 | Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution |  |
V.—THE WILDERNESS.
The Wilderness, dark and vast, illumined by the faint light of the breaking
dawn!
It is a wild place, this broken plain, gloomy by day, terrible by night;
ghostly when the cold moonbeam shines over these rugged rocks. On
every side, from the barren earth, rude shapes of granite rock, struggle into
the dim light of morning. Here are grand old trees, towering aloft, strong
with the growth of ages, their colossal trunks looming through the mists of
the dawn, like the columns of some heathen temple, made unholy by the
rites of bloody sacrifice.
It is the early dawn, and yonder beyond this dreary plain, rugged with
scattered masses of antediluvian rock, yonder beyond those aged trees, the
oaks grouped in a venerable circle, the palm rising in solitary magnificence,
we behold a gloomy waste of dark water, heaving sullenly in the first beam
of the day.
Ah, that waste of dark water is invested with a fearful gloom; silence
deeper than the grave broods over its impenetrable deep, like a raven over
the breast of the dead. Here and there, along the black shores, are scattered
dismal trees, stunted in their growth, blasted by lightning, withered in
trunk and branch, as with the weariness of long ages. Here and there,
from the edge of its sullen waters, huge masses of dark rock arise, their
fantastic shapes presenting images of hideous meaning, some rising like
fabled demons, some like beasts of prey, some like men, transformed by
infernal passions, into monuments of despair.
Altogether this dread, dark lake, this silent wilderness, strikes your heart
with a strange awe.
Let us seat ourselves upon this rude stone, and see the morning come
on, in solitary grandeur. Let us behold those snowy mists moving slowly
over the dark waters, like spirits of the blest over shades of unutterable
woe. Hark—a sound, harsh, crashing, and loud as thunder. In a moment
it is gone. It was but the last groan of an aged oak, which, eaten by the
tooth of ages, has fallen with one sudden plunge into the waters of the
lake. All is silent again, but such a silence—O, it chills the blood to dwell
in this place of shadows!
Tell us, do fair forms ever visit these gloomy wastes, do the voices of
home ever break in upon this heavy air, do kind faces ever beam upon these
rugged rocks? Tell us, does anything wearing the form of man ever press
this barren earth with a footstep?
The raven croaking from the limb of a blasted tree, the wolf, gaunt and
grim, stealing from his cave by the waters, the hyena howling his unearthly
laugh, these all may be here, but man—why should he ever dare this solitude,
more terrible than the war of battle?
Well may this place seem terrible by day, ghostly by night, blasted, as
with the judgment of God at all times! For yonder beneath those dark
waters, heaving with sullen surges on the blackened shore lies entombed
in perpetual judgment, the Cities of the Plain!
Yes, there beneath those waves are mansions, streets, gardens, temples
and domes, all crowded with people, all thronged with a silent multidude,
who stand in the doors, or throng the pathways, or kneel in the halls of
worship, ghostly skeleton people, who never speak, nor move, nor breathe,
but they are there, deep beneath the bituminous waves, petrified monuments
of Almighty vengeance. The cities of the Plain are there, Sodom and
Gomorrah.
Therefore is this desert so silent, so breathlesly desolate; therefore does
over the waste, like the knell of a lost world.
We are in the desert, and the lake before us, is the Dead Sea.
Yet hold—there is a footstep breaking upon the silence of the desert air.
Lo! From behind yonder granite rock, a form comes slowly into view,
a form rounded with the outlines of early manhood, attired in the rude
gaberdine of toil.
Who is he that comes slowly on, with gently-folded arms and downcast
head, framed in the curling beard and flowing hair?
Let us look well upon him!
He wears the garb of labor; his feet from which the worn sandals have
fallen away, are wounded by the desert flint. Slowly he comes, his head
upon his breast, his eyes fixed on the earth. Yet we may see that his
form combines in one view, all that is graceful in outline, or manly in vigor,
or beautiful in gesture.
Hold—and gaze! For he lifts his head.
Ah why do we desire to kneel—to love—to worship him, this man in
the rude garb? Why do our eyes seek that face with a glance of deep and
absorbing interest? Why do broken ejaculations bubble from our full
hearts, while our souls, all at once, seem lifted beyond these houses of
clay?
Look upon that face and find your answer.
O, the rapture of that calm white brow, O, the speechless love of those
large full eyes, O, the eloquence of those gently-parted lips! It is a young
face, with flowing hair, and curling beard, whose hues combine the darkness
of midnight, the rich purple of a summer's eve, while the brow is
clear as alabaster, the eyes dark with that excess of melting radiance. That
face touches your inmost soul.
Let us kneel, let us worship here, for the Carpenter of Nazareth comes
near us, clad in the garments of toil, yet with the Godhead beaming serenely
from his radiant brow.
Here, in this desert he has wandered forty days and forty nights. Not
a crust has passed those lips, not a cup of water moistened that throat,
whose beautiful outline is seen above the collar of his coarse garb.
Here he has dwelt for forty days companioned by day with silence, by
night with the stars, at all times by an Almighty presence, shining unutterable
images of beauty into his soul.
Ah, in this time, his heart has throbbed for man; yes, in the workshop
degraded by oppression in the mine, burdened by the chain, in the field with
the hot sun pouring over his brow, still Man his Brother!
Yes—beneath the calm light of the stars, amid the silence of noonday,
at twilight, when the long shadows of the palms, rested upon the bosom of
the Dead Sea, has his great mission come home to his soul, calling him
with its awful voice, to go forth and free his brother!
And the serene moon, shining from the sky of impenetrable blue, has
oftentimes revealed that earnest face stamped with unutterable thoughts,
lifted up to God, glowing already with a consciousness of the dim future.
O, my friends, when I follow this pure Being on his desert way, and
mark his tears as they fall for the sorrows of Man, and listen to his sighs,
as his heart beats with warm pulsations for the slave of toil, or see him
standing on yonder cliff, his form rising in the moonbeams, as he stretches
forth his hands to the sky and whispers an earnest prayer to God, for the
Millions of the human race, who have been made the sport of Priest and
King, for a dreary length of ages—then I feel my heart also warm, with
Hope that the Day is near, when Labor shall bless the whole earth, when
Man shall indeed be free!
This Jesus of Nazareth, dwelling for forty days and nights, alone with
his Soul, has ever for me, a calm, divine beauty.
But lo! he hungers, he thirsts at last. Where shall he find bread or
water? Not from these rocks, covered with rank moss, shall grow the
bread that nourishes, not from the dead wave of yonder sea, shall the bent
palm-leaf be filled with pure water.
Jesus hungers, thirsts; the hot sky is above, the arid earth below. But
neither bread nor water meet his gaze.
At this moment, hark! A footstep is heard, and a man of royal presence,
clad in purple robes, glistening with gems and gold, and contrasted
with the snowy whiteness of fine linen, comes striding into view, with the
air of majesty and worldly power. His ruddy countenance blushes with
the genial glow of the grape; his eyes sparkle with the fire of sensual
passion; his dark hair curls around a brow, which lofty and massive, is
stamped with that cunning, which among the people of this world, often
passes for Intellect.
In fact, he stands before us the inpersonation of Worldly Power, a goodly
looking man withal, whom it were policy and prudence to bow down and
reverence.
With his sandalled feet, glittering with diamonds that gleam as he walks,
he comes on: he stands before the humbly-clad Jesus. At a glance, he
reads the light of Godhead on that brow, he feels the immeasurable power
of those earnest eyes.
Come! he cries, taking Jesus of Nazareth by the hand, come! And
the desert is passed, and rocks are gone, and the Dead sea has faded from
the view. Come! repeats the Prince of this World, and as he speaks,
behold! A mountain swells before them, towering above the plain, green
with the venerable cedars and grey with colossal rocks.
Come! re-echoes the Prince, and up the steep mountain paths, and
through the deep mountain shadows, and along the dark mountain ravines,
they hurry on. Now they are in the clouds, now the mists of the summit
gather them in.
At last, upon this rock, projecting over an awful abyss, they stand, Jesus
of Nazareth in his laborer's garb, and the Prince of this world in his royal
robes.
Ah, what a doleful mockery of speech and common sense, was that
which painted the Incarnation of Evil, in a hideous shape, with all the
grotesque mummery of satyr's hoof and tail, poor as the poorest of earth's
toiling children! Whom could Satan ever tempt in a garb like this? No,
the Prince of this World, when he comes to tempt Man from the voice of
God, speaking forever in his inmost soul, comes in purple robes and fine
linen, with the flash of grapes upon his cheeks, the well-filled purse in his
fair hands, the marks of good cheer and rich banquets upon his portly form.
So, in all his pride and glory, stood he before the humbly-clad Jesus of
Nazareth.
Look! he cries, pointing with his hand towards that sublime panorama
of Empire crowded on Empire, which spreads far into the haze of distance,
from the foot of this colossal cliff; Look! All these will I give thee, if
thou wilt fall down and worship me!
Jesus bends from that awful cliff and gazes in mute wonder upon that
scene. Ah, who may describe that spectable, what power of imagery
depict the majestic drapery of glory which floated around that boundless
view?
There, rising into golden sunlight, were cities, glittering with innumerable
spires, grand with swelling domes, rank after rank, they grew into space,
and shone with the glory of all ages. Yes, the glory of the past, the glory
of the present, the glory of the future were there! Nineveh of old, rising
from a boundless plain, scattered with palms, her giant walls looming in
the light, her solitary temple towering over her wilderness of domes—
Nineveh was there! And there the Romes of all ages swelling in contrasted
glory. Imperial Rome—behold her! Magnificent with colosseum
and theatre, her streets crowded with the victorious legions, her white temples
encircled by the smoke of incense, her unconquered banner S. P. Q. R.
floating over the heads of kneeling millions—Imperial Rome, clad in the
drapery of the Cæsars, was there.
By her side arose another Rome; the Papal Rome of after years, with
her immense cathedral breaking into space, over the ruins of the ancient
city, while solemn Pontiffs, carried in gorgeous canopies, on the shoulders
of liveried guards, through the long files of kneeling worshippers, pointed to
the Cross, the Image and the Sword, and waved their heavy robes, rich
with lace and gold and jewels, as they swelled the anthem to the praise of
Rome, Papal Rome, the mistress of the souls of men!
Jesus beheld it all.
Renounce thy mission, forsake the Voice which now calls thee forth, to
Behold thy reward—all these, and more than these will I give thee, if
thou wilt fall down and worship me!
Then from the unbounded field of space, high over Rome the Imperial,
Rome the Papal, high over Babylon the great, yes, above gorgeous empires,
whose names have been lost in the abyss of ages, there rose another Empire,
terrible to behold in her bloody beauty.
She rose there, towering into light; an immense sea seemed to shut her
cities in its girdle of blood-red waves.
The white sails of her ships were on that sea, the tread of armed warriors,
crowding in millions, was heard in her palace gates, along her marts
of commerce, nay, in her temples of religion! She had grown strong with
the might of ages. Mightier than Imperial Rome, her dominion ended only
with the setting sun, her banners were fanned by every breeze that swept
the earth, the ice-wind of the north, the hot blast of the tropics, the summer
gales of more lovely climes.
She was terrible to behold that unknown empire, for her temples were
built upon the skulls of millions, her power was fed on human flesh, her
Red Cross Flag was painted with the blood of martyrs, moistened with the
tears of the widow, fanned by the sighs of the orphan!
Dismal in her lurid grandeur, she towered there, above all other nations,
claiming their reverence, nay, her loftiest dome pierced the sky, blazing
with texts from the Book of God, as though she would excuse her crimes in
the face of Divinity himself, glossing Murder over, with a soft word, and
sanctifying Blasphemy with a prayer!
O, it was a terrible picture, drawn by the hand of Satan, there on the
golden haze of infinite space.
These, these will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me!
Only renounce the Voice which calls thee forth to the relief of suffering
Man, only forsake this dream of Good—a beautiful Dream it may be, yet
still only a dream—which tells thee that thou canst lift up the toiling
Millions of the human race, and the glory of all ages, the grandeur of all
empires shall be thine!
As the Tempter speaks in that soft persuasive voice, fluttering his jewelled
robes as he prayed this Jesus of Nazareth, clad in his humble garb, to
descend into the herd of Conquerors and Kings, to become like them a
drinker of human blood, a butcher of human hearts, let us look upon the
face of the Tempted one.
Lo! At that moment, as if the light of God's presence shone more
serenely in his soul, this Man of Nazareth stands there, with a lofty scorn
upon his brow, an immortal glory in his eyes.
Solemnly he lifts his hand, his voice swells on the air:
Get thee hence Satan, he exclaims in that voice of deep-toned music,
Jehovah thy God, and him only shalt thou serve!
It is written not only in the Page of Revelation, but here upon the heart,
thou shalt not worship Gold nor Superstition, nor tinselled Hypocrisy;
thou shalt not bow down to Pomp, whose robes are stained in blood, nor
reverence Power, whose throne is built on skulls, but thou shalt worship
Jehovah the Father. To do good to Man is to worship God.
Ah—blasted on the brow, trembling in each limb, the abashed Devil—
attired as he is, in all the pomp of the world—crawls from the presence of
that humbly clad Jesus of Nazareth.
My friends shall we leave this beautiful passage in the life of Jesus, without
listening to its moral, without taking to our hearts the great truth which
it teaches?
To you, O, Man of Genius, to you, O, Student, to you O, Seeker after
the Beautiful, it speaks in a voice of strange, solemn emphasis:
There will come a time in your life, when like Jesus, you will be led up
from the wilderness of neglect and want, by the Prince of this world, into
the eminence of Trial. You will have the good things of this world spread
out before you, you will hear the voice of the Tempter:
Crush the voice that is now speaking to your soul—that voice which
bids you go out and speak boldly and act bravely for the rights of man
—drown every honest thought—trample on every high aspiration, and
Lo! These shall be thine! The praise of men, the flattery of sycophants,
the pleasure of rich men's feasts and the hum of mob applause!
These shall be thine, if thou wilt fall down and worship me!
Does he not speak thus to you, O, Student, this purple-robed tempter,
with his soft persuasive voice?
Do you tell him, in tones of scorn, like your Jesus before you: Get thee
hence! I will obey the voice which impels me to speak out for Man—I
will go on my dread way, my only object the Welfare of the Millions! I
will worship the Lord Jehovah!
Then the Prince of this World, tells you with a sneer—Go on! Go on
with your imaginary schemes for the good of man, and yonder in the
distance the Cross awaits you! Go on! and behold your reward for this
honesty of purpose, as you call it! You will be despised in the synagogue,
stoned in the mart, spit upon in the halls of the great, crucified to
public scorn, as a robber and a murderer!
So spake the Tempter to the Man of the Revolution, the signers of the
Declaration. Is it not true?
Does not the Tempter in this our day, appeal to the most bestial emotion
of the human heart—Fear?
Yes, the truth must be told, it was the curse of public opinion in the day
of '76,—as it is now—that shivering dread of the pompous Name, or the
infalliable Synagogue—in press and church and home—alike it rules—that
word—“Fear.”
Let but the Reformer of our time, who feels that God has given him
powers for the good of his brethren, dare to be honest, dare to speak out
boldly in his own way, against hideous evils, which glared in his face—
Behold his reward! Scorn, hissed from serpent-tongues, malice howled
from slanderous throats, the portentous bray of a Public Opinion, made up
by men whose character and name, would not stand in the light of a farthing
candle.
Does the Author in the pages of a book, dare to picture the character of
some lecherous Pharisee, who has crawled up into a pulpit, clothing his
deformities with sacerdotal robes? Behold—every lecherous Pharisee who
may possess a pulpit, or mouth the holy name of Jesus for his thousand
per year, assails that Reformer from his cowardly eminence, excommunicates
him from the synagogue, with bell, book, and candle, and more terrible
than all, stamps on his brow, the portentous word—Infidel!
Or does that Author with the honest impulse of a full heart, dare to drag
up from the obscurity of undeserved scorn, some great name of the Past,
and render justice to martyred intellect, which in days by-gone, shone into
the hearts of millions with holy and refreshing light, then the vengeance of
these worshippers of the Prince of the World, knows no bounds. The
Pharisaical pulpit, the obscene Press, work hand in hand to accomplish
that young man's ruin. No lie is too base, no slander too gross, no epithet
too malignant for the purpose of these atoms of an hour. If they cannot
charge the patriot with Crime, they charge him with Poverty. If they cannot
say that he is an Adulterer in holy robes, or a Scurvy Politician, feeding
on the drippings of office, or a Forger clothing himself with the fruits
of fraud, they wreak their vengeance in one word, and say, as their proto-types
of old said of the Lord Jesus; He is poor!
Thus in the Revolution, spoke the liveried and gowned pensioners of
King George, against the Signers and their partners in the work of freedom.
The British pulpit, and the British Press, joined their voices and spoke of
the “Infidel Jefferson” who denied the divine right of Kings; the “Traitor
Washington” who at the head of his “Ragmuffin Mob” in poverty and
rebellion, held the huts of Valley Forge.
Far be it from me, my friends, to say one word against that pure Minister
of the Gospel, who follows reverently in the footsteps of his Lord. Far be
it from me to whisper a breath against that high-souled Editor, who never
prostitutes his press to the appetites of the malignant and obscene. Such a
Minister, such an Editor I hold in reverence; they are worthy of our
respect and honor.
Yet we cannot disguise the fact, that there exists now as in the
time of the Revolution, a band of creatures calling themselves Ministers, a
congregation of reptiles who assume the position of Directors of Public
Religion, than the poor wretch who sold his Master, for thirty pieces of silver.
Who made these fellows Ministers of Almighty God? Who clothed
them with all the solemn gravity of the portentous nod, the white cravat,
and the nasal twang? Who lifted them from their obscurity into Priests
of the Altar, qualified to minister the holy rites of the sacrament, admonish
the living, bury the dead? Who!
We do not wish to investigate their title, for our search might end on the
same rock where the Prince of this World tempted the Lord Jesus.
Then my friends, there is species of the genus reptile, calling himself
an Editor, who merits a passing word. The servile tool of some corrupt
politician, paid to libel at so much per line, he is always the first to fear the
cause of Religion. Reeking with the foul atmosphere of the brothel, he is
the first to shudder for the danger of public morals. Fresh from the boon
companionship of “lewd fellows of the baser sort,” he is a virulent moral
lecturer. Were this creature alone in his work of infamy, not much fear
need be taken on his account. Like the rattlesnake he can but leap his
own slimy length. Yet a hundred reptiles together, hissing and stinging in
chorus may appal the stoutest heart, so does this Reptile Editor join himself
to other reptiles, and form an association of venom which poisons the life-springs
of many a noble soul, and distils its saliva even in the fountains of
home. This viper of the Press is not peculiar to our day—he hissed and
stung, in the time when our freedom was but dawning from the long night
of ages. The Tory Press of the Revolution, from Rivington of the New
York Royal Gazette, down to his less notorious compeers of the Philadelphia
loyalist Press, in their malignant attacks upon Washington, did not
even spare his private life. Forged letters were published day after day,
in their papers, signed with the name of Washington, in which the very
heart-strings of the chieftain were torn, by the leprous hand of Editorial
pestilence! The Father of his Country avoided these things, the Reptile
Editor and the Reptile Preacher, as he would have shunned a rabid dog.
He turned their path, as you would from the path of a viper. Had the
generous indignation of his soul found vent in words, he might have said
like the Saviour to their Judean proto-types—
“O! Scribes, Pharisees, Hypocrites, how shall ye escape the damnation
of hell!”—
With the vengeance, or rather the venom of men like these, Jesus was
assailed in his day, because he refused to worship their master. So Washington
was assailed because he refused obedience to the King. Think not
my friends, to escape the trial of your Saviour, if you follow in his footsteps.
Think not, be honest and bold in your actions and your words, without
feeling the fang of the viper in your soul. But in the darkest hour of your
life, when slander poisons your soul, and persecution blasts your frame, then
remember these blessed words:
—Then the devil leaveth him, and behold! Angels came and ministered
unto him.—
Yes, after hunger and thirst and temptation, behold the Blessed Jesus,
sitting on yonder granite rock, while forms of beauty group about him, their
beaming eyes fixed upon his divine countenance. Forms of beauty, yes
the most beautiful of forms—all that is pure in woman, lovely in the bloom
of her face, beaming in the glance of her eye, rounded and flowing in the
outlines of her shape,—bend there before the Saviour, in the guise of Angels!
Lo! one radiant form with floating tresses of golden hair brings the cup
of water; another, with those eyes of unutterable beauty presents the wild
honey-comb, the purple grapes, the fragrant fruit of the fig-tree, a third, gliding
around him, with steps that make no sound, soothes his brow with the
pressure of soft, white hands.
—“Behold, angels ministered unto Him!”
It is before me now, that beautiful picture, created in the wild desert, with
the background of the Dead Sea; Jesus sitting calm and serene on the
rugged rock, while angel-forms kneel at his feet, bend over his shoulders,
smile in his face, group in shapes of matchless loveliness around him.
Hark, that song? was ever hymn so soft and dreamy, heard in this desert
wild before? It swells over the dark mass of rocks, it glides along the
sullen waters of the lake, it bursts up to the morning sky in one choral
murmur of praise.
Angels cheer the Lord Jesus with their hymns.
So, O, man of genius, O, Student, O, Seeker after the beautiful, shall
angels cheer thee, and bless thee, and sing to thee; after thou hast passed
the fiery ordeal of hunger, thirst, neglect and temptation. From the book
of God, Jesus speaks to thee, and his word is given; it shall be.—Behold
Washington and Jefferson, with all the heroes and signers, rise triumphant
through all time, over the Tempter and Pharisees of the Revolution!
| Washington and his generals, or, Legends of the Revolution | |