Speech of the Unknown The Speech of the Unknown details an account of a speech delivered at the signing of the Declaration of Independence by an unknown non delegate in attendance that day The speech is often attributed to Saint Germain a Rosicrucian The following is taken from Washington and His Generals or Legends of the Revolution by George Lippard published in 1847 The signers of the Declaration of Independence sat in Independence Hall at Philadelphia contemplating losing their heads or being hanged Their courage wavered The document sat there unsigned An extraordinary catalyst was needed to move them to action An unknown man rose and gave an electrifying speech He disappeared soon after By signing the Declaration all were guilty of high treason under British law The penalty for high treason was to be hanged by the neck until unconscious then cut down and revived then disemboweled and cut into quarters The head and quarters were at the disposal of the crown No wonder they wavered No wonder they discussed back and forth for days on end before signing the document that carried so grave a penalty An old legend dramatizes the story of the one who galvanized the delegates and gave them the courage to sign that document But still there is doubt and that pale faced man shrinking in one corner squeaks out something about axes scaffolds and a gibbet Gibbet echoes a fierce bold voice that startles men from their seats and look yonder A tall slender man rises dressed although it is summer time in a dark robe Look how his white hand undulates as it is stretched slowly out how that dark eye burns while his words ring through the hall We do not know his name let us therefore call his appeal THE SPEECH OF THE UNKNOWN Gibbet They may stretch our necks on all the gibbets in the land they may turn every rock into a scaffold every tree into a gallows every home into a grave and yet the words on that Parchment can never die They may pour our blood on a thousand scaffolds and yet from every drop that dyes the axe or drips on the sawdust of the block a new martyr to Freedom will spring into birth The British King may blot out the Stars of God from His sky but he can not blot out His words written on the Parchment there The works of God may perish His Word never These words will go forth to the world when our bones are dust To the slave in the mines they will speak hope to the mechanic in his workshop freedom to the coward kings these words will speak but not in tones of flattery No no They will speak like the flaming syllables on Belshazzar s wall THE DAYS OF YOUR PRIDE AND GLORY ARE NUMBERED THE DAYS OF JUDGMENT AND REVOLUTION DRAW NEAR Yes that Parchment will speak to the Kings in a language sad and terrible as the trump of the Archangel You have trampled on mankind long enough At last the voice of human woe has pierced the ear of God and called His Judgment down You have waded on to thrones over seas of blood you have trampled on to power over the necks of millions you have turned the poor man s sweat and blood into robes for your delicate forms into crowns for your anointed brows Now Kings now purpled Hangmen of the world for you come the days of axes and gibbets and scaffolds for you the wrath of man for you the lightnings of God Look How the light of your palaces on fire flashes up into the midnight sky Now Purpled Hangmen of the world turn and beg for mercy Where will you find it Not from God for you have blasphemed His laws Not from the People for you stand baptized in their blood Here you turn and lo a gibbet There and a scaffold looks you in the face All around you death and nowhere pity Now executioners of the human race kneel down yes kneel down upon the sawdust of the scaffold lay your perfumed heads upon the block bless the axe as it falls the axe that you sharpened for the poor man s neck Such is the message of that Declaration to Man to the Kings of the world And shall we falter now And shall we start back appalled when our feet press the very threshold of Freedom Do I see quailing faces around me when our wives have been butchered when the hearthstones of our land are red with the blood of little children What are these shrinking hearts and faltering voices here when the very Dead of our battlefields arise and call upon us to sign t