The Romance of the Forest | Page 8

been raised, and the tear of penitence
had once been shed; sounds, which could now only be recalled by
imagination Ñ tears of penitence, which had been long since fixed in
fate. La Motte paused a moment, for he felt a sensation of sublimity
rising into terror Ñ a suspension of mingled astonishment and awe! He
surveyed the vastness of the place, and as he contemplated its ruins,
fancy bore him back to past ages. "And these walls," said he, "where
once superstition lurked, and austerity anticipated an earthly purgatory,
now tremble over the mortal remains of the beings who reared them!"
The deepening gloom now reminded La Motte that he had no time to
lose, but curiosity prompted him to explore farther, and he obeyed the
impulse. Ñ As he walked over the broken pavement, the sound of his
steps ran in echoes through the place, and seemed like the mysterious
accents of the dead, reproving the sacrilegious mortal who thus dared to
disturb their precincts.
From this chapel he passed into the nave of the great church, of which
one window, more perfect than the rest, opened upon a long vista of the
forest, through which was seen the rich colouring of evening, melting
by imperceptible gradations into the solemn grey of upper air. Dark
hills, whose outline appeared distinct upon the vivid glow of the
horizon, closed the perspective. Several of the pillars, which had once
supported the roof, remained the proud effigies of sinking greatness,
and seemed to nod at every murmur of the blast over the fragments of
those that had fallen a little before them. La Motte sighed. The
comparison between himself and the gradation of decay, which these

columns exhibited, was but too obvious and affecting. "A few years,"
said he, "and I shall become like the mortals on whose reliques I now
gaze, and, like them too, I may be the subject of meditation to a
succeeding generation, which shall totter but a little while over the
object they contemplate, e'er they also sink into the dust."
Retiring from this scene, he walked through the cloisters, till a door,
which communicated with the lofty part of the building, attracted his
curiosity. He opened this and perceived, across the foot of the stair-case,
another door; Ñ but now, partly checked by fear, and partly by the
recollection of the surprize his family might feel in his absence, he
returned with hasty steps to his carriage, having wasted some of the
precious moments of twilight, and gained no information.
Some slight answer to Madame La Motte's inquiries, and a general
direction to Peter to drive carefully on, and look for a road, was all that
his anxiety would permit him to utter. The night shade fell thick around,
which, deepened by the gloom of the forest, soon rendered it dangerous
to proceed. Peter stopped, but La Motte, persisting in his first
determination, ordered him to go on. Peter ventured to remonstrate,
Madame La Motte entreated, but La Motte reproved Ñ commanded,
and at length repented; for the hind wheel rising upon the stump of an
old tree, which the darkness had prevented Peter from observing, the
carriage was in an instant overturned.
The party, as may be supposed, were much terrified, but no one was
materially hurt, and having disengaged themselves from their perilous
situation, La Motte and Peter endeavoured to raise the carriage. The
extent of this misfortune was now discovered, for they perceived that
the wheel was broke. Their distress was reasonably great, for not only
was the coach disabled from proceeding, but it could not even afford a
shelter from the cold dews of the night, it being impossible to preserve
it in an upright situation. After a few moment's silence, La Motte
proposed that they should return to the ruins which they had just quitted,
which lay at a very short distance, and pass the night in the most
habitable part of them: that, when morning dawned, Peter should take
one of the coach horses, and endeavour to find a road and a town, from

whence assistance could be procured for repairing the carriage. This
proposal was opposed by Madame La Motte, who shuddered at the idea
of passing so many hours of darkness in a place so forlorn as the
monastery. Terrors, which she neither endeavoured to examine, or
combat, overcame her, and she told La Motte she had rather remain
exposed to the unwholesome dews of night, than encounter the
desolation of the ruins. La Motte had at first felt an equal reluctance to
return to this spot, but having subdued his own feelings, he resolved not
to yield to those of his wife.
The horses being now disengaged from the carriage, the party moved
towards the edifice. As they