 | CHAPTER FIFTH.
THE MONASTERY. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon |  |
5. CHAPTER FIFTH.
THE MONASTERY.
Ere we follow the footsteps of Paul Ardenheim, let us turn back in
our history, and behold a scene which occurred some months before, when
the blush of June was upon the Wissahikon woods.
It stood in the shadows of the Wissahikon woods, that ancient Monastery,
its dark walls canopied by the boughs of a gloomy pine, interwoven
with leaves of grand old oaks.
From the waters of the wood-hidden stream, a winding road led up to
its gates; a winding road overhung with tall, rank grass, and sheltered
from the light by the thick branches above.
A Monastery? Yes, a Monastery, here amid the wilds of Wissahikon,
in the year of Grace, 1774; a Monastery built upon the soil of William
Penn!
Let me paint it for you, at the close of this calm summer day.
The beams of the sun, declining far in the west, shoot between the
thickly gathered leaves, and light up the green sward around those
massive gates, and stream with sudden glory over the dark old walls. It
no walls of massive stone. A huge square edifice, built one hundred
years ago of the trunks of giant oaks and pines, it rises amid the woods,
like the temple of some long-forgotten religion. The roof is broken into
many fantastic forms;—here it rises in a steep gable, yonder the heavy
logs are laid prostrate; again they swell into a shapeless mass, as though
stricken by a hurricane.
Not many windows are there in the dark old walls, but to the west
four large square spaces, framed in heavy pieces of timber, break on your
eye, while on the other sides the old house presents one blank mass of
logs, rising on logs.
No: not one blank mass, for at this time of year, when the breath of
June hides the Wissahikon in a world of leaves, the old Monastery looks
like a grim soldier, who, scathed by time and battle, wears yet thick
wreaths of laurel over his armor, and about his brow.
Green vines girdle the ancient house on every side. From the squares
of the dark windows, from the intervals of the massive logs, they hang
in luxuriant festoons, while the shapeless roof is all one mass of leaves.
Nay, even the wall of logs which extends around the old house, with a
ponderous gate to the west, is green with the touch of June. Not a trunk
but blooms with some drooping vine; even the gateposts, each a solid
column of oak, seem to wave to and fro, as the summer breeze plays with
their drapery of green leaves.
It is a sad, still hour. The beams of the sun stream with fitful splendor
over the green sward. That strange old mansion seems as sad and desolate
as the tomb. But suddenly—hark! Do you hear the clanking of
those bolts, the crashing of the unclosing gates?
The gates creak slowly aside!—let us steal behind this cluster of pines,
and gaze upon the inhabitants of the Monastery, as they come forth for
their evening walk.
Three figures issue from the opened gates. An old man, whose withered
features and white hairs are thrown strongly into the fading light by his
long robe of dark velvet. On one arm leans a young girl, also dressed
in black, her golden hair falling—not in ringlets—but in rich masses, to
her shoulders. She bends upon his arm, and with that living smile upon
her lips, and in her eyes, looks up into his face.
On the other arm, a young man, whose form, swelling with the proud
outlines of early manhood, is attired in a robe or gown, dark as his
father's, while his bronzed face, shaded by curling brown hair, seems to
reflect the silent thought written upon the old man's brow.
They pace slowly along the sod. Not a word is spoken. The old
man raises his eyes, and lifts the square cap from his brow—look! how
that golden beam plays along his brow, while the evening breeze tosses
his white hairs. There is much suffering, many deep traces of the Past,
from his blue eyes.
The young man—his dark eyes, wildly glaring, fixed upon the sod—
moves by the old man's side, but speaks no word.
The girl, that image of maidenly grace, nurtured into beauty within an
hour's journey of the city, and yet afar from the world, still bends over
that aged arm, and looks smilingly into that withered face, her glossy
hair waving in the summer wind.
Who are these, that come hither, pacing at the evening hour, along the
wild moss? The father and his children!
What means that deep, strange light, flashing not only from the blue
eyes of the father, but from the dark eyes of his son?
Does it need a second glance to tell you, that it is the light of Fanaticism,
that distortion of Faith—the wild glare of Superstition, that deformity
of Religion?
The night comes slowly down. Still the Father and Son pace the
ground in silence, while the breeze freshens and makes low music among
the leaves.—Still the young girl, bending over the old man's arm, smiles
tenderly in his face, as though she would drive the sadness from his brow
with one gleam of her mild blue eyes.
At last—within the shadows of the gate, their faces lighted by the last
gleam of the setting sun—the old man and his son stand like figures of
stone, while each grasps a hand of the young girl.
Is it not a strange yet beautiful picture? The old Monastery forms
one dense mass of shade; on either side extends the darkening forest,
yet here, within the portals of the gate, the three figures are grouped,
while a warm, soft mass of tufted moss, spreads before them. The proud
manhood of the son, contrasted with the white locks of the father, the
tender yet voluptuous beauty of the girl relieving the thought and sadness
which glooms over each brow.
Hold—the Father presses the wrist of his Son with a convulsive grasp
—hush! Do you hear that low deep whisper?
“At last, it comes to my soul, the Fulfilment of Prophecy!” he whispers
and is silent again, but his lip trembles and his eye glares.
“But the time—Father—the time?” the Son replies in the same deep
voice, while his eye, dilating, fires with the same feeling that swells his
Father's heart.
“The last day of this year—the third hour after midnight—the Deliverer
will come!”
These words may seem lame and meaningless, when spoken again, but
had you seen the look that kindled over the old man's face, his white
hand raised above his head, had you heard his deep voice swelling through
the silence of the woods, each word would ring on your ear, as though it
quivered from a spirit's tongue.
Then the old man and his son knelt on the sod, while the young
girl—looking in their faces with wonder and awe—sank silently beside
them.
The tones of Prayer broke upon the stillness of the darkening woods.
Tell us the meaning of this scene. Wherefore call this huge edifice,
whose dark logs are clothed in green leaves, by the old-world name of
Monastery? Who are these—father, son and daughter—that dwell within
its walls?
Seventeen years ago—from this year of Grace, 1774,—there came to
the wilds of the Wissahikon, a man in the prime of mature manhood, clad
in a long, dark robe, with a cross of silver gleaming on his breast. With
one arm he gathered to his heart a smiling babe, a little girl, whose golden
hair floated over his dark dress like sunshine over a pall; by the other
hand he led a dark-haired boy.
His name, his origin, his object in the wilderness, no one knew; but
purchasing the ruined Block-House, which bore on its walls and timbers
the marks of many an Indian fight, he shut himself out from all the world.
His son, his daughter, grew up together in this wild solitude. The voice
of prayer was often heard, at dead of night, by the belated huntsman,
swelling from the silence of the lonely house.
By slow degrees, whether from the cross which the old stranger wore
upon his breast, or from the sculptured images which had been seen within
the walls of his forest home, the place was called—the Monastery—
and its occupant the Priest.
Had he been drawn from his native home by crime? Was his name
enrolled among the titled and the great of his Father-land, Germany?
Or, perchance, he was one of those stern visionaries, the Pietists of
Germany, who, lashed alike by Catholic and Protestant persecutors,
brought to the wilds of Wissahikon their beautiful Fanaticism?
For that Fanaticism, professed by a band of brothers, who, years before,
driven from Germany, came here to Wissahikon, built their Monastery,
and worshipped God, without a written creed, was beautiful.
It was a wild belief, tinctured with the dreams of Alchemists, it may
be, yet still full of faith in God, and love to man. Persecuted by the
Protestants of Germany, as it was by the Catholics of France, it still
treasured the Bible as its law and the Cross as its symbol.
The Monastery, in which the brothers of the faith lived for long years,
was situated on the brow of a hill, not a mile from the old Block-House.
Here the Brothers had dwelt, in the deep serenity of their own hearts,
until one evening they gathered in their garden, around the form of their
dying father, who yielded his soul to God in their midst, while the setting
sun and the calm silence of universal nature gave a strange grandeur to
the scene.
But it was not with this Brotherhood that the stranger of the Block-House
held communion.
His communion was with the dark-eyed son, who grew up, drinking
the fanaticism of his father, in many a midnight watch; with the golden-haired
daughter, whose smile was wont to drive the gloom from his brow,
the wearing anxiety from his heart.
Who was the stranger? No one knew. The farmer of the Wissahikon
had often seen his dark-robed form, passing like a ghost under the
solemn pines; the wandering huntsman had many a time, on his midnight
ramble, heard the sounds of prayer breaking along the silence of the
woods from the Block-House walls: yet still the life, origin, objects of
the stranger were wrapt in impenetrable mystery.
Would you know more of his life? Would you penetrate the mystery
of this dim old Monastery, shadowed by the thickly-clustered oaks and
pines, shut out from the world by the barrier of impenetrable forests?
Would you know the meaning of those strange words, uttered by the
old man, on the calm summer evening?
Come with me, then—at midnight—on the last night of 1774. We
will enter the Block-House together, and behold a scene, which, derived
from a tradition of the past, is well calculated to thrill the heart with
a deep awe.
It is midnight: there is snow on the ground: the leafless trees fling
their bared limbs against the cold blue of the starlit sky.
The old Block-House rises dark and gloomy from the snow, with the
heavy trees extending all around.
The wind sweeps through the woods, not with a boisterous roar, but
the strange sad cadence of an organ, whose notes swell away through the
arches of a dim cathedral aisle.
Who would dream that living beings tenanted this dark mansion,
arising in one black mass from the bed of snow, its huge timbers revealed
in various indistinct forms, by the cold clear light of the stars? Centred
in the midst of the desolate woods, it looks like the abode of spirits,
or like some strange sepulchre, in which the dead of long-past ages lie
entombed.
There is no foot-track on the winding road—the snow presents one
smooth white surface—yet the gates are thrown wide open, as if ready
for the coming of a welcome guest.
Through this low, narrow door—also flung wide open—along this dark
corridor, we will enter the Monastery.
In the centre of this room, illumined by the light of two tall white
candles, sits the old man, his slender form clad in dark velvet, with the
silver cross gleaming on his bosom, buried in the cushions of an oaken
chair.
His slender hands are laid upon his knees—he sways slowly to and fro
—while his large blue eye, dilating with a wild stare, is fixed upon the
opposite wall.
Hush! Not a word—not even the creaking of a footstep—for this old
man, wrapped in his thoughts, sitting alone in the centre of this strangely
furnished room, fills us with involuntary reverence.
Strangely furnished room? Yes, circular in form, with a single door-way;
huge panels of dark oaken wainscot rise from the bared floor to the
gloomy ceiling. Near the old man arises a white altar, on which the
candles are placed, its spotless curtain floating down to the floor. Between
the candles, you behold a long, slender flagon of silver, a wreath
of laurel leaves, fresh gathered from the Wissahikon hills, and a Holy
Bible, bound in velvet, with antique clasps of gold.
Behind the altar, gloomy and sullen, as if struggling with the shadows
of the room, arises a cross of Iron.
On yonder small fire-place, rude logs of oak and hickory send up their
mingled smoke and flame.
The old man sits there, his eyes growing wilder in their gaze every
moment, fixed upon the solitary door. Still he sways to and fro, and
now his thin lips move, and a faint murmur fills the room.
“He will come!” mutters the Priest of the Wissahikon, as common
rumor named him. “At the third hour after midnight the Deliverer will
come!”
Yet while the aged man in the Block-house, after weary years of
thought, awaits the great end of his long vigil of Prayer, we will follow
the footsteps of his son, and witness scenes of novel and absorbing
interest.
It is now the hour of twelve, on the Last Night of 1774. While the
guests are feasting in the farm-house and dancing the old year to his grave,
while Gilbert goes on his way of Blood, and Paul on his errand of Peace,
the moon rises higher in the cloudless sky, and bathes the winding gorge
—the snowy hills—the wilderness of leafless trees, in light, at once sad
and sepulchral.
Yonder, on the summit of the broad hill, which rises on the south of
Wissahikon, we behold a stone mansion, centred in a grove of tall pines,
whose branches are bent with the weight of snow.
Through these thickly-woven pines, the moonlight comes in uncertain
gleams; now the level space in front of the hall door is alive with belts
of silvery light, that move hurriedly over the frozen snow, and again a
dense shadow broods around the mansion.
Its outlines are wrapped in gloom. Before the door, a fallen statue of
some heathen deity lies half-covered in snow; the shutters are closed;
the whole place wears an aspect of desolation.
Yet, from the circular tower which rises from the centre of the roof, a
vivid ray flashes far over the snow, until it is lost in the brightness, yonder,
beyond the grove of pines.
And while this light flashes from the tower of the mansion, on the southern
hill of Wissahikon, on the opposite shore, not more than five hundred
yards away, another ray gleams from the leafless trees, and trembles
on the bosom of the Wissahikon.
Deep sunken between two high hills, an old house stands there, encircled
with dreary brushwood, with the trees gathered thickly around it,
and the shutters on its narrow windows closed like the portals of a grave-vault.
Through the closed shutters, that faint and wandering ray streams
out upon the night, while the subdued echoes from its secret chambers
break at sudden intervals upon the Sabbath stillness of the air.
First we will turn our gaze toward the grand old mansion, on the southern
hills. It is the house of Isaac Van Behme, called Isaac the Wizard.
Then to the deserted house, sunken in the sombre hollow, on the northern
shore of Wissahikon, where the closed shutters and impenetrable
walls cannot altogether drown the sounds which awake the echoes of its
gloomy chambers.
Strange sounds, gloomy echoes! The deserted house is looked upon
with superstitious fear, by the people of the hill-side and forest. It is
haunted; ghosts are seen gliding through the shadows of its encircling
thickets; the Great Fiend himself comes nightly to visit its chambers.
Years ago, when it was a comfortable home, the country residence of a
foreigner, who sojourned awhile in the city, and spent his summer hours
beside the Wissahikon, a guest was murdered by its very hearthstone,
and buried in its cellar. So run the vague superstitions of the Wissahikon
folks, in regard to the ruined house.
It is indeed haunted, but by Ghosts or by living Men, who appear like
ghosts, and come and go, under the mantle of an impenetrable mystery?
The Great Fiend, in truth, does often visit its walls, but not the Satan
whom men fear, armed with grotesque terrors, formidable with hoof and
horns and tail.
That Fiend is the Invisible Head of a Secret Organization, which extends
from these woods of Wissahikon, over the continent of America,
and only speaks to hear its mandates re-echoed by the thousand Lodges
of the Old World and the New.
| CHAPTER FIFTH.
THE MONASTERY. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon | |