Note: This material was scanned into text files for the sole purpose of convenient electronic research. This material is NOT intended as a reproduction of the original volumes. However close the material is to becoming a reproduced work, it should ONLY be regarded as a textual reference. Scanned at Phoenixmasonry by Ralph W. Omholt, PM in June 2007.
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS FREE MASONRY.
CONSISTING OF MASONIC TALES, SONGS, AND SKETCHES,
BY ROB. MORRIS, K. T.,
LECTURER ON THE LANDMARKS AND WORK OF FREEMASONS
LOUISVILLE, KY.,
PUBLISHED BY J. F. BRENNAN, FOR THE AUTHOR. 1852.
PREFACE
To the Masonic Reader.
THIS attempt, the first one ever made upon an extended scale, to illustrate the principles, by exhibiting the effects of Freemasonry, is respectfully offered to the craft, wheresoever dispersed. In it I have endeavored to avoid romantic incidents. I have not introduced unnatural or improbable embellishments.
But, from a large collection of facts, gathered in my travels through almost every section of the United States, I have prepared, in a plain style, the following sketches. It has been the desire of my heart, even from the night when I was made a Mason, to return something to an institution that then promised so much, that has since done so much, for me. To this end I early adopted the practice of jotting down, from the mouth of both friend and foe, every fact and opinion that related to Freemasonry. Having been practiced, from my boyhood, to wield the pen for the public press, I composed, several years since, from these memoranda, various Masonic tales, and published them in the Magazines of the Order. So extensively were these crude and imperfect productions copied by the newspapers of the day, that while my own estimate of their merits was vastly increased, I became convinced that there was a demand for a volume of such pieces, maturely considered, and carefully written, and that it would be acceptable to the craft. That volume, the result of my Masonic life, is now offered. In the preparation of these sketches, I have had three principal ideas in view: First. To introduce nothing of an important nature, but what is literally true. Second. To introduce incidents enough to bear either directly or indirectly upon every section of Masonic obligation and privilege. Third. To introduce the technical language of Masonry, so far as good authority is afforded me, by standard works. To understand Masonic land‑marks, and upon them to frame a true system of Masonic work, has ever been my earnest desire and study; to avoid a disclosure of Masonic secrets, in this publication, was my principal care. The former I dare not presume entirely to have attained to, the latter I can boldly and fearlessly avow. Should my Masonic brethren meet this more elaborate work with the same kindness with which my former sketches, and my courses of lectures, generally, have been accepted, they will render my pleasure and gratitude complete.
ROB. MORRIS.
Hickman, Ky., June, 1852.
DEATH ON THE SIERRA NEVADA.
THE Indiana wagon‑train had crept up one of the long slopes of the Nevada spurs, its front pointed due westward. As the vanguard reined up their jaded mules on the summit, the level rays of the setting sun reminded them that they were full late for encamping; for by the time the three grand requisites of caravan travel could be secured, (wood, water. and grass,) and their own supper prepared, the full moon would be high in the heavens. All day they had journeyed without delay, tarrying not to look at the drifts of human wrecks, the broken wagons, the putrid carcasses, the rifled boxes, or the wolf‑opened graves of humanity. Such objects were too familiar to excite the curiosity of men twelve hundred miles advanced on the California road, and even had their curiosity been aroused, the necessity of reaching camp by sunset was too obvious to justify the least delay. So when a tottering beast fell from exhaustion he had been hastily stripped of his saddle or harness and left to the wolves. When a wheel gave way, the contents of the stranded wagon were transferred to the others, and the vehicle, whose iron and wood had been fashioned in the best shops of Indiana, was deserted to the Camanches. Much suffering had been experienced since morning. Eyes seared with heat and blinded with dust had looked all day wishfully forward to the Nevada peaks that seemed like some evil enchantment to recede as the caravan advanced. Tongues swollen with thirst and past articulate speech, murmured indistinctly of the gushing waters whose moisture and coolness they so coveted. Death was behind, life and hope before, and every nerve was strained to attain the goal of their attempts. The sun went down as wagon after wagon drew up in its appointed place in the encampment. The animals too weary
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DEATH ON THE SIERRA NEVADA.
to satisfy any craving of nature save the want of rest, fell in their harness, soon as the sting of the long wagon whips ceased to urge them on, and not a few dropped to rise no more. But water and food were now ready for all. Swollen lips and jaded limbs were soon forgotten. The jest and laugh began to ring merrily through the echoes of the hills. With a ready adaptation to emergencies, the Indiana train that had defied all the toils and dangers of the prairies, and sustained their spirits and the ties of their organization, when other companies had broken up, now seated themselves near the Totem spring, and in the merriment of supper banished all recollections of the day. An hour had passed and the whole train might have been seen, dispersed ill groups reclining upon the matted grass at supper. The commander of the train, whose mess embraced six stalwart fellows, was loudly called for to come and join them. The word was passed from group to group but no response was heard. "Captain Glass! Captain Glass " wax shouted, until his companions, too hungry for further ceremony, filled their huge tin cups with coffee and set themselves voraciously to work. Old Clarke, whose gray head had dodged bullets at Packenham's defeat thirty‑five years before, shook it with a sage air, as he held out his hand for a slice of fat bacon and hazarded the remark: "Reckon he's in the wagon with Tolliver yet; he's been with him most all day." " Yes," responded Tilly Iikes, the mule driver, "he's a blamed sight more particular with that chap than he was with me, when the blasted mule kicked me;" referring to an incident that happened a month back, wherein the brute aforesaid shattered three of Hikes' ribs and changed the native graces of his countenance, so that his own mother would hardly know him should he live to get back to her again. "'T is said they's both Freemasons," suggested Cooney Wackes, the Dutch boy. " Oh dang your masonry on the prairies," pursued Old Clarke, pouring out his second cupful of coffee so strong that shot would almost have floated on the surface, "that thing called masonry may do in the settlements, and they had a heap of it in Jackson's army at the cotton bags, but it's frostbit in a caravan.
It can't blossom here. I knowed a case of a British
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DEATH ON THE SIERRA NEVADA.
officer that was tuck prisoner and brought into New Orleans arter the fight, with all his legs shot off, and the Masons just spread themselves to‑" "I knows one of the masons' signs," interrupted Dutch Cooney. "I got it from a boat man at Cairo for two dimes. It's this'er way;" ‑ and the squabby little chap went into some pantomimic spasms, so hideous that the whole mess broke into a simultaneous roax at the idea of his paying out his money for what any frog could do. In the midst of their merriment the voice of their commander, Capt. Glass, was heard issuing from a wagon at some distance, "Wackes, Cooney Wackes, a cup of water here, quick! move yourself, you lazy hound. No, not that bring it from the spring;" and as the stupid boy moved along, much too slow for the crisis, the captain jumped down from the wagon, and ran to the ravine in person. The front part of the vehicle was opened towards the west so that the ice‑cooled breezes from that quarter, might fan the sick man's brow. Through the vacancy thus left, there was a view of the splendid colors that reddened the sky long after the sun went down. The unfortunate man already referred to under the name of Tolliver, lay there in the last struggles of life. Poor fellow, he had borne up manfully against the hardships of the journey but the flesh, not the soul, yielded at last. The dreadful fatigues of that long day's march had exhausted his remaining strength. He felt that this encampment was to be his last. His languid eye was fixed vacantly upon the scarlet west and the snowy peaks, but his thoughts went back far toward the east, to the land where wife and babes were patiently enduring his absence and praying for his safe return. Oh the unwritten thoughts of humanity in such an hour as that! Oh the vision,‑the keen pangs of memory, the despairing cries, the agonized prayers. Who shall know them? who shall presume to describe them? The all‑seeing eye that searches man's heart, it alone reads them, and in the day when all secrets shall become known, we shall understand them too. The cool draught which the commander brought fresh from the fountain head, revived the dying man for an hour. He expressed a desire to be taken out of the wagon and to lie on
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DEATH ON TIlE SIERRA NEVADA.
the bosom of his mother earth once more. It was granted. A dozen strong men united their hands to form a living couch, and he was placed tenderly as the sick child on its mother's breast, upon a pile of blankets beneath a thorntree hard by. The word had gone around the encampment that Tolliver was dying, and immediately each brother in the fraternity of Masons came up to render him the last kind offices. These kind offices of Masonry had been freely dispensed to him ever since his sickness, now of more than a week's duration. The gourd had never been quite emptied by any, for poor Tolliver must have a drink, though others remained thirsty. The strongest mules must be hitched to his wagon, (the one with the square and compass painted upon the canvas covering,) even if other wagons dropped out of line and were loft. The care of the company was left much to the lieutenant, so that Capt. Glass might remain by his side to support his languid frame and to hinder him from inflicting any self‑injury while under the influence of delirium. And there was good cause for all this; for Laban Tolliver had been one who in his days of prosperity had brightly exemplified the work and lectures of Masonry by good deeds. The various lodges in his district owed many of them their existence, all of them their illumination to his self‑sacrificing efforts. Upon the rolls of the Grand Lodge his name was honorably recorded. Upon the memory of the widow and fatherless, the distressed brother, and the neglected orphan, it was indelibly engraved. But misfortune had come in the end. The evil day arrived: the checkered pavement had its squares of gloom. False friends, in whose affairs he had interested himself, for whose pecuniary stability he had become guarantee, made business failures of such a character that while their own property was selfishly secured, the pledge of their endorser was sacrificed. A tornado destroyed a valuable mill upon which he had expended tens of thousands. A boat‑load of produce that he had shipped to New Orleans was lost, while running the gauntlet of that river of wrecks. The four messengers, who in one day brought to Job the intelligence of Satan's dealings in the loss of his cattle, his sheep, tis camnels, and his children, had their
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DEATH ON THE SIERRA NEVADA.
counterparts in the hard experience of Laban Tolliver; and when as he sat amidst his beloved family, a letter came to his hand, that the Bank in which he was a Director, had failed and involved him to the amount of thousands beyond his remaining means, it was to the Masonic credit of the man that he too could say with the patriarch," the Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, and blessed be the name of the Lord." Well, everything was at once given up. Houses, lands, furniture, even the wardrobe of his family were resigned to his insatiable creditors. All was done that time and talents and experience permitted, to raise money and pay off the balance; for Laban Tolliver felt that indolence at such a time would be in God's judgment a high misdemeanor. But when three years had elapsed, and he found that hard toil and anxious scheming scarcely sufficed to pay the interest on the debt, while his family was neglected, and his children were growing up without education, a sense of duty prompted him to engage in something more promising, even though considerable hazard were attached to it. It was the time of golden dreams relating to California. One of those wild epidemics that statedly pervade our country, had fevered every mind, and a company of his neighbors was organizing to glean in the golden harvest. Mr. Tolliver offered himself as a volunteer, and the proposal was eagerly accepted. His wife, resigning herself with woman's patience to necessity's stern decree, set herself at once to prepare for him the most comfortable outfit in her power. His friends came nobly forward and advanced the necessary funds, not by way of loan, but gift, and so privately, that he could not discover the names of the donors. But they are known in heaven, and a bounteous usury shall be awarded them there.
The last word‑the last embrace‑the last look‑oh! that they should be the last! And here, on Sierra Nevada, lay Laban Tolliver‑the point within a circle‑the point a dying mason‑the circle a sun‑burnt company, whose hands had not unfrequently pressed his, in the distant Indiana Lodges, with fraternal grips.
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DEATH ON THE SERRA NEVADA.
As death approached, his soul brightened. His speech, which had been quite indistinct for several days, was suddenly restored. Many a thankful word did he say to each of those who had made him their debtor in his past week's illness. Many a good wish was uttered for their prosperous journey; for a full realization of their hopes; for a safe return to their friends. Many a little token of remembrance was distributed amongst them. Then came the farewell. It was in silence; not a word expressed it: but by the grip‑emblem of the Christian's hope in the resurrection of the body, and the immortality of the soul‑by the strong grip, known and valued by all enlightened Masons, the dying man said more than tongue could say, of the comfort that filled his heart that hour. And now a word to Brother Glass, the patient, the indefatigable, the true brother Mason, who, day and night, had watched over him as the nurse attends her helpless charge. It was a brief word, but quite enough; for the strong man suddenly bowed himself; big sighs shook his whole frame; a shower of womanish tears bathed his cheeks, and he could only beseech, " No more, Brother Tolliver, not a word more! I am more than repaid!"The world recedes; it disappears: heaven opens on his eyes: his ears with sounds seraphie ring. He is done with time. He is shaking off the remembrances of earth, even while he casts off the well‑worn garment, his body. His treasure was in an earthen vessel, which is about to be broken, and then he will be free to employ it. A thought of his absent family, never more to hear his returning steps‑oh! nothing but that could convulse his face with such an expression of grief! It is over now. Doubtless he has commended the widow and the fatherless to God. Or may be, the solemn pledge made to him by every member in that circle, "to consider his family as their own," has had a soothing influence. For now, all is calm again, and the clay shall be no more convulsed. His eyes turn inward. A few sentences, incoherent, but hopeful, can be heard by those around: "Blessed are they that dwell in thy house: thou
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DEATH ON THE SIERRA NEVADA.
hast covered all their sin: the emblem of Providence is fixed in the center; the symbol of Deity in the east; the Messiah taught the doctrine of a resurrection from the dead: arise and call on the name of the Lord: having done all, to stand come and let us build up the wall of Jerusalem, that we be no more a reproach: though I pass through the valley of the shadow of death: but Masonry shines: hand to back Father, into thy hand I commit my spirit: *' * this body * * again * * the tribe of Judah" * * * * Midnight arrived. All in the encampment were buried in profound sleep, despite the howling of the wolves, who had gathered that night in immense bands, as if the demon whom they served, had notified them of a corpse in the camp. All were asleep, save the brotherhood, who were engaged at this solemn hour in the burial of their dead. One had decently sewed a shroud, his own best garments forming the materials, and enwrapped the body therein. One had made a headboard, the gate of his wagon furnishing him with a proper plank, and by the light of his last candle, had neatly engraved the name, and age, and Masonic character of the deceased, resting not his hand until it had also executed a striking copy of that Masonic symbol which should mark the resting‑place of every Mason. A grave had been dug, east and west, deep enough to bury the remains far beneath the eye of mortal man. A procession was then formed. Two by two the wearied brothers interlocked their arms, and walked slowly to the grave. The bright moonlight glittered on their fronts, and revealed the Masonic jewels, and the regalia, worn in honor of LABAN TOLLIVER, as they had often before worn them in funeral processions at home. The body was lowered with fitting reverence. A roll, containing the name of the deceased, was cast upon it; then the apron he had so often worn; then the sprigs of evergreen, plucked from the shrubbery which abundantly adorns the ranges of the Sierra Nevada. Heavy flat stones were next laid upon the corpse, that the ravening wolves might be disappointed of their death feast. And now, the solemn words of a Mason‑prayer. broke the midnight silence. Never will a member of that
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DEATH ON THE SIERRA NEVADA.
funeral group forget the thrilling sentences read that hour above the remains of their Brother. For, at this instant, a band of Indians, who had dogged them all the day, broke out in a yell that curdled the blood of each hearer, and a spiteful volley of arrows was fired upon them from a neighboring hill. And then the wolves, with their glittering eyes fixed upon the clear moon, howled louder than before, while far above them in the west, could be seen the snow peaks of Sierra Nevada, as she looked down upon the unaccustomed rites. "Unto the grave we resign the body of our deceased friend, there to remain until the general resurrection, in favorable expectation that his immortal soul may then partake of joys which have been prepared for the righteous from the beginning of the world And may Almighty God, of his infinite goodness, at the grand tribunal of unbiased justice, extend his mercy toward him, and all of us, and crown our hope with everlasting bliss in the expanded realms of a boundless eternity This we beg for the honor of his His name, to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen." And from each fill heart there went up the solemn response ‑ So MOTE IT BE.
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THE MASONIC BREASTPIN; A TALE OF INDIAN TIMES IN TWO CHA PTERS.
"The Moor, the Hindoo, the wandering Ishmaelite, nay, even the Red man of the forest, has knelt humbly at our altars, and acknowledged the humanizing influences of Freemasonry."‑[Extract from a Masonic Address.]
CHAPTER FIRST.
THERE were hurry and disorder in the public square of Catesby, confusion and terror in its dwellings. The morning meal was either unprepared, in the confusion of the hour, or if spread, was untasted by those who had mingled with the multitude around the court house. Women with dishevelled hair and garments all disarranged, men half clad, barefoot and laden heavily with the weight of children, children snatched from their little beds and screaming at the top of their voices at the unaccustomed bustle‑such were the objects that filled the western roads to Catesby and spread consternation, right and left, as they came.
Every few minutes some horseman would dash furiously by, scattering the mud in the faces of pedestrians, and almost breaking his heart with shouts of Indians, Indians, as he came to the suburbs of the town. The great bell in the Presbyterian church was rolling and plunging, and rocking about in a most unheard‑of manner, confounding all its voices into one stunning din of alarm. The old Sexton, Waifer, whose soul had been buried for many long years in the concavity of that bell, and whose boast it was that it made no signals without a rational explanation (he was tyler of the masons' lodge in Catesby, which fully accounts for his stubbornness in this particular) had just been carried home a cripple for life, from a fall got by holding on spasmodically to the big rope, as the heavy bell made a sudden gyration. Evidences of terror and the effects of fright, in many instances ludicrous enough, were
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THE MASONIC BREASTPIN.
visible all around. The bank clerk, Mr. Shaw, had left his desk with untold bills lying within the vault, and the vault unlocked. The county recorder, Esq. Williams, whose book cases contained the land titles of the whole county, and whose boast it was that he lived, ate, slept and would die in the apartment which contained them, ran thoughtlessly out, the room all unfastened and the records exposed. Boyett, whose livery stable was the pride of the place, permitted his horses to gnaw the manger, unprecedented neglect, and to whinney unnoticed for better food, while he the negligent, stood with open mouth drinking in the frightful news as water. And truly the news were frightful, sufficiently so to justify any amount of consternation.
For the Indians, who were in pay of those liberal employers, the British, had made a sudden foray across the river the night before, and not only captured much valuable property and destroyed much more, but left fearful evidences of their blood‑thirst in the show of eleven corpses, parents, grand parents, and seven children of the Colter family, all slain and scalped by their infernal hands. And all this had happened since the going‑down of yesterday's sun, and within five miles of the town of Catesby! Various reports, some of them highly exaggerated and absurd, were brought in by the country people. Those who lived farthest from the scene of action, and consequently knew the least of the matter, made up in ingenuity what they wanted in fact. The most reliable information was from old widow Bruson, (commonly called styled Granny Grunt) who, living near neighbor to the Colters, was the first to discover the savages, and to look at this display of their ferocity. She described it as a piteous spectacle. "The allduman (old woman) had never crawled out of her bed for seven long year with the roomatty (rheumatism,)" she said, "and the tarnal fants (phantoms) had skulped her as she lay, arter they'd knocked the leetle sense the poor creetur had all outener (out of her). Miss (Mrs.) Coulter had fout the devils like a she painter (panther) twell (until) all the meat was hacked offen her arms. The broom she'd cotched up was whopped in two with their cussed tomahawks. The old man
THE MASONIC BREASTPIN.
lay outen (outside) the door with his head clean off. They'd called him outen his bed, seems like, and when he poked his head out to see who was there, they tuck it smack off at the neck. But the most dismallest thing ever you seen, since the Lord made you, was the childer, (children). Seven sweet, precious‑" Here the old lady's withered cheeks were bathed in a torrent of tears, answered by hundreds of those who stood around. "Seven sweet, precious babies, who'd come to my cabin only yesterday, to bring poor old granny a gourd of milk‑all of'em dead in a row‑close by the fire‑place‑scalped ?little Mary's arms round her twin brother's neck." Such a tale as this, told in the public square of Catesby to five hundred people, was no everyday affair. But now a more cheerful cry was heard, "Major Hiodges is coming," and upon the back of it, the noise of bugle and drum and the clattering of a troop of horse gave stirring token that something beyond groans and tears might be anticipated. The doughty Major had received intelligence of the massacre a little after sunrise, and so quick were his movements that within two hours, he had collected about thirty of his neighbors, mounted them, called out the drummer and bugler of his regiment and was here at Catesby, equipped and provisioned for marching against the savages. A tremendous shout from the crowd acknowledged his alacrity, and his zeal that morning was remembered afterwards at the polls when the Major changed the color of his feather and donned a general's uniform. In war time, and especially upon the frontiers, no man waits for orders or a commission. A very short period sufficed for the Major to open a rendezvous for volunteers and to arrange a plan by which four scouting parties of twentyfive men each should follow up the Indian trail. The Major himself headed one of the parties and the number of his mess was soon filled up. Archimedes Dobrot the town tailor, a famous Indian fighter who had been at the River Raisin, and nearly lost his scalp
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THE MASONIC BREASTPIN.
with the rest, headed the second; and he too was fortunate enough to fill the ranks without difficulty. The third and fourth companies were not so successful, although an abundance of patriotic speeches were made, enough one would have thought to put the war spirit into a snail. Kruptos, the attorney, a splendid speaker, a ten hour man, mounted the stump in person and was fast inclining public opinion towards the volunteering point, when his eloquence was suddenly checked by the proposition of an impertinent fellow in the crowd, an enemy of his, who offered to go as volunteer and take his three sons with him, if he, Kruptos, would go too. This disgusting proposal was unworthy of reply, and Kruptos retired amidst the jeers, it must be confessed, of the whole square. The first and second parties got off shortly after noon. The third contrived to fill its ranks by help of certain spirituous stimuli well known to all recruiting sergeants, and that also dashed off in the direction of the river anxious to compensate for the delay. The fourth company had scarcely a half a dozen members by sundown, and so much coolness in volunteering was evident, that there was even a talk of desisting from farther trial. But this was not so to be. The cowardly determination was changed by the timely arrival of Robert Carnarson who had heard, late in the day, of the danger, and hastened to town on the wings of the intelligence. This young gentleman was familiar with everybody in Catesby, as appeared by his shaking hands with one half the crowd, and calling the others by name. He was a stout, well‑built individual, of some five and twenty years of age, possessing a bland look and one of those fortunate voices, that, without being absolutely musical, pleases every ear, and makes its possessor popular, if only for his tongue's sake. He was well‑bred, and moved amongst the crowd as first among his equals, using such language as betokened a polished education, although not untinctured with the localisms of the borders. His dress like his manners was gentlemanly but not finical; the material being costly, while the make was countryfied and plain. He was furnished with an elegant
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TIE MASONIC BREAST PIN.
sword, holster pistols, and gun, and rode the best horse ‑ so said Boyett, and he ought to know for he had owned him three times ‑ the best horse in the country, by twenty dollars. That he had come fully bent upon volunteering, could be known by his preparations, and the first words he uttered, "Keep a vacancy for me, Captain Webster. for I am going with you, if you will take me." Accompanying him were two others, Mr. Socrates Ely and Tim, whose surname no mortal being knew. The former had graduated in the same college class with Robert Carnarson, and being disposed to literary pursuits had gone west and offered his services in various quarters as a school teacher. Strange to say, he had failed in every application, and always on account of the same cause, his hand‑writing. It must be confessed that his pen‑marks were mysterious ones, and might, some of them, have puzzled Champollion himself, had it been in his day, to solve them. But it certainly argued a poor appreciation of literary valor, on the part of school trustees, to reject a polished scholar, (a curiously wrought stone) and an estimable gentleman, merely on the account of his penmanship. But so they did, and Socrates Ely, A. M., after spending all his loose change in a vain search for employment, gladly accepted Robert's invitation to come and live with him, and there he had remained ever since, studying Euclid by day, and Homer by night, and laying a thousand plans for immortality. Mr. Ely had volunteered merely to accompany his college chum, and knowing so little of sword and gun, he might as well have brought a deacon's rod from the Lodge room, as the old Queen's arm musket that he had balanced painfully upon his shoulder, to the great detriment of his overcoat. Tim, the nameless, was a block altogether of a different pattern, being to trades and callings what Socrates Ely, A. M., was to science ?a universal adept. It was said, that he became a Freemason to find out something about Hiram, the widow's son, who, the Bible informs us, was a goldsmith, silversmith, iron founder, brass founder, stone mason, carpenter, spinner, weaver, dyer, tailor, and last of
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THE MASONIC BREASTPIN.
all, engraver. Tim was born with a jack‑knife in his hand, He had served apprentice to nine trades (three months to each), and in every instance, excelled his master in practical skill before his time was out. He had made a fiddle at twelve years old; a copper bugle at fifteen: a wagon, out and out, wood and iron, at twenty; taken out eleven patents; dug wells; built chimneys; erected houses; soldered tin ware; shod horses; mended clocks; painted signs, and baked confectionery. He had shaped a perfect model of king Solomon's temple, according to the best authorities and presented it to De Witt Clinton, who pronounced it the most ingenious work of art he had ever seen. Tim had enlisted in the present call for volunteers merely because he had never helped to kill a man, and he felt that his education would not be completed until he did. The accession of these three, and the spirit‑stirring oration made by Mr. Carnarson, from the court house steps, soon revived the spirit of patriotism, and filled up the quarter hundred by dusk. As it had become so late in the day, it was agreed upon, by all hands, that the company should now separate, to meet again promptly at sunrise, armed and equipped for marching: and so the multitude broke up, exhausted by the day's excitement Let us follow Robert Carnarson, whom we have installed as the hero of our tale. After a supper hastily eaten at the public inn, he might have been seen immediately afterward, wending his way to the well‑known residence of Mr. Baldridge, father of Miss Josephine Baldridge, whose hand Robert had bespoken for the dance of life some months before. This announcement will convince our readers, at the very outset, that we have no love tale for their amusement; the love scenes, the tender question, the blushing reply, the extatic thanks, the sighs, the smiles, and the grips ?‑all these time‑honored landmarks in love's Freemasonry, had been carefully preserved, and the parties had made suitable proficiency in this first degree of the mysteries preparatory to that of the second, or the marrying degree. Among that cool and deliberate portion
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THE MASONIC BREASTPIN.
of our population that live nearest the North pole, it is maintained, that at least six months ought to elapse between these two degrees; nature herself has pointed out the interval to the third. The love affair, then, between Robert and Josephine, will not detain us long in the recital. The former, after a rapid walk to Mr.
Baldridge's dwelling ‑ if the reader ever visits Catesby, he will recognize it by the green posts in the portico‑rapped at the door with love's own signal, the latter kindly acting as his conductor, answered it, and admitted him; a certain ceremony of reception was gone through with, only understood by the initiated, and they never, never reveal it; and then the applicant was led to the very sanctum of the dwelling‑the parlor‑and into the presence of the family. When Mr. Carnarson stated the object of his visit to Catesby, there was, at first, a profound silence. Josephine turned pale, and looked as though she would like to dissuade her lover from his warlike purpose. If this were her intention, however, it was forestalled by an encouraging remark from her father, who congratulated Robert on his intention. "It was the duty of every young man," he said, "to come forward at such a crisis as this. Had his knee suffered him to mount a horse, the cowardly youngsters who filled the square today, might have clung to their mothers' petticoats, and he would have volunteered himself. He would have been half‑way to the river with that brave Major Hodges. The trashy boys, the chuckle‑headed babies "‑and here a sudden cough intervened to close the sentence. Much judicious advice was then added, as to the best course for a scouting party to pursue; for the old gentleman had been a volunteer under Mad Anthony Wayne, and he knew all about it: and then the family retired, leaving Josephine and her lover to the uninterrupted use of the parlor.
A lover's lodge, in the first degree, was opened forthwith. But it is improper to make a written record of the proceedings. It is enough for the reader to know that these two lovers had been well instructed to keep the
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work of each degree to itself, and they governed themselves accordingly. Being about to part, the young lady, with many a sigh, and tear, presented a token to her lover, and bade him wear it for her sake. She said: "It was the property of poor Aleck (her deceased brother), and was taken from his body after that horrid accident. I know that you were members of the same Lodge, and I feel that this circumstance will impart to it a double value in your eyes. You are going upon a dangerous service, dear Robert, and must take good care of yourself on my account. Remember, you are not your own, for I have accepted you‑a poor bargain, I am sure:" ‑ the young lady was making a hysteric attempt at wit?"a poor bargain‑and‑and‑but never mind my nonsense, dear Robert, only take good care of yourself, for you are all‑all"‑here the prepositions and conjunctions were strangely neglected. "I shall expect to see you back in a week or two; and whenever you look at poor Aleck's breastpin, think of‑think of‑no matter for the rest." The breastpin was simply a golden square and compass, manufactured by that Tubal Cain of a fellow, Tim, who had made it for Alexander Baldridge, while the latter was Worshipful Master of the Catesby Lodge. To his hotel, Robert now returned, to find Mr. Socrates Ely still sitting up, poring over his Homer, although the hour was the very earliest in the morning, and Tim, who had just finished a handsome lion‑headed riding whip, expressly for the campaign. Promptly at sunrise, the cavalcade assembled and set forth. The day's hard riding took them more than forty miles from Catesby, and to the camp of Major Hodges' party, who had preceded them on the march the day before. Here they learned that the Indians, under a noted chief, had crossed the river in much greater force than had been at first supposed, and had done immense mischief in various settlements on the route. Many parties of the whites had been formed to reconnoiter, and, if prudent, to attack them; and nearly half the regiment of the Blues was out endeavor
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ing to intercept them in their return route. The news were stirring, indeed; and the Catesby companies joined camps together that night, fully anticipating, before another, to meet the savages in battle. It is a thrilling scene‑one of these military encampments. The large fires, whose scarlet hue contrasts forcibly with the thick shade of the forest, rendering it even more profoundly black in the comparison, presents one of the most brilliant displays of coloring imaginable. The cheerful jest, unrestrained by the presence of stranger, or woman; the broad opening of heart to heart, by the social influences of the occasion; the symbolic groupings of stars over head; the mysterious voices of the night around; nothing in life's memory dwells longer on the mind of a child than an encampment scene; nothing is so pleasantly recalled to memory, by the retired soldier, as his bivouac in the forest, when comrades were cheerful, and good cheer abundant. The mess which Robert Carnarson had formed for his own‑special accommodation, consisted of Tim, the artificer, Ely, his old college comrade, and the two brothers, Ellison, his neighbors, sons of a widow woman‑widowed by the pestilence of intemperance. These five had built a fire at a little distance from the rest, or rather, Tim had built it, while the others looked on his handy way with stares of admiration; had oooked a bountiful supper, or rather, Tim had cooked it, while they assisted him with epithets commendatory; and they were now cosily sitting upon some seats that ingenious Tim had fabricated out of the limbs of the oaks that were melting into ashes before them. The conversation started with a jocular remark from one of the Ellisons, who had observed the square and compass on Robert's bosom. He thought that Bob was determinated that folks should know he was a Mason anyhow, for he carried his jewel on his breast. "And where else would you have a jewel worn?" responded the indefatigable Tim, who was fitting a spare spring into the lock of Ely's musket‑that essential portion of the mechanism having been abstracted from it years
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before. "Where else but on his breast should a Freemason wear his jewels? Next to the heart is the place, and if I aint mistaken, that's the very jewel that Aleck Baldridge had in his shirt bosom at the time the coach load of passengers was drowned in Secon's river. I ought to know that jewel, seeing as how I made it; and if you'll press the lower part of the square hard, you'll learn something about it, Bob, that Josephine herself didn't know of when she gave it to you." His directions were followed by Robert, the others crowding around to see the result; and, to the astonishment of everybody, the square flew apart, and was transformed into a perfect double triangle, on one side of which was engraved, in microscopic characters, the name, age, and Masonic standing of the owner, and this passage of Scripture from 2 Chronicles ii. 14: " To find out every device which shall be put to him." On the other side, a number of Masonic symbols, exquisitely executed; the most prominent of which, was the Mark Master's mark of the fabricator. "Yes," pursued Tim, when the murmurs of surprise were hushed, "I made that breast‑pin and intended it for Dewitt Clinton, but when Aleck waited on me day and night, time I broke my arm, I gave it to him and fixed one up afterwards for Clinton of another pattern. Aleck never knew of that secret spring at all, for I meant to have my own fun out of him some day about it. But poor fellow, he was hurried away to his last account without a moment's warning. We discovered the bodies of the seven passengers in a drift below the ford, more than two weeks after the accident. You couldn't have told your father from your mother, the bodies were so decayed. But I pointed out Aleck's from the rest, for on his breast was this jewel, and I knew it to be the jewel which I had given him as a token of gratitude." "Tell us, Bob," inquired one of the Ellisons," what's the rule for trying men who want to be Masons? Father used to say before he took to drink, that the Masons rejected him because he was one‑legged." "Ha,ha, ha," roared Tim," a one legged man a Mason! why how on earth could he ‑ ha,
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ha, ha, ‑ how could such a man‑ that's too good a joke! ha, ha, ha! I think I see him " "Every person desiring admission," said Ely, quoting from memory out of the ancient constitution of Masonry, "every person desiring admission must be upright in body, not deformed or dismembered at the time of making, but of hale and entire limbs, as a man ought to be." " If you really wish to know our rule," replied Robert, "our published books give it clearly enough. The ancient writer who spoke of a sound mind in a sound body, gave our Masonic model with great exactness. Many a fine house has a despicable tenant, while many a noble soul dwells in a hovel. Now, while Masonry is too much of the building art to endure the shabby cabin for a dwelling, she is quite too nice to accept the finest temple unless the god therein dwells." "Fact," pursued Tim, speaking with his mouth full of gun screws,'‑ fact, I knowed a man once down on the Olean who was said to have been rejected nine times because he had such a bit of a temper. The Masons didn't believe they could control him and yet he was the richest man in the place. I'm told he swore he'd get up a political party some day a purpose to break down Masonry and have his revenge; but he can no more injure it than this rotten old lock can injure my new spring." At the word snap went the steel, affording a most unfortunate point to his illustration and occupying all his attention for the remainder of the sitting to remedy it.' In another hour all was still in the soldiers' camp. The sentinels walked drowsily to and fro in the paths or paused to lean against some favoring tree, and snatched a hasty doze. The sky began to change. Mutterings of distant thunder might have been heard in the region of the south. The wind arose. The voices of the night were all absorbed in the roarings of the blast that portended a storm. The sentinels, widely wakened by the disagreeable prospect, roused up the whole 'This anecdote and Tim's prophetic omen will recall to the mind of the in-formed reader the circumstances that led to the anti-masonic warfare of 1826‑33. Many a threat of extermination preceded the baleful attack.
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camp to prepare for it. There were no tents, it being a cavalry scout, and the only thing that could be done was to stake down the blankets in the best position to afford a shelter, heap heavy wood on the fires, and await the result. But this preparation was in vain. The gusts increased in violence, tearing away the frail shelters and bearing them far above the tree‑tops, and scattering the fire brands as chaff. Then the heavy fall of decaying trunks shook the ground, and the volunteers felt that a hurricane was approaching them dry shod. All around was as the darkness of the land of Egypt, a thick darkness that might be felt. The pitying stars had withdrawn their rays, unwilling to look down upon such a scene of devastation. The weaker branches from the forest trees fell thickly on every side, threatening both limb and life. A minute longer, and the tempest broke in its fury.
Fortunately for the safety of the encampment, the centre of the gale passed a few hundred yards below them, but the elemental force on the edge of the current was a fearful index to the whole. Those who had not taken the precaution to shelter themselves behind the larger trees, were dashed violently to the ground and grievously stunned. The horses suffered severely from the fall of boughs, and several were so mangled that their owners in mercy dispatched them. Major Hodges had a leg broken, others were hurt but in a lesser degree. The duration of a hurricane on land is rarely long. In another hour the frightened party had collected again to compare their losses and as far as possible repair damages. Tim, who amidst his other amusements had practiced surgery, proceeded briskly to set the broken bones, and then manufactured for himself a blanket cap in place of a hat blown clear away. Fires were rekindled, wet garments dried, and by daylight the encampment was again lost in sleep.
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CHAPTER SECOND.
A CAMP of volunteers presents many queer scenes, and they have been worthily described by various pens.* There is a bouyancy of spirits that exhibits itself when the restraints of society are first taken off, that runs out into pranks and humors of all sorts. No where is the gift of a jester so well appreciated as in a camp. No where do broad jokes meet such immediate and ample reward. Although in the process of time this becomes sufficiently wearisome, and camp life tedious and even disgusting, yet it must be confessed that at the outset there is a sparkle in the cup enchanting to the novice. A few days brought together the four scouting parties that had gone out from Catesby, together with many other companies of volunteers, and a regular officer to command them in the person of Colonel Allings. A skirmish or two had occurred in which the savages had been defeated, and so completely were they interrupted on their return route, as to lose all their plunder and turn them near a hundred miles down the river in their endeavors to cross. The plan of campaign announced by Col. Allings was a bold one and like that of Jephthah, Judge of Israel, against the Ephramites, contemplated the extermination of the marauding party. Boats had been procured in abundance which he had loaded with the best of his men, and sent down to guard the more usual crossing places (as the fords on the river Jordan were guarded by Jephthah's picked men,) and one party of the most experienced volunteers was now to be stationed on the opposite side in the enemy's country. In this latter enterprise, by far the most dangerous, our five friends were placed. Col. Allings had been a staunch friend of Mr. Carnarson, the father of Robert, and being rejoiced to see his promising son in the campaign, at once made him commander 'By none more worthily than by Bro. Geo. C. Furber, late of Germantown, Tenn., now of California, in his excellent work, "The Twelve Months' Voluteer."
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of this detachment. Being authorized to select his own men, out of the whole body of volunteers, now increased to a thousand, Robert invited all the members of his own mess, and such others of his acquaintance as he thought best qualified for the duty.
It must be acknowledged, however, that such a man as Socrates Ely, A.
M., who had never fired a gun in his life, was not the most judicious selection for Indian fighting, and so Col. Allings observed when introduced to him; But Robert felt unwilling to leave him among strangers, especially as he had deserted his books and volunteered at the first, purely for old friendship's sake. So he took him along, Homer, Euclid and all. A safe and speedy run down the current brought the detachment to the place designated. Here they carefully scrutinized the banks on their own side of the river, searching for any trails that would indicate that the savages had already crossed, but they found none. In a little creek, a few hundred yards from the main stream, they discovered a large number of Indian canoes, carefully concealed, to be ready no doubt against the arrival of the marauders. These Capt. Carnarson ordered to be left untouched, and then his party crossed to the enemy's side, hid their own boats and awaited the coming of the foe.
The solitude around them was perfect, save when broken by the wing of some stray bird, or by an occasional step from a deer that, stealing out of the adjacent thickets, would walk timidly to the water's edge to drink. The position occupied by the rangers was on a group of small hills that overlooked the river for several miles in either direction.
Down one of the slopes to the river ran a war‑trail well marked, that struck out towards the body of Indian settlements and gave evidences of active use in the present campaign. Opposite, on the southern side of the river, was a peninsula around which the river curved in one of those graceful figures which might have given rise to the first Masonic idea of the Arch: it was on the upper side of this peninsula that the small creek emptied, amidst whose long flags were concealed the canoes for the war party.
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For several hours the eyes of the most experienced borderers failed to detect any signals that would imply the presence of man; but a few minutes before sunset a smoke was observed on an eminence nearly opposite, (Jeremiah 4,,) and one of the party, old Mike Havers, instantly declared, "they'se comin' boys, ‑ we'll have 'em here afore midnight!" As there was doubtless some communication by means of the signal between the warriors opposite, and their friends at home, prudence dictated that the rear of the volunteers should be guarded lest an attack from that quarter should confuse all their own plans and the spider be caught in his own toils. This duty was committed to old Mike, who with some ten others, was ordered to station himself at such points on the hills around, that no savage could possibly approach the main body without being discovered. We shall presently see how this important duty was performed. Provisions were now paraded, which the party ate cold and hastily. The boats that had brought the whites down the river, while they were now still more carefully concealed, were likewise placed under vigilant guard. As soon as it was dusk, the whole company, save the two detached parties already mentioned, came down to the bank and stationing themselves, some behind trees, some flat upon the ground, they awaited the coming of the foe. They were not long held in suspense. About nine at night a plashing of paddles was heard from the middle of the river, and then as if by enchantment, the whole fleet of canoes, some ten in number, came out into the soft starlight about fifty yards from shore. The plan of surprise developed by Capt.
Carnarson was simple, yet promised success. The whole party of savages was to be permitted to land and to draw up their canoes on the shore, before a movement was to be made on the part of the whites. Then a general volley, announced by the firing of his own pistol, was to be the signal for a chosen party of twenty to rush upon their canoes and secure them. Another party would likewise be in readiness to spring down at the same moment, and attack the Indians with tomahawks, in the use of which they were equally expert with the
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savages themselves, while the remainder continued on the bank to prevent the enemy from passing into the interior. All this was to prove the shibboleth of their destruction. The fleet, laden heavily with the Indians, had got within a short distance of the shore, so near that the forms of the men who wielded the paddles could be distinguished, when suddenly a pause was made, and at one impulse every canoe shot back into the darkness. It appeared that some alarm was suddenly conceived by the savages and they halted in the river and consulted together in low tones as to the cause. As this moment one of Carnarson's party, without any orders from his superior, made a loud noise imitating the snort of a buck when suddenly disturbed. The Indians were re‑assured by this expedient and a general laugh went through the canoes, excited as much at the comicality of their fright as at the near prospect of a return to home and safety. Nothing further occurred to alarm them, for they landed, drew their canoes upon the bank as had been anticipated, and began to mount the acclivity. But now the deadly signal was given by Capt. Carnarson, and answered with a roar of firearms. More than fifty guns were discharged as a single piece. In the height of this consternation the poor savages found a score of white men amongst them, hacking them down on every side without mercy, while others jumped into their canoes and paddled them off, thus destroying every chance of escape. Vainly they endeavored to defend themselves. Too greatly outmatched by numbers even had they not been worn down by the fatigues of the campaign, and their nerves unstrung by surprise, they melted away as snow. Vainly they endeavored to ascend the bank and escape. Showers of balls were rained upon them from above, swords and hatchets clove asunder the skulls of those who succeeded in mounting up the first bank, while loud cries of scorn and hatred from the whites showed them that their enemies were numerous and unrelenting. The party which at the landing consisted of seventy or more, was fast falling, and yet no serious loss had occurred to the whites, when suddenly the tables were turned
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and a new feature added to the bloody picture.
Old Mike Havers, who, as the reader has already learned, had been ordered to guard against an attack from the rear, had posted his men most judiciously, and for several hours had remained, according to orders, silently listening for tokens of the Indians' approach. Becoming weary of such dull work at last, he had borrowed a canteen from one of his detachment and, the old man having a confirmed appetite for strong drink, and having never learned the speculative use of the compasses (although he was a carpenter by trade,) had indulged quite too freely in the ardent draught. The effect of this had been to put him first into a drowsy fit which caused a shameful intermission of his vigilance, then into profound sleep. The party seeing nothing of their com mander, who had lain down under a thick bush, supposed he was gone in towards the river, and when the firing commenced, having no person to restrain them, each left his post and hurried to the scene of action. This disobedience of orders proved highly disastrous. A large party of Indians answering the signal of smoke from the other side, had left their village to meet their returning comrades and welcome them home. They had discovered the scouts under charge of Mike Havers, and as it were intuitively comprehended the whole plan of ambuscade. It was too late for them to remedy it, for just as the chiefs were consulting how they should warn their comrades of the impending danger, the noises at the river side announced that the attack had been made. But now the faithless scouts ran in to share the battle, and the whole Indian party followed close behind. So it happened in the very height of the confusion while the attention of the whites was turned towards the river, more than two hundred Indians charged upon them in the rear. An attack of this sort is doubly dangerous to the attacked party. None are so overwhelmingly surprised as those who are engaged in surprising others. Therefore when the savages, with yells infernal as those of fiends, and with all the desperation of vengeance hurled themselves into the strife, the first impulse of the rangers was to rush to the boats, regardless
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of honor or commands. The company sent to secure the Indian canoes behaved manfully enough. They had not shared the consternation of their friends upon the shore, and they busied themselves in picking up those who had jumped into the river and saved many from drowning. But of the larger number, who ran like cowards to the boats, many were overtaken and killed; the rest pushed off from shore nor stopped to enquire as to the issue of the battle until they reached the opposite side. Capt. Carnarson who had exerted himself to stay the dastards, remained with three or four others, bravely contending against a hundred of the foe. But the strife was too unequal.
Their weapons were dashed from their hands and all of them made prisoners. Within twenty minutes after this catastrophe, all was over.
The wounded whites had been killed and scalped, and their corpses thrown into the river. The bodies of the Indians both living and dead, were placed upon litters made of the sapling trees and carried inland. A faint sound from the other side met +,he ears of the despairing captives as they were driven along that warpath with their arms bound painfully behind them, to meet a certain death. The various scenes connected with Indian life have been too frequently described in history and fiction to call for the aid of our pen. It is known that only one door of escape was ever opened to a prisoner, that was the possibility of his being selected by some parent who had lost a son in battle and who claimed to adopt him in the place of the dead. But no such door was opened to any one of the four who stood bound to stakes at sunrise the next morning, awaiting the signal to die. In the center stood Robert Carnarson. The loss of blood from severe cuts, the loss of sleep, and the inexpressible horrors of his condition had made deep marks upon his youthful countenance through the lingering hours of the past night; but his heart was yet strong and he felt that he could even die as became a man who professed fortitude to be one of his cardinal virtues. his thoughts were not there in that Indian village though
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hundreds yelled around him, and burned to feast their eyes with his dying agonies. They were with her whose soft hand had thrilled in his; whose pure kiss of betrothal had blessed his lip; who was even then anticipating his speedy return. Then they comprehended her, the aged mother‑for he was the only son of his mother and she a widow,‑and he felt as he recollected her motherly trust that her pillar of strength was about to be broken, and that her gray hairs would soon go down with sorrow to the grave. On his right hand stood the unwearied, faithful, ingenious Tim. He had lost his good right arm, skilled in all the mechanism of man's hand, by the stroke of the tomahawk, and the great flow of blood therefiom had enfeebled him and left his countenance pale as the lambskin. But his spirits were buoyant, his voice was steady and he made his remarks upon the scenes and circumstances around him with as much unconcern as though he was but a visiter to the awful drama about to be acted. The manner in which the Indians kindled their fire by rubbing pieces of wood together; the complicated knots tied in the hickory bark that fastened him to the stake; the symbolic representations made by paint streaks on their naked bodies; the songs,‑these and many other things aroused his curiosity and afforded him a fund of improvement. The other two captives were strong men, and had been engaged in many a dangerous combat, but they were totally unmanned now. They could have met death at the rifle's mouth unflinchingly; nay even the disgraceful cord would not have presented overwhelming terrors to them, but the burning, the burning alive, and the untold tortues that were to precede even the first application of fire‑these were the things that shook them, and big tears fell upon the ground at their feet as they shudderingly contemplated their fate. The large number of scalps gained in the campaign and those won on the preceding night, were now brought forward suspended upon cedar boughs, and were shaken triumphantly in the faces of the prisoners. They were of all sizes, of both sexes of all hues, from the scanty golden hairs of the precious one torn from its mother's breast, to the frosty locks that had
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flowed honorably over the brows of age. This cruel act elicited fresh groans from the two mourners, a severe look from Robert, and a remark from Tim that "the bloody things were villainously mangled in the scalping." A dance was now performed, such as might fitly have accompanied the vile orgies of Baal Peor, during which every sentiment of native ferocity, obscenity, and hatred that the heart of man can express by words and gestures, was introduced. And now the tortures commenced. We will not harrow up sensitive feelings by relating them. When a mere boy we expressed our opinion that such details are only calculated to harden readers' hearts, and the observation of maturer years but confirms us in the belief. Let it suffice to say that the two strong men whose tears and terrors pointed them out to the delighted savages as proper objects for an ingenuity of torture, died at last. They died, after every imagined means of inflicting pain had been exhausted; after the sensitiveness of human nerves had been so blunted by knife, pincers, and fire, that the victim could stand up and look calmly on and see his own frame dissected limb by limb as a piece of machinery in which he felt no longer an interest.
They died; and now the unwearied savages turned to the other two. "Sure enough, Bob, it's our turn now and no mistake," observed Tim, to his companion. " Now's the time to brace up, for the storm's coming. This fire is like to be as bad on us as the Great Limekiln was to the Jews.
You see a man can bear anything when he has got to. Them fellows who took it so hard at first found they could stand it. Let's take it, Bob, just like a dose of medicine. Death has been grappled with before, and you and I know that we must all die some time." "Yes, my dear brother," responded his friend, this is no new lesson to us, but don't forget, Tim, the assurances we also have, that these bodies shall live again.
The savages may torture us and they may dismember us as they have done I Tle great limekiln refers to the conflagration of King Solomon's Temple which was composed in part of marble or limestone.
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these poor fellows, and our ashes may be scattered to the four winds, but the All‑Seeing Eye shall behold them, the power of God shall collect them together again, and the Lion of the tribe of Judah shall prevail to raise them from the dead in a more perfect pattern than now." "Bob," enquired Tim with an anxious look, "do you really think those painted devils have the same expectations of a future state that we have? Can it be that the great Archi tect of the Universe, whose workmanship is here displaying such miserable evidences of an immortal soul within them, can it be that he will admit them into the grand lodge above. Where and when are they to be prepared in heart? Fact is, Bob, I am getting dismal. My arm pains me so that I can hardly stand. I shall turn coward if I don't do something to strengthen my nerves. Let's sing a funeral song such as we last chimed around poor Aleck Baldridge. These Indians will give us some credit for it at all events. Join me, Bob," and then the brave fellow led off in in a bold manly voice the funeral hymn so often sung by the Masons at Catesby, and Robert Carnarson added a cheerful voice to the words. MASONIC FUNERAL SONG.* Wreath the mourning badge aroundBrothers pause! a funeral sound! Where the parted had his home, Meet and bear him to the tomb. While they journey, weeping, slow, Silent, thoughtful let us go: Silent‑life to him is sealed: Thoughtful‑death to him's revealed. How his life‑path has been trod, Brothers, leave we unto God! Friendship's mantle, love and faith, Lend sweet fragrance e'en to death Here amidst the things that sleep, Let him rest,‑his grave is deep; 'AIR, PIleyd's Hymn."‑MASsoIc LYRICs No. 4, by the author.
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Death has triumphed; loving hands, Cannot raise him from his bands. But the emblems that we shower, Tell us there's a mightier power, O'er the strength of death and hell, Judah's Lion shall prevail. Dust to dust, the dark decreeSoul to God, the soul is free: Leave him with the lowly slainBrothers, we shall meet again! While these notes of mortality were ringing through the forests and comforting the death‑doomed by their symbolic cheer, the Indians stood by in profound silence, neither interrupting or seemingly impatient for the end. On the contrary their ferocious looks assumed an expression of delighted astonishment, and when the song was finished a murmur of approval went through the crowd. The white man's deathsong, albeit the words were not understood, was supposed by the savages to contain a synopsis of the events of his life and the hopes connected with his future state. Such are the leading sentiments in the death‑song of an Indian warrior. One of the tormentors, the burly savage who had been the most active in torturing the two prisoners just deceased, now stepped up to Tim, laid his tomahawk on the top of his head, shook him warmly by his remaining hand, uttered some words that seemed to express approbation of his heroism, and then brained him at single blow. The act, though unexpected and horrible in itself, was nevertheless done in kindness as a mark of the popular sentiment in his favor. A short time was spent in mangling the remains of the poor fellow, and then the whole group closed around Robert Carnarson, the last of the doomed. One silent prayer for strength; one sigh for the absent, a pledge of love and duty; one hopeful thought of sins forgiven and a better world soon to be opened to him by faith in the Redeemer, and Robert resigned himself to death. It hadl been resdyved upon by his tormentors that he should s‑ffer only by fire. Latrge piles of brushwood, both green and
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dry, were therefore collected and heaped around him. The ends of dry stakes were sharpened and thrust among the coals to be used as brands for the burning. The clothing was torn off from his lower limbs, that his flesh might be exposed to every degree of heat, and the last act of the drama commenced. Already the flames were scorching his feet; his breath was already drawing fast and hard in the rarified atmosphere; a roaring sound produced by a flow of blood to the head was in his ears, and like the Saviour amidst the fever of the Cross, the poor captive moaned, I thirst. Death impended, and the soul was pluming itself to wing its flight amidst savage yells and crackling flames, when a loud shout from the whole bodS of Indians and the removal of the burning brushwood, an nounced some change of plan on the part of the foe. The rush of cooler air revived Robert; he breathed more freely and opened his eyes. Before him stood an Indian chief. He was dressed in all the gaudy tinselry of barbarian taste, while streaks of paint inelegantly arranged, made his countenance both hideous and ludicrous.
Upon his broad chest was suspended by a leather thong, a massive gold medal, from which gazed out the gross unmeaning features of one of the Georges, King of England. There was an expression in his eye and a dignity in his bearing and royal voice that spoke of a man born to rule.
The chief gazed into the eye of Robert Carnarson, and as the pinioned white man returned him unffinchingly, glance for glance, he nodded kindly to him, and called out in broken English, "Good, good, white man brave‑white man burn!" Then turning off, he signed to the tormentors to proceed with their task. But ere he had withdrawn, the light of the blazing furze which had been brought up to rekindle the pile, glanced full upon the breastpin before spoken of, which Robert had worn in his bosom. The jewel had been hidden in the arrangement of his garments until that instant, so that the savages had altogether overlooked it.
But as soon as the chief beheld it he turned back with an air of curiosity and laid his hand on it. What 4)
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Page 34 ‑0034> THE MASONIC BREASTPIN.
was the surprise of Robert to see him as he beheld the symboli6 square and compass, suddenly change his proud fierce look to that of a gentle smile; and then, strangest of all, to make a sign known only to those who have received the intellectual treasures of Freemasonry.* Fettered as he was by his bonds, Robert could only respond to his fraternal salutation by words, ‑by words well understood however to him who heard them. Ordering the other savages to a respectful distance, the chief then proceeded to unclasp the breastpin and examine it more closely. New hopes of life now filled the heart of the doomed man, and reaching out his hand as well as his condition permitted him, he took the jewel from the savage, pressed the concealed spring and exhibited the double triangle, emblem of the Royal Arch degree. That also was understood and a new tie was established between the parties.
It was but the work of a moment now to cut the green withes that had bound Robert to the stake, and then right through the center of the tribe passed the chieftain with his brother Mason, while a low murmur of broder, broder, was heard from the crowd. This release, however it might have diappointed the savages, was received with perfect deference to the will of their chief, and so the life of Robert Carnarson was preserved.
In a retired wigwam the two Masons sat, unable to speak the language of each other, but each expert in that universal language which clearly conveys the sentiments of Brotherly Love, Relief, and Truth, and teaches the primary virtues of Temperance, Fortitude, Prudence, and Justice; and there they remained together without intrusion until the sun went down.
But what was said, and what was promised, and what was done, is it not recorded on the pages of Masons' hearts! The last rays of the setting luminary glittered on that Masonic breastpin, as Robert clasped it in the chieftain's mantle, and left it there as a pledge to be redeemed some future day. About dusk a tremendous shout was heard in the camp, a *It is well known that many of the Indian chiefs in the pay of Great Britain were made Masons in the military lodges connected with the English regiments.
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Page 35 ‑0035> THE MASONIC DIREASTPIN
.. Ash was made by old and young to the torturing post, and another prisoner was announced. This was no other than Soc rates Ely, A. M., who had escaped the night before by creeping into a hollow log, where he might easily have remained undis covered, but for want of discretion in concealing his legs, and in controlling a remarkably loud snore which he indulged in while asleep. Around his neck the savages had tied his beloved Homer, companion in all his misfortunes. Ely was bound hurriedly to the stake, and the pincers, and the sharp instruments, and the blistering flames were all made ready for his torture, when a communication between those Mason‑brothers led to his release. Then the rude wigwam‑' witnessed a reunion between friends and an acknowledgment of favors received that angels might have beheld with delight. * * # * * * # We will not weary our readers with further accounts of brotherly kindness; their speedy restoration to their friends may be conjectured. Then followed the happiness of many parties at the unexpected return; weeds of mourning were thrown off, and the fatted calf was killed. The union between Robert and Josephine was not long delayed, and thus the second degree of Love's mysteries was happily consummated amidst the heartiest good wishes of all who knew them. In due time the third was announced in the birth of a lovely child, and when last we visited Catesby we heard General Carnarson, now an old gentleman of sixty‑five years, declaring to his wife Josephine, a silver‑haired lady only six years younger than himself, that Tim, the rogue, their grandchild, had been putting snuff in Mr. Ely's coffee, and he was afraid he should be compelled to give the darling a gentle castigation. In the graveyard amongst old dilapidated monuments and neglected tombs is one, always in good repair, a path deeply marked around it by visiters' feet, in the pattern of a broken column on the shaft of which lies an open book. Poor Tim! your body may be scattered amongst the unnamed ashes of that sacrificial spot, your spirit may have soared aloft on the sentiments of that hopeful hymn, but your virtues and your genius are indelibly written upon our memories. Peace to .
3 r, I ‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑‑
Page 36 ‑0036> THE MASONIC BREASTPIN.
your ashes! May this feeble effort to delineate your charac ter not fail of its reward. One incident further we will add. About five years after the rescue we have recorded, a strong and noble‑looking Indian entered the settlements, now at peace, enquiring for Robert Carnarson. It was the Mason‑chief who had come to restore to his brother the breastpin, the pledge of that fearful day. Much fraternal attention was paid him both within and out of the Lodge, and when he retraced his path to Canada, a large gold medal was presented him on behalf of the Masonic body, inscribed with befitting symbols, and with these appropriate words: BROTHERLY LOVE, RELIEF, AND TRUTH.
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Page 37 ‑0037> THlE EASTERN STAR DEGREES.
THE EASTERN STAR DEGREES.
ANDROGYNOUS MASONRY. THE five Androgynous degrees, combined under the above title, are supposed to have been introduced into this country by the French officers who assisted our Government during the struggle for liberty.
The titles, Jephthah's PDaughter, Ruth, Esther, Martha, and Electa, sufficiently denote the histories comprehended in the degrees. We have but little experience, on this continent, upon the general subject of Androgynous Masonry. The few, so called degrees common, especially in the southern portion of the United States, betray their juvenility and their American origin, too palpably to admit a very high estimate of their value. Of these "The Heroine of Jericho" seems to be the most ancient;' after that, following, in the order mentioned: "The Ark and Dove;" " The Mason's Daughter;" " The Good Samaritan;" "The Maids of Jerusalem," and others still more modern. But none of these will satisfy an intellectual woman's desire for knowledge, or shed any light upon the past, or convince their recipients of any
