‘Faithful steward of the mysteries’

    

Steward and Tyler.

It is the duty of the Steward and Tyler—usually both offices, in small lodges, are conferred upon the same person—to remain behind when the lodge closes, and see that every thing is made safe, secure, and orderly: Safe by extinguishing fires and lights; secure by closing all locks and fastenings; orderly by gathering up aprons, jewels, &c., from the places where impatient hands have strewn them, and depositing each in its proper receptacle. For want of this, books become prematurely torn and defaced; jewels bruised, bent, and broken; aprons soiled to absolute defilement. It is not the wearing that brings these things to such a speedy end, it is the careless manner in which they are used. Our observation of lodges brings us to the conclusion that nothing is so extravagant as neglect.

Visiting a certain lodge one morning early, the meeting having closed about midnight before, we remarked the aprons are lying, white and clean, in the wardrobe; the jewels hanging on a hook in proper order, the square outwards; the candlesticks in a row on a shelf; the books closed and neatly piled; the Masonic carpet covered by its curtain; the spittoons in the corner; chairs set back against the wall; bylaws gathered up on the secretary’s table; and the whole as fresh and systematic as a lady’s parlor. Inquiring of the Steward and Tyler how he found time for all of this last night, he very sensibly remarked: “That he was paid by the lodge to perform certain duties, and whenever he found that he could not get time to be honest, he would resign his office.” Thinks a friend who stood by, “what a difference there is between men!”

And so there is. For on a visit to another lodge, we observed every thing in disorder and running to waste. The aprons were lying like autumn leaves, wherever they happen to fall—on tables, chairs, and floor. Some of them were defiled with the contents of the spittoons, all of them were in a condition disgraceful to the curator or the wearers. The jewels lay in higgledy piggledy confusion, as extravagant in its results as it was discreditable to the lodge, for some of them were bent, one was broken, and all were rusty and dingy. The bits of candles lay here, there, and every-where, smearing books and furniture. The good old Bible having been left open, had received a thick deposit of dust, which contrasted painfully with its sacred character. The spittoons in the darkened room formed capital stumbling-blocks, which we happily took advantage of, and found a corresponding horizontal benefit. In fact, the whole scene resembled “a banquet hall deserted,” from which the guests had all retired intoxicated, and the servants had incontinently locked the door.

And yet, that Tyler was paid a dollar a night to do the duties of the office of Tyler and Steward. His not doing those duties cost his lodge not less than fifty dollars a year in damages. Was he a faithful steward of the mysteries? Certainly not. Soon as the lodge was declared closed, he barely took time to blow out the lights and was off to bed, leaving the costly paraphernalia of his lodge to the moles and the bats. Such conduct is reprehensible. Who is responsible for such a waste of property?

The policy is to select a careful, experienced man for Tyler—one to whom the fees of the office are an object, and one who will conscientiously earn those fees. Many such an one have we found in our journeys. One in New York has served for twenty years as Tyler; one in Boston for forty. Such men are beyond all price, and when they pass beyond the dark valley they are honored as the best of the Brotherhood.

Rob Morris

The American Freemason magazine

1858