It is no part of my aim to prove miracles impossible, nor to consider whether one or another alleged wonder might not be really within the powers of an exceptional man. In the absence of any apostolic allusion to any extraordinary incident in the life of Jesus, and his own declaration (for the evangelists could not have invented a rebuke to their own narratives) that miracles were the vain expectation of a people in distress and degradation, such records have lost their historic character. As Gibbon said in the last century, it requires a miracle of grace to make a believer in miracles, and even among the uncritical that miracle is not frequent. In the New Testament belief in miracle has its natural corollary in a miraculous morality,—a dissolution of earthly ties, a severance from worldly affairs, a non-resistance and passiveness under wrongs, which are in perfect accord with persons moving in an apocalyptic dream, but not with a world awakened from that dream.

But at the root of the unnatural miracles is the natural miracle—the heart of man. We are such stuff as dreams are made on, as the miracle-working poet reminds us; our little life is surrounded with a sleep, a realm of dreams,—visions that give poetic fulfilment to hopes born of hard experience. No biblical miracle in its literal form is so beautiful and impressive as the history of its origin and development as traced by the student of mythology. The growth, for example, of a simple proverb ascribed to Solomon “He that trusteth in his riches shall fall, but the just shall flourish as a green leaf” into a hymn (Ps. lii.); the association of this Psalm, by its Hebrew caption, with hungry David eating the shewbread of the temple, and the king’s slaying the priests who permitted it; the use of this legend by Jesus when his disciples were censured for plucking the corn on the Sabbath (with perhaps some humorous picture of a great king in Heaven angry because hungry men ate a few grains of corn, crumbs from his royal table) pointed with advice that the censors should learn that God desires charity and not sacrifice; the development of this into an early Christian burden against the rich, which took the form of an old Oriental fable,1 to which a Jewish connotation was given by giving the poor man in Paradise the name of Lazarus (i.e. Eleazar, who risked his life to obtain water for famished David, a story that may have been referred to by Jesus along with that of the shewbread); the transformation of this parable into a quasi-historical narrative representing the return of Lazarus from Abraham’s bosom, his poverty omitted; the European combination of the parable and the history by creating a St. Lazarus (“one helped by God”), yet appointing him the helper of beggars (lazzaroni): these items together represent a continuity of the human spirit through thousands of years, surmounting obstructive superstitions, holding still the guiding thread of humanity through long labyrinths of legend.

To fix on any one stage in such an evolution, detach it, affirm it, is to wrest a true scripture to its destruction. Few can really be interested in Abimelech and the shewbread; no one now believes that a rich man must go to hell because he is rich, nor a pauper to Paradise because of his pauperism; and none can intelligently believe the narrative of the resurrection of Lazarus without believing that in Jesus miraculous power was associated with the unveracity and vanity ascribed to him in that narrative. But take the legends all together, and in them is visible the supersacred heart of humanity steadily developing through manifold symbols and fables the religion of human helpfulness and happiness. The study of mythology is the study of nature.

The theory already stated (ante I), that illegitimacy or irregularity of birth was a sign of authentication for “the God-anointed,” finds some corroboration in the claim of the Epistle to the Hebrews that Jesus, like Melchizedek, was without father, mother, or genealogy. His double nature is suggested: “Our Lord sprung out of Judah” (vii. 14), yet (verse 16), as priest, he has arisen “not after the law of a carnal commandment, but after the power of an indissoluble life.” The writer admits that what he writes about Melchizedek is “hard of interpretation,” and perhaps it so proved to the genealogist (Matt, i.) who apparently was animated by a desire to make out a carnal-law inheritance of the throne, yet not so legitimate as to exclude divine interference at various stages. In the forty-two generations only five mothers are named,—all associated either with sexual immorality or some kind of irregularity in their matrimonial relations. Tamar, through whose adultery with her father-in-law, Judah, his almost extinct line was preserved, is already a holy woman in the book of Ruth (iv. 12), and the association there of Ruth’s name with this particular one of the many female ancestors of her son, and her mention in Matthew, look as if some editor of Ruth as well as the genealogist desired to cast suspicion on her midnight visit to Boaz. “The Lord gave Tamar conception, and she bore a son”—grandfather of David. It is also doubtful whether Rahab, who comes next to Tamar in Matthew’s list, is called a harlot in the book of Joshua: Zuneh is said to mean “hostess” or “tavern-keeper.” But in the Epistle to the Hebrews and in that of James she becomes a glorified harlot. The next female ancestor of Jesus mentioned is “her of Uriah.” The name of the woman is not given,—the important fact being apparently that she was somebody’s wife. Our translators have supplied no fewer than five words to save this text from signifying that Bathsheba was still Uriah’s wife when Solomon was born.

The next ancestress named after the mother of Solomon is the mother of Jesus, Mary, in whom Bathsheba finds transfiguration. The exaltation of the adulterous mother of Solomon has already been referred to (ante II.), and the traditional ascription to her of the authorship of the last chapter of Proverbs. She was also supposed to be the original or model of “the Virtuous Woman” therein portrayed! Now, in that same chapter she is pronounced “blessed,” and excelling all the daughters who have done virtuously (Cf. Luke i. 28, 42). In the “Wisdom of Solomon” (ix. 5) a phrase is used by Solomon which is also used by his mother (Bathsheba) when she conjured from David the decree for his succession,—“thine handmaiden” (1 Kings i.). Solomon says, “For I, thy servant, and son of thy handmaiden,” etc. This was written in a popular work about the time of the birth of Jesus. We find the “blessed” of Proverbs xxxi. 28, and the “handmaiden” of the “Wisdom of Solomon” both in Mary’s magnificat: “For he hath regarded the low estate of his handmaiden; for behold, from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed.”

In Ecclesiasticus (xv. 2) we find the enigmatic clause concerning Solomonic “Sophia,” personified Wisdom: καί ὑπαντήσεται αὐτῷ ὡς μήτηρ, καὶ ὡς γυνὴ παρθενίας προσδέξεται αὐοτόν.

The Vulgate translates: “Et obviabit illi quasi mater honorificata, et quasi mulier a virginitate suscipiet illum.”

Wycliffe translates the Vulgate: “And it as a modir onourid schal meete hym, and as a womman fro virgynyte schal take him.”

The Authorised Version has: “And as a mother shall she meet him, and receive him as a wife married of a virgin.”

In the Variorum Teacher’s Bible the reading “maiden wife” is suggested, and reference is made to Leviticus xxi. 13, “And he shall take a wife in her virginity.” But the Septuagint, which Jesus Ben Sira would follow were he quoting, uses simple words there: αὗτος γυναῖκα παρθένον [ἐκ τοῦ γένους αὐτοῦ] λήπσεται.

(The words in crochets are added by the LXX.)

The clause in Ecclus. xv. 2, taken with the chapter it continues, conveys to me an impression of rhapsodical paradox, as when Dante apostrophises Mary: “O Virgin Mother, daughter of thy son!” The Semitic goddess is born, Wisdom, sister of virginal Athena of the Parthenon, yet fulfilling the Solomonic exaltation of the Virtuous Woman, who is also a wife. She is therefore the Virgin Bride.

But whether this interpretation is correct or not, it cannot be doubted that this strange phrase in a household book might easily convey that impression, and that to believers in the resurrection of Jesus the feeling that he must also have entered the world in a supernatural way might naturally have associated Miriam his mother with the virgin bride, Wisdom.

The evolution of Wisdom into the Holy Spirit has been traced (ante XII.), and it is sufficient to mention here that in the “Gospel according to the Hebrews,” Jesus uses the phrase “My mother the Holy Spirit.”

In the “Wisdom of Solomon” the resurrected Solomon says, “I was nursed in swaddling clothes, and that with cares” (vii. 4, cf. Luke ii. 7). This might be said of every babe, but the King, having begun by saying “I myself also am a mortal man,” mentions the swaddling clothes as a sign of lowliness; and the impression made by this item in the Birth-legend of Jesus is shown by a passage in the Arabic Gospel of the Infancy. It is said that when the Wise Men came, in obedience to a prophecy of Zoroaster, Mary rewarded their gifts with one of the child’s “Swaddling bands,” which on their return to their own land withstood the power of fire, in which it was tested.

The infant Jesus receives gifts of the Wise Men, traceable to the gold, silver, and spices brought by the Queen of Sheba (afterwards “Sophia”) to Solomon. (Cf. also Psalm lxxii. 8–11.) As Solomon to the Queen, so Jesus gives proofs of astounding wisdom to the woman of Samaria.

In the “Wisdom of Solomon” the returned king proceeds: “I was a witty child, and had a good spirit. Yea rather, being good, I came into a body undefiled” (viii. 19, 20). In Luke it is said, “And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with wisdom.” “And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature.”

The word “undefiled” was a special title of Wisdom. In the “Wisdom of Solomon” (vii.) the King, having described his birth, “like to all,” and his “swaddling clothes,” follows this immediately by saying, “I prayed, and understanding was given me; I called, and the spirit of Wisdom came to me.” This is the new and the spiritual birth. Among the titles ascribed in the same chapter to Wisdom is “Undefiled,” this being emphasized three verses lower by the declaration that being a pure emanation from God “no defiled thing can fall into her.” These ideas, so far as Solomon is concerned, are referable to his prayer for wisdom (1 Kings iii. 9) and to Jahveh’s adoption of him (Psalm ii. 7). “Thou art my son, this day have I begotten thee.”

These ideas all reappear at the baptism of Jesus, as related in the “Gospel according to Hebrews”:

It is important to recall that this all occurred before baptism. The suggestion that he should be baptized for remission of sins, is met by Jesus as a challenge of his sinlessness. It is submitted to the test, and before he enters the water the “Undefiled” (the dove) enters him, and the deity announces him as then and there begotten. When “straightway a great light shone around the place”—ultimately the Star of Bethlehem. John the Baptist is here the shepherd: seeing the light, he asks, “Who art thou, Lord?” The heavenly voice replies, “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” Then John fell down before him and said, “I pray thee, Lord, baptize thou me.” But he prevented him, saying, “Let be; for thus it is becoming that all things should be fulfilled.” Then follows the baptism, and the account continues:

The phrase “entire fountain of the Holy Spirit” is Parsî. Anâhita is the Holy Spirit; her influence is always described as a fountain descending on the saints or heroes to whom she gives strength. It will be remembered that in this Gospel the Holy Spirit is also feminine. The use of the words “fountain” and “rest in thee” are interesting in connection with the account of John the Baptizer and Jesus in the fourth gospel, which differs so widely from the Synoptical narratives. It is in John (iii.) left doubtful whether Jesus accepted any baptismal rite at all. John was baptizing at a large pool called Ænon-by-Saleim,—probably allegorical, meaning “Fountain of Repose.” Jesus and his friends came there and plunged in (ἐβαπτίξοντο), but they seem to have been a distinct party from that of John.

After the supposed resurrection of Jesus everything he did, even taking a bath, became mystical. Jerome says that in his time there was a place called Salumias, and he maintained that it was there that Melchizedek refreshed Abraham. There are various readings of this Saleim in the New Testament, all, no doubt, variants of Solomon, all meaning “rest”; and the fourth Gospel supplies in ‘Αὶνῶν ἐγγυς Σαλημ’ the basis of the legend in the Aramaic Gospel of the “rest” which the Holy Spirit found in her son, on whom her “entire fountain” was poured. And with this legend may also be read the words of “Wisdom of Solomon,” vii. 27, 28: “She (Wisdom) maketh all things new; and in all ages entering into holy souls she maketh them friends of God and prophets. For God loveth none but him that dwelleth with Wisdom.” The representation in this Aramaic Gospel of the Holy Spirit as “entering into” Jesus is especially interesting in connection with the use of the same phrase in “Wisdom of Solomon,”—into whose heart Wisdom was put by God (1 Kings x. 24).

It is only after Wisdom has entered into Jesus that the voice is heard, “This is my beloved Son, in thee I am well pleased.” This accords with Solomon’s words, “God loveth none but him that dwelleth with Wisdom.” The angelic song at the birth (Luke ii. 14) preserves the heavenly voice at the baptism concerning “peace.” The “peace” is Solomon’s own name, associated with the “rest” given to his reign in order that he might build the temple (1 Kings v. 4, Ecclesiasticus xlvii. 13). “My Son,” says the spirit from within Jesus, “Thou art my rest.”

It is remarkable that the title preëminently belonging to Solomon, “Prince of Peace,” and unknown to the Gospels as a title of Jesus, should be traditionally given to one said to have declared that he had come on earth to bring not peace but a sword, and bids his disciples arm themselves. No doubt the religious instinct tells true in this; it is tolerably plain that the warlike words were ascribed to Jesus not because he said them, but to adapt him to the “Word” as described in the “Wisdom of Solomon”: “While all things were in quiet silence ... thine Almighty Word leaped down from heaven out of thy royal throne as a fierce man of war ... and brought thine unfeigned commandment as a sharp sword,” etc. The fierce metaphor was, as we have seen, caught up and spiritualized in the Epistle to the Hebrews, and passed on to be literalized for the risen Christ, so that the consecration of the sword by the Prince of Peace is writ large in the Christian wars of many centuries.

To the tests and proofs of Solomon’s wisdom recorded in 1 Kings iii. and x. many additions were made by rabbinical tradition, mostly derived from Parsî scriptures. The famous Ring of Solomon is the symbol of sovereignty over the part of the earth owned by God given by him to the first man King Yima—“Then I, Ahura Mazda, brought two implements unto him, a golden ring and a poniard inlaid with gold. Behold, here Yima bears the royal sway!” (Vendîdâd, Farg. ii. 5). When Yima pressed the earth with this ring, the genius of the Earth, Aramaîti, responded to his wish and order. The ring represented Yima’s “glory” (in Avestan phrase), his divine potency, lost when he yielded to a temptation of the devil, and Solomon also lost his ring with which, as we have seen (ante IV.) his “glory” and royal sway passed to the (Persian) devil Asmodeus. This occurred in a trial of wits, Asmodeus propounding hard questions, which Solomon was able to answer until, proudly thinking he could answer by his unaided intellect, he laid aside his ring, at the challenge of Asmodeus. These hard questions are found in an ancient legend of a similar contest between the devil and Zoroaster, and are alluded to as “malignant riddles.” Zoroaster met the devil “unshaken by the hardness of his malignant riddles,” and swinging “stones as big as a house,” which he had obtained from the Maker,—tables of the divine law, and possibly origin of the stones which the devil challenged Jesus to turn into bread.

There are Avestan elements in the legend of the temptation of Jesus that do not appear in the legends of Solomon. In Parsî belief the land of demons on earth is Mâzana. From that region they issue to inflict diseases, especially blindness and deafness. In that region is an “exceeding high mountain,” Damâvand, to which the great demon Azi Dahâka was bound by Feridun who overcame him. This demon was called “the murderer,”—the epithet mysteriously applied by Jesus to the devil (John viii. 44). After tempting and supplanting King Yima he ruled over the world for a millennium in great splendour, and the chief of devils tempts Zoroaster with that glory.

“Renounce the good law of the worshippers of Mazda, and thou shalt gain such a boon as the Murderer gained, the ruler of nations.” Thus in answer to him said Zoroaster, “No, never will I renounce the good law of the worshippers of Mazda, though my body, my life, my soul, should burst.” Again said the guileful one, the Maker of the evil world, “By whose word wilt thou strike, by whose word wilt thou repel, by whose weapon will the good creatures (strike and repel) my creation?” Thus, in answer, said Zoroaster, “The sacred mortar, the sacred cup, the Haoma [the sacramental juice] the Words taught by Mazda, these are my weapons.”3

After this, Zoroaster “on the mountain” conversed with Ahura Mazda, and invoked the beneficent beings who preside over the seven Karshvares of the earth. We thus have here the mountain, the stones, the Word from the mouth of God, the offer of the kingdoms of the world, and the ministering angels, which reappear in the temptation of Jesus.

After his baptism, Jesus repudiates his human parentage (“who is my mother?” etc.), and was led up by his new mother—the Spirit—into the wilderness to be tested by the devil. To this no doubt relate the words of Jesus preserved by Origen from the “Gospel according to the Hebrews”: “Just now my mother the Holy Spirit took me by one of my hairs and bore me up on the great mountain Tabor.”4 Here the Solomonic kingdom and glory were offered by the devil if Jesus would worship him. According to Luke iv. he was tempted forty days (the number of the years of Solomon’s reign). The first incident thereafter was his announcement that the Spirit of the Lord was upon him, and the second was an exhibition of his Solomonic power over devils. This, in Luke, is his first miracle. His first titular recognition was this surrender of the devil, who cried, “I know thee who them art, the Holy One of Israel!”

In Matthew also the devils first give him the divine title “Son of God” (vii. 29). In the next chapter he gives his twelve disciples authority over demons. That this was well understood by the people is shown in Matthew xii. 23, where, on seeing demons mastered, they cry, “Is this the Son of David?” that is, is this Solomon, the famous enslaver of demons?

It may be noted in passing that in the three miracles in Matthew of exorcising a blinding demon the title “Son of David” is used. Alford speaks of this as remarkable; but vision is the especial promise of Wisdom, therefore of Solomon, son of David.

It may be remembered in this connection that in “Wisdom” (Ecclus. iv.) the trial by Wisdom is set forth:

This, which reappears in the parable of the broad and the narrow ways, seems to have determined the part which the Holy Spirit performs in the temptation of Jesus. According to Matthew he was by the Spirit carried involuntarily, “driven,” says Mark, the Hebrew Gospel says, “borne by the hair” into the wilderness: as Jahveh “raised a Satan unto Solomon,” and left Job to Satan, the Holy Spirit carries Jesus to Satan, the same Evil One; and after his triumph the promise in “Wisdom” (she will “comfort him”) is fulfilled: “Angels came and ministered unto him.” Luke says he “returned in the power of the Spirit into Galilee; and a fame went out concerning him through all the region round about: he taught in their synagogues and was glorified of all.”

Nevertheless it may be remarked that the peculiar language in Luke (iv. 1) “led in the spirit” suggests that the whole story is a late literalization of some vision, partly based on v. 7 of the Epistle to the Hebrews, but originally on Solomon’s dream (1 Kings iii.), in which Jahveh offers him any gift, and he asks only for Wisdom. Or, as he (Solomon) says in “Wisdom of Solomon,” “I preferred her before sceptres and thrones” (vii. 8). But all of these were remotely influenced by the trial of Zoroaster, and the attempts of the devil to terrify Zoroaster before tempting him may be hinted in Mark i. 13, “He was with the wild beasts.” These, however, are more prominent in the temptation of Buddha.

Paul appears to have considered it an important apostolic credential to have had to contend with a Satan (2 Cor. xii. 7–10), and Peter was honoured by a special request made by Satan, and conceded, that he should be for a time under his diabolical control. (Luke xxii. 31.)

As in the case of Solomon, the tests and trials of the superhuman wisdom and power of Jesus are found chiefly in tradition and folklore. The apocryphal gospels contain many, and some are preserved by Persian and Arabian poets. In the New Testament a few examples appear in which his utterances are given a quasi-judicial tone. There are several points of resemblance between the famous judgment of Solomon on the two harlots contending for the child, and the sentence of Jesus in favour of “sinful Mary,” sister of Martha, accused by Simon the Pharisee. In both cases the decision was made at a feast, and in favour of the one who “loved much.” It is not, however, the incident in itself that is now referred to, but only the formality ascribed to it in the narrative. And this adheres to the entire story. The anointing of Jesus may have occurred, but the scenic touches recall lines in the Solomonic “Song of Songs”:

It is not impossible, by the way, that it was from chaste Shulamith of the Song ascribed to Solomon that a bad reputation was fixed on Mary Magdalene, against whose virginal purity no word is said in the Bible, the chapter heading to Luke vii. alone identifying her, in contradiction to John xi. 2, as the woman who anointed Jesus. This libel seems to come from a far antiquity,—as far probably as the Talmudic “Miriam Magdala” (i. e., Braided-hair Mary); and this epithet might have been derived from Shulamith’s “ringlets” which were “tied up in folds,” and whose spikenard sent forth its odours while Solomon was at the table. The later Jahvism must have considered such attention by ladies to their hair as an evidence of wickedness. Paul, while recognizing that long hair is a woman’s “glory” (1 Cor. xi.) dangerously fascinating even to the angels, testifies against “braided hair” (1 Tim. ii.), an instruction repeated in 1 Peter iii. Whether this lady of means who helped to support Jesus was from Magdala or not, it is nearly certain that her legend was derived from another sense of “Magdalene,” and it is not improbable that the friendship of Jesus for her was in keeping with his Solomonic defiance of the Pharisaic.

The Eastern tales of monarchs in disguise, derived from a legend of Solomon, may have prepared the popular mind for the double rôle performed by Jesus in the Gospels, for the earlier writers do not suggest any lowliness in his position beyond the humiliation of taking on human flesh and dying. In the Gospels we find him now an hungered, now dining with the Pharisee and anointed with precious ointment, again multiplying food; an humble-son of man who has not where to lay his head, a son of God with legions of angels at his command; purifying the temple with violence, and predicting its destruction; a peacemaker bringing a sword; telling his disciples to resist not evil, and arming them; enjoining secrecy about his miracles, presently parading them; prostrate with anguish in a garden, presently shining with unmasked splendour. Solomon never arrayed himself in any such brilliant raiment as that of the transfiguration, nor was his environment finer than the scenes imaged in some of these parables,—the prodigal’s ring and robe, the king going to war and sending his ambassadors, the masters of fields and vineyards, the momentous wedding dress, the importance of rank and precedence at a feast. In miracles, too, we have the grand wedding at Cana, and the homage of the centurion deferentially rewarded.5

In the Hebrew Gospel Jesus says, “I will that ye be twelve apostles for a testimony to Israel”; with which we may compare the “twelve officers over all Israel” appointed by Solomon (1 Kings iv. 7). In Mark the first bestowal on Jesus of his Solomonic title “Son of David” (x.) is immediately followed by his Solomonic entry into Jerusalem. In Matthew the blind man’s tribute is followed by the cry of multitudes, “Hosanna to the Son of David”; and the whole scene is obviously from the narrative in 1 Kings i. of the procession of Solomon, seated on David’s mule, on the occasion of the anointing which made him the model Messiah, in virtue of which he was King and Priest in combination. Solomon dedicated the temple himself, as High Priest, and to him, as King-Priest, the privilege of sanctuary was subordinate. Wherefore he had an offender executed while holding the horns of the altar. The titular Son of David, on the morrow of his triumphal entry, assumes authority in the temple, and scourges out of it the sellers of things used in the sacrifices,—especially Doves. These his human mother had sacrificed after his birth for purification, but by this time they symbolized his divine mother, the Holy Spirit, and were not to be sold.

Who can suppose that this violence, which were as if one assaulted those who sell holy candles and pictures in a church vestibule, really occurred? At Oberammergau the whole tragedy of the Passion Play hinges on the resentment of these merchants, who appeal to the Sanhedrim for protection from the violence of one man armed with a whip! The story (John ii.) is an epitaph of the primitive Christ, the value of whose blood was its proof that his victory over the Adversary was that of a Man, unaided by a divine, unblemished by a carnal, weapon: triumph by either would have been defeat.

The bread and wine offered to Abraham by the mythical king-priest of Salem (Solomon disguised as Melchizedek) may have been suggested by the bread and wine offered by Wisdom to her guests, in Proverbs ix. However this may be, there is clearly discoverable at the Last Supper of Jesus the Satan that Jahveh raised up against Solomon in the presence of mythical Judas (“Satan entered into him,” says John), and in the whole scene the table of Wisdom. “She hath mingled her wine, she hath furnished her table,” and cries—

That Jesus supped with his disciples, at the Passover time, is very probable, but that the bread and wine alone should have been selected for symbolical usage (a point unknown to the fourth gospel) conforms too closely with the Solomonic prologue to be a mere coincidence. The words “Take, eat,” “Drink ye all of it,” recall also the Song of Songs—

The anger of Jahveh against Solomon (1 Kings xi.) is, of course, the outcome of late theological explanations of how the ancient and much idealised kingdom could have been divided after divine promises of its protection. The interview with Solomon is a sort of dramatization, in which the anachronism of making Jahveh a historic contemporary of the Wise King represents the fact that when the tribal deity was evolved it was in antagonism to a Solomon who, though his body had long mouldered, was still “marching on.” That Solomon had to contend with the hard and fanatical elements afterwards consolidated in Jahvism is pretty clear, and we may see in him a primitive Akbar. A century after Akbar’s death the Rajah of Joudpoor said to the emperor Aurungzebe: “Your ancestor Akbar, whose throne is now in heaven, conducted the affairs of his empire in equity and security for the period of fifty years. He preserved every tribe of men in repose and happiness, whether they were followers of Jesus or of Moses, of Brahma or Mohammed. Of whatever sect or creed they might be, they all equally enjoyed his countenance and favour, insomuch that his people, in gratitude for the indiscriminate protection which he afforded them, distinguished him by the appellation of The Guardian of Mankind.” Moslem fanaticism could not tolerate such toleration, and Akbar’s reign was followed by conflicts very similar to those which followed Solomon’s reign, leading to the Mogul empire, but ultimately to the reign of an “Empress of India,” under whom we now see the same toleration of all religions which prevailed in the fifty years of Akbar.

The Moslem saw in Akbar’s liberality and toleration the supreme offence of putting other gods—Jesus, Brahma, Ahuramazda—beside Allah. The Jahvist saw retrospectively in Solomon’s liberality the putting of Moloch, Ashera, and other gods beside Jahveh. It was therefore recorded that Jahveh determined to rend all the tribes save one from Solomon’s son (a vaticinium ex evento). But that one was enough to preserve the Solomon cult.

Ἀνάγκη οὐδὲ Θεοὶ μάχονται. This Necessity, which the Greeks saw working above all the gods, is man himself, and worked also above Jah and Jahvism, nay, by means of them. Gradually they seemed to prevail over Solomonism. The Proverbs and Solomonic Psalms were transfused with Jahvism, but by this process the heavenly and the terrestrial kings were confused, and the idea of a human heir to the throne of Jahveh was conceived. As when, in our own era, Islam swallowed Zoroaster, with the result of bringing forth the great literary age of Persia, with Parsaism rationalized under a transparent veil of Moslem phrase and fable, so anciently arose the Hebrew Faizis and Saadis and Omar Khayyáms. Of these was the Isaiah who, with pigments of the Solomonic sunset, painted the sunrise of a new day, and a new earth-born God.

Every title, every tint, in this gorgeous vision is taken from the nuptial song for Solomon (Ps. xlv.) and Solomon’s Psalm (lxxii.) The “delightsomeness poured over (Solomon’s) lips” (Ps. xlv. 2) makes the Counsellor of Wonders; his deification (verses 6, 7) makes the God-hero; the tributes of Tarshish, and Sheba make him father of spoil (Ps. lxxii.); his “mildness” (Ps. xlv. 4) his abundant “peace” (Ps. lxxii. 3, 7) make the Prince of Peace; and the rest is a general refrain for both of the Psalms.

Psalm xlv. opens with the words, “My verse concerns the King,” and there is a fair consensus of the learned that the king is Solomon. It has been found impossible to fix upon any other monarch to whom the eulogia would be applicable, and the resemblance of the theme to the Song of Solomon proves that at an early period writers connected the Psalm with Solomon and one of his espousals.

In quoting Professor Newman’s translation of this Psalm (ante II) I alluded to my slight alterations. These are few and verbal, but momentous, and were not made without consultation of many critical authorities and versions. Professor Newman was unable to believe that the poet really meant to address Solomon as God, and in verse 6 translates “Thy throne divine,” in verse 7, “Therefore hath God, thy God, etc.” Others, with similar theistic bias, have shrunk from what, according to the balance of critical interpretation, is the clear sense of the original:

When these verses were written—and verse 11, where after Adonai the Vulgate has Elohim, “He is thy Lord God, worship thou him”—the rigid Jewish monotheism did not exist; and the apostrophe might have continued without special notice had not the psalm been included in the Jewish hymnology and thus given the solemnity and consecration ascribed by Jahvism to its canonical Book of Psalms. But ultimately it made a tremendous and even revolutionary impression; and that the verses were interpreted as bestowing the divine name on Solomon, by those most jealous of that name, is proved, I think, by the following considerations:

1. Isaiah, in his vision quoted above (Is. ix.) combines the phraseology of Ps. xlv. with that of Ps. lxxii. (which bears Solomon’s name as its author), and ascribes to a new-born child the title “God-hero.”

2. The recently discovered original of a fragment of Ecclesiasticus includes the passage about Solomon in xlvii., and it is said in verse 18: “Thou (Solomon) wast called by the glorious name which is called over Israel.” This seems to be a plain reference to the ascriptions in Ps. xlv., where alone the divine name is applied to any individual mortal. Ecclesiasticus was compiled early in the second century before our era, and on the basis of much earlier compilations, as its prologue states.

3. In the “Wisdom of Solomon” the monarch is represented as a mortal who by the divine gift of supernatural Wisdom had gained immortality; he had become privy to the mysteries of God, was his Beloved, his Son. This was written about the first year of our era.

4. The writer of the Epistle to the Hebrews translates the Psalm xlv. as it is translated above, interpreting the words of deification as meant for the Firstborn of God at his ancient appearance on earth (i. 6), and applicable to his reappearance as Christ; arguing from such language of deification the superiority of the Son of God over the angels, who were never so addressed.

A court poet addresses a princely bridegroom as Elohim, as a god—as it were, an Apollo. Had more songs of like antiquity by poets of his race been preserved, no doubt other instances of such rhapsody might be found, but it happens that this is the only instance in Hebrew literature where an individual man is clearly addressed as God (for Exod. vii. 1 and 1 Sam. xxviii. 13 are not really exceptions). As in the Psalm that is the only instance in which an individual man is, in the Old Testament, addressed as God, so is its application in the Epistle to the Hebrews the only indisputable instance in which an individual is addressed as God in the New Testament.

“Thy throne, O God.” Fateful words! The word of God, says this Epistle, is sharper than any two-edged sword, but its writer himself unwittingly unsheathed from a courtier’s compliment just such a sword. One edge has slaughtered innumerable Jews, Moslems, Arians, Socinians, mingling their blood with that of the humane Jesus himself on the sacrificial altar he tried so hard to exchange for mercifulness. The other edge turned against the moral heart of Jesus himself, lowering the tone of all narratives and utterances ascribed to him after his connection with Jahveh, and consequently lowering all Christendom under its dishonourable burden of accommodating human veracity and kindness to the bad heavenly manners that were acquired by the deified Christ. For there was no other God to adopt him but a particularly rude one.

Theological scholars who have compared the Epistle to the Hebrews with the Epistles of Paul have dwelt on the theological differences, but the moral differences are greater. In the Epistle to the Hebrews the emphasis is laid on the service of Jesus to mankind: it is this that makes him, as it made Solomon, worthy of worship as a God, and the ancient God with his sacrifices is virtually represented as transforming himself and his government to the measure of Jesus. Jesus is complete and perfect man, no part or power of his divine nature accompanying him on earth. But we see in Philippians ii. 7, and other passages, the primitive idea fading away, and Jesus pictured as a divine being in the mere semblance and disguise of a man, no real man at all; a theory which prevails in the story of the transfiguration, where the disguise is for a moment thrown aside. The earlier idea of his genuine humanity was still strong enough to prevent any stories of miracles wrought by Jesus from arising, the resurrection being a miracle wrought by God after the work of Jesus was “finished,” as he is said to have proclaimed from the stake. But legends of miracles became inevitable after the theory of his disguise was diffused, and also stories of the vituperation, anathemas, and attitudinizings, which are so offensive in a man, but so characteristic of the whole history of Jahveh, with whom he was gradually identified. A gentleman does not call his opponents vipers and consign them to hell, but Jahveh is not under any such obligations. And, alas, disregard of the humanities did not, as we have seen, stop there even in Paul’s time. In the further development, that of Jesus the magician, the personal character of Jesus was sadly sacrificed, and it is only due to the superstition that prevents the New Testament narratives from being read in a common sense way that people generally are not shocked by some of the representations.

When the second Solomon was born in Bethlehem, as the Gospel carols tell, Wise Men came to worship him, but Jahveh had already fixed his own star above the cradle, and his angels contended for the great man, as for centuries the wisdom of the first Solomon had been jahvized. It was, however, the opinion of some ancient commentators that the cry of the angels, “Glory to God in the highest” meant that the birth of Jesus was to operate in the heavenly heights, and work changes there also. One may indeed dream of a deity longing for a human love,—grieving at being through ages an object of fear, personified as Wrath,—rejoicing in the birth of any new interpreter who should free him from the despot glory, “I create evil,” and reconcile the human heart to him as eternal love—love ever burdened with the griefs of humanity, ever seeking to be born of woman, and to struggle against the dark and evil forces of nature. So one may dream, and it is a pathetic fact that the contention between humanity and heaven for the new-born Saviour is traceable in varying versions of the Angels’ song. While half of Christendom sing “On earth peace, good will toward men,” the other half sing, “On earth peace to men of good will.” Our Revisers find the balance of authorities on the side of authority, and translate

Although the “higher criticism” appears to treat with a certain contempt the birth-legends and carols in Matthew and Luke, and the genealogies, beyond the letter of these is visible more of the vanishing Jesus “after the flesh,” the real and great man, than of the risen Christ in whom his humanity was lost. The “shepherd of my people,” he who is to absolve them from their nightmare “sins,” make crooked ways straight, rough places smooth, and free them from fear, is remembered in these rhapsodies of the Infancy, in the terrors of Herod, and gifts of the Wise. They have a certain evolution in the benevolent teachings and healing miracles of the Synoptics, easily discriminated from the competing Jahveh-Christ. (Think of a teacher urging his friends to forgive offenders seventy times seven and then promising them a “Comforter” who will never forgive the slightest offence, though merely verbal, either in this world or in the next!)

The extent to which the man was lowered and lost in the risen Lord is especially revealed in the fourth Gospel. Except for the story of the woman taken in adultery, admittedly interpolated from another Gospel, the fourth Gospel may be regarded as perhaps the only book in the Bible without recognition of humanity. “I pray not for the world, but for those whom thou hast given me,” is the keynote. In this work there is no text for the reformer and the philanthropist, unless perhaps the retreat of Jesus from a prospect of being made king. What inferences of benevolence might be made even from the miracles related have to be strained through the arrogance, self-aggrandizement, attitudinizing, as of a showman, with which they are wrought.1 A rudeness to his mother precedes the turning of water to wine (ii. 4); the nobleman’s son is healed because the aristocrat will not believe without a miracle (iv. 48); the infirm man at Bethesda is healed only after a sham question, “Wouldest thou be made whole?” and threatened afterwards (v. 6, 14); feeding the multitude is attended with another sham question (vi. 5), and a parade of the fragments (13); the man born blind is declared to have been so born solely for the sign and wonder manifested in his cure (ix. 3).

But the supremacy of a new Jahveh over all moral obligations and all truthfulness is especially displayed in the resurrection of Lazarus (xi.). Here Jesus is represented as staying away from the sick man, in order that he may die; he affects to believe Lazarus is only asleep, but finding his disciples pleased with the prospect of recovery, in which case there would be no miracle, he becomes frank (παρῥησιᾳ) and assures them Lazarus is dead; he tells his disciples privately he is glad Lazarus is dead; he tells Martha, when she comes out to him alone, that her brother shall rise; but when her sister Mary comes out, accompanied by her Jewish consolers, Jesus breaks out into vehement groans and lamentations, lashing himself (ἐτάραξεν ἐαυτὸν) into this sham grief over a man at whose death he has connived and who would presently be alive! Even in his prayer over Lazarus the pretence is kept up, and his Father is informed, in an aside, “I know that thou hearest me always, but because of the multitude around I said it, that they may believe that thou didst send me.” Thus does the fourth Gospel sink Jesus morally into the grave of Lazarus, leaving in his place an embodiment of the Jahveh who had lying spirits to send out into his prophets on occasion.

The resurrection of Lazarus is a transparent fabrication out of the parable of the rich man and Lazarus. Abraham’s words to the rich man,—“neither will they be persuaded if one rose from the dead,”—were not adapted to a faith built on a resurrection, so that parable is suppressed in the fourth Gospel. The resurrection of a supernatural man is not quite sufficient for people not supernatural. Those who had been looking for a returning Christ had died, just like the unbelievers. There was a tremendous necessity for an example of the resurrection of an ordinary man. Shocking as are the immoral details of the story, there is audible in it the pathetic cry of the suffering human heart, and the demand that must be met by any Gospel claiming the faith of humanity. “Lord, if thou hadst been here my brother had not died!” Through what ages has that declaration, not to be denied, ascended to cold and cruel skies? It is found in the Vedas, in Job, in the Psalms. If there is a Heart up there why are we tortured? To the many apologies and explanations and pretences which imperilled systems had given, Christianity had to support itself by something more than Egyptian dreams and Platonic speculations. A dead man must arise; it must be done dramatically, amid domestic grief and neighbourly sympathy; it must be done doctrinally, with funeral sermon turned to rejoicings. And this was all done in the story of Lazarus in such a way that it might surround every grave with illusions for centuries. For who, while tears are falling, will pause to handle the wreaths, and find whether they are genuine? Who, while the service is proceeding, will analyze the details, and ask whether it is possible that the good Jesus could have practiced such deception and assumed such theatrical attitudes?2

The indifference of the fourth Gospel to such moral considerations as those found in the Synoptics is so apostolic that I am inclined to place much of it nearer to the first century than I once supposed. Paul’s rage against the “wisdom of this world,” and his fulminations against the learned because they are not “called,” are fully adopted by the Johannine Christ, who says to the blind man whose eyes he had opened, and who was worshipping him: “For judgment came I into this world, that they that see not may see, and they that see may become blind.” And these ideas are represented in a legend related in the book of Acts which is really allegorical, though our translators have manipulated it into serious history.

A persecutor of Christians, on whom the spirit “came mightily,” as on King Saul, so that he was a new “Saul among the prophets,” sought to convert to his new faith a Roman Proconsul, Sergius Paul. But with this Consul was a learned man of the Jewish Wisdom School, Bar-Jesus Elymas,—i. e., Dr. Anti-Jesus Wise Man. Like Michael and Satan contending for the body of Moses, Prophet Saul and Anti-Jesus Wise Man contended for the Roman Paul’s soul. Prophet Saul prevailed by calling Anti-Jesus Wise Man a child of the devil, and striking him blind. Thereupon Consul Paul believed, being “astonished at the teaching of the Lord.” Whereupon Prophet Saul triumphantly carries off the Roman’s name as a trophy.3

Beginning in this conclusive way, by striking human Wisdom sightless (“that they that see may become blind,” John ix. 39), the Anti-Wisdom propaganda, which began with identifying Wisdom with the serpent in Eden, passed on to inspire the Church Fathers who gloated over the eternal tortures of the poets and philosophers of Greece and Rome. Alas for the philosophers not in their graves, but in their cradles, or in the womb of the future! For torments are nearest “eternal” when they begin at once on earth.

One may readily understand how it was that personal traditions of Jesus and his teachings remained unwritten until his contemporaries were dead (although this may not have been the case with the suppressed “Gospel according to the Hebrews”); the hourly expected return of Christ rendered such memoirs unimportant until it became clear that the expectation was erroneous. The age of John, of whom Jesus was rumoured to have predicted survival till his return (John xxi. 22), was stretched out to a mythical extent; he became an undying sleeper at Ephesus, and finally a pious “Wandering Jew”; but when at length such fables lost their strength, some imaginative impersonator brought forth an apocalyptic bequest of John postponing the second advent a thousand years. The conventicles had thus no resource but to turn into orthodoxy the heresy of Hymenœus and Alexander, for which Paul delivered them over to Satan, that the resurrection occurs at death; to collect the traditional sayings of Jesus; and to adapt these to the new situation. A thousand years later, when the expected catastrophe did not occur, the substantial churches and cathedrals were built, as the Gospels had been built after the first-century disappointment.

These Gospels contain things from which some of the real teachings of the wise man of Nazareth may be fairly conjectured. That the synoptical records are palimpsests, though denied by the prudent, is a truth felt by the unsophisticated who, in their use of such words as “Christian” and “a Christian spirit,” quite ignore the fearful anathemas and damnatory language ascribed to Jesus.