 | Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon |  |
PROLOGUE.
The author was aided in the preparation of this work, by a series of
papers, letters, and other MSS. relating to the events and men of our
Revolution, and especially to certain incidents, connected with the Wissahikon,
near Philadelphia. The incidents detailed in the MSS. were of a
remarkable and various character; presenting at one view, a picture of the
home-life, the battles, and superstitions of olden time. Some portions of
the MSS. were written in a cipher, not only difficult, but utterly untranslatable,
at least, without a key. As the pages in cipher occurred in the
most interesting points of the narrative, and seemed from the context to
picture not only events which took place in '75, '77 and '78 on the Wissahikon,
but also events of other lands, and of distant centuries, the author
was exceedingly anxious to discover the key to this secret writing. The
untranslatable Cipher: or, perhaps, Cryptograph would be a better word.
At first sight, this of course, looked like nothing but a scrawl, without
object or meaning, but as entire pages were written in the same manner—
as there seemed to be something like system, in the very irregularity of
the lines and their angles,—curiosity was excited, and the most strenuous
exertions made to discover the meaning of some particular part, and thus
construct a key for the whole. After much effort, the characters given
above were discovered to represent the word—“Mount Sepulchre.”
The translation of the Cipher was then accomplished without much difficult.
The passage in which the word “Mount Sepulchre” occured was
first translated; and the author discovered that it was a quotation from
some unknown Manuscript, entitled “the Manuscript of the Sealed
Chamber,” written by a Monk, in the Reign of the Eighth Henry, and
connected with the events of the Wissahikon, by a thread of peculiar and
important incidents.
The first passage translated from the Cipher was in substance as
follows:
“In order that these things which appear to you so strange, may be in
some measure accounted for, I subjoin a passage from the Manuscript of
the Sealed Chamber (written as you know in the reign of Henry VIII.,
by Prior Eustace) which connects the incidents of the present history,
with an almost incredible tragedy, which happened more than two hundred
years ago.”
Then followed the passage from the MSS. of the Sealed Chamber,
which is subjoined with some modifications of style, language, etc. although
the Spirit of the Original is preserved.
“MOUNT SEPULCHRE.”
“You cannot picture to yourself a nobler image of Feudal grandeur, than
that which was embodied in the Castle of Mount Sepulchre.
(Even I that write these words, `Father Eustace' once, and `Prior of
the Monastery,' near the Castle, but now plain Eustace Brynne, even I,
that know so well the terrible deeds enacted in the Castle, can scarce
believe that a scene so fair to the eye, was ever made the theatre of such
unnatural crimes.)
The traveller who might chance to journey through the woods of Yorkshire,
suddenly emerged from the shadows, and stood upon a rock which
overhung a magnificent prospect of woods, and hills, and valleys, with
tranquil waters gleaming here and there, like the shattered fragments of a
great mirror framed in emerald.
And in the midst of this prospect, nay, in the very foreground, arose
the grand old castle of Mount Sepulchre.
A massive hill rose suddenly from the bosom of a forest. It was a
wide forest, full of oaken trees, whose woven branches shut out the sun,
and invested the turf with a rich twilight shadow. It was a wide forest,
and, yet standing upon the jutting rock, you might behold a wide expanse
of green meadows, and luxuriant orchards, abrupt hills and vallies threaded
by silver streams stretching beyond the limits of this forest to the far distant
horizon. Then, there were mansions too, breaking suddenly upon
the sight—here a fortified grange standing amid oaken trees on the summit
of a gentle hill, there a farm-house, lifting its gray walls from orchard
trees, and on the slope of some meadow dotted with sleek cattle, the
sombre towers of a Monastery, rushed suddenly on the view.
But, in the midst of this varied and beautiful prospect—the noblest thing
which met the eye—arose the old Castle of Mount Sepulchre.
It stood alone on the summit of that broad hill which arose from the
bosom of the forest. It was a strange structure presenting at once to
your sight massive walls, and lofty towers; here a slender pillar like the
minaret of a Pagan Mosque, pierced the blue sky, with its banner of
white, and gold floating into Heaven, and there a huge mass of dark stone
rose in the sunlight, with the green vines trailing about its windows, and
flowers fluttering from its gloomy parapet.
In fact, the Castle of Mount Sepulchre presented at a glance, a gorgeous
combination of Gothic and Oriental Architecture. As you gazed
upon it from the jutting crag, it seemed as though the spirits of the Eastern
and the Western world had met in this beautiful valley of England,
and reared this magnificent pile, as a trophy of their combined skill.
Many ages ago—when the third Richard was in the land—this Castle
was only a stern image of dark stone, with four rude towers rising into
heaven, and cell-like windows indenting the surface of its sombre walls.
Then, a solid wall encircled the base of the hill, with a gate rising to
the west, and beyond this wall a wide and deep moat, seperated the hill
from the surrounding woods.
But the Lord of Mount Sepulchre followed King Richard, the Lion
Heart to the wars of Palestine, and were thousands only fought to win
a grave, he fought and won more fame, more titles and more gold.
Therefore returning from the holy wars, he added new lands to the domain
of the Castle. He hung around its gloomy walls the fantastic
glories of Oriental architecture, and between the sombre walls Pagan
minarets arose, and where had been dark courts paved with unsightly
stone, new gardens bloomed, their flowers and foliage fluttering about the
old castle, like rich drapery around a rugged warrior's breast.
This Lord of the day of Richard, the Lion-Heart, even changed the
name of the castle: it had been called by the rude Gothic name of his
ancestors, but in memory of the Holy wars,—perchance in memory of
the Sacred Tomb of Christ—he called it Mount Sepulchre.
And so, as you see it now in the reign of Henry the Eighth, our
glorious King, he left the Castle to his heir, and lies buried in a Chapel
somewhere amid the mazes of yonder Castle, a Chapel which resembles
a Pagan Mosque, with its mosaic pavement, its swelling dome, and
quaintly fashioned lamps, even burning over altars of sculptured marble.
We will stand upon this jutting rock, and trace the features of this
Castle by the light of the summer day.
It crowns the summit of the hill, with its towers and pillars gleaming
in the sun.
The base of the hill is still encircled by a heavy wall, but that wall is
adorned with towers, and two massive pillars crowned by long and tapering
spires, mark the position of the castle gate.
Beyond this wall, which encircles a space of twenty acres or more, in
fact, girdles the entire hill, there is no longer an unsightly moat filled with
stagnant water, but a stream of silver, which flows from the woods in the
west, winds around the wall like a belt of shining silver beside a belt of
iron, and then disappears in the woods toward the east.
The space between the castle on top of the hill, and the wall at its
base, is diversified with gardens, divided by walks fantastically arranged,
and adorned with shrubbery and flowers of almost every clime. It seems
Arno, and set down on English soil amid the scenes of Yorkshire.
The Baron of Mount Sepulchre can gaze from the loftiest tower of his
Castle, and turn his eyes to the east, to the west, to the north, and to the
south, exclaiming as he turns, “This—and this—all that I behold is mine!”
For he is a powerful lord, high in favor with our Sovereign Lord,
Henry the Eighth, who the other day sat aside his Spanish Queen, and
took to his arms a New Queen, in the person of the witching maiden,
Anne Boleyn. It will be remembered that at the same time, he took to
his bed a New Queen, he also took to his Altar a new Religion. He set
aside the Pope, and now reigns at once Pope and King, with the power
to set aside as many queens and religions as it shall please his dread
Majesty.
The Lord Harry Mount Sepulchre of Mount Sepulchre is not only a
powerful Lord, but he is young, gallant and fair to look upon. Only
twenty-four years of age, with a form of iron and a fair face, shaded by
golden hair, he can wield a sword, back a steed, or win a peasant maid,
with any Lord in Christendom.
He is the Last of his Race—the last of the Mount Sepulchres, and yet,
he has taken no bride to his lordly bed. Rich with the possessions of his
race, richer with the gifts and favor of the King, he cares not to load his
young heart with the chains of wedlock, or darken his gay bachelor life
with the frown of some jealous dame.
Would I might pierce the castle walls, and show him to you as he sits
at the head of the well-loaded board, goblet in hand, with the faces of
some score of gay lords like himself echoing his merry jests, and copying
his courtly smiles.
He is the last of his race, and yet, his father the old Lord is not dead.
In yonder gloomy tower, which seperates itself from the body of the
castle, and mocks the glad summer with its sullen grandeur, sits an old
man, very old, in faith, with the snows of ninety winters upon his white
beard.
Many years ago he was stricken at once with palsy, and with blindness.
It was soon after his eldest son, a dark-haired boy, who loved the
book better than the sword, and the air of the woods better than the perfumed
atmosphere of the Count,—left the Castle suddenly for other lands,
without once bidding Lord Hubert farewell.
For many years the old man awaited the return of his Son. He had
heard of him from various parts of Europe, now from Hungary, now from
Italy, and again from Spain. But, the eldest son never returned. He
was a wanderer upon the face of the earth; the old Baron knew not
wherefore, but sat looking day after day from the tower of his castle,
turning his eyes to every quarter of the horizon, in the hope to behold
his returning Son.
“When Ranulph of Mount Sepulchre returns, and takes upon himself
the sway of the Castle and its domains, then I can die in peace.”
Ranulph was the name of his dark-haired Son.
Long the old man waited—not a day shone, but found him in the tower
waiting for his eldest born. But Ranulph never came.
One day there came a messenger with a letter, which enclosed a lock
of hair. It was dark hair, with a thread of silver turned among its blackness.
The old Baron looked upon the lock of hair, read the letter and
knew that his eldest born was dead. Ranulph had been killed in a duel
in Florence—his ashes slept beside the Arno.
Blindness smote the old man's eyeballs, palsy withered his limbs—he
sits even now, mourning in the old tower, his white beard descending
over his gaunt chest—he sits alone with his blindness, his disease and his
ninety years, while his gay Son, Lord Harry Mount Sepulchre holds high
festival in the great hall of the castle.
It will be remembered, that in consequence of the age, the blindness—
shall I say idiocy—of the old Baron, Lord Harry had been invested with
all his rights and powers as Supreme Lord of Mount Sepulchre, even before
his father was dead. This had been done by our gracious Lord
King Henry, who having power to set aside queens and religions at his
pleasure, certainly has the right to invest an heir with all that pertains to
Lordship, even before the old man his father is gathered into the grave
vault.
And merry are the days of the young Lord in his castle, and joyous
are his nights; care comes not to chill his ardent heart, neither can the
anger of living man make his soul afraid.
He spends his days and nights bravely with his redoubted Twenty-Four.
His redoubted Twenty-Four! Yes, for he hath gathered to himself,
from country and from Court, nay, even from lands beyond the Sea,
Twenty-Four noble Knights, who know no altar but a well-filled table,
no God save a brimming Cup. They share his gold, they partake of his
pleasures; when he wiles some buxom peasant maid with his dainty
tongue they laugh, and when he points to them a man who hath done
him wrong—they kill.
A merry time they have together, Lord Harry and his Twenty-Four.
By day they hunt over hill and plain, with mettled steeds and baying
hounds; at night the wine-cup and the board, with now and then a pleasure,
that might suit the luxurious gloom of an Eastern Seraglio, but does
not befit a page like mine to tell.
Oftentimes at dead of night they issue forth from the castle gates,
mounted on fiery steeds and with torches in their hands, go thundering
through the silent country, like so many devils on devils' steeds.
The peasant sleeping on his rude cot after the hard day's toil, starts up
they are gone. Now and then, a knight madder than the rest, flings
his blazing torch into some farmer's hayrick, and the band go dashing
and tramping on their way, by a light more vivid than the sun. Then,
how their shouts echo through the woods as the hayrick fires the farmer's
home, and forces the rude peasant and his dame, with the little child upon
her bosom, from their slumbers!
O, they are in faith, a merry band, Lord Harry and his brave Twenty-Four.
In the depths of the wood, not far from the castle hill, stands a gloomy
fabric, whose dismantled walls makes the wayfarer turn aside, even by
the light of day, and grow cold with fear at dead of night.
This deserted fabric was not long ago a Monastery tenanted by an idle
swarm of monks and nuns, but, our Lord King Henry took a new wife,
and a new Religion, and therefore our Lord Baron Harry went forth not
long ago, near the break of day, and — but 'tis a long
story, and I have not time to tell it now.
It is said they had a merry time scourging the affrighted monks through
smoke and flame. As for the nuns, some were old, and they turned them
forth upon the night into the rude world. Some were young and fair to
look upon, and the brave Twenty-Four took them on their saddles to the
castle, and—
It made a great stir among the peasants of the Baron's domain. Some
affrighted ones with their garments torn, and the marks of rude hands
upon their breasts were found, after a lapse of three or four days wandering
in the forests, startling the stillness with their ravings, and uttering the
name of Lord Harry coupled with curses.
But they were nuns.
It is also said that the peasant talks in low tones of the good old times,
when old Baron Hubert held the sway, and his dark-eyed son came kindly
to their cottages, and broke bread at their tables, yes, broke bread even
with these, the rude peasant people.
There is a prophecy among these base born folks, that one day Lord
Ranulph will return and unseat his younger Brother from the saddle, and
assume the rule of the broad domains of Mount Sepulchre. But 'tis only
a vague superstition of these vassals, who are born for the good pleasure
of such Lords as the brave Harry, and such Kings as the high and mighty
Henry, the Eighth of his name, sovereign of England and France, Defender
of the Faith and Pope of the New Religion.
The sun is getting low in the heaven. There are broad shadows over
the distant fields, and the base of the castle hill is lost in twilight, while
the pillars and towers far above, shine through the clear air like columns
of living flame.
We will descend from this jutting rock which overlooks the prospect,
and enter the grand old castle of Mount Sepulchre.
To night, at set of sun, the brave Harry and his bold Twenty-Four hold
high festival in the Hall of Palestine.
And to-night, Lord Harry leaves the wine-cup to visit the old man, who
sits blind and moaning in yonder tower, and from the old man's cell he
goes to hold communion with the dark-visaged Italian, who but a few days
since came to Mount-Sepulchre with his youthful page. 'Tis said the
Italian is a Scholar—poor—and therefore a Sorcerer. As for his page,
'tis said that—but our history will tell it all.
Little did they think, even Lord Harry, the Italian and the Page, that
the sun which shone so brightly over Mount Sepulchre as it sunk below
the horizon, would not rise again until the Three were linked together, in
a Crime that makes the blood grow chill but to remember.
The festival begins; let us enter the Castle gate.
Thus reads the first passage of the MSS. of the Sealed Chamber. The
reader will find the Sequel embodied in the pages of the present work;
in connection with the events which took place on the Wissahikon, in the
years '75, '77 and '78. It will be seen that so far as our history is concerned,
a chain of peculiar incidents connects our Revolution with the
Reign of Henry VIII,—the Wissahikon with the hills of Yorkshire.
With regard to “Paul Ardenheim, the Monk of Wissahikon,” not a
word more in the way of preface is necessary. The book is now before
the reader; it has been with the author for years, always, and in every
stage of its progress, a book which he wrote from love of the subject.
That subject comprises the lights and the shadows, the superstition and
the heroisms of our Past, and moreover covers ground hitherto untrodden
—the influence which the German mind manifested in the case of the
early settlers has exerted upon the history of Pennsylvania, and the cause
of human progress.
To all gentlemen of a critical turn,—especially gentlemen who are
witty in small papers, and profound in fashion-plate magazines—it is simply
necessary to say, that this is the Most Improbable Book in the
World. It is to be hoped that this statement on the part of the author,
will be perfectly satisfactory, to all those gentlemen whose object is never to
read a book, but simply to misrepresent its contents, and bark at its author.
One word to readers of a different kind—readers who are willing to
read a book with something of the spirit in which it was written.
A Dream has been lingering about my heart for years—a dream whose
lights and shadows, strong contrasts and deep passions, I have found embodied,
in actual form, in the rocks and hills, the streamlet and the gorge
of Wissahikon. That Dream I have attempted to put on paper, and called
it “Paul Ardenheim.”
| Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon | |