Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
ladder our father Jacob saw in his dream. Blessed be the Lord God of
our fathers!”
CHAPTER XI
A mile and a half, it may be two miles, southeast of Bethlehem, there
is a plain separated from the town by an intervening swell of the
mountain. Besides being well sheltered from the north winds, the vale
was covered with a growth of sycamore, dwarf-oak, and pine trees, while
in the glens and ravines adjoining there were thickets of olive and
mulberry; all at this season of the year invaluable for the support of
sheep, goats, and cattle, of which the wandering flocks consisted.
At the side farthest from the town, close under a bluff, there was an
extensive marah, or sheepcot, ages old. In some long-forgotten foray,
the building had been unroofed and almost demolished. The enclosure
attached to it remained intact, however, and that was of more
importance to the shepherds who drove their charges thither than the
house itself. The stone wall around the lot was high as a man’s head,
yet not so high but that sometimes a panther or a lion, hungering from
the wilderness, leaped boldly in. On the inner side of the wall, and as
an additional security against the constant danger, a hedge of the
rhamnus had been planted, an invention so successful that now a sparrow
could hardly penetrate the overtopping branches, armed as they were
with great clusters of thorns hard as spikes.
The day of the occurrences which occupy the preceding chapters, a
number of shepherds, seeking fresh walks for their flocks, led them up
to this plain; and from early morning the groves had been made ring
with calls, and the blows of axes, the bleating of sheep and goats, the
tinkling of bells, the lowing of cattle, and the barking of dogs. When
the sun went down, they led the way to the marah, and by nightfall had
everything safe in the field; then they kindled a fire down by the
gate, partook of their humble supper, and sat down to rest and talk,
leaving one on watch.
There were six of these men, omitting the watchman; and afterwhile they
assembled in a group near the fire, some sitting, some lying prone. As
they went bareheaded habitually, their hair stood out in thick, coarse,
sunburnt shocks; their beard covered their throats, and fell in mats
down the breast; mantles of the skin of kids and lambs, with the fleece
on, wrapped them from neck to knee, leaving the arms exposed; broad
belts girthed the rude garments to their waists; their sandals were of
the coarsest quality; from their right shoulders hung scrips containing
food and selected stones for slings, with which they were armed; on the
ground near each one lay his crook, a symbol of his calling and a
weapon of offence.
Such were the shepherds of Judea! In appearance, rough and savage as
the gaunt dogs sitting with them around the blaze; in fact,
simple-minded, tender-hearted; effects due, in part, to the primitive
life they led, but chiefly to their constant care of things lovable and
helpless.
They rested and talked, and their talk was all about their flocks, a
dull theme to the world, yet a theme which was all the world to them.
If in narrative they dwelt long upon affairs of trifling moment; if one
of them omitted nothing of detail in recounting the loss of a lamb, the
relation between him and the unfortunate should be remembered: at birth
it became his charge, his to keep all its days, to help over the
floods, to carry down the hollows, to name and train; it was to be his
companion, his object of thought and interest, the subject of his will;
it was to enliven and share his wanderings; in its defense he might be
called on to face the lion or robber—to die.
The great events, such as blotted out nations and changed the mastery
of the world, were trifles to them, if perchance they came to their
knowledge. Of what Herod was doing in this city or that, building
palaces and gymnasia, and indulging forbidden practises, they
occasionally heard. As was her habit in those days, Rome did not wait
for people slow to inquire about her; she came to them. Over the hills
along which he was leading his lagging herd, or in the fastnesses in
which he was hiding them, not unfrequently the shepherd was startled by
the blare of trumpets, and, peering out, beheld a cohort, sometimes a
legion, in march; and when the glittering crests were gone, and the
excitement incident to the intrusion over, he bent himself to evolve
the meaning of the eagles and gilded globes of the soldiery, and the
charm of a life so the opposite of his own.
Yet these men, rude and simple as they were, had a knowledge and a
wisdom of their own. On Sabbaths they were accustomed to purify
themselves, and go up into the synagogues, and sit on the benches
farthest from the ark. When the chazzan bore the Torah round, none
kissed it with greater zest; when the sheliach read the text, none
listened to the interpreter with more absolute faith; and none took
away with them more of the elder’s sermon, or gave it more thought
afterwards. In a verse of the Shema they found all the learning and all
the law of their simple lives—that their Lord was One God, and that
they must love him with all their souls. And they loved him, and such
was their wisdom, surpassing that of kings.
While they talked, and before the first watch was over, one by one the
shepherds went to sleep, each lying where he had sat.
The night, like most nights of the winter season in the hill country,
was clear, crisp, and sparkling with stars. There was no wind. The
atmosphere seemed never so pure, and the stillness was more than
silence; it was a holy hush, a warning that heaven was stooping low to
whisper some good thing to the listening earth.
By the gate, hugging his mantle close, the watchman walked; at times he
stopped, attracted by a stir among the sleeping herds, or by a jackal’s
cry off on the mountain-side. The midnight was slow coming to him; but
at last it came. His task was done; now for the dreamless sleep with
which labor blesses its wearied children! He moved towards the fire,
but paused; a light was breaking around him, soft and white, like the
moon’s. He waited breathlessly. The light deepened; things before
invisible came to view; he saw the whole field, and all it sheltered. A
chill sharper than that of the frosty air—a chill of fear—smote him. He
looked up; the stars were gone; the light was dropping as from a window
in the sky; as he looked, it became a splendor; then, in terror, he
cried,
“Awake, awake!”
Up sprang the dogs, and, howling, ran away.
The herds rushed together bewildered.
The men clambered to their feet, weapons in hand.
“What is it?” they asked, in one voice.
“See!” cried the watchman, “the sky is on fire!”
Suddenly the light became intolerably bright, and they covered their
eyes, and dropped upon their knees; then, as their souls shrank with
fear, they fell upon their faces blind and fainting, and would have
died had not a voice said to them,
“Fear not!”
And they listened.
“Fear not: for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which
shall be to all people.”
The voice, in sweetness and soothing more than human, and low and
clear, penetrated all their being, and filled them with assurance. They
rose upon their knees, and, looking worshipfully, beheld in the centre
of a great glory the appearance of a man, clad in a robe intensely
white; above its shoulders towered the tops of wings shining and
folded; a star over its forehead glowed with steady lustre, brilliant
as Hesperus; its hands were stretched towards them in blessing; its
face was serene and divinely beautiful.
They had often heard, and, in their simple way, talked, of angels; and
they doubted not now, but said, in their hearts, The glory of God is
about us, and this is he who of old came to the prophet by the river of
Ulai.
Directly the angel continued:
“For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a Savior, which
is Christ the Lord!”
Again there was a rest, while the words sank into their minds.
“And this shall be a sign unto you,” the annunciator said next. “Ye
shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lying in a manger.”
The herald spoke not again; his good tidings were told; yet he stayed
awhile. Suddenly the light, of which he seemed the centre, turned
roseate and began to tremble; then up, far as the men could see, there
was flashing of white wings, and coming and going of radiant forms, and
voices as of a multitude chanting in unison,
“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will towards
men!”
Not once the praise, but many times.
Then the herald raised his eyes as seeking approval of one far off; his
wings stirred, and spread slowly and majestically, on their upper side
white as snow, in the shadow vari-tinted, like mother-of-pearl; when
they were expanded many cubits beyond his stature, he arose lightly,
and, without effort, floated out of view, taking the light up with him.
Long after he was gone, down from the sky fell the refrain in measure
mellowed by distance, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace,
good-will towards men.”
When the shepherds came fully to their senses, they stared at each
other stupidly, until one of them said, “It was Gabriel, the Lord’s
messenger unto men.”
None answered.
“Christ the Lord is born; said he not so?”
Then another recovered his voice, and replied, “That is what he said.”
“And did he not also say, in the city of David, which is our Bethlehem
yonder. And that we should find him a babe in swaddling-clothes?”
“And lying in a manger.”
The first speaker gazed into the fire thoughtfully, but at length said,
like one possessed of a sudden resolve, “There is but one place in
Bethlehem where there are mangers; but one, and that is in the cave
near the old khan. Brethren, let us go see this thing which has come to
pass. The priests and doctors have been a long time looking for the
Christ. Now he is born, and the Lord has given us a sign by which to
know him. Let us go up and worship him.”
“But the flocks!”
“The Lord will take care of them. Let us make haste.”
Then they all arose and left the marah.
Around the mountain and through the town they passed, and came to the
gate of the khan, where there was a man on watch.
“What would you have?” he asked.
“We have seen and heard great things to-night,” they replied.
“Well, we, too, have seen great things, but heard nothing. What did you
hear?”
“Let us go down to the cave in the enclosure, that we may be sure; then
we will tell you all. Come with us, and see for yourself.”
“It is a fool’s errand.”
“No, the Christ is born.”
“The Christ! How do you know?”
“Let us go and see first.”
The man laughed scornfully.
“The Christ indeed! How are you to know him?”
“He was born this night, and is now lying in a manger, so we were told;
and there is but one place in Bethlehem with mangers.”
“The cave?”
“Yes. Come with us.”
They went through the court-yard without notice, although there were
some up even then talking about the wonderful light. The door of the
cavern was open. A lantern was burning within, and they entered
unceremoniously.
“I give you peace,” the watchman said to Joseph and the Beth Dagonite.
“Here are people looking for a child born this night, whom they are to
know by finding him in swaddling-clothes and lying in a manger.”
For a moment the face of the stolid Nazarene was moved; turning away,
he said, “The child is here.”
They were led to one of the mangers, and there the child was. The
lantern was brought, and the shepherds stood by mute. The little one
made no sign; it was as others just born.
“Where is the mother?” asked the watchman.