Read Ebook: Points of Humour Part 1 (of 2) by Cruikshank George Illustrator

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Ebook has 238 lines and 31255 words, and 5 pages

On one of these excursions he was accompanied by the Lord Marshal, Gothard of Plettenberg.

"It may be done now, and in a few words," rejoined the other; "for we stand exactly before the subterraneous passage, or mouth of the cavern; but for fifty years, not a human foot has advanced beyond the bottom of the steps, there the torches are always blown out."

The burgomaster of Revel, who was then with them, made a cross on his breast, and confirmed the statement. "Sometimes," continued Gothard, "are heard, during the night, the sounds of soft music, arising slowly and melodiously from the cave, like the sweet tones of musical glasses, with an accompaniment of the songs of angels. The holy sisters of the convent are frequent listeners to this divine harmony, though none of the words can be understood."

"Let the venerable Lady Abbess come down to me," said the general, as he alighted from his horse, and placed his glove in his sword-belt. The Abbess now appeared, veiled. She modestly curtsied to the knight, and presented him with a cup of Spanish wine. The old General laid himself down on the grass, and asked the sainted lady if she could give him any information relative to the subterraneous passage? The Abbess replied in the affirmative, adding a number of particulars concerning what she and her pious sisters had seen,--and fancied they had seen--heard, and fancied they had heard.

"So God and St. Vitus help me!" exclaimed the governor, "I will myself make an attempt to descend into the cavern; give me a lighted, consecrated torch."

The lady Abbess entreated the old man not to undertake so rash an enterprize; and assured him, that the spirits of former times, unlike those of the present day, would not allow themselves to be sported with. But in arguing with the brave old General, they talked to the wind which blew over the Baltic. The consecrated torches were brought, the corpulent General repeated an Ave-Maria, recommended himself to St. Vitus, his protecting Saint, and courageously entered the mysterious passage. The sound of his feet was still heard on the steps; his breathing was still audible, and the glimmer of his torch played on the damp walls. On a sudden all was silent, and the light disappeared. The listeners above were on the stretch of attention. Go-thard was stationed on the upper step; the burgomaster a few paces further back; and behind him stood the Abbess, her rosary running through her fingers. They listened, but all was still! "Holloa there, John of Mengden!--how fare you?" thundered the voice of Gothard; yet all was still as the grave. The listeners were alarmed; they inclined their ears; they stood lightly on tip-toe; they restrained their breath--not a sound ascended. The cavern yawned before them, and all was silent below; "Holy St. Bridget! what can have happened? Let the priests be summoned, and mass be said, to appease the spirits!"

"Well, brother," said he to the lord-marshal, "will not you also make the attempt, and try whether it will not succeed better with you."

Gothard of Plettenberg demurred: notwithstanding he never feared, in former times, a knight of flesh and bone, as long as he was able to wield his sword; yet, with respect to ghosts, a very just exception was allowed; and a knight might tremble in the dark like an old woman, without any stain upon his honor, or impeachment of his valour. Now a days, the matter is quite altered, and a man may fear any thing but ghosts.

He instantly sent for Henry of Uxkull, bishop of Revel, and the Abbot, of Pardis. Being arrived, they were entertained at a large oak table, and quaffed wine from the family goblet. They listened to the fearful story of their host, with their fat hands folded upon their huge bellies, and shook their heads with significant silence.

But it was not so with the General. He could not rest. His fancy was on the rack, to account for the mystery. On the next morning, he despatched letters to the Archbishop of Riga, to a learned canon, and two pious deans of the holy church of Riga--stating "that a surprising incident had obliged him to have recourse to their piety and wisdom, and entreating that they would be at Revel on St. Egidius's day, to discuss in Christian humility this weighty affair."

They came on the appointed day: for they were aware that the cellar of the Governor contained excellent wine, and that his was no niggard hospitality. The archbishop of Revel, and the Abbot of Pardis, were likewise invited to assist, who failed not at the proper hour to present themselves at the castle. An elegant repast had been prepared for them, bumpers went cheerily round to the prosperity of Holy Church, and to the perpetual bloom of the German order of religion. When their spiritual stomachs were sufficiently gorged, the General thus addressed them: "Reverend and pious fathers! thus and thus it happened to me and my friend here, Gothard of Plettenberg," recounting his story--"What is to be done to liberate the spirits who wander and breathe in the subterraneous passage?"

"They must be driven out by force," replied the archbishop of Riga, "and the power to do this was given to bishops from above."

"A wisp of hay should be steeped in holy water," added the canon, "with which the steps of the dark passage should be sprinkled."

One of the deans advised that "the little chest with the Egyptian hieroglyphics, which was kept as a relic in the convent of St. Bridget, should be taken to the cavern.".

The other dean was of opinion that the spirits should be allowed to continue without molestation so long as they only wandered and breathed.

The archbishop of Revel was also of the same sentiment, but the Abbot of Pardis applauded this idea of the Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Last of all, the old General proposed that they should immediately ride to the beach, and employ the arms of the church against the inhabitants of the subterraneous passage. The wine had imparted its spirit to the holy fathers; and they now felt courage to engage, if necessary, even with the fiends of hell.

Within half an hour they were at the convent gate!

Three times were the consecrated torches borne round by the archbishop, who, muttering between his teeth, dipped the wisp into a large ewer of holy water, and plentifully besprinkled all present; Thus spiritually armed, they silently and cautiously approached the entrance of the cavern. Here a question arose, "who should go down first?" Those who were at home were unwilling to rob the strangers of the honor of precedence. The deans drew back, as being merely subalterns in the church, out of respect to their bishop. The archbishop bowed to the right learned canon, and he bowed to the rest. The General became impatient, and forced the archbishop down the steps. The rest followed with beating hearts and tottering knees.

Each carried in his hand a consecrated taper; and with a rosary hanging at his elbow, sprinkled the walls with drops of holy water. The last of the procession was the Abbot of Pardis, who, grown unwieldy by the luxurious diet of the church, could scarcely drag his short puffed legs after his fat and bulky paunch. The steps too were not only small, but damp and slippery; whence it happened, that on the second step the Abbot lost his footing, and falling with his whole weight upon Henry of Uxkull, they both fell upon the last dean: all three on the first dean; all four on the canon; all five upon the archbishop of Riga; when the whole troop rolled helter skelter down the steps, and plumped to the bottom like so many sacks, there remaining senseless!

The consecrated tapers were extinguished, and the venerable group were veiled by a sort of Egyptian darkness. The General, who remained above, heard the tremendous rumbling, to which succeeded a dead silence. For two hours he listened, called on each by name, and waited in vain for a reply. His voice alone was returned to him in a dull and hollow echo. The only sound which met his eager listening, was that of the terrified bat, flitting in the depths of the cavern; or, at intervals, the scream of the frightened owl.

Thus ended the second attempt to gain a more intimate acquaintance with the spirits of the subterraneous passage, and thenceforward no one was bold enough to tread the magic ground.

The Prince, at their head, ran up to the window, and with all courtesy helped in the astonished Cardinal, and turning to the servants said, "Scoundrels! is it thus you pay respect to the sacred person of the Cardinal Bernis? Is it thus, by your negligence, that you compel his Eminence, when coming to my wife, to venture his precious life upon a slight ladder and force him through the window in this miserable plight?" Conceive the situation of the bald-pated, cloakless, and tattered Cardinal, as he stood ashamed and terrified before the jeering Prince and his twenty torchbearers. His trembling knees could scarcely support him, as, half dead with fright, shame, and disappointment, he sneaked out of the room, still lighted by the torches and bowed out by the Prince, who continued to apologize for the carelessness of his servants, much to the annoyance of the poor Cardinal, whose misery was heightened by one stroke more; for, as he was huddling off, he just caught the face of the Princess, peeping through the opening of a door with some friends, all almost convulsed with laughter.

"Oh, no! mamma," said Cecilia, smiling too, "but I assure you that even Caesar would have found it very cold this morning."

"I have not the least doubt of it; but Caesar was such a great man! Do you know, Cecilia, that if we were to examine with care, I feel sure that among his great actions we should find many which must have benumbed his feet and hands."

"In that case," said Cecilia, somewhat drily, "he must have been very fortunate if he could find matters to attend to which would prevent his thinking of the cold, for it is certainly very disagreeable."

"Undoubtedly," replied Madame de Vesac, carelessly; "but there are some persons who can manage to think of every thing. I am persuaded, for instance, that had you been in Claelia's place, when, flying from the camp of Porsenna, she crossed the Tiber on horseback, you would have found it excessively disagreeable, to have been obliged to wet your feet."

"Well, mamma," said Cecilia with animation, "you ought to be delighted at that, since you are continually telling me that instead of wishing to be a heroine, it is quite enough to attend to one's duties merely."

"Certainly; but I who make no pretensions to heroism, find that mere duty is sometimes quite sufficient to employ all our powers, and that it is impossible that we can always do what simple duty requires, unless we have learned to bear cold, fatigue, and even the misfortune of having to get up at five o'clock in the morning in the month of December."

"It is nevertheless certain, mamma, that there are things which it is quite impossible to do, such as walking when one is tired."

"I assure you, mamma," replied Cecilia, with some slight degree of temper, "that when I say I cannot do a thing I really cannot."

"I am sure of that, but I should like to know whence arises the impossibility. Pray think of this at the first opportunity. It is necessary that I should know whether you are really weaker than other people."

Cecilia made no reply; she was perfectly persuaded that no one understood her sufferings, and had never asked herself whether she were not made like other people, and consequently able to endure what they endured. The day passed well enough, and when night came she slept.

She was sleeping soundly, when a violent jerk suddenly aroused her. "Gracious! what is the matter?" she exclaimed. "We are upset," said Madame de Vesac; and in fact at that moment, the carriage, which had passed over a large stone, came to the ground with a violent shock, and turned completely over on one side. Cecilia screamed, and fell upon her mother. "Do not be frightened," said Madame de Vesac, who, notwithstanding the inconvenience of her position, thought only of her daughter. The carriage was stopped, and the postilion dismounted, and came to their assistance. All this time Cecilia did not cease screaming. "Where are you hurt?" asked her mother, trembling lest she should be severely wounded. "Everywhere," replied Cecilia, unconscious of what she said, the fright had so bewildered her. When the postilion opened the door which happened to be uppermost, Cecilia knew not what to do to extricate herself from her position. "Get up," said the postilion.

"Get up," repeated her mother, but Cecilia replied, "I cannot," without knowing whether she could or not, for she had not even tried. At last the postilion, who was active and strong, raising her up, lifted her out of the carriage, and thus freed her mother from a weight which almost overpowered her and made her feel ready to faint. Then Madame de Vesac, in her turn, getting out with the assistance of the postilion, hastened to her daughter, whom she was delighted to find standing up, although motionless, and not knowing whether she had a limb of which she could make use. In a little while, being somewhat reassured by her mother's voice, Cecilia began to answer the repeated questions put to her to ascertain where she was hurt. Both her knees were bruised, and her elbow grazed: she had a slight swelling on the head, a bonnet box had pressed her side, and her foot, which happened to be under the seat of the carriage, was a little swelled. "I am so bruised all over that I cannot move," she said, moving, however, the whole time in every direction to feel where she was hurt. She asked her mother whether she, too, were not hurt. "I think," replied Madame de Vesac, "I have sprained my wrist, for it is very painful, and I cannot use my hand."

"Just like my foot," replied Cecilia, and saying so, she began to walk. Madame de Vesac smiled, but said nothing. She wrapped her hand in her shawl, the ends of which she tied round her so as to support her wrist, and then busied herself with what was to be done. Recovered from the first shock of their fall, and congratulating themselves on having escaped so well, they nevertheless found themselves placed in a very unpleasant predicament. Comtois, the only servant who had accompanied them, had gone on before, as a courier, to prepare the horses. The postilion, unable by himself to raise the carriage, was obliged to go for assistance to the post-house, from which they were still at a considerable distance. Madame de Vesac and Cecilia, therefore, as they could not follow him since he went on horseback, nor reach the post-house alone, as they were ignorant of the way, were obliged to remain on the road until his return. The night was extremely dark, and the cold, without being very intense, was sharp and disagreeable. A sleet was falling, which, as it reached the ground, was converted into ice. The carriage, completely overturned, afforded no shelter, and to the other inconveniences of their position, was added that of being quite alone at ten o'clock at night upon the high road. Madame de Vesac, however courageous, was not without uneasiness, but she knew it was useless to give way to it; and when Cecilia, a little terrified, asked her if they were to remain alone, "You see we must," she replied, in a tranquil voice, which gave her daughter to understand, that though she was aware of the inconvenience of the arrangement, she nevertheless submitted to it with calmness, because it was necessary. Cecilia herself saw this necessity so plainly that she made no reply; but when after unharnessing the horses, and securing two of them to a tree, the postilion mounted the third to go and seek assistance; when she saw him depart, when the sound of his horse's feet growing fainter and fainter at last ceased to fall upon her ear, then her heart shrank with terror, a cold perspiration covered her limbs, and she drew close to her mother. Madame de Vesac perceived her alarm, but made no remark, well knowing that nothing so much increases terror as speaking of it. She merely endeavoured to restore her confidence a little, by giving her, on her own part, an example of courage and tranquillity.

The wind became more violent, the sleet increased, and a heavy fall of snow began to mingle with it: Madame De Vesac and her daughter went over to the side where the carriage offered some defence against the rain and snow which were beating into their faces; but this shelter did not long suffice, the gusts of wind became so violent, that Cecilia was twice on the point of losing her hat, notwithstanding the ribbons by which it was confined. It was with difficulty that they kept their shawls around them; the snow assailed them on all sides, melting upon them, and penetrating their clothes; and they were benumbed by a damp coldness, from which their inability to move left them no means of escape. Cecilia did not think of complaining, for no one could have assisted her; besides, she could not doubt that her mother suffered as much as herself, and complaints are seldom made except to excite the pity of those who seem better off than we are, and who, therefore, are able to think of us rather than of themselves. Cecilia now discovered how erroneous it is to suppose that any comfort is to be derived from complaining: perhaps even she suffered less from her position, than she would have done had she lamented it; but she did not make this reflection, and it was natural that the necessity of the case should render her more courageous.

Madame de Vesac, however, fearing lest her daughter should become ill, from the cold and damp which had penetrated her clothes, proposed to her to seek shelter in a wood which extended on both sides of the road, and the trees of which, though divested of their leaves, were at least sufficiently close to break the violence of the wind and snow; but this wood was the principal object of Cecilia's dread. Terrified at the proposition, she could only utter the words, "Oh! mamma, to go into the wood!"

"Just as you like, my child," said Madame de Vesac, "but," she added, smiling, "who do you think would come after us in such weather as this? You may be quite sure there is nobody abroad but ourselves."

"It is in that direction, mamma," said Cecilia, who, delighted at the thought of avoiding the copse, pointed to a road a little more to the right than the one they were on the point of taking. Madame de Vesac listened again, and the voice which still continued to call and answer, seeming, in fact, to proceed from the right, she took the direction indicated by Cecilia, and calling from time to time to Comtois, they walked on towards the spot whence the sound was still heard to proceed, but it seemed sometimes to approach, and sometimes to recede, for it appeared that Comtois altered his course according to the place where he thought they must be, and they themselves took first one direction and then another, without being quite sure which was the right. This state of uncertainty lasted for some minutes, but at length the voice sensibly approached, and they heard steps through the trees. "Is that you, Comtois?" It was he, and Cecilia in a transport of joy was ready to throw her arms round his neck; she forgot the cold, the sleet, and the wind; once freed from her former terror she now thought all her troubles were at an end. Comtois informed them that he had procured assistance, and that at that moment the men were engaged in raising the carriage, to which he was going to conduct them. But the question now was how to find the way, for, intent only on reaching each other, neither Comtois nor Madame de Vesac had thought of observing their route. They stopped to listen for some indication from the people at the carriage, but the wind bore the sounds another way, or when they did reach them, they were so faint and uncertain, that they concluded they must have advanced further into the wood than they had supposed. However, they directed their course towards the side on which they concluded the high road lay, listening every moment to discover whether the sounds increased in strength; sometimes Cecilia fancied she heard voices, and even maintained that she could distinguish that of the postilion: at other times hearing nothing she became uneasy, but the joy of having found Comtois sustained her courage. At length she exclaimed, "Mamma, I see an opening through the trees; that must be the road." Madame de Vesac looked, and perceived, indeed, a spot where the trees appeared to separate, but she did not think it was the high road, and was astonished at not hearing any noise. Cecilia made her hasten her steps, repeating, as she hurried her on, "There's the road, there's the road!" Her mother cautioned her not to rejoice too soon; but she did not listen to her, and was the first to reach a spot, open indeed, but so surrounded by the wood on all sides, that it afforded no means of egress, except by a path almost parallel to the one they had just left. She stood petrified.

"This is not the road," said Madame de Vesac.

"Indeed," said Comtois, "I don't know where we are now."

"What will become of us?" inquired Cecilia in a timid and anxious voice, but without those exclamations so habitual to her, for in the present moment of real fear and trouble her thoughts were more occupied with the situation itself, than with the desire of vividly displaying what she felt.

"We must endeavour to get out of this place," replied Madame de Vesac. "The road cannot be far off; but we must take a different direction from the one we have come by."

They once more stopped to listen and consult together; but they could hear nothing whatever; and as to the path they were to take, there was no choice except between the one by which they had come and another which led in the same direction. Their consultation, therefore, could not be of long duration. The second path seemed much better than the one they had left, it was tolerably wide, and pretty well beaten; and they hence concluded that it must necessarily lead to some frequented place. They therefore determined to follow it, and recommenced their journey with renewed courage; but Cecilia perceived that her mother arranged in a different manner the end of the shawl, with which she had contrived to support her arm, and that she occasionally carried her other hand to it; and concluding from this that she must suffer increased pain, she asked her about it.

"We must not think of this now," said Madame de Vesac; so that Cecilia was afraid to complain too much of her foot, which was beginning to give her pain. She only said, "My foot is rather painful." She had already endured sufficient real trouble during the night, to have learned to be silent about inconveniences not worth complaining of.

The snow fell with less violence, and the wind was somewhat abated, so that in the wood the cold was quite bearable. Madame de Vesac and her daughter, one on each side of Comtois, and supported by his arm, walked without much difficulty in a path tolerably smooth, and which the recently fallen snow prevented from being very slippery. Reanimated by this momentary relief, they pursued this part of their journey with tolerable cheerfulness, Madame de Vesac averring even that her arm was less painful since the cold had diminished, and Cecilia consoling herself with the hopes of soon being able to rest her foot in the carriage. Comtois from time to time raised his voice and called to the people at the carriage; but no one answered, and not a sound reached their ears. Again the travellers began to feel uneasy at thus continually advancing without any assurance that they were not going further away from the spot they wished to reach. However, proceed they must, for there was no reason to suppose that, in retracing their steps, they would be able to find any better way. At last they came to a point where the path was crossed by another precisely similar. They were now in the utmost perplexity, for there was no inducement for choosing one of the three paths rather than another, except perhaps that as the one they had come by did not seem to have brought them any nearer the road, it might be reasonable to choose between the other two. But on which of them were they to fix?

Comtois attempted to climb a rather tall tree which happened to be at the entrance of one of the paths, hoping to be able to see from it the road and the carriage; but, not to mention that his boots did not allow him to climb with much agility, it happened that the first branch he clung to was decayed and broke, and he fell, fortunately without being much hurt; but Madame de Vesac, as well as Cecilia, whose own fall had rendered her excessively timid, prevented him from making any further attempt, by representing the frightful situation they would all be in if any accident befell him. There was no alternative, therefore, but to proceed, and let chance direct their course. They thought they remembered that in diverging from the road they had several times turned a little to the left; they consequently supposed that in returning they must take the contrary direction. On this, therefore, they fixed, not without much regret, however, at being unable to ascertain whither the opposite path led; but it was not a time for unavailing regrets, and they therefore made up their minds to trust that they had selected the best.

Nevertheless the spirits of the travellers began again to sink, Cecilia's foot was considerably swelled, and fatigue had greatly added to the pain of Madame de Vesac's arm, although her anxiety kept her in a state of agitation which prevented her feeling it as much as she would have done in calmer moments. Still this very anxiety was itself a serious evil: there was no certainty of their finding their way; and if chance did not guide them better than it had done thus far, she calculated with terror the number of hours they must pass in the wood, and the fatigues and sufferings they must endure whilst waiting for the light.

Cecilia, still more depressed, said nothing, and began to cease thinking: fatigue and sadness absorbed all her faculties.

The path they had taken terminated in a kind of cross-way, from which branched off several narrower paths. They fixed upon what appeared the widest and best; but it soon contracted to such a degree that Madame de Vesac and her daughter were obliged to resign the arm of Comtois, and allow him to walk in front and clear the way a little for them. The density of the wood at this part had kept the ground moist, and this moisture was now converted into ice, while the snow had been prevented from falling sufficiently to cover the path. They walked one behind the other, slipping at every step, and only able to keep themselves from falling by laying hold of the trees. Every moment their feet struck against the roots, or were caught in the trailing branches; and Cecilia, constantly on the point of falling, soon became unable to restrain her sobs. At last, at a very slippery part, she lost her footing, and fell upon her knees. A bramble, which happened to be across the path, caught in her clothes; and when she had succeeded in extricating her dress from it, it became entangled in her shawl, then got fastened to her gloves, and deprived her of the use of her hands. She tried to rise, but no sooner had she put her foot upon the ground than she slipped and again fell. Worn out as she already was, this slight accident quite exhausted her courage. Madame de Vesac turned round to give her her hand; but being near falling herself, she was obliged to catch hold of a tree: she could only pity and endeavour to encourage her daughter.

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