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My dear and honored Father:—It is with emotions
of the deepest grief that I convey to you the sad
intelligence of the death of Lazarus. It is amid the low
sounds of the plaintive moans of his bereaved sisters over
his lifeless form, and with my tears almost blinding my
overflowing eyes, that I write to you. The hand of the
Lord hath fallen heavily upon this household, and stricken
down its prop, smitten the oak around which chung these
vine-like sisters, vine-like in their dependence upon him,
and confiding trust in his wisdom and love. Now prostrate
in the dust they lie stunned by the sudden and mysterious
stroke of God's providence.

I have spoken to you of the noble character of Lazarus,
in a former letter, dear father, how that by writing in the
Scribe's room in the Temple, he supported his venerable
mother and sisters, while they, in their affection, labored
with the needle in embroidery work, wherein they had
very delicate skill, in order to lighten his labors. To the
young men of Israel, Lazarus was held up by the Elders,
as a pattern of filial and brotherly virtue and honest industry;
and to his sisters, Mary and Martha, other maidens
were directed to look for examples of maidenly piety and
diligent household thrift. Their humble dwelling was the

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home of hospitality and kindness, and thither the Prophet
of God, Jesus, loveth to resort whensoever his great labors
will permit him. Nearly of the same age, a holy friendship
had sprung up between him and Lazarus, who so loved the
Blessed Anointed One of God, that he would readily have
laid down his life for him. I have told you, dear father,
what a happy household I have seen it when Jesus completed
the number; for he stayed so much with them
when not preaching, or when wishing to rest a day or
two from his weary toil, that they came to regard him as
one of their family. Mary would devise ways to do him
honor, and show her respect and affection, by working for
him silken covers for the Books of the Prophets, which
Lazarus would copy and present to his beloved friend;
while Martha seemed ever to be thinking what and how
she should administer to his comfort, by providing every
delicacy for her table. But so that Jesus could find listeners
to his words of truth and wisdom, like Mary—who
loved to sit at his feet and hear the golden language fall
from his sacred lips—he thought not of meats or drinks.

One day when I, with Mary and Lazarus, was listening
to his heavenly teachings, wrapt in wonder and absorbing
interest, Martha, who was preparing the meal, came and
desired Mary to come and assist her; but the dear, pious
girl, heeded not nor heard her, she was feeding, so forgetful
of all else, upon the celestial food that fell from the lips
of Jesus, who was talking to us of the kingdom of God
and the glories of heaven, and the necessity of holiness to
dwell there. At length Martha, finding that Mary heard
not, appealed to Jesus, saying something sharply:

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“Lord, dost thou not care that my sister hath left me
to serve alone? Bid her, therefore, that she help me.”

We turned with surprise to hear her, who was usually
so gentle and good, thus forget what was due to the
presence of the Prophet; and Lazarus, blushing, was about
to speak and excuse his sister, who looked as if she were
much worried with her domestic troubles; but Jesus said
kindly to her:

“Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about
many things; thy household takes up too much of thy
time and thoughts. In this world but one care is truly
worthy of the regard of men, which is to provide sustenance
for the soul; for the body perisheth. Mary hath chosen
more wisely than thyself. While thou carest much for
the wants of the body, she careth for those of the spirit,
and thus has that good part which shall not be taken away
from her. Think not, beloved Martha, of sumptuous living
for me, who have no earthly goods, nor even where to
lay my head!”

“Say not thus, oh, say not so, dear Lord,” cried Martha,
suddenly bursting into tears at Jesus' touching words, and
casting herself impulsively at his feet; “this house is thy
home—ever beneath its roof, while I have one above me,
shalt thou have where to lay thy head! Say not so, my
Lord!”

We were all moved at Martha's pathetic earnestness.
Jesus raised her up, and said to her, gently:

“It is thy love for me, I well know, that maketh thee
so careful and troubled to provide for me at thy bountiful
table. But I have meat to eat that ye know not of. Thus
to teach the truths of God, as thou findest me doing to

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these, is to me meat and drink, for herein I am doing my
Father's will, who sent me.”

I have been particular in giving you, dear father, these
details of the domestic relations existing in the abode of
Lazarus, and the sweet friendship that resided in their
bosoms towards Jesus, and his familiar, brotherly love for
them. You can now understand why, when Lazarus was
taken ill, after his laborious vigils to copy the manuscript
for the Roman Centurion, a message was at once sent to
Jesus, who was in Bethabara beyond Jordan, for a physician
of Jerusalem, whom the noble Caiaphas had sent out
to Bethany, on hearing of the sudden sickness of the
youthful Secretary, to whom he was greatly attached, for
all people did love him who knew him—this physician had
at once pronounced him in danger of sudden death from
inward bleeding of the lungs.

“Why, then,” you may ask, dear father, “should they
send for Jesus, when death was certain. Jesus,” you add,
“was no physician, or if he had been, he could not reverse
the fate of the dying young man!”

The fact, dear father, that under these circumstances
they did send to Jesus to come and heal him, shows that it
was not as a human physician they desired his presence,
but as the miracle-working Prophet of God! It proves,
and will, I trust, prove to you, dearest father, that they
who should best know his power, believed assuredly that
he could save their brother. It is testimony irresistible
towards sustaining his claim to have come down from
God! It is those who are most intimate with others who
do know them best. Now, that the sisters of Lazarus sent
a message presently to Jesus to interpose between death

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and his life, shows that they plainly believed he had not
only the power of miracles, but had power over death; and
that they had witnessed instances of his power sufficient
to give them faith in his ability to save their brother;
while they knew that his love for him would certainly
prompt him to exert it.

In my last letter I closed with informing you of the
departure of the messenger. After he had gone out of
sight from the door, and the last echo of his horse's hoofs
ceased to be heard by the long-listening ears of his sister
Martha, I re-entered the room where Lazarus lay. He
was as white as marble. His large, black eyes seemed to
be twice their usual size and brilliancy. He breathed with
difficulty, and every few moments he would be compelled
to have his head raised, in order to free his mouth from
the welling blood that was constantly bubbling up from
the broken fountains of his life. Mary's tender privilege it
was to render him this service of love. As she bent over
him, looking downward with anxious fondness into his
pale, intellectual face, watching every shadow of the
change that the sable wing of advancing death cast over it,
I thought I had never gazed on a more lovely being! Who,
in beholding the seraphic beauty of her face, the brilliant
light of her dark eyes, which were now glittering with sisterly
grief, the graceful expression of her proud Rebeccalike
head, and the superb outline of her figure, where love
and majesty seemed blent to mould a second Eve—who,
in the admiration of her person, could read within and
beneath all the secret sorrow of her soul! Who would
believe that a dark cloud rested on her spirit, and that her
happiness was no longer on earth! As I gazed upon her,

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I forgot for the moment the dying young man about whose
form her snow-white arms were entwined, his head reclining
upon her bosom, her raven tresses bronzed with a
golden light, all unbound and floating above him, and far
over his pillow, like a rich veil interwoven of sable silken
gloss and threads of gold. I could not gaze upon that
abundant hair without recalling the day not long before,
when at the dwelling of Rabbi Joseph Solomon, she drew
near suddenly to Jesus, who was his guest, and bathed his
feet with her fast flowing tears, mingling therewith her
kisses, and then dried them with her shining hair!

And wherefore did she weep upon the feet of Jesus?
you may ask, dear father. They were tears of gratitude
and penitence. Her history you know, at least as rumor
had it three years ago, with evil additions thereto. It is
true, Mary sinned, and should not be exculpated; but her
sin was in leaving her maternal roof, yielding, in her unsuspecting
innocence, to the dazzling temptations of the
young prince Herod. It is not true that she was tempted
by ambition and power. She has poured into my ear all
her sad and touching story. Prince Herod had but
recently returned with his father Antipas, from Rome,
and was a youth comely in person, well skilled in the
fascinations that easiest win the hearts of the guileless.
By accident he saw Mary one morning at the palace of
Pilate the Procurator, whither she had gone to deliver to
the wife of the Governor a piece of embroidery-work which
she had done at her command. It would seem, that having
made inquiries touching her condition in life, he
feigned to be a writer of parchments, and thus readily
making the acquaintance of the unsuspecting Lazarus,

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was readily introduced beneath his roof. Here, as an
humble scribe, dressed in plain and coarse apparel, he
often came, and succeeded in winning the heart of the
lovely girl. At length, in an evil hour, she listened to his
temptation secretly to elope with him, to be united to him
at his mother's house, he having urged to her that his
open marriage would estrange from him the regards of his
uncle, a wealthy scribe, who desired, if he married not for
seven years, to enrich him with his wealth.

To this tale she listened. But instead of being taken
by him to the roof of the mother, of whom he had falsely
spoken to her, she found herself seized, and her mouth
stopped by the leader of a party of horsemen, who suddenly
came up the path, and who, dismounting, placed her on
before him. The young scribe, mounting a led horse,
headed the band, and the whole escort galloped northward
at rapid speed. Ignorant in whose power she was, and
fearing for her betrothed husband as well as for herself,
supposing that he was forcibly in their hands also, she
tried by listening to ascertain what was to be done with
her, and who her captors were. To her surprise she heard
the voice of her lover giving directions to the horsemen
from time to time, which she could hardly believe; but
when the moon rose, she succeeded so far in removing her
veil as to enable her to recognise him as the leader of
the troop.

After riding all night, they stopped at a well, near
Samaria, at dawn of day. Here refreshments were offered
her, but she refused them, and begged to be permitted to
speak to her lover. But he did not come near her.
After an hour's rest in the caravansera, they once more

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proceeded on their route in a northerly course. Leaving
Mount Gerizim in the rear, with the Jordan on their right,
they at noon reached the base of Mount Tabor. After
three hour's repose, they crossed the eastern shoulder of
the mountain, from which was a magnificent view of the
sea of Galilee. Descending the mountain, they reached,
just as the sun set, the gate of a castle that overlooks the
town of Nazareth. This they entered, and the portals
closed upon her.

But I will not be weary with too minute a narrative,
dear father; my object is only to vindicate my cousin
Mary from intentional guilt. Ushered into superb apartments,
her lover, attired in all the splendor of a prince,
soon appeared before her, and acknowledged he had been
deceiving her; that he was Herod Valerius, the son of the
Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Galilee, and that she was now
in one of the palaces of his family. Who can describe the
horror, shame, and grief of this cruelly deceived and erring
girl! Bitterly did her tears flow at the too trusting
step she had taken, thus sinning against God. But tears
and repentance, implorations and entreaties for permission
to return to her humble home, were in vain. As she had
sown, she had reaped.

At the expiration of three months, she succeeded in
making her escape, and fled to the feet of Mary of Nazareth,
the mother of the Prophet Jesus. To her she made
known all, and received her sympathy while she bowed
her penitent head beneath her reproofs. Here it was that
she first beheld the holy Prophet, and received from him
the consolations of the forgiveness of heaven for her sin.
Led by his noble mother, she bent her steps back again to

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her father's house. All Bethany knew of her shame—that
is, knew that she had fled with the dissolute prince Valerius,
and was living with him in sin at his castle in Galilee;
but they knew not any extenuating circumstances.
So she entered Bethany closely veiled, and with hurried
step sought the shelter of her mother's arms, if, peradventure,
they would be open to receive her.

At length, after many weeks, all who knew her were
acquainted with the truth, and their cold censure was
softened into pity; and as she went about doing good, as
she visited, like an angel, the sick and sorrowing, she won
back all hearts, and was loved and honored as before.
But the cold world still looked upon her as a guilty one—
as a sinner; but had they known how deep her sorrow was
for all the past, they would also have removed the barbs
from the sharp arrows of their tongues.

Since then, all the generous care of Lazarus and Martha,
and of their friends, has been to make her forget the past;
and as it is three years since what I have described happened,
the prevailing gentle sadness that now shades her
countenance, alone shows to the loving gaze of those around
her what she has suffered. It was Jesus who reconciled
her to her brother and sister, and hence her deep gratitude
to him, which she has shown, not once, but many times,
when he has been their guest, by bathing his feet with
her tears, and wiping them with the hairs of her head.
Her place is ever at his feet. Lovely and guilty one, her
tears are her daily offering to heaven, and will atone for
deeper guilt than hers, if tears do wash away sins; but
she says nothing has given consolation to her heart like the
voice of Jesus, when he said to her, “Daughter, thy sins

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be forgiven thee!” “The words,” she added to me, “penetrated
my heart, and illumined the darkness of my soul
with ineffable, unspeakable peace!”

I commenced this letter by informing you of the departure
of the good, and generous, and pious Lazarus. He
fell asleep in death as an infant sinks to slumber in its
mother's arms, gradually sinking from the loss of blood,
growing fainter and fainter till his eyes closed, his pulse
ceased to throb, and his noble heart to flutter, like an escaping
bird beneath the hand's light pressure.

All too late was Jesus sent for! He is dead! To-morrow
his burial will take place. Alas! how suddenly has
perished the noblest young man in Judea!

Farewell, dear father! My heart is full; I can write
no more. The day after to-morrow I return to Jerusalem,
when I will write you again. You said in your last letter
you would soon leave Egypt for Judea, for the purpose of
taking me back to my dear native valley of the Nile.
The God of Abraham preserve you in your journey, and
bring you in safety to the embraces of

p612-310

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