Stumbling

STONE OF. “We set out from Argos very early in the morning,” says Hartley, “and were almost eleven hours in reaching Tripolitza. The road is, for the most part, dreary; leading over lofty and barren hills, the principal of which is Mount Parthenius. In England, where the roads are so excellent, we do not readily perceive the force and just application of the Scriptural figures, derived from a ‘stone of stumbling, and a rock of offence,’ Isaiah viii, 14, and similar passages; but in the east, where the roads are, for the most part, nothing more than an accustomed track, the constant danger and impediment arising to travellers from stones and rocks fully explain the allusion.” In the grand description which Isaiah gives, lxiii, 13, of God “with his glorious arm” leading his people through the Red Sea, it is said, “That led them through the deep, as a horse in the wilderness, that they should not stumble;” that is, who preserved them from falling amidst the numerous inequalities in the bed of the sea, caused in some instances by deep cavities, and in others by abrupt intervening rocks. The figure is a very natural one, especially in the east, where the Arabs and Tartars are famed for their dexterity in the management of even bad horses. A curious instance of this occurs in Colonel Campbell’s “Overland Journey to the East Indies.” Speaking of the Tartar, an accredited courier of the Turkish government, under whose guidance he travelled in disguise across the desert from Aleppo to Mosul, he says, “One day, after riding about four miles from a caravansera, at which we had changed our cattle, I found that a most execrably bad horse had fallen to my lot. He was stiff, feeble, and foundered; in consequence of which he stumbled very much, and I every minute expected that he would fall and roll over me. I therefore proposed to the guide to exchange with me; a favour which he had hitherto never refused, and for which I was the more anxious as the beast that he rode was of the very best kind. To my utter astonishment, he peremptorily refused; and as this had been a day of unusual taciturnity on his part, I attributed his refusal to peevishness and ill temper, and was resolved not to let the matter rest there. I therefore desired the interpreter to inform him, that as he had at Aleppo agreed to change horses with me as often as I pleased, I should consider our agreement infringed if he did not comply, and would write to the consul at Aleppo to that effect. As soon as this was conveyed to him, he seemed strongly agitated by anger, yet endeavoured to conceal his emotions under affected contempt and derision, which produced from him one of the most singular grins that ever yet marred the human physiognomy. At length he broke forth:--‘You will write to Aleppo, will you? Foolish Frank! they will not believe you,’ &c.--‘Why do you not, then,’ said I, interrupting him; ‘why do you not perform your promise by changing horses, when you are convinced in your conscience (if you have any) that it was part of our agreement?’--‘Once for all, I tell you,’ interrupted he, ‘I will not give up this horse. There is not,’ said he gasconadingly, ‘there is not a Mussulman that ever wore a beard, not to talk of a wretched Frank, who should get this horse from under me. I would not yield him to the Commander of the Faithful this minute, were he in your place; and I have my own reasons for it.’--‘I dare say you have,’ returned I, ‘love of your ease, and fear of your bones.’ At hearing this he grew quite outrageous; called Mohammed and Allah to witness, that he did not know what it was to fear any thing; declared that he was convinced some infernal spirit had that day got possession of me, &c. At length observing that I looked at him with sneering contemptuous defiance, he rode up alongside of me. I thought it was to strike, and prepared to defend myself. I was however mistaken: he snatched the reins out of my hand, and caught hold of them collected close at the horse’s jaw, then began to flog my horse and to spur his own, till he got them both into full speed: nor did he stop there, but continued to belabour mine with his whip and to spur his own, driving headlong over every impediment that came in our way, till I really thought he had run mad, or designed to kill me. Several times I was on the point of striking him with my whip, in order to knock him off his horse; but as often patience providentially came in to my assistance, and whispered to me to forbear, and see it out. Meantime I considered myself as being in some danger; and yet such was the power which he had over the cattle, that I found it impossible to stop him. So, resigning the event to the direction of Providence, I suffered him, without a farther effort, to proceed. He continued this for some miles, over an uncultivated tract, here and there intersected with channels formed by rills of water in the periodical rains, thickly set with low furze, ferns, and other dwarf bushes, and broken up and down into little hills. His horse carried him clear over all; and though mine was every minute stumbling and nearly down, yet, with a dexterity inexpressible and a vigour altogether amazing, he kept him up by the bridle, and, I may say, _carried_ him gallantly over every thing. At all this I was very much astonished; and, toward the end, as much pleased as astonished; which he perceiving, cried out frequently and triumphantly, ‘Behold, Frank, behold!’ and at last, drawing in the horses, stopping short, and looking me full in the face, he exclaimed, ‘Frank, what say you now?’ For some time I was incapable of making him any answer, but continued surveying him from head to foot as the most extraordinary savage I had ever beheld; while he stroked his whiskers with great self-complacency and composure, and nodded his head every now and then, as much as to say, ‘Look at me! Am I not a very capital fellow?’ We alighted on the brow of a small hill, whence was to be seen a full and uninterrupted prospect of the country all round. The interpreter coming up, the Tartar called to him, and desired him to explain to me carefully the meaning of what he was about to say. ‘You see those mountains,’ said he, pointing to the east; ‘they are in the province of Kurdestan, and inhabited by a vile race of robbers, who pay homage to a god of their own, and worship the devil from fear. They live by plunder; and often descend from those mountains, cross the Tigris which runs between them and us, and plunder and ravage this country in bands of great number and formidable strength, carrying away into slavery all they can catch, and killing all who resist them. This country therefore, for some distance round us, is very dangerous to travellers, whose only safety lies in flight. Now it was our misfortune this morning to get a very bad horse. Should we meet with a band of those Curds, what could we do but fly? And if you, Frank, rode this horse, and I that, we could never escape; for I doubt _you could not keep him up from falling under_ ME, _as I did under_ YOU. I should therefore come down and be taken; you would lose your guide and miss your way; and all of us would be undone.’ As soon as the interpreter had explained this to me, ‘Well,’ continued the Tartar, ‘what does he say to it now?’--‘Why, I say,’ returned I, ‘that you have spoken good sense and sound reason; and I am obliged to you.’ This, when fully interpreted, operated most pleasingly upon him, and his features relaxed into a broad look of satisfaction.” SUPERSTITION may be described to be either the careful and anxious observation of numerous and unauthorized ceremonies in religion, under the idea that they possess some virtue to propitiate God and obtain his favour, or, as among Pagans and others, the worship of imaginary deities, and the various means of averting evil by religious ceremonies, which a heart oppressed with fears, and a perverted fancy, may dictate to those ignorant of the true God, and the doctrines of salvation. Dr. Neander observes, The consideration of human nature and history shows us that the transition from unbelief to superstition is always easy. Both these conditions of the human heart proceed from the self-same ground, the want of that which may be properly called faith, the want of a life in God, of a lively communion with divine things by means of the inward life; that is, by means of the feelings. Man, whose inward feelings are estranged from the divine nature, is inclined, sometimes to deny the reality of that of which he has nothing within him, and for the conception and application of which to himself he has no organ. Or else, the irresistible force of his inward nature impels man to recognize that higher power from which he would fain free himself entirely, and to seek that connection with it which he cannot but feel needful to his comfort; but, inasmuch as he is without any real inward sympathy of disposition with the Divinity, and wants a true sense of holiness, the Divinity appears to his darkened religious conscience only under the form of power and arbitrary rule. His conscience paints to him this power as an angry and avenging power. But as he has no idea of that which the Divinity really is, he cannot duly understand this feeling of estrangement from God, this consciousness of divine wrath; and, instead of seeking in moral things the source of this unquiet feeling, which leaves him no rest by day or night, and from which there is no escape, he fancies that by this or that action, which of itself is perfectly indifferent, he may have offended this higher power, and he seeks by outward observances again to reconcile the offended power. Religion here becomes a source, not of life, but of death; the source, not of consolation and blessing, but of the most unspeakable anxiety which torments man day and night with the spectres of his own imagination. Religion here is no source of sanctification, but may unite in man’s heart with every kind of untruth, and serve to promote it. There is one kind of superstition in which, while man torments himself to the utmost, he still remains estranged from the true nature of inward holiness; and while he is restrained from many good works of charity by his constant attendance on mischievous, arbitrary, and outward observances, he is still actuated by a horror of any great sin, a superstition in which man avoids pleasure so completely that he falls into the opposite extreme; and even the most innocent enjoyments, which a childlike simplicity would receive with thankfulness from the hand of a heavenly Father, he dares not indulge in. But there is also another kind of superstition, which makes it easy for man, by certain outward observances, to silence his conscience under all kinds of sin, and which therefore serves as a welcome support to it.