Part 13 (2/2)
We grow only through exercise. The faculties we use become strong, and those we fail to use are taken away from us.
This exercise of our powers through which growth is attained affords the finest gratification that mortals know. To think, reason, weigh, sift, decide and act--this is life. It means health, sanity and length of days. Those live longest who live most.
The end of college education to the majority of students and parents is to secure a degree, and a degree is valuable only to the man who needs it. Visiting the office of the ”Outlook,” a weekly, religious newspaper, I noticed that the t.i.tles, Rev., Prof, and Dr., and the degrees, M. D., D. D., LL. D., Ph. D., were carefully used by the clerks in addressing envelopes and wrappers. And I said to the manager, ”Why this misuse of time and effort? The ink thus wasted should be sold and the proceeds given to the poor!” And the man replied, ”To omit these t.i.tles and degrees would cost us half our subscription-list.” And so I a.s.sume that man is a calculating animal, not a thinking one.
And the point of this sermonette is that truth is not monopolized by universities and colleges; nor must we expect much from those who parade degrees and make professions. It is one thing to love truth and it is another thing to l.u.s.t after honors.
The larger life--the life of love, health, self-sufficiency, usefulness and expanding power--this life in abundance is often taught best out of the mouths of babes and sucklings. It is not esoteric, nor hidden in secret formulas, nor locked in languages old and strange.
No one can compute how much the bulwarked learned ones have blocked the path of wisdom. Socrates, the barefoot philosopher, did more good than all the Sophists with their schools. Diogenes, who lived in a tub, searched in vain for an honest man, owned nothing but a blanket and a bowl, and threw the bowl away when he saw a boy drinking out of his hand, even yet makes men think, and so blesses and benefits the race.
Jesus of Nazareth, with no place to lay his tired head, a.s.sociating with publicans and sinners, and choosing his closest companions from among ignorant fishermen, still lives in the affections of millions of people, a molding force for good untold. Friedrich Froebel, who first preached the propensity to play as a pedagogic dynamo, as the tides of the sea could be used to turn the countless wheels of trade, is yet only partially accepted, but has influenced every teacher in Christendom and stamped his personality upon the walls of schoolrooms unnumbered. Then comes Richard Wagner, the political outcast, writing from exile the music that serves as a mine for much of our modern composing, marching down the centuries to the solemn chant of his ”Pilgrims' Chorus”; William Morris, Oxford graduate and uncouth workingman in blouse and overalls, arrested in the streets of London for haranguing crowds on Socialism, let go with a warning, on suspended sentence--canceled only by death--making his mark upon the walls of every well-furnished house in England or America; Jean Francois Millet, starved out in art-loving Paris, his pictures refused at the Salon, living next door to abject want in Barbizon, dubbed the ”wild man of the woods,” dead and turned to dust, his pictures commanding such sums as Paris never before paid; Walt Whitman, issuing his book at his own expense, publishers having refused it, this book excluded from the mails, as Wanamaker immortalized himself by serving a like sentence on Tolstoy; Walt Whitman, riding on top of a Broadway 'bus all day, happy in the great solitude of bustling city streets, sending his barbaric yawp down the ages, singing paeans to those who fail, chants to Death--strong deliverer--and giving courage to a fear-stricken world; Th.o.r.eau, declining to pay the fee of five dollars for his Harvard diploma ”because it wasn't worth the price,” later refusing to pay poll-tax and sent to jail, thus missing, possibly, the chance of finding that specimen of Victoria regia on Concord River--Th.o.r.eau, most virile of all the thinkers of his day, inspiring Emerson, the one man America could illest spare; Spinoza, the intellectual hermit, asking nothing, and giving everything--all these worked their philosophy up into life and are the type of men who jostle the world out of its ruts--creators all, one with Deity, sons of G.o.d, saviors of the race.
Was.h.i.+ngton Irving once spoke of Spain as the Paradise of Jews. But it must be borne in mind that he wrote the words in Granada, which was essentially a Moorish province. The Moors and the Jews are both Semitic in origin--they trace back to a common ancestry. It was the Moslem Moors that welcomed the Jews in both Venetia and Spain, not the Christians.
The wealth, energy and practical business sense of the Jews recommended them to the grandees of Leon, Aragon and Castile. To the Jews they committed their exchequer, the care of their health, the setting of their jewels, and the fas.h.i.+oning of their finery. In this genial atmosphere many of the Jews grew great in the study of science, literature, history, philosophy and all that makes for mental betterment. They increased in numbers, in opulence and in culture. Their thrift and success set them apart as a mark for hate and envy.
It was a period of ominous peace, of treacherous repose.
A senseless and fanatical cry went up, that the Moors--the infidels--must be driven from Spain. The iniquities and inhuman barbarities visited upon the Mohammedan Moors would make a book in itself, but let it go at this: Ferdinand and Isabella drove the Mohammedans from Spain. In the struggle, the Jews were overlooked--and anyway, Christians do not repudiate the Old Testament, and if the Jews would accept Christ, why, they could remain!
It looked easy to the gracious King and Queen of Spain--it was really generous: two religions were unnecessary, and Christianity was beautiful and right. If the Jews would become Catholics, all barriers would be removed--the Jews would be recognized as citizens and every walk of life would be open to them.
This manifesto to the Jews is still quoted by Churchmen to show the excellence, tolerance, patience and love of the Spanish rulers. Turn your synagogues over to the Catholics--come and be one with us--we will all wors.h.i.+p the one G.o.d together--come, these open arms invite--no distinctions--no badges--no preferences--no prejudices--come!
In quoting the edict it is not generally stated that the Jews were given thirty days to make the change.
The Jews who loved their faith fled; the weak succ.u.mbed, or pretended to. If a Jew wished to flee the country he could, but he must leave all his property behind. This caused many to remain and profess Christianity, only awaiting a time when their property could be turned into gold or jewels and be borne upon the person. This fondness for concrete wealth is a race instinct implanted in the Jewish mind by the inbred thought that possibly tomorrow he must fly.
After attending service at a Catholic Church, Jews would go home and in secret read the Talmud and in whispers chant the Psalms of David.
Laws were pa.s.sed making such action a penal offense--spies were everywhere. No secret can be kept long, and in the Province of Seville over two thousand Jews were hanged or burned in a single year. When Ferdinand and Isabella gave Torquemada, Deza and Lucio orders to make good Catholics of all Jews, they had not the faintest idea what would be the result. Every Jew that was hurried to the stake was first stripped of his property.
No Jew was safe, especially if he was rich--his sincerity or insincerity had really little to do in the matter. The prisons were full, the f.a.gots crackled, the streets ran blood, and all in the name of the gentle Christ.
Then for a time the severity relaxed, for the horror had spent itself.
But early in the Seventeenth Century the same edicts were again put forth.
Fortunately, priesthood had tried its mailed hand on the slow and sluggish Dutch, with the result that the Spaniards were driven from the Netherlands. Holland was the home of freedom. Amsterdam became a Mecca for the oppressed. The Jews flocked thither, and among others who, in Sixteen Hundred Thirty-one, landed on the quay was a young Jew by the name of Michael d'Espinoza. With him was a Moorish girl that he had rescued from the clutch of a Spanish grandee, in whose house she had been kept a prisoner.
By a happy accident, this beautiful girl of seventeen had escaped from her tormentors and was huddling, sobbing, in an alley as the young Jew came hurrying by on his way to the s.h.i.+p that was to bear him to freedom. It was near day-dawn--there was no time to lose--the young man only knew that the girl, like himself, was in imminent peril. A small boat waited near--soon they were safely secreted in the hold of the s.h.i.+p. Before sundown the tide had carried the s.h.i.+p to sea, and Portugal was but a dark line on the horizon.
Other refugees were on board the boat; they came from their hiding-places--and the second day out a refugee rabbi called a meeting on deck. It was a solemn service of thanksgiving and the songs of Zion were sung, the first time for some in many months, and only friends and the great, sobbing, salt sea listened.
The tears of the Moorish girl were now dried--the horror of the future had gone with the black memories of the past. Other women, not quite so poor, contributed to her wardrobe, and there and then, after she had been accepted into the Jewish faith, she and Michael d'Espinoza, aged twenty-two, were married.
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