud,
So shall she suffer in the time to come
For all her violence and worldly lust,
And all her utter falseness to her faith.
Is there no place upon this wretched earth
Where God shall have His own, and peace shall reign ?
Is there no spot the devil doth not own ?
Shall we, poor human wretches, ever seek
To thwart God’s law, and rear up in His stead
Base idols, and make covenant with Death ?
Such thoughts come over me, oppressed and sad,
As ’mid Rome’s ruined tombs I meditate,
Feeling how transient a thing is man,
Whose life is but a shadow on the grass
That comes and goes, and like a passing wind,
Or like a voice that speaks and vanishes.
And sitting silent under the blue sky
That broods unchanging on the change below,
Idly I watch the drooping ivy swing
Through sunlit loops of arching aqueducts,
Printing its wavering shadow on the sward.
Or, as my eye runs down their lessening lines,
Broken by gaps of time and war, and swing
Along the far Campagna’s rolling stretch
Like vertebrae of some huge skeleton,
I ponder o’er the past of Rome,—the pomp,
The pride, the power, the ruin,—masters, slaves,
Conquerors and victims, even the gods themselves,
Shattered and fallen and equal in the dust—
And silent nature calmly moving on,
Heedless of them, and what they were or did,
As it will be of us, when we are gone.
Often, again, with scarce a conscious thought,—
My spirit wandering vaguely, who knows where ?—
I gaze upon the cloud-shades trailing slow
Or the deep chasms of the opaline hills,
And drift with them through some abyss of space,
And feel the silence sink into my soul.
At times a rustling starts me, and I see
Some long-haired goat, that, mounting up to crop
A wandering spray, peers down through glass-grey ovens
And pausing, stares at me. At times, again,
I hear the thud of hoofs upon the grass,
And jangling swords, and voices of command,
As some armed troop goes galloping along.
And then I hide me, knowing that my tribe
Are only recognised to be the butt
Of mocking words—or scarce more wounding blows.
The shepherd, leaning idly on his staff,
Alone has kindly words for such as we,—
For nature hath subdued him into calm,
Uutil he almost seems a part of her.
I have seen the Pope, whom in their blasphemy
They term God’s Holiness. A fisherman,
Like Peter, was his father ; and his son,
By mock humility and specious ways
Veiling his inward self, inly devoured
By lust of place, and luxury, and power,
Hath mounted in the end to Peter’s chair.
Peter was poor and simple at the least,—
Honest though ignorant. This Sixtus here,
Fourth of his name, his utter opposite,—
Luxurious, worldly, fierce, and stained with crime.
There are no limits to his low desires ;—
None to his passions ; and he treads us down
As if we were the offal of the earth.
Last week he gave a banquet that, I think,
Poor Peter would have been aghast to see :
Tis said it cost some twenty thousand crowns,
Shaming Vitellius with its cost and waste.
But this is nothing to his other deeds.
Little he thinks of carrying out the dream
Of which I just have spoken. No ! the poor
Starve on black bread, and fester in disease,
While thus he lords it in’his luxury.
Nor are the rich much better off with him :
A short month since he pillaged an old man—
The Prince Colonna—on some poor pretence ;—
Robbed him of all his plate, robes, tapestries,
Tore him with torture, then lopped off his head ;
And clothed in wretched rags to mock his rank,
Sent back in answer to his mother’s prayers
For his mere life—the mutilated corpse !
And this is God’s yicegerent on the earth—
The head of what they call the Christian Church !
Bad as the Christian’s lot is, ours is worse :
We are the football and the scorn of all,—
Laden with taxes, tributes,—forced to wear
An ignominious badge,—banned from the town,
And huddled in the Ghetto’s filthy den.
No public office may we hold : our oath
Avails not in their courts against the word
Of any Christian ; and now, worse than this,
In these last years one degradation more
Is cast upon us by this Christian court,
Whose creed is, “Love your neighbour as yourself.”
We are but beasts that in the Carnival
Must race half-naked, clothed but round thie loins,
A halter on our necks, as we were dogs,—
Insulted, hooted, jeered at by the mob.
No one of us is free of this,—or old
Or young, whatever be our state,—
Elder or priest or child,—it matters not.
High ladies, cardinals in purple robes,
Ay, even the Pope himself, with all his court,
Seated on high, in all their pomp and pride,
“ Laugh at us, as we stumble on our course,
Pelted with filth, and shake their holy sides,
Encouraging the mob that mock at us.
But what offends me more than all the rest
Is that this usage has debased our tribe,—
Bent its proud neck, and forced it to the earth,—
Taught us to cringe and whimper, taught us wiles,
And driven us at their beck to creep and crawl.
We, who were God’s own people,—we must bow
Before these Christians : with a smile accept
Even their kicks, and humbly give them thanks
For our mere life. This stings me to the quick.
As for what Christ said, “ Love your enemies ;
Bless them that curse you, and do good to them,”—
This is beyond the power of any man—
Beyond my power at least,—I curse them all !
I stay my pen here,—for the hot blood boils
Within my brain in thinking on these things :
I dare not trust myself to write you more.
My work is almost done for which I came,
And soon I hope to greet your face again,
Shaking the dust off from this godless place,
With all its rottenness and infamy :
Then for my dear Jerusalem again !
Greet all my friends,—Rebecca, Ismael,
And all your dear ones. Peace be with you all !
I count the days till we once more shall meet.
W. W. S.