Then my guide turning towards me said:
"I perceive that you are enchanted with this scene, that the beauty around you surpasses your wildest imagination, and that you could never desire a paradise more delightful. These are those who in the world were born rich, or, at least, if not rich, used the little they possessed to relieve or promote the happiness and welfare of their kind, denying themselves luxuries oreven necessities in order to enlarge the field of their charity, counting the dead pleasures of wealth as nothing in comparison with the satisfaction they derived from rendering happy their poorer neighbours. These are the angels of the lowest heaven, but there are higher joys than these, which neither you nor I may ever be permitted to witness."
So enraptured was I with all around me, that I hardly listened to the words of my guide. I yearned to converse with some of the inhabitants of this paradise, but a feeling of shyness, owing to a consciousness of inferiority, held me back.
The inhabitants even invited me to discourse with them, for they looked on me kindly, as if waiting for me to address them. Maidens of most heavenly beauty gazed upon me with sweet looks of chaste innocence. Lovely children seemed about to seize me by the hand to lead me away to play, but on approaching nearer to me and perceiving that I was not of their heaven, scampered off half-terrified. One or two hospitable persons came forward and offered to take me into their houses, and to show me some of the public buildings, but my guide observing that a giddiness had seized me, owing to the excess of delight I experienced in things so new to me, explained to them that I was yet a mortal only temporarily withdrawn from the body, and that a longer stay in this region might prove dangerous to me, as he had been commissioned to let me return shortly. My conductor then waved his hand courteously to everyoneby way of farewell, the good spirits also returning the salute while we descended more rapidly than we had ascended, and all around me became as before, a thick cloud. I felt nigh fainting with a singing in my ears, but this vanished by degrees the farther I left the paradise behind.
At length my senses being sufficiently recovered, I gazed around me; all was mist still, but every now and then I observed certain curious phenomena, visions which appeared and disappeared. Sometimes it was a garden or a building, sometimes an animal, a solitary tree or flowers. I heard strains of music, voices, laughter. Sometimes a rose or other flower fell at my feet, and immediately vanished; sometimes a toad or other reptile fell near me, and likewise vanished. Sometimes birds of prey or fierce animals were seen striving with one another. Then again, fragments of distant landscape appeared and vanished.
None of these apparitions lasted beyond a few seconds.
Then turning to my guide, I said:
"Tell me, O sage, what is the meaning of all these appearances?"
To which the old man replied:
"These are all signs and symbols of things which in your world have no visible nor tangible existence, their essence being purely spiritual, yet which, nevertheless, in their own atmosphere—the spiritual world—have a visible existence of their own. These are the thoughts of mortals yet living in your world.
"We are fast approaching your earth, and therefore these appearances become visible. The more beautiful of these visions, such as the flowers, landscape, and singing birds, are the representations of the pure thoughts and desires of the good; those of the less pleasing sort, such as the toads, adders, serpents, bats and owls, signify the evil thoughts of the wicked, and correspond to revenge, hatred, lust, murder, fraud, and the like.
"Where these wild beasts and reptiles appear in great numbers in the spirit world, and are seen combatting one with the other, it is a sign of war on earth."
"But tell me why," I said, "I hear the sound of music yet see no musicians, and hear the sound of voices yet see no one?"
Then my companion answered me: "The murky atmosphere through which we are now passing is also an inhabited world. The spirits of this world are invisible to you because you are not altogether freed from the material veil which obscures your vision, and that veil thickens the nearer you approach earth. The thoughts of mortals become visible to you here because you yourself are a mortal, but the thoughts of the purest mortal on your earth cannot arrive at the same pitch of sublimity as the thoughts of the meanest of disembodied spirits of this world, and therefore the spirits themselves are invisible to you, although they are far inferior to those you have just visited."
"Then why could I enter the angels' lower paradise,and yet am not able to see these inferior spirits?" I asked.
"Because," replied my instructor, "your spirit then received sufficient light from contact with mine to enable you to see them. I could also let you see these, but why desire to see the lot of ordinary spirits after having seen those of so far higher an order? It might remove the impression, which I presume you wish to retain. Besides our time is short, for we are near touching earth."
"True, true," I said hurriedly, for another vision suddenly arrested my attention. "Tell me, O my guide, what is the meaning of yon strange sight?" And strange sight it was indeed! For it was the vision of a human leg clad in the knee-breeches of our time, and walking about by itself.
"That," replied my preceptor, "is a portion of the body of some spirit not as yet freed from clay, and for that reason it is made visible to you. Our spirits on first leaving the material world are an exact counterpart of our terrestrial bodies, being an essence filling every part and particle of our earthly frames, from which they receive their stamp. The body itself does not rise again as some of your world vulgarly believed, but the spiritual body its counterpart, while the earthly covering but contributes its dust to your globe's surface."
"Then the vision I see is a portion of a human soul about to leave its earthy tenement?" asked I.
"By no means," replied the sage. "The owner ofthat limb has yet some years of material life before him, although, I observe, he is aged. The reason that you see but the leg and not the rest of the body, is that that portion of the physical body is wanting. You cannot perceive his corporeal body because you are now in the spirit, and the spirit can only see that which is spiritual, as likewise the material eye only that which is material. You are sufficiently spiritual to see spirits who are yet encumbered with clay, but not enough so to see spirits perfectly disembodied. On the other hand, being withdrawn from the body, you are not yet sufficiently material to descry material bodies."
"Then in fact," I observed, "the vision that I see before me is the spirit leg of someone who in my world has lost his material leg?"
"Precisely so," the sage replied, "for mortals live in two worlds at the same time; in the material world as to their bodies, in the spiritual world as to their spirits. I should imagine," added he, regarding the vision fixedly, "from the way in which it seems to approach you that it belonged to some friend or relation of yours. Have you no relation in the world who has lost a leg?" he asked.
"A relation who has lost a leg?" I exclaimed, for instantly my uncle, the admiral, flashed across my mind.
"Exactly so, your uncle, the admiral," he replied, reading my thoughts.
There was an individuality about the limb that fromthe beginning seemed familiar to me. It was a right leg, too, the very leg that my uncle had lost. There could be no mistake about it.
Then said I to my guide, "I recognise the leg, sure enough, but is its appearance now a sign that he is near me in the body?"
"If not so, at least in thought," responded the sage.
By this time my companion told me that we had already arrived on earth, and said that he must now leave me, so we embraced, and he vanished from my sight. Then the mist around me suddenly cleared away, and I was surprised to find myself once again in my laboratory, seated in the same old carved arm-chair, and surrounded by several persons.
Well, gentlemen, amongst those persons I instantly recognised a face long familiar to me. It was my uncle's!
Poor old man! He had dreadfully changed. His iron grey hair had become perfectly white, his black eyebrows "a sable silvered." He stooped very much, and the muscles of his face were drooping and flaccid, while his ruby nose had lost its fine rich colour and faded into a sickly ashen hue. The individual next to him I recognised at once as our common friend, Mr. Langton. Then I saw a strange face which I concluded must be the doctor. There was also my deaf and dumb boy, who had not long brought up my basin of broth, as it was still steaming, and he was awaiting my recovery.
Little more remains to be told. My poor uncle, as our friend Langton had prophesied, had been obliged to sue for a divorce, shortly after which his worthless partner eloped with a paramour. The whole sad occurrence preyed upon the old man's mind, and brought on a dangerous illness, from which, however, he recovered. During his illness he had spoken much of his nephew, and on his recovery the doctor had recommended him a change of scene to divert his mind. As he had expressed a wish to see his nephew once more before he died, his friend Langton had offered to accompany him. The doctor also formed one of the party, and they had travelled together to Jena as an agreeable surprise for me.
It is needless to add that all former differences were forgotten, and that my old uncle resolved never to make a fool of himself again. He even encouraged his nephew's studies, and gave his sanction at length that my friend the chemist's son should join me in my studies. My health rapidly improved under careful treatment, and I never saw any more visions. I quite gave up alchemy, and applied myself to other branches of chemistry. Nevertheless, my studies had not been quite useless, as in my search after the philosopher's stone, I had made several very curious discoveries in science, and my name soon became famous throughout the university.
My uncle's illness had wrought as great a change morally as it had done physically in him. His naturewas completely changed. His treatment of me was now of the kindest. He seemed even to respect me for the perseverance I had shown in my studies and to be ashamed of his former narrow-minded notions. He remained with me at Jena until his health and my health had completely recovered, when I accompanied him to England, where I once more saw my friend, the chemist's son, whom I subsequently took out with me to Jena, where we pursued our studies together for some three years, after which we both returned to England, where I took up my quarters at my uncle's house.
The admiral lived a good ten years after his illness, and died at the good old age of ninety, leaving to me his entire fortune.
On the conclusion of Mr. Crucible's narrative that gentleman was highly complimented on his tale by each member of the club in turn, especially by Mr. Oldstone. Our worthy host, owing to a strong potation he had imbibed before the commencement of the recital, more than once manifested symptoms of dropping into the arms of Morpheus, but was prevented from doing so each time by the opportune administration of sundry pinches of snuff from Mr. Oldstone's snuff-box.
If there was one thing this gentleman never forgave, it was a man going to sleep in the middle of a good story; he, therefore, as soon as the narrator had finished, felt it his solemn duty to remonstrate with our host severely upon his want of good breeding, to which the worthy man replied in a humble apology to all the company. As for his daughter Helen, she was attention itself throughout, and with the exception of Mr. Oldstone, was the loudest in praise of Mr. Crucible's recital.
"Well, Helen," said one of the members, "what do you think of the last story?"
"Oh, I am delighted with it," exclaimed the girl inecstasy. "How I wish it had happened to me! I should so like to have a vision of that sort."
"Would you my dear?" said Mr. Crucible, "then I hope that if ever you see the Paradise I saw that you may remain there, for there you belong. You are too good for this earth."
"Now then, Crucible, none of your nonsense," said Mr. Oldstone. "Is that the way you talk to young ladies? I'm surprised at you. Look how you have made the poor girl blush."
"Don't be jealous, old boy," retorted the last narrator, "but give us another story. This is your turn."
"Yes, yes!" cried several voices at once. "Mr. Oldstone for a story! Hear, hear!"
"Really, gentlemen," said Mr. Oldstone, "it is so soon after the last, and as it is now getting somewhat late, I would fain put off my story for another time, and spend the evening between this and bedtime in some other way. Suppose we all fill our glasses. Perhaps someone may recollect a song."
"Agreed!" cried all the guests at once, "but who's to be the songster?"
"Can't you favour us, Helen?" asked Mr. Parnassus.
Helen declared that she could not sing, that she did not know any songs.
"Come, come, Helen, that's all nonsense," said the doctor, "I've heard your voice before now warbling away when you thought no one was listening to you."
"Ay, ay," said our host, "you are right, sir, shecansing when she likes as pretty a little song as ever you'd wish to hear, though I say it, that shouldn't."
"Come, Helen, don't be shy, sing away my girl," said Hardcase.
"Let us make a bargain, Helen," said McGuilp. "Ifyouwill sing a song,Iwill. There, you cannot refuse."
The girl's face brightened up as she stole a glance at our artist, and thus urged, began in a clear and sweet voice the following ditty:—
The nightingale sang to her love the rose,One night when the moon was shining,The earth was hushed in still repose,But a heart with love was pining.Two lovers through the misty air,Beneath the trees were strolling,A gallant and a lady fair,A bell in the distance tolling."Beloved, hear'st thou that distant wail,That sad and mournful knelling?""Sweetheart, 'tis but the nightingale,That her tale of love is telling.""No, no, 'tis not the nightingale,I feel a dire foreboding,The night spreads o'er her dusky veil,Our joys of love corroding.""Nay, loved one; banish idle fears,The moon is bright and beaming,Seek not to drown thy joy in tears,When thy star above is gleaming.""See here this flower," (he plucked a rose),"How beautious is its blossom.Wear this for me, for it but grows,To deck thy snow white bosom."Then out and shrieked the nightingale,"Oh spare, oh spare, my lover.Too late!" she cries, with dismal wail,Beneath the greenwood cover."Ah me!" outshrieked that bird of night,"My love is gone for ever,But vengeance waits thee, cruel knight;Thou from thy love shalt sever."Too true, alas! the night bird's curse,For 'neath the trees did hover,An envious wight with arquebus,T'await his rival lover.Scarce had the gloomy prophecyDied on his ears unheeding,When the foe a poisoned shaft let fly,And the knight fell pale and bleeding.A lady mourns her love deceased,Her eyes in death are rolling,The distant tolling knell had ceased,But again the knell is tolling.
The nightingale sang to her love the rose,One night when the moon was shining,The earth was hushed in still repose,But a heart with love was pining.
Two lovers through the misty air,Beneath the trees were strolling,A gallant and a lady fair,A bell in the distance tolling.
"Beloved, hear'st thou that distant wail,That sad and mournful knelling?""Sweetheart, 'tis but the nightingale,That her tale of love is telling."
"No, no, 'tis not the nightingale,I feel a dire foreboding,The night spreads o'er her dusky veil,Our joys of love corroding."
"Nay, loved one; banish idle fears,The moon is bright and beaming,Seek not to drown thy joy in tears,When thy star above is gleaming."
"See here this flower," (he plucked a rose),"How beautious is its blossom.Wear this for me, for it but grows,To deck thy snow white bosom."
Then out and shrieked the nightingale,"Oh spare, oh spare, my lover.Too late!" she cries, with dismal wail,Beneath the greenwood cover.
"Ah me!" outshrieked that bird of night,"My love is gone for ever,But vengeance waits thee, cruel knight;Thou from thy love shalt sever."
Too true, alas! the night bird's curse,For 'neath the trees did hover,An envious wight with arquebus,T'await his rival lover.
Scarce had the gloomy prophecyDied on his ears unheeding,When the foe a poisoned shaft let fly,And the knight fell pale and bleeding.
A lady mourns her love deceased,Her eyes in death are rolling,The distant tolling knell had ceased,But again the knell is tolling.
"Thank you, Helen, thank you; very well sung," said several voices at once.
"It is a fanciful and mournful ditty," said Parnassus, "but the tune is good."
"It is, indeed, somewhat melancholy," said McGuilp. "Have you no other, Helen?"
"I did but bargain for one," said the girl, smiling.
"True," said McGuilp, "and now you want to hear one from me, eh?"
"Precisely so," said Mr. Oldstone. "Keep him to his word, Helen. Don't let him shirk off."
"Now, Mr. McGuilp," said several voices at once, "we are all waiting."
"Well, gentlemen," began the painter, "if you will permit me to retire——"
"Retire!—Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Oldstone, Crucible, and others simultaneously. "Why you never mean to back out after having——"
"No, gentlemen, nothing of the sort, I assure you," said our artist, "I was only going to ask leave of the company to retire a moment to my chamber to bring down an article indispensable to the song I am about to sing."
"I believe he is going to sing in costume," said Mr. Blackdeed, "and that he is going in search of some 'property.'"
"No, nor that either," said the painter. "The song I shall sing to you this evening, gentlemen, is an ode that I composed myself to a skull which I found amongsome ancient ruins in Rome, and out of which I have made a drinking cup. As this is a drinking song, in which the cup is often alluded to, it will be necessary that the goblet itself be present."
"By all means," said several members.
"Let us see the precious relic," said the antiquary. "These things are quite in my line."
"And mine too," said the doctor.
Our artist left the apartment and returned with the relic, which he placed in the centre of the table for all to admire.
"There, Helen," said he, "that cup was once a man's head, who laughed, sang, and told stories, too, I've no doubt, like the best of us."
"And you use it to drink out of!" exclaimed the girl, in extreme disgust. "What a horrible idea."
Mr. Oldstone put on his spectacles and bent over the table attentively to examine it. Dr. Bleedem took it up, tapped it, looked at it all over, and declared that it was different in form to the skulls of the present day, observing that it was evidently of great antiquity, as the enamel had worn away. The bone, he said, was of great thickness.
The object of general curiosity was handed round the table from one to the other. At length Mr. Blackdeed took it up, and striking into a Hamlet-like attitude, quoted at full length the well-known passage:
"'Alas! poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy,' etc., etc."
Applause followed the quotation.
"The song! the song!" cried others, impatiently.
"Composed by himself; mark that, gentlemen," said Mr. Parnassus. "A brother poet! Hear, hear!"
The company then drew themselves eagerly round the table, while our artist filled the human goblet to the brim, and after taking a sip from it, stood up, and holding it aloft, sang in a clear rich voice the following words:—
Stern relic of a bygone age,What changes hast thou seen ere now?Wert thou a warrior or a sage,And did the laurel deck thy brow?Wert of Imperial Cæsar's line,Or poet inspired with art divine?Whate'er thou wert in days of old,Whate'er the deeds they sing of thee,Though ne'er so great and manifold,Thy crown as a cup shall serve for me.Here from they soul's deep-vaulted shrine,Quaff I the blood of thy native vine.And while it braces every nerve,Hail! to Bacchus and Venus, too,The gods that thou wert wont to serve,In days of yore, to me be true,As I lie 'neath the shade of the clustering vine,Merrily quaffing the red, red wine.Wast thy hand steeped in blood Achæan,Whilst fighting for thy purple land,Wert thou patrician or plebeian,Or fell thou by th' assassin's hand,Did'st thou in arms thy foes outshine,Or did thy foe's arm conquer thine?Or in the crowded Colosseum,Did'st fall to glut the beasts of prey?Wert thou reared in the athenæum,Or were thy haunts among the gay?Now from thy skull on the Palatine,I drink to thee and the muses nine.On the banks of the Tiber's yellow tide,In the mighty days of ancient Rome,Perchance thou ruled'st in all thy pride,O'erlooking thy seven-hilled home.Thus I muse as at noonday I recline,Quaffing the juice of the Roman vine.Now, peace to thy Manes and farewell,This toast to the quiet of thy remains,I quaff from out thy hollow shell,That once was filled with Roman brains.In the land of the cypress and the pine,Some future bard may drink from mine.
Stern relic of a bygone age,What changes hast thou seen ere now?Wert thou a warrior or a sage,And did the laurel deck thy brow?Wert of Imperial Cæsar's line,Or poet inspired with art divine?
Whate'er thou wert in days of old,Whate'er the deeds they sing of thee,Though ne'er so great and manifold,Thy crown as a cup shall serve for me.Here from they soul's deep-vaulted shrine,Quaff I the blood of thy native vine.
And while it braces every nerve,Hail! to Bacchus and Venus, too,The gods that thou wert wont to serve,In days of yore, to me be true,As I lie 'neath the shade of the clustering vine,Merrily quaffing the red, red wine.
Wast thy hand steeped in blood Achæan,Whilst fighting for thy purple land,Wert thou patrician or plebeian,Or fell thou by th' assassin's hand,Did'st thou in arms thy foes outshine,Or did thy foe's arm conquer thine?
Or in the crowded Colosseum,Did'st fall to glut the beasts of prey?Wert thou reared in the athenæum,Or were thy haunts among the gay?Now from thy skull on the Palatine,I drink to thee and the muses nine.
On the banks of the Tiber's yellow tide,In the mighty days of ancient Rome,Perchance thou ruled'st in all thy pride,O'erlooking thy seven-hilled home.Thus I muse as at noonday I recline,Quaffing the juice of the Roman vine.
Now, peace to thy Manes and farewell,This toast to the quiet of thy remains,I quaff from out thy hollow shell,That once was filled with Roman brains.In the land of the cypress and the pine,Some future bard may drink from mine.
At the end of our artist's song he was unanimously cheered by the members of the club, and highly complimented upon his poetical skill, especially by Mr.Parnassus, who voted that he should be crowned with laurel. Mr. Oldstone eagerly seconded the proposal, but McGuilp modestly declined the honour. However, our worthy host, Jack Hearty, was sent out once more in the snow to gather laurel for the brow of the new poet laureate, in spite of our artist's modest protestations. He returned shortly afterwards with a branch of laurel, off which he first shook the snow, and then deposited upon the table. Mr. Oldstone quickly converted it into a wreath, and decreed it should be placed upon the songster's head by the fair hands of the pretty Helen. The decree was greeted with cheers, and Helen, blushing deeply and smiling, placed it on the head of the newly-discovered poet, our artist receiving it on bended knee amid the cheering of the club. McGuilp having risen from his knees, took his seat again at the table by the side of our host's pretty daughter, then rising to his feet and raising the skull aloft, he proposed the following toast in these words:—
"Gentlemen, I propose the health of the 'Wonder Club,' and that of our worthy host and his fair daughter, our guest, to be drunk by every member present solemnly and devoutly from this goblet."
More cheering, during which McGuilp took a sip at the funereal chalice, and then passed it on to his neighbour, who did the same, each member in his turn sipping and nodding round to the rest.
When the skull had been the round of the table, it was then passed on to our host, who hopedthat the company would excuse him, but that his lips had never yet been contaminated by dead men's bones, and he hoped they never would be.
Persuasions and remonstrances from the members were alike vain, for neither our host nor his daughter could be persuaded to touch the sacrilegious relic.
In order not to give offence to the company, our host proclaimed his willingness to drink the toast out of a clean glass. This was at length agreed to, and the worthy man rose, and in a short bluff speech, thanked the company present for having drunk his health and that of his daughter. A clapping of hands followed our host's speech, and then Mr. Crucible, being the eldest member, returned thanks on the part of the club.
At that moment the hooting of an owl was heard outside. Helen turned pale, and instinctively drew nearer to our artist.
"Why, Helen my girl!" cried the doctor, "how pale you are. What are you frightened at?"
"Do you not hear?" said the girl. "It is the cry of the owl; they say it is a sign of death in the house."
"Come, Helen," said Hardcase, "you must not be superstitious; those things are all nonsense."
"Oh, no, I can assure you——" began the girl, when Mr. Oldstone broke in.
"I say, Mr. Poet Laureate, look how your fair companion trembles at your side. Cannot you think ofsome lay that might cheer her spirits and dispel her fears? Just try."
"Well," answered he of the laurel crown, "talking about owls, I once kept a pet owl myself, that I captured one night in a nook under the arches of the Colosseum. He was a great favourite of mine, and used to perch on the top of my easel when I was at work, and watch every movement I made. I composed an ode to him. If you would like to hear it——"
"Oh, by all means," promptly answered Oldstone.
"In that case, Jack," said McGuilp, addressing our host, "you will oblige me by getting my mandoline. I mean that musical instrument that you will find in the corner of my room upstairs, just by way of accompaniment."
Jack Hearty left the room, and returned soon with the instrument.
"Ah, now we shall hear some music," said Oldstone rubbing his hands, and by this time Helen seemed to have forgotten her fears, and her eyes glistened in anticipation.
Our artist then ran his fingers lightly over the instrument by way of prelude and began the following ditty.
Grim bird of Pallas old,For what purpose yet untoldWert thou cast in such a mould?Speak, declare!Though thou utterest not a wordAs thou gazest on the herd,I scarce can deem thee bird,Such thy air.There thou stand'st, a ghastly sight,Sworn enemy of light,Thou ill-omened bird of night,'Neath the moon.The charnel's dusky hueIs lovelier to thy viewThan the clear cerulean blueOf the noon.As my task I daily ply,Every movement thou dost spy,From my easel perched on highGazing down.Thou look'st so wondrous wise,With those round mysterious eyes.What unearthly glitter liesIn thy frown.Once with thy friends so gayThou did'st turn night into day,And while seeking for thy preyRound would'st prowl.Now from out thy ruined hallIn the Colosseum's wallThey nightly miss thy call,Oh, my owl!A captive now, alas!Thou for aye art doomed to passThy life far from the massOf thy race.Like Stoic thou dost stand,Exiled from his native land,With that look so sage and grandIn thy face.Were Pythagorean lore,Current now as once before,In the classic days of yore,I could swear,That the spirit of some sage,From some dark and mythic age,In thy body found a cageOr a lair.And once more on Earth was sent,To retrieve a life misspent,Till his crimes he should repent.In that form.But hereafter might arise,After penance to the skies,Where bliss awaiting liesHis reform.My lamp burns low. Farewell.Thus ends my verse's spell.And now thy mournful yell—Fearful din—May commence, my eyeballs ache,For my couch I now must make,I to sleep and thou to wake,May'st begin.
Grim bird of Pallas old,For what purpose yet untoldWert thou cast in such a mould?Speak, declare!
Though thou utterest not a wordAs thou gazest on the herd,I scarce can deem thee bird,Such thy air.
There thou stand'st, a ghastly sight,Sworn enemy of light,Thou ill-omened bird of night,'Neath the moon.
The charnel's dusky hueIs lovelier to thy viewThan the clear cerulean blueOf the noon.
As my task I daily ply,Every movement thou dost spy,From my easel perched on highGazing down.
Thou look'st so wondrous wise,With those round mysterious eyes.What unearthly glitter liesIn thy frown.
Once with thy friends so gayThou did'st turn night into day,And while seeking for thy preyRound would'st prowl.
Now from out thy ruined hallIn the Colosseum's wallThey nightly miss thy call,Oh, my owl!
A captive now, alas!Thou for aye art doomed to passThy life far from the massOf thy race.
Like Stoic thou dost stand,Exiled from his native land,With that look so sage and grandIn thy face.
Were Pythagorean lore,Current now as once before,In the classic days of yore,I could swear,
That the spirit of some sage,From some dark and mythic age,In thy body found a cageOr a lair.
And once more on Earth was sent,To retrieve a life misspent,Till his crimes he should repent.In that form.
But hereafter might arise,After penance to the skies,Where bliss awaiting liesHis reform.
My lamp burns low. Farewell.Thus ends my verse's spell.And now thy mournful yell—Fearful din—
May commence, my eyeballs ache,For my couch I now must make,I to sleep and thou to wake,May'st begin.
Immense applause greeted this last ode of our artist's, and the health of the new poet laureate was proposed by Mr. Oldstone and drunk all round, after which our artist returned thanks in a humorous speech which called forth much laughter from the other members, and much clapping of hands and rattling of glasses ensued. Glasses were then refilled, and after a little more pleasant conversation the party broke up for the night and each retired to his solitary bed-chamber.
The next morning broke dull and cheerless. It had been snowing hard all night, and was snowing still, and so murky was the atmosphere that the club was obliged to breakfast by candle-light, and indeed continued to burn candles till early noon.
Our artist was in despair about the weather, for he reckoned upon a long sitting from his fair model, and, under the circumstances, painting was impossible, so he wandered gloomily about the inn like a wild animal in a cage. Breakfast over, a discussion arose as to what should be the order of the day. Some voted for cards, others felt inclined for chess, yet no one felt a very strong longing for any one thing in particular. It was one of those melancholy days when a man really does not know what to do with himself. Some yawned and stretched themselves, others gazed gloomily out into the darkness, until someone suddenly recollected that it was Mr. Oldstone's turn to tell a story, so without more delay, chairs were drawn round the fire, Jack Hearty was called for to put on a fresh log, pipes were lit, and Mr. Oldstone forced into an arm-chair and pressed to begin his story without further preface.
Our host was invited to remain, but he excused himself on the score of business. Helen was also called away to help her mother in household affairs; but this, of course, the club could not hear of, so after some little parley, she was reluctantly permitted to keep the club company, as one of the members observed it would be hard indeed to deprive the club of Helen in such weather, as her face was the only sunshine they were likely to get all day. Helen smiled somewhat confusedly at this broad compliment, and then accepted a seat placed for her between McGuilp and Parnassus.
The company drew nearer to the fire, one of the members giving a preliminary poke at the log, while Oldstone, after tapping his snuff-box and taking from its inside a copious pinch of snuff to clear his memory, threw himself back in his easy-chair, and folding his hands, commenced his story thus:—
When I was in Rome, many years ago, with my friend and brother antiquary, Rustcoin, well-known to most of you gentlemen, and especially to my friend Mr. Vandyke McGuilp. We had put up together during the early part of our stay in a large Hotel in a fashionable quarter of the city.
We were both young then, and furnished with ample means for travelling. It had been the dream of my youth to visit the eternal city, and here I found myself, free for the first time in my life to wander about to my heart's content among the venerable ruins of antiquity, the history of which had so interested me from my boyhood.
Being neither pushed for time nor money, having a comfortable little income left me upon the death of my parents, I never could make up my mind to follow any profession in particular, and having from my youth upwards always had a passion for antiquarian lore, I resolved to make it the study of my life. Rustcoin was similarly situated to myself, and we have always pulled wonderfully together. Not a day passed but some interesting ruin, church, or picture gallery, was explored, a minute description of which was immediately entered into my diary with a view to a grand archæological work which I intended for the press, and which was afterwards published.
We knew the Vatican by heart, St. Peters, and all the chief churches. Had visited the Capitol, the Forum, the Palace of the Cæsars, the Colosseum, the baths of Caracalla, of Titus, of Diocletian, the Pantheon and other antique temples. One sight, however, I had not yet been to see, and that was the catacombs. They had always had, from my boyhood, a great fascination for me, those dark, dank, mysterious subterranean labyrinths excavated by those pious enthusiasts, the early Christians, to shelter themselves from the persecutions of their pagan tyrants. Little did their oppressors imagine, I presume, when first a few straggling fanatics assembled clandestinely under the dark arches they had hewn for themselves out of the solid rock to carry on their devotions undisturbed by candle-light, that that little sect would one day fill the wide world with itsfollowers to the utter extinction of the old pagan superstitions.
How strange is destiny! Religious faith proved too strong for tyranny. Persecutions and martyrdoms were of no avail, for still the faith increased. The very victims of the faith, too, the holy martyrs magnified into heroes after death, as if in defiance of the old creed.
Well, gentlemen, these facts are as well known to all of you as to myself, yet such were my reflections as I drove off one morning to visit the catacombs of Saint Sebastian. But I anticipate. Rising one morning filled with the idea of exploring these subterranean burial grounds as far as they extended, though for twelve miles those indefatigable early Christians have undermined the eternal city, I breakfasted hurriedly, calculating on my friend's company, but Rustcoin happened to have business on hand that day, and could not be persuaded to go, so I determined to start off alone.
A little before starting I accompanied Rustcoin down one of the by streets to make a call, and whilst, waiting for him to return, I amused myself by looking into an antiquary's shop window. There were some ancient Roman coins, some rusty Roman armour, pieces of Etruscan pottery, antique lamps and fragments of statuary. As I stood gazing at these curiosities for some considerable time, the antiquary bowed me in, giving me to understand that I was at liberty to look over the contents of his shop without being obliged to buy. He saw that I was an Englishman, and evidently had an eye to business.
He showed me some fragments of Roman tombs bearing a portion of an inscription, some bronze pans, and other instruments used for sacrifices, some spearheads, some ancient mosaic, etc., etc. I was soon attracted by a plate of antique seals, and was poring over them with a lens.
"Ah, signor," said the man, "I see you appreciate these gems of art. That ring that you are looking at now was found entire in a place underground, where the vestal virgins used to be buried alive when convicted of unchastity."
"What will you take for it?" I asked.
"Well, considering that it is such a fine gem of art, sir, I could not ask less than four hundred scudi."
"Four hundred scudi!" I exclaimed. "Why, that is four thousand pauls," said I.
"Precisely so, signor."
"Come, come," said I, pretending to be more knowing than I actually was. "I see you take me for an Englishman. Well, if I am an Englishman, I am one who understands the value of these things, for I have had dealings before in things of this sort."
Now, I had not the slightest idea of the prices that these articles fetched, but knowing that it was perfectly necessary to beat down an Italian in a bargain, I took it for granted that he had asked just double, and said, "Come, now, without wasting time in further parley, I will give you the half of what you ask—two hundred scudi and not a jot more," (being 40 pounds sterling.)
"Impossible, signor," said the man.
"Oh, very well, then," said I, "I wish you a good morning," and I made towards the door.
"Stay, signor," said the shopman; "let us say three hundred and fifty scudi; it is dirt cheap, and if I were not in immediate want of money I would not let it go at such a price."
"No," said I, walking out of the shop; "you know my terms; if you agree to these, so much the better for you, if not,Addio," and off I walked.
I had got about half way down the street when the man ran out after me. "Signor, only three hundred scudi; this is for the last time, think of that! It is a sin to let such a bargain slip."
"No, no," said I, "not even for two hundred and ten. I have said two hundred scudi, and I even grudge that, yet if you will take it——"
"Not even for two hundred and ten!" repeated the man. "O Gesu Maria!" added he, slapping his forehead.
"You seem anxious to get rid of it, my friend," said I, half-quizzingly.
"No, signor," replied he, "I can assure you it cuts me to the heart to part with such a gem, but I am a poor man with a large family, and I want money, otherwise I would not sell it for three times the amount."
"Well, then, if you want money," said I, dryly, "the best thing you can do is to assent to my terms, for I shall certainly give no more."
He seemed to reflect a little, and then with a shrug said: "Ebbene, as the signor wishes; but it is a dead loss to me;you, signor, are the winner, not I."
So I paid him the money, and walked off with the ring on my finger the same that I wear to this day, gentlemen. Here it is. There is no doubt that it is a very excellent specimen of Græco-Roman art, and is most elaborately cut. I have not the slightest doubt, however, that I paid enough and more than enough for it, for as I followed the man with my eyes, I noticed an avaricious chuckle on his face, as an Italian shopman may be supposed to wear at having bamboozled an Englishman.
By this time my friend Rustcoin returned. I showed him my purchase, at which he went into raptures. I told him that I wished to visit the catacombs that morning, and therefore could not accompany him further. He advised me to wait till the morrow, and that we should go together, but I had inwardly vowed that morning that go I would, and nothing should prevent me; so telling Rustcoin that we should meet at dinner, I hailed a carriage and drove off to the church of St. Sebastian.
It is a comparatively modern church, built upon the site of the ancient basilisk supposed to have been erected by Constantine, and consecrated by St. Silvester, was renewed by the Pope San Domaso, and since repeatedly restored, being at length rebuilt in the year 1611.
On my arrival I found several carriages waiting outside. I entered the church, and there was a party of about a dozen English people, who had likewise come to visit the catacombs.
I joined the party, and we descended a flight of steps, each of us bearing in our hands a taper, or rather tall, narrow candle. We were conducted by a lean, emaciated monk, who looked as if he had lived upon nothing but by inhaling the damp air of the catacombs. As we descended, the first object shown us was a bust of St. Sebastian by Bernini, over the tomb of the saint, and near was an altar under which was interred the body of St. Lucine.
As we walked along single file through these long dark corridors, the roofs of which were every now and then so low that we were obliged to stoop, we were shown the graves of saints and martyrs who had been entombed within the walls, every now and then arriving at some little chapel, in the walls of which three or four popes had been buried.
The place where the altar had stood was also carved in the rock. Here we came across a tomb with an inscription, there upon some rude drawings on the wall by the early Christians, representing various sacred subjects.
Impatient at having to stand still and listen to the explanation of the monk who accompanied us and to hear the questions of this knot of English people, I felt an incontrollable impulse to strike out for myself intosome new track, not meaning to content myself with the mere fashionable route shown to foreigners.
I considered that I had not come there merely to have a peep at these subterranean vaults, for the sake of being able to say when I returned to England that I had seen the catacombs, but intended whilst I was about it to investigate these mysterious haunts thoroughly and conscientiously, for the sake of discovering, if possible, some inscriptions or other relics worthy of note that I might describe in my great archæological work, and thus hand my name down to posterity.
The investigation of some unknown region, especially if accompanied by a spice of danger, has always been with me a passion. I longed to be able to do something that nobody yet had done. I could not but be aware of the danger of my resolution to explore these dusky labyrinths without a guide, yet I prepared myself in a measure against a contingency, carrying in my pocket an extra roll of paper, in case that which I bore in my hand should come to an end, and a tinder-box.
Besides this, I had filled my pockets with bread, partly in case of extreme emergency, to sustain life, and partly to drop in crumbs behind me as I went to mark the way. I had commenced dropping my breadcrumbs from the very beginning and making slight excursions by myself, then turning back to join the party of English.
Once or twice the monk called me back, and as I went and returned several times, I suppose no noticewas taken when I really did strike out in an unbeaten track. I took an opportunity of starting when a stout English female was assailing our ascetic friend with trivial questions in wretched Italian.
Whilst public attention seemed engrossed I started off with my taper through a long and apparently interminable passage, which I was told led to Ostia, the ancient sea-port. No one called after me, so I suppose I was not missed.
On, and still further, on I went, groping my way until I could no longer hear the voices of the party, nor see the light of their tapers through the dim arches of the catacombs.
"Would the monk miss me and go in search of me, thus breaking short all hopes of my exploring expedition?" I asked myself.
To avoid this, or at least to see as much as possible of the forbidden haunts before I was caught, I walked on fast, not forgetting, however, to drop my breadcrumbs all the time.
There is a great sameness in all these catacombs, being long, straight, gloomy passages branching off in all directions, only varied at intervals with an occasional chapel, barely large enough to hold ten people crowded together, a simple, roughly-hewn cell in the rock, and destitute of anything that an antiquarian might be tempted to pocket; however, whenever I came across an inscription of any interest I immediately jotted it down in my note-book.
Now, the thought of being lost in these terrible catacombs with the prospect before me of gradually dying of starvation without the slightest chance of succour had often occurred to my mind, and was of all thoughts the most dreadful.
It was a daring thing I was attempting, and I own to experiencing a slight tremor, which increased the further I advanced. Yet, what had I to fear? Was I not well provided with tapers and tinder-box? Had I not marked the way with breadcrumbs besides carrying with me a good-sized roll to allay hunger in case of emergency? What danger did I incur? So I stifled my fears and boldly proceeded, passing innumerable tombs of saints and martyrs, chapels, inscriptions, rude drawings on the wall, Latin names, etc.
If I still felt any lingering tremor, it was a pleasing fear that only spurred me on the more, and I had not the slightest inclination to turn back. The situation was a new one to me, and I experienced from it a new emotion. Here was I, a solitary individual in the bowels of the earth, with the gay world above me perfectly unconscious that one of their kind was burrowing, taper in hand, beneath their very feet, treading in the footsteps of those enthusiastic workmen who had excavated these vaults, and which had been untrodden since by foot of man!
What will not an enthusiast go through in the noble pursuit of science? My stock of bread was now completely exhausted. I had not left a crumb to satisfy myhunger in case of need, such was my enthusiasm to penetrate deeply into these unknown regions.
But what matter? When I felt hungry I could return at any time. Had I not the clue? Thus I said to myself as I sprinkled my last remaining crumbs behind me. I had now penetrated a very considerable distance into this abode of the pious dead, when here an unforeseen and terrible accident befell me. Walking onward and incautiously looking behind me as I proceeded, I did not observe a flight of steep steps, slippery from the damp slime that exudes below ground, and that led—where? I never knew, for suddenly losing my footing, I fell headlong down into a dark abyss, where I lay stunned and senseless.
How long I remained thus it is impossible to tell, for when I recovered my senses sufficiently to grope around me, I could recollect nothing, but I found my head cut and bleeding profusely. I felt the warm blood trickling down my neck and matting my hair. I tried to stand upon my feet, but swooned again from loss of blood. I had just presence of mind when I awoke from my swoon to bind up my head with a handkerchief.
I remained for long on the cold ground in a sitting posture and tried to collect my ideas. Gradually I became aware of the horror of my situation. Of course my taper was extinguished by my fall. I essayed to relight it, but the material was damp with the dews of the catacomb and with my blood, besides which my strength failed me. I began to feel hungry, too, for Ihad eaten but a light breakfast. Could anything have been more pitiable than my plight? Wounded in the head and weakened with loss of blood, lost in the very heart of the catacombs without a light, without the barest prospect of mortal coming to my rescue, hungry, the little bread that I had taken with me wasted to make a clue which I now found it impossible to trace in the dark, and with every prospect of a lingering death before me!
With difficulty I clambered up the steps and searched in vain for the crumbs of bread on my hands and knees. I was nigh fainting again, but that strong love of life that is instinctive in us all made me screw up my nerves with a preternatural energy, and I essayed to shout for help.
Although I must have been aware of the futility of my attempts, we all know that a drowning man will cling to a straw, so bracing my strength up to its utmost possible pitch, I gave vent to a superhuman shriek, which re-echoed through the gloomy arches like the mocking laugh of demons.
The sound of my own voice in agony amidst the awful silence of this place of tombs sent a new thrill of horror through my frame, my nerves being rendered weak and sensitive by the loss of vital fluid I had sustained, and jarred upon the full consciousness of my terrible situation. I felt on the brink of madness. Every now and then I heard the rumbling of carriage wheels over my head, like distant thunder in the worldabove me, which enhanced still more the misery of my position, for I could not help contrasting my lot with that of the happy individual rolling over my head in his proud carriage, enjoying the bright sun and blue sky whilst I was doomed to be buried alive in those horrible catacombs, dying by inches in the greatest conceivable agony of body and mind, but few feet below that carriage road over which passed the gay and thoughtless in their fashionable equipages.
I tried to call out again, but my voice failed me. "If I die," I thought, "it must not be by inches, but at once, at a blow." I was preparing to dash my head desperately against the wall, and thus put an end to my misery, but lacking strength, I fell down once more exhausted.
When I again awoke I felt both hungry and thirsty. The wound in my head had ceased to bleed, but the handkerchief was saturated. I now felt the calmness of despair. I knew nothing short of a miracle could save me, so I tried to reconcile myself to my condition. I could just walk, but slowly. I tried to retrace my steps, though at a snail's pace and without a clue.
The hopelessness of my condition now dawned upon me more clearly than ever. It was impossible even to retrace my steps alone and in the dark, especially in my weakened state. Why should I uselessly try a thing I knew to be impossible? Why not lie quietly down and die? I sank helplessly on the ground and gave up all hope. I felt that my end was not far off, and began toreview my past life. The errors, the follies, the crimes during my brief existence chased each other with painful vividness and rapidity through my memory. Not even the most trifling incident of my childhood was forgotten, but every event and thought of my life vividly, exactly and distinctly, traced with indelible finger upon the tablets of my brain, passing before my mental vision like a vast panorama.
It was then that I ventured to pray, and if I never prayed in my whole life before, I did then. Well can I remember the agony of remorse I felt for the precious time I had wasted. I was then five and twenty, a quarter of a century old, and what had I yet done to benefit my fellow creatures? and what had I not done that lay in my power to gratify my own selfish wants? Could I call to mind even onethoroughlygood act? Were not even my best actions based upon a sort of selfishness? How I longed to live over again those five and twenty years!
What resolutions did I not make to turn over a new leaf for the future if my Creator should be pleased to spare my young life! I prayed fervently and devoutly, such praying as only the most intense mental agony can prompt the soul to, until my nervous system, overcome with excessive tension, I sank into a sort of lethargy, something between life and death. Emerging at length somewhat from this state, I began to meditate thus:—
Is it possible that my young life is to be cut short in this manner? Is this what I was born for—to perishmiserably from the ill-consequences of a foolish though innocent freak—or will the Almighty really hear my prayer? Have I not prayed fervently with all my heart and soul, and has He not promised to help those who trust in Him? Iwilltrust in Him. I willnotbelieve that the age of miracles has gone by never to return.
Miracles are wrought daily, though we do not acknowledge them as such. I felt a calmness and resignation at these thoughts, and almost indifferent if the Lord should be pleased to take my soul, or work some miracle to save me from a lingering death. Either way I would have been content, for I now felt prepared to die, and had no fear of death.
I endeavoured to keep my faith in the mercy of my Creator firm and unwavering. If for a moment a slight doubt rose in my mind as to the likelihood of the Deity working a miracle for my special benefit, it was instantly dismissed, and I prayed more earnestly. Iwouldbelieve, I wouldnotbe robbed of my faith by the jeering of that mocking fiend, Doubt. I persisted in believing, and Doubt fled from me. IfeltI should be saved. Iknewit.
While thus meditating, methought that the extreme end of one of these long corridors had grown a trifle lighter than it was a minute ago. Was it a mistake, and merely the effect of my eyesight having grown accustomed to the darkness?
No, for the light now grew rapidly brighter. Could it be that the monks were coming in search of me?
Yes—no, for I now saw a solitary figure in the distance bearing a candle, but it was not the figure of a monk, for the garb was white, and apparently that of a female. I held my breath in wonder and expectation, whilst my heart thumped so loudly against my ribs that it might have caused an echo. My eyes were steadfastly fixed on the figure as it moved slowly towards me. It was undoubtedly the figure of a woman clad in a long white classic robe and a white head covering, such as worn by the priestesses of old. The shoulders and arms were bare, and on one arm she wore a golden armlet, on her feet sandals. She was now sufficiently near me for me to take a complete survey of her. Her face was pale and dreadfully emaciated, yet there were traces of great beauty left. She mumbled something to herself which at first I took for Italian, but on catching a word or two more, I had no difficulty in discovering it to be Latin, for she repeatedly muttered to herself the word "Peccavi," beating her breast the while. I rose to my feet as she approached. At first she appeared not to notice me and would have passed me. At length I addressed her in Italian. "Signora," I began, "I have lost my way in the dark and am suffering from an accident; perhaps you can show me the way out of these catacombs, for I am weak and dying of hunger."
The figure gazed blankly at me in silence, which I attributed not so much to surprise as to her not understanding the language in which I addressed her. At length she spoke in a faint sepulchral voice.
"Quis es tu qui in hoc loco versaris?"
To which I replied in the same classic tongue in which she addressed me.
"Christianus sum, tu autem quis es?" I am a Christian, but who art thou? To which she gave the following account of herself.
"Virgo Vestalis sum, aut possius eram; nunc autem nec virgo nec vestalis."
"Intelligo," I answered—I understand—not willing to extort a confession that might be painful to her, but she seemed communicative and inclined to enlighten me further.
"Audi!" she continued, "quandam eram in mundo virum amavi. Christianus erat, et propter meum crimen quod perpetravi cum viro hoc Christiano, ad mortem damnata viva sepulta fui. Attaman cum ante meam mortem fuerim ad Christifidem conversa, nunc meus spiritus hac illuc hoc in loco versatur."
I expressed my deepest sympathy for her sufferings in the best Latin I could muster, and indeed I was well able to sympathise with her, for did notIfeel what it was to be buried alive and to endure the gnawing pangs of hunger?
"Alas, poor ghost!" I felt inclined to say, with Hamlet, and I could not help muttering to myself, "How hard, alas!—just for one fault, for one piece of human frailty, resulting from the over tenderness of a woman's heart, to die such a horrible death."
"An es estraneus in hoc loco?" she asked me, havingoverheard my soliloquy and perceiving that it was in a foreign tongue.
"Civis Brittanicus sum," I replied, and then I began to relate my history, my misfortunes, and how I had prayed to be delivered from such a dreadful death, begging her to show me the way out of these horrid catacombs as soon as possible.
"Hac conditione,"—On this condition—she said.
"Quænam est?" What is it? I asked.
She replied thus: "Annulus quem in digito geris quem quidem circiter quinque Sestertia valet et meus erat nom habui a viro quem delexi vende ad levandum meum spiritum."
Here was a surprise! The ring that I had purchased previously to starting off for the catacombs belonged and had been worn by the spirit before me when in the flesh! The man of whom I bought it spoke the truth then—when he said that it had been found where the vestal virgins used to be buried alive. What a curious coincidence! Now I was called upon to sell it again to pay for masses for the poor disembodied spirit, and as a condition of being set free myself from this dungeon. I was loth to part with the ring I had paid so highly for, especially now that such an interesting history was attached to it. Yet, what will not a man do to save his life?
"Sic erit," I replied. It shall be done.
"Jamnunc sequere me," said she, beckoning to me with her pale emaciated finger, which together with thehand and arm was so skinny that it might have belonged to a skeleton. I followed accordingly, and was led through many a long corridor, passing many a tomb of martyred saint, though by a different route to that which I had taken. My guide walked on before me in silence. That is to say, she did not converse with me more, but ever to herself I heard the muttered words "Peccavi! peccavi!" beating her breast as she went.
As I followed my guide, my ears suddenly caught the tones of distant chanting.
"Quid sibi volunt cantus isti?" What is the meaning of that singing?
She answered merely by beckoning me on and hastening her steps. The singing grew more and more distinct, and as we approached I noticed a dim gleam of light ahead. Then, shortly turning a corner, I found myself suddenly in a little chapel, like, in appearance, to the rest I had seen, but lighted up with many candles, and with an altar on which stood a rudely-carved crucifix, a chalice, etc.
But how shall I describe my horror, consternation, and disgust on beholding the strange congregation there assembled? It was easy to see with half an eye that they were no beings of this world. They were seven, I think, in number; indeed, the chapel had hardly room for more, and to my dying day, never can I forget that horrible sight. One of them, who stood at the altar, and who seemed to be the priest, had evidently been decapitated. He stood upright, holding his head under his arm.
Another, who was naked with the exception of a cloth round his loins, was bound to a stake and pierced full of arrows,a laSt. Sebastian. Another, who had been sawn asunder lengthways, was held together by pieces of rope. One gentleman, who had been skinned alive for the holy faith, was a most unsightly object, and reminded me of those anatomical figures you see in doctors' shops. Whenever he moved, the working of his anatomy was most painfully visible, and he wore his skin over his left arm like an overcoat.
There was another, who had evidently been burnt, for he was as black as a cinder, and presented a most woe-begone aspect. A sixth had probably been torn to pieces by some wild beast, for his flesh bore the print of talons, and here and there hung in long strips, while a seventh had been broken on the wheel, and seemed capable of bending his body into the most impossible positions.
My blood ran cold at such a spectacle, and turning to my guide, I asked the meaning of this strange sight. She informed me that they were all spirits of early Christians who had suffered martyrdom.
"Then why," I asked, "are they not in Paradise instead of celebrating mass here in these catacombs?"
The reason she gave me was that they had all been massacred in their sin, and their spirits not being yet pure enough to enter the realms of eternal bliss, they were, like herself, doomed to go through their religious duties as on earth, until masses should be said fortheir deliverance. This, she told me, was her object in leading me here—that I might see the misery of these wretched spirits, and pray for them. I promised I would do so, and mass being finished, she introduced me to the skinned gentleman, whom, she informed me, was her lover. He bowed, grinned horribly, and offered me his anatomical hand, after which I had a word with each of the spirits in turn, and then prepared to take my departure.
"Ora pro nobis!" they all cried at once.
"Sic erit," I replied, and following my guide once more, she led me again through many long and dreary passages, which seemed to me interminable, she walking rapidly in front, whilst I dragged my jaded limbs considerably in the rear, led on by no other light than the luminous halo that enveloped her form, and which barely lit up the spot on which she stood, all else being in pitchy darkness. At length I thought I felt the ground ascending somewhat, and as I proceeded ever slowly upwards, I fancied that I saw a ray of sunlight struggling through a fissure in the rocky roof of the vault. I was not mistaken. The nearer I came, the larger grew the spot of light, and I now saw clearly that there was a very considerable opening, amply sufficient to admit of the body of a very large man passing through it, but quite overgrown by brambles and rank vegetation, so as effectively to veil the blue sky from my view. Even through this screen of rank herbage the light dazzled my eyes intensely, and it was some minutesbefore I got sufficiently accustomed to it. The ground now grew suddenly steeper, till I at length found myself within a few steps of the fissure. My guide now halted, and pointing to the opening with her hand, made way for me to pass on in front.
It would seem that the bright sunbeam as it fell upon her affected her somewhat, for I noticed that her form grew less distinct, until the vaporous essence that assumed her shape disintegrated piecemeal, beginning at the head, gradually downwards, till she completely vanished from my presence. Not, however, before I had time to thank her in her own classical language.
"Pro tuis beneficiis gratias ago."
To which she barely had time to reply "Vale!" when she became extinct, and I was left once more alone.
But now I had hope—I was free. Another step, and I should be launched into the outer world again. Hungry, thirsty, fatigued as I was, I should soon be able to satisfy my present wants and then—and then—with all my young life before me, what might I not achieve? My first feeling was one of intense gratitude towards my Creator, who had saved me from a terrible and lingering death. It was like being born again. I advanced towards the opening, and was just about to move aside the luxuriant growth that alone separated me from the world without, when methought I heard human voices outside proceeding from no very long distance from the aperture. Even a human shadow flitted for amoment across the opening, obscuring for a second some of the glowing sunlight.
I was loth to emerge from my hiding place into the open air in sight of men, as, besides startling them, I should myself become an object of wonderment and create a scene I particularly wished to avoid. So I resolved to pause awhile until they should presently pass on, when I could emerge alone and unobserved. In this I was disappointed; they seemed to have no intention whatever of moving on. There they sat apparently over their meal, chatting at intervals. It was impossible but that I should thus overhear some fragments of their conversation, and what Ididhear made my blood run cold.
"Dost remember, Gaspero," said one, "on our last sally, when we captured the fat landowner from Montefiascone, and sent him back to his friends with his nose and his ears slit because they wouldn't send the ransom in time?"
"Corpo di Bacco!don't I?" answered another. "But I'll tell you what, if the 'Cavalli leggeri' get wind of our whereabouts this time, it will be short shrift for all of us."
"Bah!" said a third, "haven't we good spies enough always on the alert to warn us of their approach?"
"True," said the former, "but don't let us talk, or we shall miss the signal."
Then silence reigned for a brief space, broken now and again by some casual remark hardly audible.Here was a pretty to do! Had I been rescued from death by starvation only to stumble upon a nest of brigands? Oh, the irony of it! I trembled for the loss of the little gold I had upon me, but more still for the precious ring upon my finger.
"I must risk nothing," I said to myself, "and bide here in patience at any cost till they depart."
I dreaded lest the beating of my own heart—so audible to myself—should betray me. Thus a full hour or more passed away, when on a sudden I heard a sound like the hooting of an owl in the distance.
"The signal—the signal!" exclaimed several voices at once, and up they jumped like one man and took to their heels with the speed of lightning.