 | CHAPTER NINETEENTH.
THE MANUSCRIPT OF BROTHER ANSELM. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon |  |
19. CHAPTER NINETEENTH.
THE MANUSCRIPT OF BROTHER ANSELM.
THE SUPREME CHIEF OF THE ROSY CROSS.
“And this—” faltered the speaker, wiping the moisture from his brow—
“this will occur before the Eighteenth Century is done—yes—I behold
even now a terrible date, written in black characters upon a lurid cloud—
the date is 1789!
“Yes, Priests and Kings will drink to the last dregs the cup which they
filled for the lips of their slaves. They will have to combat, not merely
a horde of Slaves, but a Mob of Demons.
“But in order that the freedom, so fearfully won by the People transformed
into Demons, may not be lost in endless massacre, a Man will
arise, who will place his foot upon the necks of Kings, and mock their
power to scorn, by assuming a power, unknown before in the annals of
the human race. That boundless power will be assumed and worn in
the name of the People.
“The New World demanded first an Apostle, then a Deliverer. Europe
demands a crowned peasant—an Avenger.
“Rising from the common herd, this man will become the Cromwell of
a World, believing not so much in the people as in armies; not so much
in God as in his own Destiny.
“His bold forehead, stamped with more than kingly grandeur, his eyes
lighted by a soul conscious of its own Destiny, his features shadowed into
the warm bronze of the south, and marked by the outlines of the oriental
races, appear before me now, like the face of a Demi-God.
“He traverses Europe, leaving his bloody foot-prints upon every shore.
surveys a world that is to be conquered by him. He girdles one-half the
world with a belt of cannon and musquet, bayonet and sword. Not a
land in the Old World but is peopled by his armies—already he stretches
forth his arm toward the New.
“And this man,—the Crowned Avenger of the People—with all his bloodshed,
is a holy thing in the eyes of Heaven, compared with the noblest
King on the face of the earth.
“He comes to begin for Europe that work which the Apostles and the
Deliverer accomplished for the New World.
“And after his work is done, and he has scourged the Kings as with the
lash of a God, and made them the humble ministers of his will, he will be
delivered into their hands; and, afraid of the Man, even when they have
possession of his body, the Kings will bury the Crowned Peasant in the
profound solitudes of an Island that stands alone in the centre of an ocean.
“There, isolated from mankind, and secluded with his own heart, the
Avenger will die, his last gasp embittered by the persecutions of petty men,
with brows of clay and hearts of stone.
“After the body is dead, and Kings have worked their will upon it, the
Soul of the Avenger will come back to France, and throb with terrible life
in new revolutions.
“That soul, redeemed from the stains which darkened its beauty, will
hover, like a good omen, over the destiny of mankind, and dwell in the
hearts of the French people, as the thunder dwells in the clouds of heaven.
“For that soul prepared the way for the coming of a Deliverer for Europe,
even as the thunder and the lightning precede the glorious calm of
the summer day.
“And he will come—yes, the Deliverer of Europe,—of the world, per
chance—he will come at last. There are various figures written on the
clouds of the Future, and I may not read them now.
“There—glorious date, that tells of a world enfranchised by the spirit
of Brotherhood embodied in the Carpenter's Son—it tosses before me,
amid clouds of rainbow beauty. Is it 1848—or is it 1884?—there is a mist
before my eyes—I cannot trace the figures plainly, but
“—The Deliverer of Europe—of the world—will come at last, and
come with the arm to avenge and the spirit to love!
“Kings will shrink from their thrones at his coming; the slaves of the
Old World will start into a people, and even the black slaves of the New
will dare to claim a portion for themselves in the Love of God, and grasp
for themselves a share in the Brotherhood of Man.
“Even the red man of the forest, smitten by the iron finger of White
Civilization, which poisons his heart and withers his brain, will look up
and see the face of the Carpenter's Son, smiling blessings upon him even
from the ruins of Despotism and Superstition.
“Thus, my brothers, you have before you the three great Epochs which
will mark the history of Man, within the next three hundred years.
“First, the Epoch of the Apostles, who, armed with the Love which dwelt
in the breast of the Carpenter's Son, will rear the altar of Brotherhood on
the shores of the New World, thus promulgating to all manking the Divine
Truth, that the New World is not for Priests nor Kings, nor for any form
of superstition or privilege, but for Man—sacred and set apart by God
for the millions who toil.
“Second, the Epoch of the Deliverer, who, called by God, will take up
the sword, and even as the Carpenter's Son scourged the money-changers
from the Temple of Jerusalem, so will he scourge the oppressors of body
and soul from that holiest Temple of Brotherhood, the land of the New
World.
“In case the Deliverer, after giving freedom to the New World, proves
false to his trust, and takes to himself a Crown and Throne, then the
history of the Future is beset by clouds that have no ray to lighten their
omnipotent gloom.
“But should he prove faithful to his great trust, and after accomplishing
the work of freedom, yield his sword into the hands of the people, and become,
for the sake of the Holy Cause, a Man among Men, a Brother among
Brothers, then will follow—
“The Third Epoch. The Epoch of the Crowned Avenger, whose tremendous
battles, supernatural glory, and Death sublime in its very isolation,
will prepare the world for the approach of the Holiest Epoch, for the
Coming of the Universal Liberator.
“The Epoch of Brotherhood among men—the Liberator of all classes,
nations, and races of the great family.
“In the year of the Carpenter's Son 1848, or in 1884, this Epoch and
this Liberator will be announced by convulsions over all the world.
“Monarchy, grown drunk with its habit of oppression and bloodshed, will
press the millions who toil, to the last extent of sufferance and endurance.
Rich Men will say, triumphantly, that there is no God but Gold, no
Heaven but in getting more wealth, no hell but in Poverty. They will
regard the Poor—that is, nine-tenths of the human family, as old fables tell
us, the Damned are regarded by the Fiends—as the objects of alternate
mockery and vengeance; as things of dumb wood and stone; as beasts; as
any thing but souls born of God and redeemed by his Spirit, incarnate in
the Son of the Carpenter.
“Rich Men will gather round the Throne in England, and urge
Monarchy—already bloated with crime—to new exactions, and place in its
grasp incredible improvements in the kingly art of murder.
“Rich Men in Ireland will pour into the cup of that People's woe,—
that cup which has been slowly filling for centuries—the last drop of
bitterness. The cup of Ireland's despair will be full at last, and the Rich
peasant, once a man.
“Rich Men in America will strengthen the chains by which millions of
the Black race are held in bondage. They will regard these millions of
the Black race as beasts of the field, and herd them together in profitable
Incest; selling the fruit of the mother's womb before it has seen the light,
and holding Property in Human Flesh, in Human Blood, in Immortal
Souls.”
A groan echoed from the assemblage.
“This in America? This in the New World?
“Yes! This in the land for which the Deliverer has consecrated his
sword! In order that Man may know the value of freedom, it is necessary
that he should first suffer the pains of hell, in the ditch of slavery.
And, of all the forms of slavery which the world ever saw, or ever will
see, that which will curse the American Continent, in the year 1848 or
1884—under the name of Black Slavery, stands arrayed before my vision
as the most appalling. It is—pardon the warmth of my utterance, for over
the mists of the future I see it, even now, in its garb of crimes—it is an
Infernal Trinity, composed of three Fiends, who are called Atheism, Incest,
Blasphemy.
“Atheism, but not the honest Atheism which denies a God in Nature,
and blunders upon a something called chance; but a ferocious Atheism,
which builds altars to God, worships him with the pomp of priest and
ritual, and at the same moment shows that it does not believe in his
existence, does not fear his vengeance, for it degrades his Image into
a brute.
“Incest, for in order to make Flesh and Blood more profitable, it encourages
“Blasphemy, for it not only makes the New World a reproach in the
lips of the Tyrants of the old world, but it turns all that is holy in religion
into a Lie. It cries, “Hail, Lord Jesus!” and with that cry, treads the
Black Brother of the Carpenter's Son deeper into bondage.
“When the blessed Epoch is very near,—when the footstep of the Universal
Liberator begins to move the earth—then the Black Slaves in America,
the White Slaves in Ireland—in fact, the Slaves over all the world—
will rise upon their masters, rise without an object or an aim, but urged to
ferocious action, by an impulse which cannot be resisted or controlled.
“Then will occur the Jubilee of brute force, the Saturnalia of Murder.
It will be a day of reckoning for the Rich Man over all the world. He
will learn at last, that it is better to give some light of education, some
gleam of immortality, even to a slave. He will, I say, learn that it is
better to combat an educated slave, whose nature retains some ray of its
Divine origin, much better, as God lives! than to combat a Brute in human
shape, who knows no limit in his vengeance, and sacrifices, in his hellish
and the little child who clings to his knees.
“It will be a terrible going out of Egypt—an Exodus of incredible
carnage, which the Poor will accomplish, ere the great day of their Redemption.
“The Israelites of old, chained in Egypt, went forth one day, and the
sea, parting on either side, left bare a safe pathway for the liberated slaves.
Their pursuers followed, and were lost in the waves. The freed slaves
beheld their livid faces, and heard their impotent cries of despair. This
was indeed a terrible sight for Egypt, but a glorious day for Israel.
“Remember, however, that the Israelites, enslaved by the Egyptians,
only symbolized the Poor Man all over the world, enslaved by the Rich.
“Therefore, I say, it will be a terrible going out of Egypt which the
Poor Man will accomplish, when all at once he escapes from thraldom,
through a Red Sea. That Red Sea nothing but the blood which flows
from the veins of the tyrants of the Poor.
“It will, I repeat, be an Exodus of incredible carnage, which the Angels
will behold on that day, when the Poor Man shall hear the voice of God,
calling upon him in his bondage—`Arise! The hour hath come. The
cup is full. Arise, ye millions of the human race,—Arise, ye races and
tribes of the Poor! Go out from this bondage, though the way of your
redemption is paved with the bodies of the Rich, though their blood rolls
before you like a sea. Go out from bondage! For it is the Exodus of
the Poor, for which ye have waited and endured, and wept your bloody
tears so long!'
“And the same God who gave a Moses to the chained Israelites, will
call forth, from the shadows of Poverty in the year 1848, or 1884—the
Liberator of a World.”
The man with sunburnt features and knotted hands, stood alone, near
the veiled figure, the centre of a group, agitated by emotion too deep for
words.
They looked upon him, as he arose in their midst, clad like an humble
peasant, and felt that he was a Prophet—despite his toil-hardened hands
and coarse attire—a Prophet called from the ranks of the Poor, to foretell
the future of a World in chains.
Overwhelmed by the intensity of his thoughts, the Peasant rested both
hands upon the shoulders of the veiled figure, while his chest shook as
with intense physical torture, and the cold damps stood in beads upon
his brow. His eyes grew brighter every moment, while the brown hue
of his bold countenance was marked by a death-like pallor.
“At last,” he murmured amid the writhings of his inexplicable agony.
“At last, Blessed Lord, the Lead will become Gold, and the Sneer be
changed into a Smile.”
It was a long time, ere the sensation created by the words of this rude
to their thoughts in speech.
The aged Swede arose.
His white hairs waved in the wind, which came in fitful gusts from the
mouth of the cavern, and the faint light imparted its gloomy radiance to
his withered features.
In a tremulous voice, he spoke of the great object which had called the
Chiefs of the Rosy Cross from all quarters of the globe.
They had been called, not so much by the command of a Supreme
Chief, as by the voice of a tradition, which had been treasured in the
innumerable branches, or Circles of the great Brotherhood, since the
earlier years of the Tenth Century.
That tradition pointed out a particular year in the seventeenth Century,
which would witness a new Era in the history of the Order.
On the appointed year, at a certain hour of a certain day, the Chiefs of
the Brotherhood, from all quarters of the globe, were to assemble—so the
tradition enjoined—in the cavern of a German mountain, long known in
the history of the Order.
They were to choose by lot a Supreme Chief, who would be known all
over the world, to all the Brothers of the Rosy Cross, and to all secret
orders, beneath the Brotherhood, by a certain symbol, engraven on a
golden medal.
That Symbol was a Globe, a Rising Sun and a Cross, encircled by the
Hebrew words, in the Hebrew character—
Vayomer eloheim yehee aur vayehee aur.
“These words,” continued the aged Swede, “indicate the light which,
shining from the councils of our Brotherhood, shall illuminate all the
world. A light spoken into existence by the voice of God, which shall
do the work of God in every human heart. Brothers, to me, as the oldest
of the Chiefs, has this Medal been entrusted. It was given into my hands,
by a Chief who had reached the venerable age of one hundred years. I
now surrender it into your hands—I place it upon this rock, which forms
the altar of our worship. Let no one touch it, nor gaze upon it, until the
Supreme Chief of the Brotherhood is elected.”
He placed the Medal on the altar, where it glimmered with a pale
golden light.
An inexplicable sensation pervaded the assemblage, as every eye was
centred upon this most sacred symbol of the Order. It was endeared to
their hearts by a thousand ceremonies; it was linked with the overwhelming
associations of the ancient renown and almost Godlike power of the
Brotherhood, in the days of old.
The Hebrew words rudely graved upon it, gave some color to the tradition
which taught that it had been coined by the hand of the High Priest
Aaron, in the days of the Wilderness.
True, the globe and the cross seemed to indicate a much more recent
origin. Yet the globe was known as an emblem in the secret Brotherhood,
long before it was discovered that the earth itself was a globe. The
Cross is found in the pyramids of Egypt, erected thousands of years before
the era of the Carpenter's Son.
In a word, this medal, glimmering dimly upon the surface of the rock,
overwhelmed the Brothers with the memories of three thousand years.
Now commenced the ceremonial of election.
Every chief wrote his name upon a tablet. Their tablets were given
into the hands of the Swede, who placed them in a hollow of the rock,
which supplied the place of an Urn.
“One by one, you will advance, my Brothers, and draw a single tablet
from this hollow in the rock. It is asserted by the traditions of our order,
that the great work of Supreme Chief will fall upon the Brother
who draws the tablet on which the sign of the Cross is traced. Advance,
my Brothers—but hold—let me first ask every Brother to raise his clasped
hands above his head, and swear by the Globe, by the Rising Sun and the
Cross, to be faithful to the Supreme Chief, whom we are about to elect
from our midst—to obey his commands without hesitation, scruple or
reserve, and to recognise his Power, whenever it is attested by the most
sacred symbol of our Order!”
There was a pause—and then from every lip arose the solemn chorus;
“We swear by the Globe, by the Rising Sun, and by the Cross!”
Perchance the outward history of the world, that history which only
pictures the appearances, not the realities of things, never described a
scene of sterner grandeur, than that which was now in progress within
the walls of the mountain cavern.
The Representatives of the various Destinies of Nations, were met in
awful Council, to decide the Destiny of all mankind, to elect, in fact, one
man, who should in his turn embody the destiny of a World.
One by one they came toward the hollow in the rock. The torchlight
shone upon their various costumes, and displayed the workings of those
contrasted faces, every one the representative of a People, the type of a
race. The blanket of the Indian, adorned with the many-colored wampum-belt,
contrasted with the turban and flowing robes of the Moslem.
The tawny Hindoo, the bronzed Spaniard, the florid German, mingled
together in that throng; and the hardy Colonist from New England stood
side by side with the stern soldier of Cromwell, and the down-trodden Son
of Ireland.
The Jesuit, too, folding his hands over his black robe, with a deep
thought upon his tonsured brow, stood near the worshipper of Con-fav-tse
from the far land of China
The Black Man was not alone. His jet-black features, scarred with
the traces of that incredible thraldom from which he was a fugitive, he
spoke of the races of Ancient Rome.
The gray-garbed Peasant stood alone, leaning upon the veiled figure
with his knotted hands. Few could guess his country or his race. His
bold features, darkened by the sun, spoke somewhat of an Oriental race.
The rumor ran from lip to lip, that he was from an island in the
Mediterranean.
His thoughts were absorbed by the overwhelming solemnity of the
moment.
They were about to elect a Man, who would control for good or evil,—
for good or evil in the present age, and through all future time—the immense
organization of the Brotherhood.
On whom would the great work fall?
The Turk, the Hindoo, the Arab—the eyes of the Peasant roved along
the throng—or perchance—the Black Man? By the chance or fatality
of that mysterious lottery, the destiny of the Order and the World might
be embodied in a Negro;—a Negro! One of that thrice degraded race,
who have been ever doomed to drain the bitterest dregs of slavery, and
wear its heaviest chain upon their lacerated souls.
Meanwhile the aged Swede sat apart, his white beard floating over
his breast. His days were numbered; he was not a Candidate for the
great office; and more than this, he had been the last keeper of the Sacred
Symbol of Brotherhood. He was therefore not a Candidate, but a Judge.
While the Peasant stood leaning against the veiled figure, the other
brethren advanced one by one to the hollow in the rock, and turning their
faces away, drew forth a single tablet from the darkness.
The Peasant was aroused from his reverie by the voice of the Swede—
“Brother, it is now your turn,” he said.
The Peasant looked around with a stare of vague amazement.
“Have all drawn but me?” he exclaimed.
Even as he spoke, he beheld the brethren standing against the walls of
the cavern, with their tablets in their hands.
“Is not the tablet with the Cross yet drawn?” he ejaculated, while a
tremor seized his limbs—“and have all the Brothers advanced to the rock
—all but me?”
“No,” answered the Swede—“There are three others besides you—”
The Peasant followed the extended hand of the Swede, and beheld
standing near him, the Indian, the Colonist from New England, and the
Black Man.
“On one of the four will fall the office of Supreme Chief!” exclaimed
the Swede.
Then it was that a wild suspense seized every breast, and all eyes
were turned upon the four. The Indian and the Black Man stood on
the right of the veiled figure—the New England Colonist on his left.
and veiled his face.
“Advance, Brother from the New World,” he cried in a husky voice
—“The tablet marked with the Cross is yours!”
The Colonist advanced with a firm step, but his hand trembled, his
face changed color, as he drew a single tablet from the hollow in the rock.
He dared not look upon it, but stood gazing with a vacant glance in the
face of the Swede.
“Is it the tablet marked with the Cross?” interrogated the Peasant, as
he raised his face—his voice, changed and hollow, resembled a prolonged
groan.
The interest of the Chiefs became intense and painful.
“The tablet! The tablet!” was heard in murmurs—and in various
tongues on every side.
The Colonist at last gathered courage; he gazed upon the tablet—
“My own name!” he said, and turned away.
The stillness which succeeded, was like the grave.
The contest was now between the Peasant, the Indian, and the Black
Man. The Indian next advanced. Stern and proudly erect, he wound
his blanket over his broad chest, and his aquiline profile was described in
bold shadow on the wall of the cavern, as he drew near the hollow in
the rock.
Extending his hand without a tremor, he also drew forth a solitary
tablet, and held it toward the light.
You could not hear the faintest echo of a sound. All was terribly
still.
“The name of my Hindoo Brother,” said the Indian, as he resumed
his place.
The office of Supreme Chief now lay between the Peasant and the
Black Man.
As for the Peasant, seized by an uncontrollable emotion, he bowed his
tall form once more against the Leaden Image, and concealed his face
from the light.
The Black Man advanced a step—hesitated—and returned to his place.
“Brother, it is your time,” and as he spoke, he turned his harsh features
toward the Peasant.
There was no reply. The Peasant, who but a moment ago had seemed
a Prophet, inspired for a great work, now rested his arms upon the Leaden
Image, and hid his face, while his strong frame shook with agony.
“Advance, brother,” exclaimed the Swede to the Negro—“The office
of Supreme Chief is within your grasp!”
The Peasant heard the words of the Swede, and a cold shudder pervaded
his limbs. So near, so very near that Power, which held in its hand
the Destiny of the human race, and yet it was about to glide from his
stillness that the Negro was standing near the hollow in the rock—he felt
as he heard the universal ejaculation, that the Negro had become the Supreme
Chief of the Order.
Yet hark! The voice of the Black Man is heard—
“I have drawn a tablet, on which my Red Brother's name is written,”
he said, and all was still again.
The heart of the Peasant bounded within his breast. Possessed in every
nerve by an intense ambition, he had writhed with all the agony of suspense,
and now his blood became fire, with the pulsations of a boundless
joy.
The Tablet on which the Cross was traced was his own—with his form
bowed and his face concealed, he awaited the salutations of his brethren.
But suddenly his blood grew cold again, as the voice of the Swede fell on
his ear:
“Brother, advance. You are the last. Two tablets alone remain in
the hollow of the rock. On one your name is written, for it has not been
drawn by any of the brethren. On the other the Cross is traced. In case
you do not draw the Tablet with the Cross, a new election will be held.”
The Peasant heard the last words, and raised his head. Every eye remarked
the pallor of his face.
“Two tablets!” he echoed, with a vacant stare—“I had forgotten—”
he paused, and turning his eyes upon the throng, exclaimed—“I am not
worthy of this awful trust. I will not place my hand in the hollow of the
rock. Let the tablets be cast into that hollow once more, and the great
office will doubtless fall to the lot of some more worthy brother.”
But they silenced him with their murmurs—every one, from the Swede
to the Black Man, bade him advance.
It was a terrible moment for that rude Peasant, with the gray garb and
sunburnt face, when, crossing the cavern floor, shading his agitated features
from the light, he placed his knotted hand in the hollow of the rock. He
felt the two tablets beneath his fingers. He knew not which to take. One
moment he desired the great office with all his soul, the next, he felt unworthy,
and hoped that he might draw the tablet inscribed with his own
name.
“It is an awful Power to be placed in the hands of one man,” he muttered,
as he raised his hand, and without daring to gaze upon the tablet,
held it behind his back toward the light.
The Swede arose.
“You suffer, my brother,” he whispered—“your face is like the face
of a dead man—I will read the tablet for you.”
The Peasant could not speak a word, but he listened to the footsteps of
the Swede. There was a moment's pause—he could feel the intense interest
breath.
“Brothers, behold!”—it was the voice of the Swede, and the Peasant,
with his face turned from the light, heard the cry which filled the cavern.
That cry echoed from the very hearts of the assembled brethren, as every
eye beheld the tablet which the old man held toward the light.
And yet the Peasant dared not turn and know his destiny. That murmur
was so confused, so vague, he could not divine its true meaning, but
he felt the hand of the Swede upon his own, and felt himself urged gently
to the light.
“Brothers! salute the Supreme Chief of our Brotherhood!” the voice
of the Swede swelled through the cavern.
For a moment the Peasant tottered to and fro, while his sight grew dim,
and the figures of the brethren flitted before him like the confused shapes
of a dream. But that moment over, his sight grew clear, his limbs were
firm—glancing around with unwavering eyes, he beheld himself encircled
by the Chiefs of the Brotherhood, he felt the Golden Medal in his hand.
“Now—” he said, while a deep rapture softened his bold features, and
his form, clad in humble peasant attire, towered in the centre of that throng
—“Now, indeed, my work is before me. It is for me to embody in the
ritual of our Brotherhood, the life of the Carpenter's Son!”
Joining hands, they encircled him, and pronounced with one accord, in
the unknown tongue, the ancient formula of the Order. The Swede laid
his withered hand upon his brown hairs and blessed him—Hindoo, Turk,
Jesuit, Indian, Englishman and Spaniard, Dane and German, gathered
around, a rampart of living hearts.
The Negro, as the most degraded and down-trodden of all earth's children,
pronounced the last word of the consecration—
“It is from a Child of Toil that the Children of Toil must look for their
redemption.”
The Supreme Chief of the Brotherhood raised the Golden Medal toward
the light, and examined its details with a careful scrutiny.
“On one side the Globe, the Cross and the Rising Sun, with the inscription,
`Vayomer Eloheim yehee aur, vayehee aur'—`Then spoke God, Let
there be light, and there was light.' The reverse of the Medal is blank.
It bears no inscription. One day it will have an inscription, a glorious inscription,
but not until earth is redeemed and all men are Brothers!
“Yes, long ages after we are dead, my brethren, some Chief of our
Order will write upon the blank side of the Medal—
“`Earth redeemed by the Spirit of the Carpenter's Son, embodied in the
Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross.”'
The speaker took a sharp-pointed dagger from his breast, and resting
the medal upon the rock, traced in rude characters, two dates, beneath the
symbol of the Order. These dates were “1777” and “1848-84.”
Then turning to the silent brotherhood, he exclaimed—
“In the year 1777, another general convocation of the Chiefs of the
Brotherhood will be held in the land of the New World. Then the Golden
Medal will again he placed in the hands of a Supreme Chief, elected in
accordance with the injunction of the most aged Chief. Until that time,—
in case I die before it arrives—the office of Supreme Chief will remain
vacant. And in the year 1848—or 84, a general convocation will be held,
at a point to be designated by the Supreme Chief elected in the year 1777.”
Glancing into the faces of the encircling Chiefs, the Peasant, now become
the Supreme Power of the Order, beckoned with his hand to seven brethren,
who separated themselves from the throng, and took their places at his
side.
“These are the Supreme Elders of the Brotherhood, appointed by me
to assist in the government of the Order, and to receive the sacred symbol
in case of my death. They are known in our traditions as the Seven.—
Brother,” he continued, turning to the first of the Seven—“Your name
and country?”
The First of the Seven was a man of commanding presence, with a face
traced with the indications of a serene soul.
“I was born in England,” he said, “but now that my native land is a
home no longer for freemen, I have no country. I am about to depart to
the New World. Not to New England, for it is accursed by the Demon
of Persecution, but to a more southern clime. My name is Lawrence
Washington.”
The Peasant wrote that name upon the Tablet marked with the Cross.
—“Washington!” he murmured, as though he had heard of it before.
The Supreme Chief turned to the Second of the Seven. A man of
slender frame, sharp features, stamped with an iron resolution, and eyes
full of enthusiasm.
“Your country, Brother, and your name?”
“I am of France,” responded a shrill, discordant voice—“My name is
Robenspierre.”
The Supreme Chief shuddered as he wrote that name underneath the
first.
“I have seen it,” he murmured, in a tone inaudible to the Brethren—
“I have seen it in my dreams, written in red characters, upon the timbers
of that unknown engine of Murder.”
To the Third he turned. The harsh features of the Black Man met
his gaze.
“I have no name,” cried the Negro—“I am called Isaac the Slave.”
After he had written the designation of the African beneath the other
names, he turned to the Fourth. The Indian, standing alone, with his
blanket falling over his broad chest.
“My country? Wherever the White Race leaves our people a wigwam
Talondoga, and my country the Land of the Setting Sun.”
“Thy children,” murmured the Peasant, “shall yet sweep the white
race with fire and sword.”
The Fifth answered proudly—“I am a German. A tiller of the soil.
Write John, the Serf; and as for country, say that I have no Fatherland
but the grave.”
It was now the turn of the Sixth. A dark-visaged Hindoo, clad in the
garb of the lowest order of Hindoo priesthood.
“Buldarh of the far Eastern land—a Pariah, who has no lower caste
beneath him.”
“Thy country shall be given up awhile to Moloch, incarnate in the
English Monarchy. But when the oppressor has trampled you for a
hundred years, you will learn his cunning, and crush him with his own
weapons.”
Thus speaking, this Peasant Ruler wrote the name of the Pariah beneath
that of the German Serf.
The Seventh: an Italian, whose face seemed oppressed with the Doom
of his country.
“Giovanni Ferreti!” murmured the Supreme Chief, as he wrote this
name beneath the others. “Fear not, Italian! Humble artizan as you
are, it is from your race that there will spring a high-souled Man, who
will strike astonishment into the hearts of all men, for he will embody in
his own person, the functions of Pope and Liberator!”
“There are the names of your Elders—of the Seven,” exclaimed the
Supreme, after a pause—“Let us behold them, and write them on our
hearts—”
And he held the tablet before the eyes of the Brethren. These names
were written underneath the Cross.
1. Lawrence Washington.
2. Robenspierre.
3. Isaac the Slave.
4. Talondoga the Indian.
5. The German Serf.
6. Buldarh the Hindoo and Pariah.
7. Giovanni Ferreti.
“It only remains for me to write my own name,” said the Supreme
Chief, with a sad smile. These words excited a universal interest. Every
Brother was anxious to know the name of this man, who had been called
by Destiny to the supreme sway of the Brotherhood.
“My father,” he said, “was an Arab, who, cast ashore upon an Island
in the Mediterranean, was enslaved by a Lord, whose castle is built among
the rocks. My mother was a native of the island. As I do not know the
name of my father in the Arab tongue, I will—after the manner of slaves
The race of that lord has become extinct; himself, his children, all his
people, were swept away by plague; but the Son of the Arab Slave will
perpetuate their name—”
And beneath the names of the Seven, he wrote the words—
“Leon Buonaparte of Corsica.'
His bronzed features grew radiant, his dark eyes gathered new light, as
he gazed upon that name.
“Perchance, at some future day,” he said, “that name of the extinct
Italian noble, who built his castle on the rocks of Corsica—that name, now
assumed by his Slave, may shake the world, and read, to the eyes of
Kings, like the handwriting on Belshazzar's wall!”
And raising his right hand, which grasped the Golden Medal, toward
heaven, he stood motionless as stone, while his eyes, shining with prophetic
light, seemed to behold already a world of slaves starting from their
chains, and building, upon the wrecks of Despotism and Superstition, the
sublime altar of human Brotherhood.
“The day is breaking, my brothers, and we must separate,” he said, as
he took the torch and drew near the veiled figure once more—“But before
you hasten to your stations, in the various regions of the globe, we will
meet again. Then,—at our next meeting, which shall not be many days
from the present hour—I will reveal to you the regenerated ceremonial of
our Brotherhood. Yes, I will reveal to you the new organization of the
Order, in which the Spirit of the Carpenter's Son shall throb and burn as
the life of all life. Armed with this spirit—embodied in ritual and constitution—you
will hasten to your various circles, scattered over the surface
of the Globe, and swell your divisions of the great Fraternity, by new converts,
and go on in your great work, until the masses begin to feel that the
Spirit of the Carpenter's Son, freed from the body of the leaden Church,
walks divinely over the earth again, speaking to the poor, words that are
mightier than armies.
“Yes—I anticipate the question which rises to your lips and shines in
your eyes. You ask me, what manner of scenes from the life of the
Carpenter's Son, I would embody in the ritual of our Order? The question
is not difficult to answer.
“Have you ever heard of the day, when that Carpenter's Son arose in
a Nazarene Synagogue, and proclaimed, clad, as he was, in the gaberdine
of toil, proclaimed in the face of the Rich Man and the Priest, that the
Spirit of God was upon him to preach good tidings to the Poor, liberty to
the bondman, the good time of Brotherhood to all men?
“Or, have you ever heard of the Rich Man, who came one day to the
Carpenter's Son, and, won by the divine beauty of that Spirit which shone
in his eyes, asked sorrowfully, `Master, what shall I do to inherit eternal
life?'
“The Carpenter's Son looked in the face of the Rich man, marked his
robes of fine linen and purple, and then said, in that voice which melted
the souls of all who listened to its music—
“`Sell all thou hast and give to the Poor!'
“Such scenes as these we will embody in our ritual, and make the life
of our life! Yes, to the Poor we will preach good tidings, liberty, light!
But to the Rich, armed with the Justice of the Carpenter's Son, we will
thunder the sentence which God has pronounced upon their heads—`Sell
all thou hast and give to the Poor! Restore to the mass of mankind the
lands which ye have stolen from them, and baptized with their blood!
Divide among the Poor your ill-gotten gold—give back, give back, in the
name of God, your usurped power, and let your tardy Repentance be
aided by a strict and universal Restitution!”
The words had not passed his lips, when he dashed the torch upon the
ground, and the cavern was enveloped in darkness. By the last ray, the
Brothers beheld his sunburnt features flashing as with a divine radiance,
and through the darkness, they heard him speak in a low, deep voice,
tremulous with unutterable joy—
“Then, indeed, shall the Lead become Gold, and the Sneer be changed
into a Smile.”
HERE ENDETH THE MANUSCRIPT OF BROTHER ANSELM.
| CHAPTER NINETEENTH.
THE MANUSCRIPT OF BROTHER ANSELM. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon | |