Italian Documents Of Freemasonry.
When Elias Ashmole and his literary friends amused their learned leisure
at Brazenose in the construction of abstruse symbols and mystic jargon,
that passed through their cavalier associates to the first Masonic lodges,
they could never have foreseen the result of their invention. In less than
two centuries the association that sprang from the union of a few Royalist
officers in England, and accompanied the exile of King James’ followers to
France, has spread itself over the two hemispheres, a mystery where it is
not a terror. Its history has been written by many pens and in many
colors. Some have ascribed to it an origin lost in fabulous antiquity, or
traced its genealogy back a thousand years before the Christian era. To
some it is an absurd system of innocent mystification, without any
capacity for the good it promises, and powerless for the evil with which
its intentions are credited. But others discern under its mantle of
hypocrisy nothing less than a subtle organization for the destruction of
all established order, and a diabolical conspiracy for the overthrow of
religion. Between the two descriptions our choice is easily made. The
voice of the Roman pontiffs, our guardians and our teachers, has been
neither slow nor uncertain. Clement XII. and Benedict XIV., Pius VII. and
Leo XII., Gregory XVI. and Pius IX., have unequivocally condemned Masonic
societies as hot‐beds of impiety and sedition. This judgment was not
lightly pronounced. It proceeded from an examination of the manuals,
statutes, and catechisms of the order, from undoubted evidence of its
practical action as well as its speculative principles. Since the close of
the last century many writers, both Catholic and Protestant, have
contributed by their researches to justify the sentence of the popes, and
nothing has more powerfully aided these efforts than the publication from
time to time of the authentic documents of this secret society.
A signal service has just been rendered to the same cause by the
publication in Rome of the General Statutes of Freemasonry, and of two
rituals for initiation into the first and thirtieth grades of the
craft.(176) It would be a mistake to suppose that the organization of
Freemasonry is everywhere identical, or that it has been always
harmoniously developed to the same extent in the different countries where
it has taken root. It has been torn by schisms from the beginning,
although its divisions, which concerned rather matters of form and detail
than general principles, have never prevented its combining for common
purposes of destruction. The two great factions which divide the brethren
take their name from the _rite_ which they profess. The orthodox Masons,
who are the great majority, give their allegiance to the Scottish rite,
which at one time, they say, had its principal seat in Edinburgh. Now, as
Domenico Angherà, Grand‐Master of the Neapolitan Orient, tells us in a
reserved circular of the 22d of May last, which has found its way to the
public papers, the acknowledged centre is established in Maryland under
the specious designation of Mother‐Council of the World. In the Scottish
rite the grades are thirty‐three: eighteen symbolic, twelve philosophic,
and three administrative. The Reform of Orléans, which distinguishes the
followers of the French rite, abolishes all the philosophic and higher
grades, and reduces the symbolic to seven. The reformers are reproached
with clipping the wings of the eagle of liberty, forbidding the
introduction of political and religious questions into the lodges, and
cancelling at a stroke two‐thirds of the Masonic programme, Equality and
Liberty, making Fraternity sole motto of the order.
The documents published are those of the orthodox Masons of the Scottish
rite, which is almost exclusively followed in Italy. Of their authenticity
there is no doubt. The statutes are printed from the latest edition,
clandestinely prepared for Masonic use at Naples (Tipografia dell’
Industria, 1874). They are distributed into five hundred and eighty
articles, and in the Roman reprint are followed by thirty‐seven
supplementary statutes for Italy agreed to in the Masonic convention held
at Rome in May. The rituals, equally authentic, are also copied from the
most recent editions. Without the rituals, the statutes cannot be
understood. The latter are put into the hands of all Freemasons, and the
language, when not positively misleading, is studiously ambiguous, only to
be explained as the initiated proceeds in his graduation. It is necessary
to give their substance at greater length than the platitudes and general
professions of philanthropy they contain would warrant, in order that the
commentary afforded by the other manuals may bring the hypocrisy and
imposture of the system into full relief. As far as possible these
documents shall be allowed to speak for themselves. They are their own
indictment.
The General Constitutions of the Society of Freemasons of the Ancient and
Accepted Scottish Rite in their first paragraph declare that the scope of
the order is the perfection of mankind. Embracing in its scheme the whole
human race, the grand aim of the institution requires its members to
devote all their material means and mental faculties to its furtherance.
The brethren, whatever be their nationality, to whatever rite of Masonry
they owe allegiance, are members of a great family, one as is the species
to which they belong, as the globe they inhabit, as nature which they
contemplate. For this reason Freemasons of every country are to take among
themselves the designation of brothers, and both in and out of their
lodges show, in their deportment to each other, true fraternal affection.
The _venerable_ president of the lodge is required to see observed that
strict equality which ought to exist among brothers. He is never to forget
that the simple quality of man in the eyes of a Freemason commands the
highest respect, and is to show deference only to such as deserve it by
their virtue and superior Masonic acquirements. He must never permit a
brother to assume any superiority over another on account of rank or
distinctions he may enjoy in the profane world. He himself, on his
admission to office, is reminded that he is but _primus inter pares_, that
his authority lasts only for a time. He must never make his superiority be
felt by the others. He ought to reflect that he is chosen to lead because
he is considered possessed of the necessary prudence, and that only gentle
and kind demeanor can secure the harmony that should reign among
Freemasons.
Every member at his initiation, besides his entry‐money paid to the
treasurer, must deposit a sum for the benevolent fund. At every meeting of
the lodge a collection is made for the poor. This is so essential that any
meeting where this duty has been omitted is declared not Masonic,
irregular and null. All fines imposed on delinquents or absentees go to
the same fund. The grand almoner is charged with the distribution of the
offerings among the more indigent of the fraternity, and even the profane
are sometimes admitted to share in the Masonic alms. Every application for
assistance must be made through a member, and is discussed in the lodge.
Preference is to be given to those cases where distress has not been
produced by idleness or vice. Certain circumstances justify the president
in authorizing an alms without consulting the lodge, but an explanation is
to be given at the first meeting. He has also power to exempt the poorer
brethren from the payment of the regular subscription, but this he is
enjoined to do with such precautions as may conceal the exemption from the
other members of the lodge. Were he to manifest the favor, he would be
expelled the order.
In every lodge there is an official styled hospitaller, whose duty it is
to visit the brethren in sickness daily, and supply them with medicines
and whatever else they may happen to need. All the members of the lodge
are obliged to visit the sick brother, one each day by turns, and also
during his convalescence. A remarkable provision is added, obliging the
sick Mason to receive the visits of his brethren. If the illness is
dangerous, the sick man must hand over all his Masonic papers to those who
are deputed to take charge of them. The funeral expenses of a deceased
member are defrayed by the lodge, when circumstances require it, and he is
accompanied to the grave by all his brethren of the same or lower grade in
Freemasonry. The lodge orator, where practicable, pronounces a discourse
over the tomb, enumerating the virtues and praises of the deceased; within
the lodge the oration must never be omitted.
In keeping with the professedly humanitarian scope of the order are those
articles of the statutes which regulate the admission of new members: “If
the end of the institution is the perfection of mankind, it is
indispensable that the Freemason should practise true morality, which
supposes the knowledge and practice of the duties and rights of man. He
ought, accordingly, to be upright, humane, sincere, beneficent to every
sort of persons, and, above all, a good father, a good son, a good
brother, a good husband, and a good citizen. A Freemason must be a citizen
in full enjoyment of his civil rights, of acknowledged probity, and of at
least ordinary intelligence. No one is admitted who has not the age
required by the statutes. No one may be admitted or may remain in the
order who has once been employed or engages in servile, mean, and
dishonorable trades or professions, or who has been condemned to suffer
punishment for crime. The expiation of any such sentence gives no claim
for readmittance.”
The retiring warden, handing over the keys of the Masonic temple to the
warden‐elect, admonishes the latter to exclude from its precincts all who
have not laid aside every profane distinction, and who do not seek to
enter solely by the path of virtue. Every precaution is taken to prevent
the admission of unworthy subjects. The age for reception is fixed at
twenty‐one, but the son of a Freemason may be initiated at eighteen, or
even at fifteen if his father is of the upper grades of the order. The
candidate must be proposed in the lodge by a member. Three commissioners
are secretly appointed to separately inquire into the antecedents of the
postulant, each inquisitor concealing his mandate from his fellow‐
commissioners.
“The investigation,” it is prescribed, “should chiefly turn on the
constant integrity of the _profane_ in his habitual conduct, on the exact
discharge of the duties of his position, on the rectitude and safeness of
his principles, on the firmness of his character, on his activity and
ability to penetrate, develop, and fully understand the profound sciences
which the mystic Masonic institute offers to the consideration of its
followers.”
The three reports of the inquisitors must agree in recommending the
candidate; otherwise the subject drops. But even when the commissioners
unanimously approve of the proposal, the question is put to the secret
votes of the lodge in three several meetings. Two negative votes in the
first ballot are sufficient to delay the next trial for three months,
while after three negatives it is put off for nine; and if at the end of
that time three black balls are again found in the urn, the candidate is
definitively rejected, and communication is made of the result to the
Grand Orient, which informs all the dependent lodges of the exclusion, to
prevent the admission of the rejected candidate among the brethren of its
jurisdiction.
Having secured by these stringent regulations the purity of selection, and
put the mystic temple beyond the risk of contamination by unworthy
neophytes, it is not surprising that the statutes should tell us
(paragraph 444) “that the character of Freemason does not admit the
supposition that he can commit a fault.” Nevertheless, considering the
weakness of human nature and the force of old habits imperfectly subdued,
certain violations of decorum are contemplated in the statutes which
constitute Masonic faults, and are enumerated with the penalties attached
to each. Among these peccadilloes are mentioned perjury and treason
against the order, the revelation of its mysteries, embezzlement of its
funds, insubordination and rebellion against its authority, duelling
_among brethren_, and breaches of hospitality.
Out of the lodges the conduct of the brethren is to be closely watched. It
is the duty of the president to admonish any one whose conduct is
reprehensible. This he must do in secret, and with due fraternal
tenderness endeavor to bring back the wanderer to the path of virtue.
Every corporation has to see that its individual members do nothing to
forfeit the good opinion and confidence of the world at large. When,
therefore, a brother is subjected to a criminal prosecution and proved
guilty, the lodge is to take immediate steps for his expulsion.
Promotion from the lower to the higher grades of Masonry is regulated on
the same principles of meritorious selection that govern the first
admission of members. Irreprehensible conduct, both in his civil and
Masonic capacity, are requisite in the aspirant; and he must have acquired
a thorough knowledge of the grade which he possesses before he can be
advanced to _greater light_. Certain intervals must pass between each
successive step, that the spirit and devotedness of the brother may be
fully ascertained and his promotion justified.
Minute rules are laid down in the statutes to regulate the proceedings in
lodge. The arrangement of the seats, the order of business, the method of
discussion, all is provided for in a way to promote harmony and social
feeling. Unbecoming behavior and offensive language are severely punished.
“Among Freemasons everything must breathe wisdom, kindness, and joy.” Any
brother may signify his dissent from a proposal while it is under
discussion; but when it has received the approbation of the majority, he
must applaud the decision with the rest, “and not be so foolishly vain as
to think his own opinion better than that of the greater number.” When the
ritual practices have been observed, and necessary business despatched,
the presiding dignitary may invite the brethren to suspend their labors
and engage without formality in conversation or amusement. After this
relaxation the ceremonial is resumed for the remainder of the meeting, and
the lodge is closed in the usual manner.
Prominent among the observances instituted for the cultivation of Masonic
feeling are the _Agapæ_ of Masonic banquets. Some are _de rigeur_, as
those on the Feasts of S. John the Baptist and S. John the Evangelist, and
on the anniversary of the foundation of the various lodges. Others may be
given according to circumstances. In the regulation banquets the lodge
orator makes an appropriate address. Toasts and songs enliven the
entertainment, and dancing is not prohibited. Between the toasts a poet,
if there be one, may offer some of his productions. “Mirth, harmony, and
sobriety are the characteristics of a Masonic feast.” Officials are
charged to maintain order and decorum in these reunions. They are
instructed to observe a “moderate, fraternal austerity” in their
superintendence. Venial slips may be corrected on the spot, and a trifling
penance imposed, which must be accepted with the best grace. A brother who
more gravely offends against any of the social decencies is to be
rigorously chastised at the first subsequent meeting.
After the claim of Freemasonry to represent a universal brotherhood, and
its professed purpose to effect a general diffusion of its principles and
influence, we are not surprised to find the statutes enjoin the most
absolute respect for all political opinions and all religious beliefs. The
325th article says: “It is never permitted to discuss matters of religion
or affairs of state in the lodges.”(177) We are not, however, to interpret
toleration into a denial of the foundation of religious truth, or into a
wicked connivance at subversive agencies in the body politic. Every
Masonic temple is consecrated to the “Great Architect of the Universe.” In
the name of him, “the purest fountain of all perfection,” the election of
the office‐bearers is proclaimed on S. John’s day. By him they swear when,
with their hands on S. John’s Gospel, they promise fidelity to the order.
All their solemn deeds are inscribed “to the glory of the Great Architect
of the Universe” in the name of S. John of Scotland (S. John the Baptist),
or of S. John of Jerusalem (S. John the Evangelist), according to the
rite. The Bible is always reverently placed on the warden’s table when the
lodges meet, and the proceedings are always opened with an invocation of
the Deity. If the craft admits among its adepts men of all persuasions, it
professes to do so because it does not search consciences. Its toleration,
it declares, does not proceed from atheism, but from enlightened
liberality. Nor has the state anything to apprehend from the brethren, if
we believe the admonition addressed to a novice at his initiation. “Masons
are forbidden to mix themselves up in conspiracies.” The first toast in
all Masonic banquets is to the head of the nation. It would be strange
indeed if, notwithstanding the enlightened scope of the institution and
the jealous care with which it professes to exclude all those who are
troublesome to society or have given cause of complaint in their civil
conduct, any government should find that the Masonic body was not one of
the firmest stays of order. Virtue, philanthropy, benevolence,
brotherhood—these are the watchwords of Masonry, and its statutes
appropriately terminate in the following paragraph:
“The Freemason is the faithful friend of his country and of all
men. He must not forget that by the oath he took at his initiation
he stripped himself of every profane decoration and of all that is
vulgar in man, to assume no other distinction but the sweet name
of brother. Let his conduct correspond to the title, and the scope
of Masonry is attained.”
We have hitherto drawn on the General Constitutions, which are binding on
“all Masonic lodges, and on all Freemasons, of whatever grade, throughout
the two hemispheres.” As these statutes, though carefully guarded from the
eyes of the profane, are put into the hands of the apprentices or youngest
adepts, whose prudence and capacity for _greater light_ have still to be
tested, it would be dangerous to make in them more open professions of
faith than are covered by elastic and general expressions; yet there is
sufficient internal evidence in them to show that the maxims they contain
are mere exoteric doctrine compared to the deeper revelation of the inner
sanctuary, where only the tried craftsman may dare to penetrate.
“Secrecy,” say the Constitutions, “is the first characteristic of the
order.”
And this secrecy is to be observed not merely towards the uninitiated, but
is equally enforced between the different grades of the brotherhood. The
presence of a member of a lower grade regulates the quality of the
business to be transacted in the lodge, even if all the others are master‐
masons. And not only the business but the very ceremonial must be
accommodated to the imperfection of those present. Each of the thirty‐
three grades has its own ritual, the publication of which is high treason
to the order, and which cannot be read without profanation by a member of
inferior degree. The books in the lodge library are by no means
promiscuous reading, but are permitted according to gradation. Hence the
multiplicity of officials with fantastic names who watch over the privacy
of the proceedings, verify the certificates of strangers, look out for
spies or illegitimate intruders; hence the precautions taken with their
documents, and the intricate system of checks and counterchecks on the
very office‐bearers through whose hands the correspondence and written
documents of an intimate nature have to pass. Why all this secrecy, and
why those terrible oaths, which we have still to see, if the end of
Masonry is faithfully exhibited in these Constitutions? As they stand,
they might almost suit a pious confraternity. Doubtless there are
suspicious articles. Their exclusiveness is not a Christian trait.
“Odi profanum vulgus et arceo”
is not the spirit of religion. The visits to the sick, and the obligation
not to decline them, receive a dubious commentary in the death‐bed scenes
now so distressingly frequent in Italy: when the minister of religion is
driven away by the visitors even when sent for by the dying man or his
relatives. The solemn decree, “The hand of a Mason shall not be raised
against a brother,” throws light on the inexplicable verdicts of juries,
judicial sentences, and remarkable escapes of condemned prisoners with
which the newspapers have made us familiar. But from the statutes we can
learn no more. We cannot discover whether the anti‐Christian and anti‐
social maxims which are unquestionably ascribed to Masonry are the real
outcome of its teaching, or an element quite extraneous to its genuine
principles. This is to be gathered from other sources, and, fortunately,
these are at hand in equally authentic documents, the rituals of the
several degrees, and many of the secret instructions that from time to
time are issued by the directing lodges. An examination of these leaves no
room to doubt the genuine scope of the association. The process may be
tedious, but it is conclusive. It brings out the hideous impiety of the
sect and its satanic hypocrisy.
Let us follow, Ritual in hand, a neophyte in his first initiation to the
grade of apprentice.
A lodge is properly composed of four chambers—a vestibule, the Chamber of
Reflection, the middle chamber, and the lodge proper, or temple. In the
last the ordinary assemblies of the Masons are held, but for the
initiation of a member all the apartments are put in requisition. The
candidate is conducted, if possible, in a carriage, blindfolded, to the
place of meeting; at all events, he must be blindfolded before entering
the Masonic precincts. He is led first into the vestibule, where he is
handed over to the Expert. This functionary, who is clothed in a long,
black robe, with a hood concealing his features, takes the candidate by
the hand, then bids him put his confidence in God, and, after making him
take several turns in the outer chamber, introduces him to the Chamber of
Reflection. This is described in the Ritual as
“A dark place impenetrable to the rays of the sun, lit by a single
sepulchral lamp. The walls are painted black with death’s heads
and similar funereal emblems to assist the recipient in his
meditations. He has to pass through the four elements of the
ancients, and here he is supposed to find himself in the bowels of
the earth, reminded of his last abode and of the vanity of earthly
things by the spectacle of a skeleton stretched on a bier. In the
absence of a skeleton a skull must be placed on a small table in
the centre of the room. On the table are pen, ink, and paper, a
dish of water, and a piece of bread. A chair completes the
furniture.”
Inscriptions are distributed over the walls; as, “If curiosity has brought
you here, depart,” “If you are capable of dissimulation, tremble,” and
others, as the lodge may think proper. The Ritual adds: “If it can be
conveniently arranged, appropriate voices may be made to proceed from the
ceiling.” The candidate is made to sit with his back to the door, and the
bandage is taken from his eyes. The Expert addresses him: “I leave you to
your reflections. You will not be alone. God sees every one.” Then he
quits him abruptly, and, closing the door, locks it behind him.
The length of time to be employed in self‐examination is not prescribed in
the Ritual, but is left to the caprice of the Masons, who are now engaged
in the temple. When the brethren are bent on a joke at the expense of the
recipient, it has been known to extend over four hours. The state of the
patient during this time may be imagined. He came with his head full of
mysterious fancies about Masonry, and the first surroundings are
calculated to crowd perplexing thoughts on an already agitated mind. Some
never get past this first essay. They have had enough of the mystic rite
at the threshold, and are accompanied to the door with the gibes and
laughter of the brotherhood, who then close the evening over a repast
prepared at the expense of the candidate with his forfeited entrance
money.
In most cases, however, the time for reflection is just so much as is
necessary to allow the completion of the opening ceremonies in the temple
preparatory to the reception of the neophyte. When these are finished, the
president sends the Expert to require of the candidate written replies to
three questions: “What does man owe to God? What does he owe to himself?
What to his fellow‐men?” The candidate is also to be told that as the
trials through which he has to pass are full of danger, it behooves him to
make his will. When the Expert returns, the will is laid by to be returned
to the candidate at the end of the function; but the answers to the three
questions are discussed in public, and the disquisitions in theology,
philosophy, and ethics may be fancied. If among the auditors there are
junior Masons whose ears are not yet accustomed to unequivocal negations
of God and the human soul, the president strives to moderate the language
of the disputants, and always sums up with a vague and general declaration
of respect for all opinions, and of Masonic toleration.
The recipient is now prepared for further tests. The preparation consists
first in having his eyes once more bandaged in the Chamber of Reflection,
then in being stripped of his clothes, “left only in his shirt and
drawers, with his left breast and arm and his right leg bare, his feet in
slippers, and a cord twined three times round his neck.” He is led by this
cord to the door of the lodge. Here he is to be subjected to a lengthy
interrogatory as to his name, birthplace, age, profession, and other
qualifications. “As Masonry receives into its bosom members of all
opinions and all religions, the president must not propose political or
religious questions to offend the sentiments or belief of the recipient or
of the auditory.”
In due time the neophyte may learn that the creed of Masons is to have
none, and that its politics are the subversion of all authority; but
prejudices must be respected at the outset, and the apprentices are not to
be shocked unprepared. When the examination is over, the farce begins. The
doors of the lodge are thrown open with a great noise, and as soon as the
candidate has been led into the room, the Tiler holding the point of a
sword against his naked breast, they are violently shut. “What do you
perceive?” the president asks. “I see nothing,” the recipient must answer;
“but I feel the point of a sword on my breast.” “That point,” says the
president, “is symbolic of the remorse that would gnaw your heart, should
you ever betray the society you seek to enter. Think what you are about to
do. Awful tests await you. _Terrible_ brother, take this profane one out
of the lodge, and lead him through those places which all must pass over
who would know our secrets.” The candidate is then led out and made to
take so many turns that he completely loses every idea of where he is; and
when he has quite lost his bearings, he is again in the lodge, although he
does not know it; and the brethren, in breathless silence, await the
progress of the comedy.
A large, wooden frame, filled in with paper, has been prepared in his
absence, and set up in the lodge before the entrance. “What is to be done
to this profane one?” asks Brother Terrible. “Throw him into the cavern,”
replies the president. Two Masons then seize the candidate and cast him
against the frame. The paper, of course, breaks, and the candidate is
caught in the arms of some of the brethren who are in waiting. The doors
of the lodge are then closed with noise, an iron ring, passing over a
dentate bar of iron, is made to imitate the bolting of the door, and the
candidate, blindfolded, out of breath, stunned, and frightened, really may
fancy himself at the bottom of a cavern.
The candidate is now seated on a stool, with a jagged bottom and unequal
legs which never find a plane, that with its constant and uneven motion
keeps the occupant in perpetual terror of falling. From this uneasy seat
he must answer all the fanciful questions that the whim of the president
or his own condition suggests. Metaphysics, astronomy, natural sciences,
may all enter into the examination; and as the questions are asked without
previous notice, the replies are not always satisfactory. Although the
Ritual prescribes the greatest decorum and gravity to be observed during
the ceremony, that the neophyte may be properly impressed, and prohibits
all rough usage and buffoonery, this is to be understood by the gloss of
another Ritual, which says that “this test of the stool of reflection is
instituted for the purpose of discovering how far the physical torture
which the candidate is made to suffer in his uneasy seat influences the
clearness of his ideas.”
If after this examination the patient still perseveres in his resolution
to enter the Masonic fraternity, he is admonished to prepare for other
trials. First, he must swear to keep absolute silence on all Masonic
secrets. This oath is to be taken over a cup of water. “If your intention
is pure, you may drink with safety. If in your heart you are a traitor,
tremble at the instant and terrible effects of the potion.” The fatal cup
is then presented to him. This is a chalice‐shaped vessel, having the cup
movable on a pivot in the base, and separated vertically into two
divisions. In one there is fresh water, and this side is presented to the
candidate. In the other there is a bitter mixture. When the candidate,
still blindfolded, has taken hold of the cup, the president invites him to
drink, and at the same time to swear after himself in the following terms:
“I promise the faithful observance of all Masonic obligations, and if I
prove false to my oath”—here he is made to taste the fresh water, and then
the cup is turned so that the next draught must be taken from the side
containing the bitter mixture, and the president continues with the
remainder of the oath to be repeated by the recipient—“I consent to have
the sweetness of this water turned into gall, and its salutary effect
changed to poison.” Here the countenance of the candidate undergoes the
expected change, and at the sight of the fatal grimace the president,
striking a terrible blow on the table with his mallet, cries out, “Ha!
what do I see? What means that distortion of your face? Away with the
profane!” The poor candidate is removed back some paces, and then the
president addresses him: “If your purpose is to deceive us, retire at
once. Soon it will be too late. We would know your perfidy, and then it
were better for you never to have seen the light of day. Think well on it.
Brother Terrible, seat him on the stool of reflection. Let him there
consider what he must do.” When the candidate has been on his uneasy seat
for some time, the president asks him if he means to persevere. If he
persists, the Terrible brother is told to accompany him on his _first
journey_ and protect him in its dangers. The Ritual proceeds:
“The Expert shall conduct the candidate through this first
journey, making it as difficult as possible, with thrusts,
ascents, descents, wind, thunder; in such a way that he can have
no idea of the ground he goes over, and all in a manner calculated
to leave a deep impression on the aspirant.”
We really cannot go on without apologizing to the reader for detaining him
over this contemptible mummery. It is humiliating to human nature that men
who make the loftiest professions of respect for its dignity should debase
themselves to such a depth of absurdity. And this, too, when they
matriculate in their school of perfection. Out of a mad‐house and a
Masonic lodge folly like this is inconceivable.
To return to our journey. It is a farce to an onlooker, but it is a
serious matter to the patient. He still supposes himself in the cavern,
and is forced to make several rounds of the lodge, passing over boards
that move under him on wheels, to boards adjusted to take a see‐saw
motion, and from these to others that suddenly yield under his weight in
trap‐door fashion. He is perpetually getting directions to stoop, to raise
his right foot, to raise his left, to leap; and corresponding obstructions
are put in his way at every movement. He is made to mount an interminable
ladder, like a squirrel in a cage, and, when he must think himself as high
as a church‐steeple, is told to fling himself down, and falls a couple of
feet. Perspiring and out of breath, confused, terrified, and fatigued, his
ears are filled with the most horrible noises. Shrieks and cries of pain,
wailing of children, roaring of wild beasts, are heard on every side. All
the theatrical appliances to produce thunder, rain, hail, wind, and
tempest are employed in well‐appointed lodges; and in the others the
ingenuity of the merry brethren supplies the want of machinery. The first
journey is finished when the brethren are tired of the amusement, and then
the candidate makes a second journey without the obstacles, and during
this he only hears the clashing of swords. A third journey is made in
peace, and at last the candidate passes thrice over an ignited preparation
of sulphur, and his purification by earth, water, air, and fire is
complete.
Now comes a Masonic instruction which we shall quote from the Ritual:
“ ‘Do you believe,’ asks the Venerable, ‘in a Supreme Being?’ The
answer of the candidate is usually in the affirmative. And then
the president may reply: ‘This answer does you honor. If we admit
persons of all persuasions, it is because we do not pry into the
conscience. We believe that the incense of virtue is acceptable to
the Deity, in whatever form it is offered. Our toleration proceeds
not from atheism, but from liberality and philosophy.’ ”
But mark what follows:
“If the candidate in his reply says he does not believe in God,
the president is to say: ‘Atheism is incomprehensible. The only
division possible among candid men is on the question whether the
First Cause is spirit or matter. But a materialist is no
atheist.’ ”
This is a specimen of Masonic theology, expressed in guarded terms, to
respect the weaker susceptibilities of an assembly of _apprentices_; for
we must remember that we are assisting at an initiation to the first
grade, which is conducted in presence of the youngest Masons. Still, no
veil can conceal the boldness of the declaration, and the apology of
materialism will surely not protect the dullest adept who remembers the
first lessons of his catechism from taking scandal at its effrontery. But
if he is to graduate in the higher honors, he must sooner or later get an
inkling of what is in reserve, and it is as well that from the very first
grade he should be able without much help to proceed to the development of
the Masonic idea of God—nature and that universe of which he himself is a
part—to pantheism pure and simple. Indeed, the _Rivista della Massoneria_
of the 1st of August, 1874, ventures a little further: “All are aware that
this formula (Great Architect of the Universe) by common consent has no
exclusive meaning, much less a religious one. It is a formula that adapts
itself to every taste, even an atheist’s.”(178)
After this it is scarcely necessary to read on in the Ritual:
“ ‘What is deism?’ asks the president. Having heard the answer, he
is to subjoin: ‘Deism is belief in God without revelation or
worship. It is the religion of the future, destined to supersede
all other systems in the world.’ ”
The catechising proceeds in a similar strain through a multiplicity of
questions, which are all treated with a studied ambiguity of language,
affirming and denying, saying and unsaying in a breath, leaving nothing
unimplied, to satisfy advanced impiety, and softening down the bolder
expressions that would grate on the ears of a novice.
When the examination is over, the marking of the new brother is to be
proceeded with. He is told to prepare to receive the impression of a hot
iron on his person, and is requested to mention on what part he would
prefer to be branded. The Masons then go through the preparations of
lighting a fire, blowing with a bellows, turning the iron with tongs,
discussing the redness of the heated instrument, all in the hearing of the
patient, who, still blind‐folded, stands pale and trembling, in spite of
his resolution to go through the operation. The diversion this torture
affords the lodge may well be imagined. Of course there is no branding,
but the rituals suggest different methods of producing the sensation. One
recommends violent friction of the part indicated for branding, and then
the sudden application of a piece of ice. Another directs the hot wick of
a candle just blown out to be pressed against the skin. Sometimes the
president declares himself satisfied with the resignation of the neophyte,
and dispenses with the operation. Generally the ceremonies of the Ritual
are considerably curtailed in practice; not even Masons can endure their
tedious trifling.
After this the oath is to be administered. The candidate is warned of the
sacred, inviolable, perpetual nature of the obligation he is about to
assume; and when he has signified his willingness to be bound by it, he is
told that as the time is approaching when he will be admitted to the
secrets of the order, the order requires of him a guarantee—to consist in
the manifestation of some secret confided to him, that he is not at
liberty to reveal. If the candidate agrees, he is to be sharply
reprimanded; if he does not consent, the president praises his discretion.
The latter then proceeds to inform the candidate that the oath he is about
to take requires him to give all his blood for the society. When the
candidate assents, his word is at once put to the test, and he is asked if
he is really to allow a vein to be immediately opened. This proposal
usually draws out a remonstrance, and the victim’s ordinary objection is
the weakness of his health, or the probable derangement of his digestion
by such an operation following so soon after dinner. In the lodge,
however, this is provided for. The surgeon gravely advances, feels the
patient’s pulse, and infallibly declares that he lies, that the blood‐
letting can do him no harm, and positively assures him he will be the
better for it. The bleeding is performed in this manner: The surgeon binds
the arm, and pricks the vein with a tooth‐pick or such like. An assistant
drops on it a small stream of tepid water, which trickles over the arm of
the patient into a vessel held below. The counterfeit is perfect. The arm
is bandaged, arranged in a sling, and the poor man, blindfolded, half‐
naked, terrified, wearied, branded, and bled, is at length conducted to
the _altar_, or table of the presiding master, to seal his initiation with
the final oath. There, on his knees, holding in his left hand the points
of an open compass against his breast, with his right on the sword of the
president (or, according to another ritual, on a Bible, a compass, and a
square), he takes the oath, which we give in its naked impiety, as found
in the Ritual secretly printed at Naples in 1869:
“I, N. N., do swear and promise of my own free‐will, before the
Great Architect of the Universe, and on my honor, to keep
inviolable silence on all the secrets of Freemasonry that may be
communicated to me, as also on whatever I may see done or hear
said in it, under pain of having my throat cut, my tongue torn
out, my body cut into pieces, burned, and its ashes scattered to
the wind, that my name may go down in execrated memory and eternal
infamy. I promise and swear to give help and assistance to all
brother Masons, and swear never to belong to any society, under
whatever name, form, or title, opposed to Masonry; subjecting
myself, if I break my word, to all the penalties established for
perjury. Finally, I swear obedience and submission to the general
statutes of the order, to the particular regulations of this
lodge, and to the Supreme Grand Orient of Italy.”
When the profane has finished the oath, the president asks, “What do you
seek?” and the other is to answer, “I seek light.” The most merciless
trick of all follows. The bandage is quickly removed from his eyes.
Unaccustomed for hours to the faintest light, they are suddenly exposed to
the dazzling glare of a great artificial flame started before his face. He
is blinded once more by the change, and closes his eyes against the pain
caused by the brilliancy; and when at last he opens them to look about
him, it is to see the fierce attitudes of the Masons, each pointing his
sword at his face. Few pass this ordeal without exhibiting signs of
terror; some attempt to escape, some beg their lives, and some protest
they have done with Freemasonry. But no one who has reached this point is
permitted to depart without being received, and the novice is comforted
with the assurance that all is over. The president, addressing the new
apprentice, says:
“Fear not those swords that surround you: they threaten only the
perjurer. If you are faithful to Masonry, they will protect you.
If you betray it, no corner of the earth will protect you against
these avenging blades. Masonry requires in every Mason belief in a
Supreme Being, and allows him out of the lodge to worship as he
pleases, provided he leaves the same liberty to others. Masons are
bound to assist each other by every means when occasion offers.
Freemasons are forbidden to mix themselves up in conspiracies. But
were you to hear of a Mason who had engaged in any such
enterprise, and fallen a victim to his imprudence, you should have
compassion on his misfortune, and the Masonic bond would make it
your duty to use all your influence and the influence of your
friends to have the rigor of punishment lessened on his behalf.”
Our candidate by this lime has somewhat recovered from his confusion. He
is now led up to the president, who, striking him thrice on the head with
his mallet, then with the compass, and lastly with the sword, declares him
Apprentice Mason and active member of the lodge. He is invested with the
insignia, and put in possession of the Masonic signs and passwords. The
description of these would be tedious, and we shall only notice the
_guttural sign_. This is made by bringing to the throat the right hand,
with thumb extended and the other fingers closed together to represent a
square; the whole intended to recall the imprecation in the oath. To this
allusion is made in one of the drinking songs of the Masons, translated
from the French for the brethren in Italy, although the verse has been
left out in the Italian edition:
Dedans la barque
Du Nautonnier Charon
Si je m’embarque
Je lui dirai: Patron
A cette marque
Reconnais un Maçon.
Of the sacred word _Jachin_ there will be occasion to speak again.
When the function is over, the lodge is cleared, tables are spread, and
the brethren sit down to a refreshment which one, at least, has fairly
earned.
Admission to the first three grades of Masonry is easily obtained. Among
the Apprentices, Fellowcraft, and Master‐Masons the official language
always speaks of charity, toleration, and philanthropy. We have seen
sufficient reason to question the sincerity of these expressions in the
mouths of the Masons, and the explanations we have heard from themselves
are far from reassuring. As the society contemplates the gradual formation
of the requisite character in its members, and as most of these at their
first entry have not altogether lost every natural sense of duty, as
understood by the profane, their advance to _perfection_ is generally
slow, and the great bulk never get beyond the symbolic grades. If they are
promoted, it is _pro forma_ in the succeeding grades termed _capitular_,
which are the perfection of symbolism, and are completed in the
Rosicrucian Knight at the eighteenth grade. From this point promotion is
difficult. The degrees that follow up to the thirtieth are called
_philosophic_, and in them the adept is taught plainly, without symbol or
artifice, the practice of true Masonic virtue. Vengeance and death are the
passwords, the poniard the symbol of action. After this the other degrees
are purely administrative, and the Mason of the thirty‐first, thirty‐
second, or thirty‐third grade learns nothing that was not revealed when he
was admitted Knight Kadosh in the thirtieth.
In the nineteenth, or first of the philosophic grades, the Ritual says:
“It is not difficult to comprehend that the society of Freemasons,
speaking plainly, is just a permanent conspiracy against political
despotism and religious fanaticism. The princes who unfortunately
were admitted into Masonry, were not slow in reducing it to a
society of beneficence and charity, and maintained that religion
and politics were foreign to its purpose. They even succeeded in
having inserted among the statutes that no discussion was to be
tolerated in the lodges on these subjects.”
In the Ritual of the twenty‐ninth degree:
“How would not the Masonic mysteries have degenerated, if,
according to the programme of the common herd of Masons, the adept
was never to occupy himself with politics or religion!”
And the actual Grand‐Master of the Neapolitan Masons, Domenico Angherà, in
a secret history of the society in that Orient, clandestinely printed in
1864, relates with satisfaction that the work of the Carbonari and Buoni
Cugini in 1820‐21 was conceived and directed by the Masonic lodges, and
carried out by their own adepts under the other designations, and
triumphantly boasts that in those days “the mallets of the Masons beat
harmonious time to the axes of the Carbonari.” In 1869 the Grand‐Master
Frapolli, Deputy in the Chambers, in the opening discourse at the Masonic
gathering held that year in Genoa, acknowledged that “during the previous
fifty years of tyranny Freemasonry in Italy was replaced by the
Carbonari.” He said that on the first reconstruction of the order at
Turin, in 1861, the motto was adopted of “A personal God and a
constitutional monarchy,” but that this was found to be a stifling
limitation, by which the Italian lodges would not submit to be fettered;
and in 1864 a new Grand Orient was established which better corresponded
to the scope. Up to the occupation of Rome in 1870 the aim of the
brotherhood was to “elevate the conscience.” Now they may safely advance a
step. Mauro Macchi, another Deputy, and member of the Supreme Council of
Freemasons, in the _Masonic Review_ of the 16th of February, 1874, thus
expresses his idea of the present practical scope of the society:
“The keystone of the whole system opposed to Masonry was and is
that ascetic and transcendental sentiment which carries men beyond
the present life, and makes them look on themselves as mere
travellers on earth, leading them to sacrifice everything for a
happiness to begin in the cemetery. As long as this system is not
destroyed by the mallet of Masonry, we shall have society composed
of poor, deluded creatures who will sacrifice all to attain
felicity in a future existence.”
A Catholic, he says, who mortifies his passions, is consistent and
logical, for to him life is a pilgrimage and an exile, and his career is
but a preparation for a future state; but this the grand‐master refuses to
accept as the type of human perfection.
Let us pass to an inspection of the Ritual of the thirtieth grade of the
Scottish Rite, called Chevalier Kadosh, or Knight of the White and Black
Eagle, printed at Naples, without indication of printer’s name, in 1869.
Here the real ends of Masonry, and the horrible means it directs to their
attainment, are exposed without veil or mystery. As Angherà in his preface
says:
“Here the great drama of Masonry reaches its _dénoûement_. Only
Masons of strong capacity and devoted attachment penetrate thus
far. The other grades are but a sanctuary of approach; this, the
thirtieth, is the inmost sanctuary, for which the rest is only a
preparation.”
The infamous nature of the conspiracy which it discloses would justify our
treating it at greater length, if the limits of an article did not oblige
us to hasten to a close. We cannot afford to wade through the tiresome
series of mystifying ceremonies without which nothing Masonic can be
legally performed. Mithric rites, the Temple of Memphis, Zoroaster,
Pythagoras, Numa, the Templars, Manicheans, Rabbinic phrases, and lore
from the Talmud, Arabic, and Hebrew, are jumbled together to give an air
of antiquity to this most modern of widespread impostures. Our business is
to cull out of the mass of profanities a few samples of the perfection
required of the “holy,” “consecrated,” “purified” knight; for such is the
force of the Hebrew Kadosh. Angherà has not proceeded far, when in a note
he takes care to inform us that the two sacred passwords, Jachin and Booz,
which Masons of the first two grades are taught to repeat and understand
as _stability_ and _force_, and whose initial letters, J and B, are
inscribed on the Masonic _columns_, read as they ought to be, backwards,
are two obscene words in the corrupt language of the Maltese Arabs.
The initiation, whenever it is symbolic, recalls the execution of James de
Molai, Grand‐Master of the Templars, and holds up to execration Clement V.
and Philip the Fair, with Noffodei, the false brother. To emancipate
society from the double despotism of priest and king is the duty of the
aspirant. The passwords for him are now _Nekam_, vengeance, _Makah_,
death, and the answer _Bealim_, to traitors. He is told that his duty is
to mark all the murders of friends of liberty, political and religious,
committed by the satellites of despotism, and to avenge the victims of
tyranny; to bind himself, in common action with the other knights, to
annihilate, once for all, the despots of the human race—in a word to
establish political and religious liberty where it does not exist, and
defend it where it is established, with arms if need be. When the theory
of these doctrines has been sufficiently impressed upon him, he is
conducted by the grand‐master before a skull crowned with laurel, and
repeats as he is told: “Honor and glory to persecuted innocence; honor and
glory to virtue sacrificed to vice and ambition.” Next he is shown a skull
crowned with a tiara, a dagger is placed in his hand, and he is made to
exclaim, “Hatred and death to religious despotism!” In the same way,
before a skull on which is placed a kingly diadem, he pronounces “Hatred
and death to political despotism!” Twice must the aspirant repeat this
ceremony, and on the last occasion casts crown and tiara on the
ground.(179) Four times he binds himself by oath to combat political and
religious oppression, to put down religious fanaticism, to overturn
political tyranny, to propagate the principles of Masonry, to disseminate
liberal ideas, to maintain the rights of man and the sovereignty of the
people. Each time the holy name of God is called to witness, but we know
now the value of the invocation—the universe is the Mason’s God.
“ ‘Do you believe in another world?’ asks the grand‐master, who
himself resumes, ‘There are not two worlds. We are a compound of
matter and spirit. These two substances return to their origin:
this transformation does not remove them out of the universal
world, of which we form part. What is the future life? The future
life is the life of our descendants, who are to profit by our
discoveries.’ ”
Such, then, is the “religion of the future,” by which it is the appointed
task of Masonry to supersede Christianity; such the “progress,”
“civilization,” “perfectibility,” which humanity is to achieve under
Masonic guidance. We have not painted the association in colors of our
own; we have merely produced its official documents, and in the hated
light they leave their own photograph. When society falls under the
influence of such an organization, its demoralization is rapid and
complete. Its circulars regulate the popular elections and control the
votes of parliaments. “Public opinion” is at its beck, the press is its
active instrument. We could quote its instructions to the Italian Deputies
on the Roman question, and a communication of the Grand‐Master of Italy,
sent to all the foreign Grand Lodges, advising a united attack, through
the public mind, on the Carlist movement in Spain. Its theories of
assassination and open rebellion are seldom carried out on its own direct
responsibility. Out of the Masonic lodges arise a multitude of minor
sects, ostensibly independent, but really directed by the brethren. To
these the practical work is committed. As Carbonari, Socialists,
Communists, Internationalists, Mazzinians, they execute orders received
from their common centre. If successful, the result is claimed for the
parent association; if unfortunate, they are disavowed. It is usual to say
that Freemasonry in firmly‐established constitutional states is
comparatively harmless. We are not prepared to affirm that in countries
like the United States or Great Britain the wicked principles of
Continental European Masonry are developed to the same extent
indiscriminately in all the lodges. Where the initiation is supposed never
to advance beyond the three symbolic degrees, the anti‐Catholic principle
of religious indifference is perhaps its most dangerous characteristic.
But this alone is sufficiently repulsive; and the fraternization which
binds together every branch of the association can excuse no individual
member from moral complicity in its worst deeds, wherever perpetrated.
With that keen forecast of danger to the Christian family which has ever
been the characteristic attribute of the Holy See, the popes, from the
first origin of Masonry, saw through its flimsy disguise of benevolent
professions, and over and over again, and chiefly on the eve of those
terrible anti‐social outbursts that have so frequently convulsed Europe
since the formation of the society, raised their prophetic voices,
foretelling the impending storm, denouncing its source, and condemning in
the strongest terms and under the severest penalties all connection with
these secret associations. Princes and peoples disregarded the warning,
and both have suffered for their neglect. Would that at least they had
profited by the lesson! But these eternal enemies of order, emboldened by
their success, are only preparing for a new strife. The state is already
almost everywhere at their control; the church of God everywhere resists.
Against her they now concentrate their warfare. False professions serve no
purpose with the civil government in their own hands, and they have
learned that their hypocrisy does not avail with the church. They drop the
mask. No longer careful to conceal their aim, they make it a public boast.
“Protestantism,” writes B. Konrad from Germany in the _Bauhütte_, a
Masonic paper, “without discipline, faith, or spiritual or moral life,
broken up into hundreds of sects, offers only the spectacle of a corpse in
dissolution. It is not an enemy to oppose us. Our adversary is the Roman‐
Catholic‐Papal‐Infallible Church, with its compact and universal
organization. This is our hereditary, implacable foe. If we are to be true
and honest Freemasons, and wish to promote our society, we must absolutely
cry out with Strauss: We are no longer Christians; we are Freemasons and
nothing else. Amateur Freemasons are no advantage to humanity, and no
credit to our society. Christians or Freemasons, make your choice.”
The church of God fears them not. Her pastors may mourn over the
corruption of morals, the perversion of youth, the irreparable loss of
many souls; but amid the dissolution and universal ruin which infidelity
and revolution are preparing for society, she will stand erect, unshaken,
not shorn of her strength; and when the inevitable revulsion brings
repentant nations to her feet, she will be ready as ever to pour the balm
of religious consolation on their wounds, to bind up their shattered
members, to set humanity once more on the path of true perfectibility, not
to be attained through the impious philosophy of midnight conventicles,
but in the light of the Sun of Justice, preached on the housetops, to the
formation of true Christian brotherhood.
Crown Jewels.
Let’s crown our King with what will show
His royal power and treasure—
Sharp thorns! ’Tis done! His blood doth flow,
Of both the might and measure.
Are You My Wife? Chapter II.
By The Author Of “A Salon In Paris Before The War,” “Number Thirteen,”
“Pius VI.,” Etc.
Chapter II. I Introduce My Wife—She Disappears!
“A nice young gentleman you are, Master Clide, to play off such a trick as
this on your family!” said Admiral de Winton, shaking my hand so
vigorously that I feared he was bent in his indignation on shaking it off.
“Come, sir, what excuse have you to offer for yourself?”
“My dear uncle, I sha’n’t attempt any excuse, for the best reason in the
world, that I have not a decent one. But here is my wife,” I said,
catching sight of her coming up the terrace; “let her plead for me. I
leave my case in her hands.”
Isabel stepped in through the open window, and, going straight up to the
old gentleman, held out her hands, blushing and smiling with the prettiest
little pretence of being ashamed of herself and dreadfully frightened.
“No excuse!” growled the admiral, hollowing out his hands to hold the
soft, pink cheeks, then saluting them with a kiss that resounded through
the room like the double report of a pistol‐shot. “No excuse indeed! You
barefaced hypocrite! How dare you tell me such a crammer? You unmitigated
young rascal, what do you mean by it?”
This series of polite inquiries my uncle fired off, holding Isabel all the
time at arm’s length, with a hand on each shoulder, and looking straight
into her face. She was not the least disconcerted by this singular mode of
apostrophe.
“Don’t scold him! Don’t be angry with him! Please don’t! It was all my
fault,” she said, and looked up at him as if she particularly wanted to
kiss him.
“I’ll horsewhip him! I’ll tie him to the mainmast and flog him!” roared my
uncle.
And then came a second volley of pistol‐shots.
“No, you sha’n’t! If you do, I’ll horsewhip you!” declared Isabel, twining
her arms round the old sailor’s neck, and stamping her tiny foot at him.
My step‐mother made her appearance at this crisis with Sir Simon Harness.
She had driven to meet our guests, but, instead of driving back with them,
she and Sir Simon walked up together from the station, and sent on the
admiral alone in the carriage.
After bidding him a cordial welcome, I presented Isabel to Sir Simon. She
held out her hand. He raised it to his lips, bending his venerable white
head before my young wife with that courtly grace that gave a touch of
old‐fashioned stiffness to his manner towards women, but which was in
reality the genuine expression of chivalrous respect.
Isabel, not apparently satisfied with the stately homage, drew nearer,
and, putting up her face, “May I, Clide?” she said.
Sir Simon naturally did not “pause for a reply,” but taking the blushing
face in his hands, he imprinted a fatherly kiss on her forehead. To say
that I was proud of my wife and delighted with the way she had behaved
towards my two friends would be to convey a very inadequate idea of the
state of my feelings. I was simply inebriated. It is hardly a figure of
speech to say that I did not know whether I was on my head or my heels. I
had looked forward to this meeting with an apprehension which, from being
undefined, was none the less painful, and the relief I experienced at the
successful issue was in proportion great. My step‐mother was evidently
quite as surprised, if in a less degree gratified than myself. The
afternoon passed delightfully, chatting and walking about the park; my two
old friends usurping Isabel completely, making love to her under my eyes
in the most unscrupulous manner, quarrelling as to who should have her arm
when out walking, and sit next to her when they came in. Isabel flirted
with both, utterly regardless of my feelings, and even hinted to me at
lunch that my prophecy with regard to Sir Simon ran a fair chance of
coming true. She came down to dinner arrayed like a fairy, in a dress that
seemed to have been made out of a sunset and trimmed with a rainbow. She
had put on all her jewels—those I had chosen for her, and the diamonds
that came to me from my mother. She wore pearls round her neck, and a row
of diamond stars in her hair; while her arms almost disappeared under the
variety of bracelets of every form and date with which she had loaded
them. It may have been in questionable taste and not very sensible, but
there was an innocent womanly vanity in thus seizing the first available
opportunity of showing herself in her finery that I thought perfectly
delightful. I could see, too, that the admiral and Sir Simon were pleased
at the infantine coquetry, and not a little flattered by it. My step‐
mother alone looked coldly on the proceeding; and while Isabel, sitting
between the two old gentlemen, pointed out for their special admiration
“this bracelet, with the diamond true‐lover’s knot, that Clide gave me the
day after we were engaged, and this blue enamel with the Greek word in
pearls that he bought me the day before we came home,” Mrs. de Winton
dissected her walnuts, and, setting her face like a flint, kept outside
the conversation till the subject changed.
When we assembled in the drawing‐room, Isabel opened a new battery of
fascination that was perhaps the most formidable of all. She began to
sing. The excitement of the jewels, and the sympathetic audience, and the
conscious triumph of the hour, all added, no doubt, to the power and
brilliancy of her voice, which sounded richer, fuller, more entrancing
than I had ever heard it before. She sang all sorts of songs. The admiral
asked for a sea‐song. Isabel knew plenty, comic and dramatic, from “Rule
Britannia” down to “A Life on the Ocean Wave,” which she rang out with a
rollicking zest and spirit that fairly intoxicated the old sailor.
Sir Simon enjoyed an English ballad and an Irish melody. The siren gave
him every one he asked for, old and new. In fact, she surpassed herself in
witchery and skill, and one was at a loss which to admire most, the
artless grace of the woman or the gifts and accomplishments of the artist.
The evening passed rapidly away, and it was past midnight before any one
thought of stirring.
‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐‐
“Clide,” said my step‐mother next morning, as she was leaving the
breakfast‐room where Isabel and her guests were loitering over their tea‐
cups, while I read the _Times_ in the window, “I wish to speak to you.
Come to me in the library.”
And without waiting for an answer, she walked out. There was no reason why
this commonplace invitation should have brought a sensation of cold down
my back, and of my heart dropping down into my boots; but unaccountably
this double phenomenon was effected in my person. I made a pretence of
going through the leaders before I rose, and then, yawning to give myself
an air of perfect satiety and _ennui_, I sauntered out of the breakfast‐
room, and bent my steps towards the audience‐chamber.
“Clide,” began Mrs. de Winton, when I had closed the door and established
myself on the hearth‐rug, with my back to the fire, “where did your wife
learn singing?”
“Why, in London, I suppose. Where else should she learn it?”
“Did you ask her?” inquired my inquisitor.
“It never occurred to me. Why should it?”
Mrs. de Winton looked at me curiously—not scornfully, as she was
accustomed to do when I committed myself to any ultra‐foolish remark.
Indeed, I thought her face wore an expression gentler and kinder than I
remembered to have seen there since when a child I had seen her look at my
father. She said nothing for a minute. Then fixing her eyes on me with a
glance that sent my heart right out through my heels:
“I have telegraphed to Simpson to come down by the early train to‐day,”
she said.
“The deuce you have!” I exclaimed, and, starting from my impassive
attitude, I dropped my coat‐tails, and stepped off the rug as if it had
suddenly turned into a hot plate.
“Yes,” continued Mrs. de Winton, quite unmoved by my complimentary
ejaculation, “it is my duty, since you are too indifferent to your own
interest to take the....”
“Clide, Clide! Where are you?” cried a sweet voice from the terrace, and,
running up the slopes, Isabel flattened her nose against the window,
peering into the room in search of me. I was so placed that she could not
see me, but she saw my step‐mother. Glad to escape from what threatened to
be a stormy interview, I flew to the window, opened it, and rejoined my
wife.
“Was she scolding you?” asked Isabel, casting a puzzled glance towards the
room where I had so unceremoniously “planted” my step‐mother.
“No, darling,” I answered, laughing.
“What was she saying?” inquired Isabel.
“What an inquisitive little puss it is!” I said, partly amused and partly
at a nonplus for a satisfactory answer.
“Tell me. I’ll go, if you don’t!” And she prepared to carry out the threat
by unlocking her hands and letting go my arm.
But I seized the refractory hands, and held them tight.
“Go!” I said, laughing at her in a most tantalizing way, while she
struggled in vain to set herself free.
“Tell me what you were talking about. I insist on knowing, Clide!”
repeated Isabel, stamping her foot like a naughty child.
I began to dread a repetition of the other morning. Such an exhibition
within hearing of my uncle and Sir Simon would have been so mortifying to
my pride that I was ready to sign away my lawful authority for the rest of
my married life rather than undergo it; so pretending not to notice the
gathering thunder‐clouds:
“My lovely tyrant!” I said, caressing her with the sweetest of smiles, as
we walked past the drawing‐room window, “you don’t suspect me of having a
secret my wife should not share? I was only chaffing you just now for fun,
you looked so mystified. But the fact is, I was put out by the old lady’s
telling me she expected Simpson down here to‐day.”
“And who is Simpson?” inquired Isabel.
“The family lawyer.”
“Ah! Did you tell her to send for him?”
“I tell her! Why, child, if I had, I shouldn’t have been put out to hear
he was coming.”
The question was unpleasantly suggestive. It implied a suspicion in her
mind, which something in my tone resented, probably, for she added
quickly:
“Oh! of course not. I didn’t mean that.”
Then we went on a few steps without speaking.
“Simpson’s a capital fellow,” I resumed, breaking the pause that was
rather awkward. “I’m very fond of him, and shouldn’t the least object to
his coming down here at any other time; only just now it’s a bore. We
wanted to have my uncle and Sir Simon all to ourselves. However, I dare
say you’ll like Simpson too when you see him, though he is of the race of
Philistines. If he’s a shrewd lawyer, he’s a trusty friend and as honest
as the sun. No fear of my ‘doing’ my heiress wife in the settlements,” I
continued laughingly, “or cheating her out of any of her lawful rights,
while old Dominie Simpson has the whip‐hand over me!”
“He’s to be here to‐day, you said?” she remarked interrogatively, as we
entered the house.
“Yes. If he comes by the early train, he may be in time for dinner,” I
replied.
Mr. Simpson did come by the early train, and he was in time for dinner. He
was even an hour and a half beforehand with it, and spent most of the
intervening time closeted with my step‐mother in her private apartment.
My wife appeared in a second edition of sunset and rainbow, and flashed
and sparkled with jewels as on the previous evening.
She received our old friend very graciously, drawing just the right line
of demarcation between her friendly graciousness to him and the daughter‐
like familiarity of her manner towards Sir Simon and her uncle. Dinner
passed off very merrily; but when we rejoined the ladies in the drawing‐
room, I was surprised to find Isabel fast asleep in the depths of a
monumental arm‐chair. She jumped up at the sound of my voice, and, rubbing
her eyes, said she was ashamed to be caught napping, but she was so tired!
“Hollo, Simpson, this is a sorry lookout for you!” exclaimed the admiral.
“We’ve been telling him to get ready his legal soul to be charmed and
devoured by the siren.”
“Oh! I am so sorry,” said Isabel, looking at the old lawyer as if nothing
in this world could give her half so much pleasure as to charm away his
soul on the spot; “but these naughty gentlemen kept me up so late last
night, and made me sing so much, that I have not a note in my voice to‐
night, and I’m just dead with sleep.”
Simpson looked wofully disappointed.
“My pretty pet,” said the admiral, drawing her to him and stroking her
head as if she had been a kitten, “then you sha’n’t sing!”
“If you should lie down for half an hour, dearest,” I said, “do you think
that would rest you, and you might be able to give us just one song?”
I was anxious that Simpson should hear her. He sang a very good song
himself, and his heart seemed set on it.
“Perhaps,” she said, brightening up. “I’ll try, at any rate.”