ter's Son, made manifest in the flesh of that humble Son of the Poor. This I was taught to believe; and it was to me a holy thought, that Omnipotence became a suffering Child of Toil, and dwelt for a while, very humbly, in the huts of the Poor, and died, feeling every pang of mortal anguish, upon a Felon's tree. Died for you-for me-for us all! And yet, my brothers, I am willing to sacrifice this belief-to consider it merely a form of words-only, so, that we may all meet upon one common ground, that we may all join our hands around one altar, and all bind to our hearts the Spirit of the Carpenter's Son-the Incarnate form of Brotherhood among men !"

As he paused, he dropped the veil over the Sad Image.

"Thus," he cried. Thus let us hide the Imprisoned Jesus of the Church. The Christ of the Heart moves in the bosom of the world; soon the nations will know his spirit, and Kings and Priests will tremble, as the earth quivers at each throb, from the heart of the Carpen ter's Son."

Embody the history of the Carpenter's Son, so that it can speak freely to the hearts of men; let the spirit of his life become the Soul of our Organization, and I-a rude Peasant man, born of the humble People can predict to you the Future of mankind!

"Not fifty years from this hour, the voice of our Brotherhood will seach the heart of a young man in the city of Paris. Even as he sits amid a band of boon companions, the cup in his hand, and his ruddy English face, contrasted with the faces of the brown Frenchmen, the Voice will reach him, and he will dash the cup to the floor, and feel the impulses of his great mission stir his soul.

"His great mission? Yes-this young Englishman, encircled by the gay youth of Paris, is destined by Almighty God to conquer the New World, armed by an olive branch instead of a sword. He will cross the Ocean, he will rear a People in the Wilderness, he will send forth his voice to the oppressed of all the earth, saying to them all-Come! Here is a Home for the down-trodden, here is an altar for the exile and the wanderer. We know neither Priest nor King, in our new-world home. We are Brothers-our Father is God.'

"And the exile and the wanderer will come, and with this Apostle to the New World rear the Altar of Brotherhood in the Wilderness. "Indian! The Apostle will be just to you, and to your race! Even now, as the mists which cloud the Future roll aside, I behold him standing amid the red men, near a calm river's shore. I hear the words of the covenant which they make with each other; a Covenant made without oath, or priest, or sword, yet it will live when oaths, and priests, and swords, are known no longer upon the face of the earth.

Years

"After the Apostle has done his work he will pass away. roll on the colonists, the emigrants, the exiles of the New World, begin to grow into a People. That New World which the Almighty has reserved for the down-trodden of all nations and races, strengthens rapidly into an Empire, such as the world has never seen before-not of Kings, or of Priests-but an Empire of Men.

"That New World, which the Almighty has destined to be the

young Heart and the young Brain of a decrepit Earth, thinking for all Peoples, the bold thoughts of freedom, feeling for the wrongs of all races, and armed with the power to right those wrongs-the New World is assailed by all the infamies of the Old World, incarnate in the person of a King.

"He would enslave the Young Empire with their customs and laws, which have drained the sap and the blood from the veins of the Old, and turned an Eden into a Hell.

"But lo! The same God who sent an Apostle of Peace to plant the Olive Branch of Brotherhood, on the shores of the New World, now sends a Deliverer to assert the sanctity of the New World, from all Kings, in the face of God and Men, and carve out a way for Brotherhood with his battle-sword.

Among his legions I behold him, armed for the fight, and with the consciousness of a good cause flashing from his eyes, and investing his bold forehead with a sublime resolve.

"The Deliverer will come, in the year 1775. He will combine in his own person all those qualities which the world has never yet seen combined in one man. He will be a man of vigorous passions, fiery blood, temper as ardent as the southern sky. He will learn first to govern his passions, and rule his own soul, and therefore be fitted for the government of men, and the sway of an Empire. Years of danger and toil, in the untrodden forests, will harden him into iron manhood. He will serve, he will suffer, so that he may always feel with those who are enslaved, and know the anguish which falls to the lot of the poor man, who never ceases to suffer and endure.

"This Deliverer will rise in the darkest hour of Despotism-he will achieve the freedom of the New World, and then

"But hold! There the cloud overcasts the Future; I cannot read the Future of his life, after the hour when he has won the battle for freedom.

"He may repeat the story of Cromwell, who saved his country from Kings, by usurping the power without the name.

"Yes, he may descend from his calm grandeur, as the Father of his Country, and mingle in the herd of Kings, of Tyrants, of Conquerors, bartering immortal glory for the bauble of an hour.

"Then woe to America, and woe to Man!

"The New World will become the theatre of battles without an object; bloodshed without an aim. It will become a land of robbers and of graves. The freedom which the Deliverer might have achieved in all its details, in the year 1783, will be postponed until 1890. A terrible postponement, a fearful delay, only marked by murders in various forms, by petty Kings conflicting with each other under various names.

"Let it therefore be our care, my brethren, to leave to our children, as a holy trust, the Life of this Deliverer! Yes, his life! A Brother of our Order will go to him, as he prepares for battle, and confront him with a Dagger and a Sword. This sword is consecrated for thy defence so long as thou art true to thy country and to man. This Dagger is consecrated for thy Death the moment thou art false !'

"Let us write it in our records, let us teach it in our solemn ceremo

nies, that upon the Truth or Falsehood of this Deliverer, who will come in the year 1775, hangs the destiny of Mankind for at least three centuries.

"Does he prove true? Then the fire of Brotherhood, lighted by the Apostle, in the wilds of America, in 1682, and defended by the Deliverer in 1775, will illuminate the world.

"The name of that Deliverer will become the universal word for 'Freedom.'

"Does he prove false to his great trust? Ah-the picture is too dark-it spreads before me, but I dare not contemplate its incredible details

"In case he faithfully fulfils the awful trust confided to his hands, then behold the Future of America and of the World!

"America, as I have said, will then in truth become the Young Heart and the Young Brain of a decrepit Earth. The pulsations of that Heart, and thoughts of that Brain, will shake the World.

-

"France, beautiful France-the land desecrated by religious wars and saintly massacres will be the first to feel the throbbings of that Heart, and echo the name of the New World Deliverer, and her songs of Brotherhood.

"France will be chosen by God to fight the first battle on the soil of Europe in the cause of Man.

“The heart sickens and the eye grows dim, but to gaze upon one detail of that battle, fought by France in the name of Man, against the Priests and Kings of an enslaved world.

"Even now I see it—it is there—that solitary glimpse-it is a river of blood, swelling fast into an ocean, with a corse upon every billow. "It is a People, degraded by the slavery of ten centuries, suddenly transformed into a horde of Demons, who not only sweep Priest and King into the bloody wave, not only level palace and jail beneath their crimsoned feet-but-O God! can it be? they blot the name of God from the sky, and write upon the grave-There is no immortality. Death is but a sleep.'

"At this time there will arise in France a Prophet of Carnage, a Messiah of Blood.

"He will stand upon an Engine of Murder, now unknown to mana terrible Engine, which glooms before me over the sea of Revolution, with its dismal timbers and gory axe. He will stretch forth his hands over the heads of a countless multitude, and while the sunbeam lights up his hollow cheek and sombre eyes, he will demand, in the name of the Poor, the blood of the oppressor, the blood of the rich, the titled, and the brave. More heads,' I hear him shriek, in that shrill voice, whose every accent is a Judgment. More heads for the altar of the Revolution. More blood to wash out the wrongs of the Poor, who have been trampled into dust for long centuries of hopeless bondage!' "As he speaks, the axe never rests in its awful work. It flashes, it falls there is the head of a King in the sawdust of the scaffold. Again, dripping with royal blood, it rises and falls-yes, for one year that axe weeps its bloody tears upon the timbers of the scaffold.

"As if the miseries of the Poor were incarnate in his slender frame,

H

as if the vengeance of ten million liberated slaves nerved his pale, thin hand, this Messiah of Carnage will go on in his task, preaching from the scaffold as from a Throne, and crying in the face of heaven, 'Death, Death to the rich, whose palaces have been reared on the skulls of the Poor!'

"At last when his work is done, his fearful mission accomplished, his hour will come.

"He will die in the attempt to bring Religious Civilization back to France. By the hands of the People, whose wrongs he has avenged; by the axe which his own hand sharpened for the neck of Kings.

"Upon the very scaffold which has been saturated with the blood of Royalty, he stands, gazing with blood-shot eyes upon that countless multitude, who yesterday shrieked his name with mad applause-who now yell that name in vengeance and in scorn.

"There is no friend for him in that vast multitude-no tear for him in this, his last moment of life-nothing but curses, shrieking from ten thousand lips, for his death-hymn-and all the while the blue sky smiles over him in calm mockery.

"O, it will be a terrible hour, when the Prophet of Blood, standing upon the scaffold, hears no voice to bless him, sees no eye wet with a tear, feels that the axe, which is about to sever his head, will dedicate his name to eternal infamy.

"And yet in that moment, when he stands alone in that countless multitude-his mangled face half concealed by a gory cloth, his bloodshot eyes gazing for the last time upon sun, and leaf, and life-in that moment a ray from Future Ages will shine into the blackness of his soul.

"This Thought will rise-not to his lips, for they are motionless and bloody-but to his eyes, as they look their last upon the earth and sky

"People! I have murdered-it was in your name! People! I have raised the altar of the Revolution—your wrongs were written upon it in characters of fire. * * * I die, and no eye shall weep for me, no tongue in all the world shall speak my name, save with a curse. Yet over the midnight of the Future I read the Judgment which a Liberated World shall pass upon my name. Thus they will speak of me: Others gave their lives in the cause of Freedom, but he,-this Prophet of Carnage-sacrificed more than life-he gave his name-he dedicated his Memory to eternal infamy, so that the Poor might rise into Brotherhood, and the Oppressor be known upon the earth no more!'

"And with that Thought in his blood-shot eye, the stern and uncomplaining Messiah of Carnage will yield his head to the very axe which is wet with a Monarch's blood.

"And this," faltered the speaker, wiping the moisture from his brow "this will occur before the Eighteenth Century is done-yes-I behold even now a terrible date, written in black characters upon a lurid cloud-that date is 1789.

"Yes, Priests and Kings will drink to the last dregs the cup which they filled for the lips of their slaves. They will have to combat, not merely a horde of slaves, but a Mob of Demons.

"But in order that the freedom so fearfully won by this People transformed into Demons, may not be lost in endless Massacre, a man will arise who will place his foot upon the necks of Kings, and mock their power to scorn, by assuming a power, unknown before in the annals of the human race. That boundless power will be assumed and worn in the name of the People.

"The New World demanded first an Apostle, then a Deliverer. Europe, after her Messiah of Carnage, demands a crowned Peasant-an AVENGER.

"Rising from the common herd, this man will become the Cromwell of the World, believing not so much in the People as in armies, not so much in God as his own Destiny!

"His bold forehead, stamped with more than kingly grandeur, his eyes lighted by a soul conscious of its own Destiny, his features shadowed by the warm bronze of the south, and marked by the outlines of the oriental races, appear before me now, like the face of a Demi-god.

"He traverses Europe, leaving his bloody foot-prints upon every shore. He stands upon the Egyptian pyramid, and, with his sad, thoughtful eye, surveys a world that is to be conquered by him. He girdles onehalf the globe with a belt of cannon and musket, bayonet and sword. Not a land in the Old World but is peopled by his army-already he stretches forth his arm toward the New.

"And this Man,—the Crowned Avenger of the People-with all his bloodshed, is a holy thing in the eyes of Heaven, compared with the noblest King on the face of the earth.

"He comes to begin for Europe that work which the Apostle and the Deliverer accomplished for the New World.

"And after his work is done, and he has scourged the Kings as with the lash of a God, and made them the humble Ministers of his will, he will be delivered into their hands; and afraid of the Man, even when he is chained; afraid of his soul, even when they have possession of his body; the Kings will bury the Crowned Peasant, in the profound solitudes of an Island that stands alone, in the centre of an ocean.

"There, isolated from mankind, and alone with his own Heart, the Avenger will die, his last gasp embittered by the persecutions of petty men, with brains of clay and hearts of stone.

"After the body is dead and Kings have worked their will upon it, the Soul of the Avenger will come back to France, and throb with terrible life, in new Revolutions.

"That Soul, redeemed from the stains which darkened its beauty, will hover, like a good Omen, over the destiny of mankind, and dwell in the hearts of the French People, as the thunder dwells in the clouds of heaven.

"For that Soul prepared the way for the coming of a Deliverer for Europe, even as the thunder and the lightning precedes the glorious calm of the summer day.

"And he will come-yes, the Deliverer of Europe,-of the world perchance, he will come at last. There are various figures written on the clouds of the Future, and I may not read them now.

"There,―glorious date that tells of a World enfranchised by the spirit