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My Dear Father:—In my last letter I told you that
Lazarus was dead! I write this to say that he that
was dead is alive! Lazarus lives! He whom I saw dead
and buried, and sealed up within the rocky cave of the tomb,
he is alive again from the dead; and at this moment,
while I am penning this extraordinary account, I hear his
voice upon the porch, as he is engaged in relating what
has transpired respecting himself to a crowd of wondering
people from Jerusalem. Even Pilate, the Roman Procurator,
stopped his chariot at the door this morning, to see
Lazarus, and have speech of him.

How, my dear father, how shall I find adequate language
to tell you all that has happened within the last
twenty-four hours! How shall I make you fully believe the
marvellous recital which I have taken up my pen to make!
I know not how to begin the wonderful narrative, for the
joy that prevents me from arranging my thoughts and
presenting the facts intelligibly to you. God has indeed
remembered his chosen people Israel once more, and shown
his power among us!

You have already been informed by me how rapidly
Lazarus failed after his sudden attack of hemorrhage of

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the chest, and that he soon died; and that, in hopes that
he might avert death, Jesus was sent for at the first to
come to him. But Bethabara was a day's journey, and
ere the messenger reached him the soul of his friend had
fled. The next day he was buried; a very large concourse
of people from the town of Bethany, and from Jerusalem,
coming to his burial; for he was greatly beloved;
even the chariot of the noble lady, Lucia Metella, the good
and virtuous wife of Pilate, was present to do honor to
the obsequies of him who had no other renown than his
virtues.

The funeral procession was so very long, that strangers
pausing, asked what great master in Israel, or person of
note, was being taken to the sepulchre.

Some answered, “Lazarus, the industrious scribe!”
Others said, “a young man who has devoted his life to
honor his mother!” Others answered, as Lazarus himself,
were he alive, would have had them:

“It is Lazarus, the friend of Jesus!”

This, living, was his proudest title; and dead, he would
have desired no other. Ah, dear father, may the day yet
come when you shall deem such a title greater honor than
the gold of Egypt, or all the glory of your proud descent
from Abraham and David!

The place where they were to lay him was the cave in
which both his father and mother were entombed. It
was in a deep, shady vale, that opened into the valley of
the Kedron. It was thickly shaded by cypress, palm, and
pomegranate trees; and a large tamarind grew, with its
stately branches, overclasping the summit of the secluded
place of sepulchre, while an abrupt cliff of Olivet hung

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impending above, like the shaggy brow of a giant looking
down upon the spot. Above the tree-tops, in the direction
of Kedron, were visible the majestic heights of the distant
Temple, and the warlike battlements of the city of David,
while the sunlight, glancing upon the dazzling shield of a
sentinel who was standing upon its loftiest watch-tower,
caused it to gleam like a lesser sun. The remote swell of
a Roman bugle from the head of a cohort, which was just
issuing from the gate of Damascus, came softly and musically
to our ears, as we stood in silence about the grove
wherein we were to place the dead. Æmilius, the Centurion,
was also present, wearing a white scarf above his
silver cuirass, in token of grief; for he also loved Lazarus.
Of him, dear father, I have not of late spoken; for should
I begin to write of him, I should have no room in my
letters for any other theme. You will soon see him, and
judge for yourself how worthy he is of your confidence,
and all the love of my heart. I am too grateful to you,
dearest father, for not refusing your consent to our union,
but only withhold it until you reach Jerusalem. The
blessed winds waft your bark swiftly to Jaffa, that I may
soon embrace you, and present to you the noble Æmilius,
who is as faithful a worshiper of our God as if he were a
son of Abraham by birth rather than by adoption.

The sacred observances at the grove being over, they
raised the body of the dead young man from the bier, and
four youths, aided by Æmilius at the head to support it,
conveyed it into the yawning cavern. A moment they
lingered on the threshold, that Mary and Martha might
take one more look, imprint upon its icy cold lips one last
kiss, press once more his unconsious head to their loving

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and bursting hearts. I also gazed upon him, weeping at
their sorrow, and sorrowing to behold so noble a face,
beautiful as chiseled alabaster, about to be consigned to
the loathsome worm of the charnel-house. He was so
good, and excelling all his companions in all things great
and pure, and lofty in character; my tears flowed, and
I felt that had I not loved Æmilius, I should have loved
Lazarus.

The young men moved forward into the gloom of the
cave. Mary rushed in, and with disheveled hair, cried:

“Oh, take him not away forever from the sight of my
eyes! Oh, my brother, my brother, would that I had
died for thee! for I am willing to lie down with the worm
and call it my sister, and sleep in the arms of death, as on
the breast of my mother! Thou wert happy and honored,
and should have lived! I am wretched and heart-broken,
and such only should die! Oh, brother, brother, let them
not take thee forever, from the sight of my eyes! Without
thee, how shall life be life!”

Æmilius entered the tomb, and tenderly raising her
from the body, on which she had cast herself in the eloquent
abandonment of her wild grief, he led her forth, and
beckoning to me, placed her in my arms.

Martha bore her own griefs with more composure, but her
face expressed how deeply she was moved within, thus to say
adieu for ever to her only brother, to her beloved Lazarus,
who had been the strong rock which had presented ever
its front to the shock of the stormy billows of this life, as
they threatened her and Mary, and was a tower of strength
to them in the day of trouble; as well as an exhaustless
fountain of holy domestic joy!

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The body being placed in a niche hollowed out in the
rock, was decently covered with a grave mantle, all but
the calm face, which was bound about by a snow-white
napkin. Maidens of the village advanced and cast flowers
upon his head, and many, many were the sincere tears,
both from beneath manly lids and those of virgins, which
bore tribute to his worth.

The burial ceremonies being ended, five strong men replaced
the ponderous stone door closely fitting the entrance
to the cave, and so secured it by letting it into a
socket that it would require a like number to remove it.

As we were retiring with heavy hearts from performing
this last duty to the beloved dead, the sun sank beyond
the blue hills of Ajalon in the west, in a lake of gold, gilding
the pinnacle of the Temple, and making it appear like
a gigantic spear elevated into the sky. From the Levites
at evening sacrifice came mellowed by the distance the
deep chant of the Temple service, uttered by two thousand
voices. The cloud from the altar sacrifice ascended slowly
into the still air, and catching the splendor of the sun's
last beams, shone like the pillar of cloud and of fire which
stood above the tabernacle in the wilderness. The laborers
in the harvest were hastening towards the gates, ere
they should be shut for the night by the Roman guards;
and dwellers in the village were hurrying forth, lest they
should by chance be held in the city over night.

There was a sacred hush in the sleepy atmosphere that
seemed in sympathy and touching harmony with the scene
in which we had just borne a part. With Mary leaning
sobbing upon my shoulder, I sat upon a rock near the
tomb, giving my heart up to the sweet influences of the

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hour. We were alone, save Æmilius, who sat upon his
horse near by, and seemed to be gazing upon the beauty
of the evening scene. Martha and my cousin, with John,
had returned to the now desolate home of which Lazarus
had been the light and the honor.

“I am calmer now,” said Mary, after a while raising
her head, and looking into my face, her splendid eyes
glittering brimfull with tears; “I am better now! The
peace of the sweet holy skies seems to have descended,
and entered my heart. The heavens of my soul are as
clear and pure, and peaceful, as those above me! The
spirit of Lazarus pervades all, and hallows all I see! I
will weep no more. He is happy, very happy, and I will
try to be holy and go to him, for he cannot come to me!”

At this moment we heard the tramp of horses' hoofs,
and Æmilius, startled thereby from his reverie, recovered
his seat and laid his hand upon his sword; for though the
Romans have the mastery in our land, as conquerors,
they are not loved; and scarcely a week passes without
some conflict between the soldiers of the Legion and the
common people among the Jews; and even the officers
have been attacked when riding abroad from Jerusalem
not sufficiently attended.

Æmilius, therefore, who had with him only his whitehaired
Celtic servant, Frwynn, prepared to receive a foe
or welcome his friends. The next moment, around a rock
projecting from the shoulder of Olivet, appeared first, one
horseman in the wild, warlike costume of an Ishmaelite of
the desert, brandishing a long spear in the air; then another
and another similarly clad and armed, and mounted
on superb horses of the desert; then dashed in sight alone,

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a tall, daring-looking young man, in a rich costume, half
Grecian, half Arabic, though his dark, handsome features
were decidedly Israelitish. He rode a superb Abyssinian
charger, and sat upon his back like the heathen centaur I
have read of in Latin books, which Æmilius has given
me to read. Upon seeing me, he drew rein and smiled,
and waved his jeweled hand with splendid courtesy; but
at the sight of Æmilius, his dark eyes flashed, and leaping
to his feet in his stirrups, he shook his glittering falchion
towards him, and rode with a trumpet-like cry full upon
him!

The brave Roman soldier received the charge by turning
his horse slightly, and catching the point of the
weapon upon the blade of his short sword.

“We meet at last, oh Roman!” cried this wild, dashing
chief, as he wheeled his horse like lightning, and once
more rode upon the iron-armed Roman knight.

“Ay, Barabbas, and with joy I hail thee,” responded
Æmilius, placing a bugle to his lips.

At hearing the clear voice of the bugle awaking the
echoes of Olivet, the dread robber chief, of whom you have
heard me speak before, dear father, said haughtily, and
with a glance of contempt:

“Thou, a knight of the tribune, and commander of a
legion, call for aid, when I offer thee equal battle, hand to
hand, and ask not my own men's swords.”

“I know no equal battle with a robber. I would hunt
thee as I would do the wolf and the wild beasts of thy
deserts,” answered Æmilius, pressing him closely. At a
signal from the robber chief, his four men, who had reined
up a short distance off, near the tomb of Lazarus, sent up

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a shrill, eagle-like scream, that made my blood stand still,
and rode down like the wind to overcome Æmilius.

Hitherto I had remained like one stupefied at being an
involuntary spectator of a sudden battle; but on seeing his
danger, I was at his side, scarce knowing how I reached
the place.

“Retire, dear Adina,” he said, “I shall have to defend
both thee and myself, and these barbarians will give my
both hands enough to do.” As he spoke, he turned his
horse's head to meet the four-fold shock, and I escaped, I
know not how, with the impulse to hasten to Bethany for
succor. But heaven interposed its aid—a detachment of
the body guard of Pilate, which Æmilius had left in an
olive grove to bivouac and refresh themselves and horses,
hearing the recall of their chief's bugle, came now threading
up the hill, a score strong of armed men, bearded
Gauls, who had served in Britain against the Picts. At
the sight, Barabbas and his party fled, like wild pigeons
pursued by a cloud of Iturean hawks. Barabbas, however,
turned more than once to fling back defiance to his
foes. Æmilius by this means came up with him, seized
the crimson sash which encircled his waist, and held him
thus, both fighting as they rode. The troops soon came
up with them, and after a desperate battle the celebrated
robber chief was taken alive, though bleeding with many
wounds, and bound with his own sash to the column of
one of the tombs. Æmilius was but slightly hurt; and
I never saw such bright joy as sparkled in his eyes,
that he had at length captured the bold bandit leader,
who had so frequently before escaped him, and to get
possession of whom he had made so many attempts.

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There lay at length in his power the terror of all the
country between Jericho and Jerusalem, a bound captive.
He smiled still proudly defiant, and looked haughty and
wildly noble, even in his bonds. His men were also
taken; and giving them, with their chief, into the charge
of his soldiers, to convey to the prisons of Jerusalem,
Æmilius rejoined me and Mary, and accompanied us to
the house of the two sisters.

It appears that Barabbas, emboldened by the rumor
that a rich company of merchants were to leave Jerusalem
at day-break, for Damascus, had advanced near the city
with a few followers, to lie in wait for their coming out,
and hang on their path until they should have entered
a defile in the mountains of Bethel, where his troop were
lying in ambush; and it was while seeking a shelter from
notice among the tombs in the vale of Olivet that he
came suddenly upon us. Æmilius says that he will assuredly
be crucified for his numerous crimes. Dreadful
punishment! and for one so young and prepossessing as
this desert robber to come to such an ignominious and
agonizing death; to hang for hours under the sun-beams
by lacerated hands and feet, till death comes from slow
exhaustion of all the powers of nature. I am amazed
that so polite and humane a nation as the Roman can inflict
such a cruel and agonizing death, even upon their
malefactors. Last week, as I was walking with my uncle
Amos among the sepulchres of the kings outside of the
North gate, being prevented from re-entering the gate by
the passage of a Roman Legion to suppress an insurrection
in Samaria, we passed round by the western gate, to
reach which we had to pass the foot of the Calvary, upon

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which two crosses were erected, on one of which hung the
still living body of a seditious Jew, executed by order of
the Procurator. He writhed fearfully, while his groans
penetrated my heart. I covered my eyes and my ears,
and begged Rabbi Amos to hurry with me from such a
fearful spectacle. Yet it was in full sight of the city, of
the road; and many spectators, both of women and
men, lingered to gaze. Ignominious, indeed, must the life
of a man have been, for him to be justly doomed to suffer
such a death.

In this letter, dearest father, I intended to relate to you
how Lazarus has been restored to life, but it is already
taken up with so much, that I defer it to my next. But,
believe me, that Lazarus is living and well, and thousands
are crowding into Bethany, and thronging the house, to
see this great thing that hath happened. Suffice for me
to tell you, at the close of this letter, that it was Jesus
who raised him from the dead, the Prophet of God of
whom you are yet in doubt whether he be the Messias
or no! Ah, is he who raised the widow's son of Nain—
who walked on the sea a league to his disciples' boats—
who stilled the tempest by the word of his power—who
fed five thousand men with five pounds weight of bread—
who healed the nobleman Hadad's son—who raised the
dead daughter of the Galilean ruler, Jairus—who restores
the deaf, the blind, the dumb, by a word, a touch, a look—
around whose path and life are gathered together such a
multitude of testimonies to his superhuman power, in
prophecies, in mighty works, and in glittering miracles—
ah, my dear father, is he only a common man; is he an
impostor? Oh, is he not, is he not the Son of God—the

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Messias of the Prophets—the Lion of the tribe of Judah—
the Deliverer and future glory of Israel? Is he not He
whose day of splendor Abraham saw afar off, and was
glad? Is He not Shiloh, whom the patriarch Jacob beheld
rise up to wield the sceptre of Israel? Is He not the
mighty Son of God, whom the burning pen of Esaias records
in these words of inspiration:

“Unto us a child is born—unto us a son is given; and
the government shall be upon his shoulders: and his name
shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, the Mighty God,
the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace; who
shall sit upon the throne of David, and establish it with
justice and judgment from henceforth, even forever!”

Think of these things, dear father, ponder them well,
and let not the poverty of Jesus be a stumbling-block to
your faith in Him as Messias. That he has raised Lazarus
from the dead, is alone proof to me that He is the
Son of God.

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