XXVII.
Elijah's Letter.
OVER this letter a strange mystery hangs, such as is attached to no other writing of man. This is a letter to King Jehoram, a letter of stern rebuke, of terrible denunciation: it stands as a death-warrant issued by the Almighty on the idolater, the oppressor, the murderer, whose hands were stained with the blood of his six brethren, the sons of the noble Jehoshaphat.
But by whom was this letter written? The Bible informs us by Elijah; but—before Jehoram had ascended the throne, or had committed his fearful crime, Elijah the prophet had gone up to Heaven in a chariot of fire! Hence arises a difficulty which has perplexed the minds of the learned, and which has given rise to various conjectures. Some have imagined that for Elijah we should read Elisha; but, as has been forcibly remarked, "we have no evidence whatever that any mistake has been made by the copyists, but all the evidence lies on the other side. The Septuagint version, which was very early made, and very widely spread, has it Elias—that is, according to Greek, 'Elijah'; and not Elisha, which latter word in Greek is 'Eliseus'. Again, the Jewish historian Josephus, referring to this event, has expressly the word Elijah."
Krümmacher appears to hold that the mysterious writing actually came from the world of spirits; that that hand which had never known corruption had traced the letters denouncing judgment upon a most wicked king. There is a third conjecture, which seems to bear with it much of probability; that the prophet, foreknowing both the crimes of Jehoram and their punishment, wrote the letter before his ascension, and left it to be delivered in the ripeness of time. If either of these latter conjectures point to the actual fact, what a solemn interest attaches to this message from the departed, the letter to a monarch of earth from one who dwelt upon earth no more!
It is interesting to reflect on the power and influence which writings may possess after the death of the writer, nay, in consequence of his death. A parent's letter, received after his departure from this state of being, may penetrate a heart that was closed against all the warnings of that parent when alive. We set an especial value upon "last" messages, "last" words; they are like proofs of an engraving made more precious from the plate being broken.
An instance is given by the traveller Palgrave of a writing left as a legacy, in itself so beautiful, and written under circumstances so interesting, that I cannot forbear transcribing the greater part of it. The reader will, I trust, forgive what may appear as a digression.
Palgrave received the following account, on the occasion of his visit to Moharreb, an island on the eastern coast of Arabia, from a learned Arab named Mogheeth, who was scarcely able to finish his recital from the emotion which it caused him.
The famous Ahmed el Ghazalee, native of Toos in Persia, a poet who lived in the twelfth century, said one day to his disciples, "Go and bring me new and white garments, for the King hath summoned me to his presence."
They obeyed, and on their return they found their master lifeless. By the side of the corpse lay a paper, on which were inscribed the following lines. It is impossible not to be struck with the spirit breathing through the poetry, which appears not to be Mohammedan, but Christian. Some of the ideas seem actually to be gleaned from the writings of the apostles; there is St. Paul's sublime view of death, St. John's lofty revelation of God as love, though there is no allusion to the great doctrine of justification by faith. As the religion of Christ prevailed in early ages in the islands of the Persian Gulf, we cannot but think that it left traces behind, as the "garden flower grows wild" where it once was carefully cultivated, springing up in congenial soil, though no longer tended by man. These are the lines by which the dead Ahmed el Ghazalee spake, as if from the realm of spirits:
"Tell my friends who behold me dead, Weeping and mourning my loss awhile, Think not this corpse before you myself; That corpse is mine, but it is not I. I am undying life, and this is but my body, Many years my house, and my garment of change. I am a bird, and this body was my cage; I have winged my flight elsewhere, and left it for a token. I am a pearl, and this my shell Broken open and abandoned to worthlessness. I am a treasure; this was a spell Thrown over me, till the treasure was released in truth. Thanks be to God who has delivered me, And has assigned me a lasting abode in the highest. There am I now the day conversing with the happy, And beholding face to face unveiled Deity; Contemplating the Mirror wherein I see and read Past and present, and whatever remains to be."
* * * *
"I have journeyed on, and left you behind; How could I make an abode of your halting-place? Ruin then my house, and break my cage in pieces, And let the shell go perish with kindred illusions; Tear my garment, the veil once thrown over me, Then bury all these, and leave them alike forgotten.
"Deem not death—death, for it is in truth Life of lives, and goal of all our longings. Think lovingly of a God whose name is Love, Who joys in rewarding, and come on secure of fear: Whence I am I behold you, undying spirits like myself, And see that our lot is one, and you as I."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]