17. CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH.
THE MANUSCRIPT OF BROTHER ANSELM.
THE ROSY CROSS.
Only one in the secret band knew his name and history. The time
now came for that man to speak.
He came from the shadows, and stood disclosed in the light, his tall form,
arrayed in the gray garb of a peasant, standing distinctly into view. His
features were darkened by exposure to the wind and sun; his large brow
projected over eyes which shonw steadily with an unchanging lustre.
Those eyes shone into every heart, and all the brethren in the cavern felt
that a Great Soul was embodied in their light.
This man, in the coarse peasant garb, leaned one hand—cramped and
knotted by toil—upon the shoulder of the veiled form. In a voice harsh
and abrupt, he began to speak.
He spoke of a Secret Order extending over all the earth, and dating its
origin back to that dim time, when history becomes a fable, and chronology
a shadow. Of the rites, symbols and customs of the Order—which
spoke to the heart through the eye, and formed a universal language, intelligible
to brothers of every race and clime. Of the most sacred sign of
the Order, which was written on the pyramids of Egypt, and the Monuments
of Mexico, and stamped upon the dumb stone and mortar of past
ages, in every quarter of the globe—the most sacred sign, a Cross placed
upon a globe, and lighted by the rays of a rising sun, and therefore called
the red or Rosy Cross.
This Cross, placed upon a dark globe, with the dawn breaking over its
darkness, was the emblem of the great purpose of the Order,—the regeneration
of the millions of mankind, by three great ideas, Union, Freedom,
Brotherhood.
The Globe was a symbol of Union; the Light, breaking upon it from
the darkness, an emblem of Freedom. The Cross, standing above upon
the globe, and blushing into radiance in the fast coming light, was a type
of Brotherhood.
This Order was known among men,—known only in vague supposition
and unaccredited tradition—as the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross.
As the brother in the peasant garb went on, his harsh voice became
melodious, his manner, no longer hesitating, grew firm and bold. He traced
the history of the Brotherhood from the far gone ages, down to the present
time. In language vivid and eloquent, he pictured the elaborate ceremonial,
the giant organization, the fascinating mystery, which characterized
the Order, and made its power felt over all the world, in all time, like the
hand of a God.
“And yet, with all this Power—these symbols, that form a common language
for Brothers of all nations, these rites, that elevate with their beauty
and bewilder with their mystery—with all this power, felt through all
ages, over all the world, like the hand of a God, behold the degradation
of mankind. In vain our labors, in vain the labors of our fathers. In vain
this tremendous organization, in vain the universal language, the rites, the
symbols—all in vain. Man still bleeds under the feet of Priest and King
—the world is still given up to Satan. Even that holiest name, which we
have written upon our banner, embalmed in our hearts, consecrated with
the baptism of our tears—even `Brotherhood' has fallen prostrate, afraid
of the darkness which broods over the earth, trampled into dust by the iron
feet of Evil.”
These words thrilled through the cavern, and a breathless stillness fell
upon every tongue. Faces, wet with tears, that glittered in the dim light,
attested the truth, the power of the speaker's words.
Still resting his knotted hand upon the shoulder of the unknown, the
peasant in the gray garb continued:
“But the contest is not yet over. `Brotherhood' is clouded by mists
of blood-red smoke, but it is Divine, it is Eternal, it will live when the
stars have faded from the sky. For it is of God, and therefore cannot die.
“But we must embody the idea of `Brotherhood' not only in rites and
symbols, but in such a form that the meanest of earth's trodden children
may behold it and love it.
“Do you hear me, my brethren?
“This idea of Brotherhood, nay, this Eternal Fact, this deathless manifestation
of God, must be embodied in a form, that will speak to the hearts
of men, and through their hearts regenerate the world.”
“Do this,” cried the Swede, “and Kings and Priests exist no longer.”
Every face was lifted in earnest hope to the visage of the speaker, and
a murmur filled the cavern, a murmur swelled by many tongues, but with
only one meaning.
“Let the Divine Truth of Brotherhood be embodied in a form that will
speak at once to the hearts of men, and our work is done. Man will
indeed be free; there will exist no longer on the face of the globe, either
a Lord or a Slave, to blaspheme, by their existence, the goodness of our
Father.”
“But how shall the idea be embodied? In what form shall we personify
the holy Truth?”
“Listen, my brothers, and I will tell you. We will embody this idea
in the history of some individual life, whose every word shall melt the
souls of men into tenderness and love. Shall we take the life of some
great Philosopher,—some of those weird sages of the ancient time, who
surveyed the world from the casement of their cell, and reasoned boldly
upon Man, but could not feel for him? Shall we summon Pythagoras,—
or Plato—or even that bravest and most manful of them all—Socrates? Ah,
I see the smile steal over your faces—I hear your murmurs, What have
Philosophers to do with the millions of mankind? Have they suffered,
any moment of their lives, that stern Martyrdom which is ever the lot of
the Poor Man, from his birth to his death—the martyrdom of Poverty,
that has no couch for its tired head, but in the grave; the martyrdom of
Toil that is without a Hope in this world or the next. Have these Philosophers
drunk of the poor man's cup; have they wept with him in his desolate
home; have they measured his anguish, or sounded the depths of his
immeasurable Despair?
“Away then with Philosophers. Cold reasoners, shrounding themselves
in the mountain cloud of sophistry; they never descend to the plain, and
feel with the millions who are only born to be trampled and to die.
“The world does not demand abstractions. It calls, even from the
kennel of its degradation, it calls for some great Heart, to feel for its
despair, and win it tenderly into light and love once more.
“Shall we embody this Idea of Brotherhood in the life of some Priest,
or tell the world how lovely it looks, how wonderful and sublime in the
life of some King? As well embody the Idea of Heaven in the image of
a Satyr, or personify the angel-tenderness of childhood in the dusk countenance
of Satan!
“No—away with Priests and Kings,—away with all like these, who do
not live in the same world with the millions of mankind.
“But we will give this idea shape, color, voice. We will embody the
principle of Brotherhood in the life of a Mechanic.”
His words were followed by a breathless stillness; and then the murmur
rose—“Where will you find a Mechanic, who has risen from the hut
of the poor man into the light of fame?”
“In the life of a worker, toiling with the workers of the human race, a
Son of the Poor, living and dying for the Poor. Listen, my brothers, and
do not treat with scorn my crude Legend of other days. But I will tell
to you the story of the Mechanic whom you seek, the son of the Poor
whom you desire.
“One day,—in the ages long ago—the Son of a Carpenter looked out
from the window of his father's workshop, and beheld his brothers and
sisters, the Poor, trodden down under the gathered infamies of four thousand
years. His garments were very rude; clad like a child of the People,
he wiped the laborer's sweat from his brow, and from that workshop
window, he cast his eyes over a world in darkness and in chains. A fire
that was of God suddenly lighted up his eyes; that forehead, damp with
the sweat of toil, became radiant with a Thought. His lips unclosed, and
he uttered the travail of his soul in these brief words—`Over all the earth,
one sound swells up to God. It is the groan of the Poor man, who has
no joy in this world, and no hope in the next.'
“Then, as if a voice from God had penetrated his soul, the Son of the
Carpenter laid aside the tools of his father's craft, and, clad as he was, in
the coarse garb of labor, yet with a Thought shining over his brow, went
forth into the world, and said to the Poor, as he met them on the highway,
or saw them bending under the hot sun, in the rich man's fields, or beheld
their wan faces from the windows of the prison, `Brother! There is a God
in heaven; he is our Father! He marks the sparrow's fall—think you,
then, that He looks unheedingly upon the anguish of his children, the
Poor, who bear his image, and have every one of them a ray of his Eternity
in their hearts?'
“Such words as these, thrilling from the lips of a Carpenter's Son,
stirred the hearts of the Poor. They followed the young man by thousands;
now by the lake shore, now on the slope of the mountain side,
now in the desert woods, he talked to them, as much with his radiant forehead
and calm deep eyes, as with his voice; and he always ended his
teachings with a word like this—`God is our Father, and all men are his
children.'
“I might spend the hours of this silent night, in telling you how this Son
of the Carpenter dwelt with the Poor—shared the crust of the Poor—wept
with the Poor—lived for the Poor, and died for the Poor. As for the Rich
Man, whether he appeared in the form of a Priest or as a King, the Son
of the Carpenter only spoke of him with pity, with reproach, with scorn.
His mission was to the Poor. And without arms, without Priests, clad
only in his humble garb, he spoke to the Poor of his native land, and his
voice moved the earth like the pulsations of the Heart of God.
“He died—at last, after a brief mission of three years—he died; I need
not tell you how!
“What death is reserved for those who endeavor with a single
heart to do good to Man? Not the death of the pampered Priest, who,
reclining on silken couches—embosomed in the chambers of a Palace
—looks, with sorrow too deep for tears, upon the rich viands and the genial
wines, which he cannot take with him to the grave. Not the death of the
Conqueror, who makes himself a couch of the bodies of the slain, and
expires most royally—a tiger clad in glossy fur, crouching upon his
victims and tearing them with his fangs, as he dies.
“No! But the death of the Felon, nailed to an abhorred tree, which
towered alone and hideous, upon the height of a craggy steep, with the
black sky above it, and the dark mass of countless spectators around and
beneath it.
“This was the death of the Son of the Carpenter, who had said to Man,
that Religion consisted not in palaces or jails, nor in Priests or Kings, nor
in churches, or costly ceremonial, but—mark the simplicity of the Carpenter's
Son—in LOVING ONE ANOTHER.
“O, that I could paint to you the radiant forehead and earnest eyes of
this Carpenter's Son, and show him to you as he lived among men, their
Brother: clad like themselves, their Friend: for he said to them, `God is
OUR Father.'
“But he has been dead many centuries.—Behold him, not as he walked
the sands of his native land, but as he is!”
He swept the cloak aside, which enveloped the limbs of the unknown.
The cavern echoed with a cry of amazement and terror.
For there, very near the light, towered the Leaden Image, whose forehead
stamped with despair, and motionless eyes full of unutterable anguish,
and form clad in the garments of toil, seemed to imprison a Living Soul.
It was the Image of the Imprisoned Jesus.
“This is what Priest and King have made of the pure and beautiful
spirit of the Carpenter's Son! They have robbed man of his Brother,
his friend; they have coffined the soul of the Mechanic in the creed and
ritual of their Church; they have taken to themselves that Man of Nazareth,
who never spoke of Priest or King, but with pity, reproach, or scorn.
“Brothers! Be it our task to take this Son of the Carpenter, to separate
his loving spirit from church and creed, and lift him, once more, before
the eyes of millions, not as the Incarnation of a Church, or the Imprisoned
Christ of a ferocious superstition, but as the Carpenter's Son,
who first embodied the truth of Brotherhood, and made it blossom in the
hearts of men.
“With these three words—The Carpenter's Son—we can regenerate the
world. We will go to the Poor. We will ask them—not to believe in the
Trinity, or in the Unity of God, nor in Catholic, nor in Protestant, nor in Buddhu,
nor in Mahommed—we will not waste time in comparing speculations,
or analyzing creeds. Armed with this Christ of the Poor, we will say to
the Poor, He was a Poor Man, such as you are. Like you he toiled. Like
you he hungered. At the graves of Poor Men like you he wept. He
lived for you—for you he died. Then listen to his voice, which utters
all truth, in simple words—Love one another.”
The Peasant, whose animated features contrasted with the motionless
lineaments of the Image by his side, now glanced around from face to face,
speaking by turns to every one of the brothers. As he spoke, his voice
became tremulous; his sunburnt features were wet with tears.
“And can we not accomplish the great work for man? Is there a
Brother here, who can say no! who has the heart to say it? Here we
are, men of all nations, colors and creeds. Can we not join our hands
around the rock, as though it were an altar, and sacrifice our prejudices,
our creeds at the feet of the Carpenter's Son?
“Mahommedan! I speak to you. In your traditions you have read of
Jesus the Prophet. Do you object to Jesus the Carpenter's Son?
“Hindoo! Your traditions speak of a mysterious incarnation—of a sublime
manifestation of God enshrined in the flesh—can you refuse to acknowledge
and love the Spirit of God, enshrined in the form of a Carpenter's
Son?
“Protestant, it is your boast to read the written word of God. Can you
refuse the Carpenter's Son?
“Catholic—your traditions speak of Church, of Authority, of Popes
invested with God-like power, and men sunk beneath the degradation
of the brute creation, and yet, amid this horrible mass of error, there is
here and there a word—a true word of the Carpenter's Son. Are you
willing to sacrifice Church—Authority—Pope and Council, at the alter
of Brotherhood, at the feet of the Carpenter's Son?
“Deist! It is to you I appeal. It is your delight to cherish the idea
of one supreme God, only revealed to man, by the forms of external nature.
Do you see God in the leaf and flower, and yet refuse to behold
him in the radiant forehead, the peasant garb, the deathless words of the
Carpenter's Son?
“Atheist! Yes, there is one in this band who cannot believe in the existence
of a God. Let me have a word with you, my brother—let us talk
with each other, in kindness. You are, perchance, so constituted that the
power to believe is not in your nature. All reason and no faith. And
yet your heart beats warmly for the good of man; it is your earnest desire
that all men may be indeed brothers. Can you find in the page of
any history,—in the record of any age or country—a Spirit at once so
loving and so actual, so like a God and yet full of sympathy for man, as
that of the Carpenter's Son? Point me to the page—produce the record—
and I will love you all the better!”
His eye gleaming, his forehead radiant, the impassioned Peasant glanced
around, and paused, as if to note the effect of his words. There was
stilness,—and then the air was full of sobs and groans.
They were not altogether sobs of anguish, groans of sorrow. They
rose from their seats, they gathered round the sunburnt Peasant, and rent
the air with incoherent cries.
Strange words were audible amid their cries—
“It is the Truth which our fathers sought for ages—it is the great Secret
which will regenerate the World! Not the Christ of Theology, not the
Catholic Christ, nor the Protestant Christ, but the Jesus of the Heart!
The Carpenter's Son, seperate from all creeds, and only known as the
Incarnation of Brotherhood!”
The Peasant took in his hand the veil which he had lifted from the
dumb Face of the Image—his form was raised to its full stature—his eye
burned as with fire from Heaven.
“Hold! Do I understand you, my brethren—are you willing to bury
your creeds at the feet of the Carpenter's Son, and believe only in the
Brotherhood which shines from his face? Is it so? Then let us look
for the day after the long night of hopeless Evil. And I too am willing
to offer up my creed at the feet of the Carpenter's Son!
“Listen, for I have a confession to make. I have been educated to believe
that Christ was in truth the very God. That the awful Being who
made the stars, and dwelt in Eternity, was present—living, throbbing—in
the breast of the Nazarene. Was enshrined in the Carpenter's Son, made
manifest in the flesh of that humble Son of the Poor. This I was taught
to believe, and it was to me a holy thought, that Omnipotence became a
suffering child of Toil, and dwelt, for a while, very humbly in the huts of
the Poor, and died—feeling every pang of mortal anguish—upon a Felon's
tree. Died for you—for me—for us all!
“And yet, my brothers, I am willing to sacrifice this belief—to consider
it merely a form of words—only so that we may all meet upon one
common ground, that we may all join our hands around one altar, and all
bind to our hearts the Spirit of the Carpenter's Son—the Incarnate form
of Brotherhood among men!”
As he paused, he dropped the veil over the sad Image.
“Thus,” he cried, “Thus let us hide the Imprisoned Jesus of the
Church. The Christ of the Heart moves in the bosom of the world—
Soon the nations will know his spirit, and Kings and Priests will tremble,
as the earth quivers at each throb from the Heart of the Carpenter's Son.”
