DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.10358#0347
PICTURESQUE PALESTINE.
very little expenditure of time and money would make a small harbour here, and drain the
marshy ground. At one time it must have had a certain amount of life and bustle, and to
this the chapels and cells in the hills behind the town bear witness. The hot springs, the
pleasant palm-groves, the comparative propinquity to Egypt—these combine to make Tor not
an unlikely place to which pilgrims and anchorites would resort. On the opposite coast of
the Red Sea, some ten or fifteen miles inland and fifty miles to the north-west, are the famous
convents of St. Anthony and St. Paul. There is every reason to suppose that we may place
the regular constitution of the monastic order at the close of the third century, and that Egypt
was the cradle of monasticism in its Christian garb. Monasticism was not the invention but the
inheritance of Christianity. The human mind seems always to have had a desire to flee away
to the wilderness and be at rest. Retirement and solitude, quite apart from any teaching of
Christianity, have again and again, at different ages and in different climates, suggested
themselves as the safer conditions under which frail man may be able to obtain conquest over
self, and attain to the perfection of God. It does not matter whether the result has been
successful, or whether men—who have thus retired from the world—have lost sight of the
discipline which God has ordained for us by stationing us in the world. The fact remains
that to a variety of dispositions, and under the most opposed circumstances of life, separation
from the world has suggested itself as the only panacea for the diseases of the soul.
Look at the Buddhist order of mendicants; call to mind the life of Elijah, the vows of the
Nazarites, the story of Jonadab the son of Rechab, the influence of Essenes and Therapeutse—
the monks of Judaism ! At far-off places in the history of humanity will be found abundant
proofs of the widespread conviction that withdrawal from the world is the first step towards
mastery of self. From the cell of the anchorite to the stately building of the monastery the
transition is easy ! The struggles of " the athletes of penitence " drew disciples not only in the
times of persecution, when the far-off caves inhabited by holy men might serve as a refuge, but
much more in the time of the Church's peace. The luxury and the profligacy of the Roman
empire seemed a worse enemy than the cruelty of tyrants. The one was open, visible, fearful;
the other secret, gentle, honey-mouthed, captivating in form and habit. The one was like the
blast and roar of a terrible tempest, the other like the soft scented breeze of summer evenings.
Take then the history of Anthony, "the father of asceticism,"—young, rich, noble, of honourable
Christian parentage, living in the balmy climate of Upper Egypt. More than one thousand
six hundred years ago he chanced to hear read in church the words of the Gospel, "If thou
wouldest be perfect, go, sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure
in heaven: and come, follow me!" He applied the words to himself. His parents being dead,
he made provision for his only and dependent sister, and sold his estate. Giving the price of
it to the poor, he plunged into the desert to work out his own salvation. By macerations,
fasting, prayer (prayer as long as the night), incessantly struggling against the devil and the
flesh, he overcame at last the enemy which wars against the spirit. Twenty years he spent
near the Nile, now shut up in a ruined castle for months together with only bread and water
very little expenditure of time and money would make a small harbour here, and drain the
marshy ground. At one time it must have had a certain amount of life and bustle, and to
this the chapels and cells in the hills behind the town bear witness. The hot springs, the
pleasant palm-groves, the comparative propinquity to Egypt—these combine to make Tor not
an unlikely place to which pilgrims and anchorites would resort. On the opposite coast of
the Red Sea, some ten or fifteen miles inland and fifty miles to the north-west, are the famous
convents of St. Anthony and St. Paul. There is every reason to suppose that we may place
the regular constitution of the monastic order at the close of the third century, and that Egypt
was the cradle of monasticism in its Christian garb. Monasticism was not the invention but the
inheritance of Christianity. The human mind seems always to have had a desire to flee away
to the wilderness and be at rest. Retirement and solitude, quite apart from any teaching of
Christianity, have again and again, at different ages and in different climates, suggested
themselves as the safer conditions under which frail man may be able to obtain conquest over
self, and attain to the perfection of God. It does not matter whether the result has been
successful, or whether men—who have thus retired from the world—have lost sight of the
discipline which God has ordained for us by stationing us in the world. The fact remains
that to a variety of dispositions, and under the most opposed circumstances of life, separation
from the world has suggested itself as the only panacea for the diseases of the soul.
Look at the Buddhist order of mendicants; call to mind the life of Elijah, the vows of the
Nazarites, the story of Jonadab the son of Rechab, the influence of Essenes and Therapeutse—
the monks of Judaism ! At far-off places in the history of humanity will be found abundant
proofs of the widespread conviction that withdrawal from the world is the first step towards
mastery of self. From the cell of the anchorite to the stately building of the monastery the
transition is easy ! The struggles of " the athletes of penitence " drew disciples not only in the
times of persecution, when the far-off caves inhabited by holy men might serve as a refuge, but
much more in the time of the Church's peace. The luxury and the profligacy of the Roman
empire seemed a worse enemy than the cruelty of tyrants. The one was open, visible, fearful;
the other secret, gentle, honey-mouthed, captivating in form and habit. The one was like the
blast and roar of a terrible tempest, the other like the soft scented breeze of summer evenings.
Take then the history of Anthony, "the father of asceticism,"—young, rich, noble, of honourable
Christian parentage, living in the balmy climate of Upper Egypt. More than one thousand
six hundred years ago he chanced to hear read in church the words of the Gospel, "If thou
wouldest be perfect, go, sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure
in heaven: and come, follow me!" He applied the words to himself. His parents being dead,
he made provision for his only and dependent sister, and sold his estate. Giving the price of
it to the poor, he plunged into the desert to work out his own salvation. By macerations,
fasting, prayer (prayer as long as the night), incessantly struggling against the devil and the
flesh, he overcame at last the enemy which wars against the spirit. Twenty years he spent
near the Nile, now shut up in a ruined castle for months together with only bread and water