 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
III.—“BACK EIGHTEEN HUNDRED YEARS!”
Ere we come down to the days of the Revolution, let us go on a journey
into a far country and a long past age.
Kings and Priests have asked us, from whence do you derive the principle—All
men in the sight of God are equal—from what work of philosophy,
from what dogma of musty parchments, or thesis of monkish schools.
From none of these! We go higher, for the origin of the noble words
contained in the Declaration of Independence, even to the foot of that
Judean mount, which one day beheld a universe in mourning for the crimes
of ages.
We pass by our Kings and Priests; we leave behind us the long column
of crowned robbers, and anointed hypocrites; to the altar where the light
burns, and the truth shines forever, we hasten, with bended head and reverent
eyes.
Come with me to a far distant age.
There was a day when the summer sun shone from the centre of the
deep blue sky, in the far eastern clime.
It was the hour of high noon.
Come with me—yes—while the noonday sun is pouring his fierce rays
over the broad landscape, let us for a moment turn aside into the deep woods
—the deep green woods, not far from yonder town.
What see you here?
Here sheltered from the rays of the sun by a thick canopy of leaves, a
quiet stream stretches away into the dim woods.
Is it not beautiful? The water so deep, so clear—trembling gently
along its shores, fragrant with myrtle—the thick canopy of leaves overhead
—the white lilies on yonder bank, dipping gently into the still waves!
There is the balm of summer flowers, the stillness of noonday, the tranquil
beauty of calm waters and stout forest trees—all are here!
And look yonder! There, under the boughs of that spreading cedar, a
fountain of dark stone breaks on your eye.
It is but a pile of dark stone, and yet, cool water, trickling from the rock
above, shines and glimmers there—and yet, hanging from the boughs of
that giant cedar, thick clusters of grapes dip into the waters of that spring,
—and lo! a single long gleam of sunlight streams through the thick boughs
upon the cold water, and the purple grapes.
Is it not a beautiful picture, nestling away here in dim woods, while the
noonday sun pours its fierce rays over hill and valley, far along the land?
And yet we must leave this scene of quiet beauty, for the hot air and the
burning sun.
Look there, at the foot of yonder giant cedar, beside the fountain, murmuring
such low music on the air, look yonder and behold a path winding
up, into the still woods.
We will follow that path, up and on with tired steps we go, we leave the
woods, we stand in the open air under the burning sun.
There, not a hundred paces from our feet, the white walls of a quiet town
break into the deep blue of the summer sky.
Come with me, to that town; over the hot dust of the flinty road, come
with me!
Let us on through the still streets—for the heat is so intense that the
rich and the proud have retired to their homes—nay, even the poor have
fallen exhausted at their labor. Let us on; without pausing to look in upon
that garden, adorned with temples, musical with fountains, with the rich
man reclining on his bed of flowers.—
Let us not even pause to look in through the doors of yonder gorgeous
temple, where pompous men in glittering robes, and long beards are mumbling
over their drowsy prayers.
Here we are in the still streets—still as midnight, even at broad noon—
and around us rise the white walls of rich men's mansions, and the glittering
dome of the synagogue.
Let us ask the name of this town! Let us ask yonder solitary man, who
with his hands folded among his robes of fine linen, his long beard sweeping
his breast—his calm self-complacent brow is striding haughtily along the
deserted streets.
“Tell us good sir, the name of this town!” That richly clad way-farer
answers one question with a haughty scowl, and passes on.
You perceive that man is too holy to answer the question of sinful men
—his robe is too rich, his phylactery too broad—his knowledge of the law
too great to speak to men of common garb. That is a holy man, a Pharisee.
And this town is the town of Nazareth; and we stand here tired and
fainting in the dusty streets; with the drowsy prayers from that synagogue,
the music of rich men's fountains breaking on our heavy ears.
But hark! The deep silence of this noonday hour is broken by sharp,
quick sound—the clink of a hammer, the grating of a saw!
Let us follow that sound!
Look there, between those two massive domes of rich men, there, as if
crouching away from the hot sun, in the thick shadow, nestles the rude hut
of a Carpenter. Yes, the rude hut of a Carpenter, with the sound of hammer
and saw, echoing from that solitary window.
We approach that window—we look in! What is the strange sight
we see?
—Strange sight? Call you this a strange sight, when it is nothing more
than a young man, clad in the laborer's garments, the laborer's sweat upon
his brow, bending down to his labor, amid piles of timber and unhewn
boards—Call you this a strange sight?
Why it is but a sight of every day life—a common sight, a familiar thing,
a dull, every day fact.
But hold a moment,
Look as that young man raises his head, and wipes the thick drops from
his brow—look upon that face! Look there, and forget the Carpenter's
shop, the boards, the hammer, the saw, nay, even the rough laborer's dress.
It is is a young face—the face of a boy—but O, the calm beauty of that
hair, flowing to the shoulders in waving locks—mingling in its hues, the
purple of twilight with the darkness of midnight—O, the deep thought of
those large, full eyes, O, the calm radiance of that youthful brow!
Ah, that is a face to look upon and love—and kneel—and worship—even
though the form is clad in the rough carpenter's dress. Those eyes, how
deep they gleam, more beautiful than the stars at dead of night; that brow,
how awfully it brightens into the Majesty of God!
And now, as you are looking through the window—hold your breath as
you look—do not, O, do not disturb the silence of this scene!
As that boy—that apprentice boy—stands there, with a saw in one hand,
the other laid on a pile of boards—a strange thought comes over his soul!
He is thinking of his brothers—the Brotherhood of Toil! That vast
family, who now swelter in dark mines, bend in the fields, under the hot
sun, or toil, toil, toil on, toil forever in the Workshops of the World.
He is thinking of his brothers in the huts and dens of cities; sweltering
in rags and misery and disease. O, he is thinking of the Workmen of the
World, the Mechanics of the earth, whose dark lot has been ever and yet
ever—to dig that others may sleep—to sow that others may reap—to coin
their groans and sweat and blood, into gold for the rich man's chest, into
purple robes for his form and crowns for his brow. This had been the fate
of the Mechanic—the Poor man from immemorial ages!
Never in all the dark history of man, had the Mechanic once looked from
his toil—his very heart had always beat to that dull sound—Toil—Toil—
Toil!
Never since the day when Jehovah gave the word, “By the sweat of thy
brow thou shalt live!” never had that Great Army of Mechanics once looked
up, or felt the free blood dance in their veins.
By the sweat of the brow? Was it thus the Poor man was to live? And
how had he lived for four thousand years?
Not only by the sweat of his brow, but the blood of his heart, the groans
of his soul.
This had been the fate of the Mechanic—the Poor Man, for four thousand
years.
And now, that Young Carpenter stood there, in the Carpenter's shop of
Nazareth, thinking over the wrongs of the Poor, his brothers, his sisters,
THE Poor!
At that moment, as if a flood of light from the throne of God, had poured
down into his soul, that young Mechanic stood there, with an awful light
hovering over his brow.
At that moment he felt the Godhead fill his veins—at that moment he
stood there a God. Yes, a God in a Mechanic's gaberdine; with carpenter's
tools in his hand.
At that moment he felt the full force of his mission on earth; yes, standing
there, his brow gleaming, his eyes flashing with Eternal light, Jesus the
Carpenter of Nazareth, resolved to redress the wrongs of the Poor.
And as he stands there, behold. A mildly beautiful woman, steals from
yonder door, and pauses on tip-toe at the very shoulder of the young man;
herself unseen, she stands with hands half-raised, gazing upon her son, with
her large full eyes.
That mildly beautiful woman is Mary the Virgin-Mother.
Is it not a picture full of deep meaning?—There stands the Bride of
the Living God, gazing upon that young Carpenter, whose body is human—
whose soul is very God!
From that moment, these words became linked in one—Jesus and Man.
Yes, follow the Blessed Nazarene over the dust of the highway, hehold
him speaking hope to the desolate, health to the sick, life to the dead, eternal
life to the Poor! Last night he had his couch on yonder mountain-top
—to-night he shares you poor crust; to-morrow he goes on his way again;
his mission still the Redemption of the Poor.
Does he share the rich man's banquet or the rich man's couch? Is he
found waiting by rich men's elbows, speaking soft things to their drowsy
souls! Ah, no! Ah, no!
For the rich, the proud, the oppressor, his brow darkens with wrath, his
tongue drops biting scorn.
But to the Poor—to his poor. Ah, how that mild face looks in upon
their homes, speaking within dark huts, great words, which shall never die;
ah, how the poor love him; their Apostle, their Redeemer, more than all,
their brother.
Follow him there by the pool of Siloam—look! A man clad in a faded
garb, with long hair sweeping down his face,—that face covered with sweat
and dust—stamped with the ineffable Godhead—goes there by the waves
of dark Galilee—communes there at night with his soul—speaks to the stars
which he first spake into being!
Or far down in the shades of Gethsemane, there he kneels pleading, with
bloody drops upon his brow, for his brothers, his sisters the poor—
Or yonder on that grim heighth frowning over Jerusalem, nailed to the
Cross in scorn—pain, intense pain quivering through his racked sinews—
there, at the moment when it is made his fierce trial, to doubt his Divine
Mission!
Look as the Awful Godhead is struggling with his human nature. Hark
to that groan going up to God, from that Man of Nazareth, stretched there
upon the cross!
“Eloi—Eloi—lama Sabacthani!”
My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken me!
I could bear the scorn of these High Priests; I could bear this cross;
these bloody hands, this streaming brow!
Nay, I could bear that very People, whose sick I have healed, whose
dead I have raised, the very People, who yesterday strewing palm branches
in my way, shouted Hosannah to my name; I could bear that these People
—these brothers of my soul—should have been the first to shriek—Crucify
him, Crucify him.
But Thou O God—Why hast thou forsaken me!
Ah, was not that a dark hour, when the Man of Nazareth doubted his mission
to the Poor, to Man—when God in human flesh doubted his Divinity?
And why this life of Toil—this bloody sweat in Gethsemane—this awful
scene—these bloody hands, this thorn-crowned brow—this terrible Doubt
on Calvary?
Was it only to root the Kings more firmly on their thrones—to grind the
faces of the poor yet deeper in the dust!
No! No! The bloody sweat of Gethsemane—the groans of Calvary—
the soul of Jesus answers no! no! no!
Yes, to-day from that Carpenter's shop in Nazareth, a Voice speaks out
to the workshops of the world—that voice speaks to Toil—yes, to dusty,
tired, half-clad, starving Toil—that voice speaks, and says,—“Look up
brother, for the day of your redemption draweth near!”
Ere we survey the result of this great mission of the Saviour, its action
upon Man, after the lapse of eighteen hundred years, we will behold two
scenes in his life, and learn the solemn lesson which they teach.
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |