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The Vault
George Cruikshank
1836
Etching on copper
11 x 8.7 cm, vignetted
Second illustration for Rookwood: A Romance.
Fourth Edition, complete in one volume, with illustrations by George Cruikshank. London: William Macrone and Richard Bentley, New Burlington Street, 1836.
“Let me know, therefore, fully the intent Of this thy dismal preparation — This talk fit for a charnel.” — Webster.
Scanned image and text by Philip V. Allingham.
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Within a sepulchral vault, and at midnight, two persons were seated. The chamber was of singular construction and considerable extent. The roof was of solid stone masonry, and rose in a wide semicircular arch to the height of about seventeen feet, measured from the centre of the ceiling to the ground floor, while the sides were divided by slight partition-walls into ranges of low, narrow catacombs. The entrance to each cavity was surrounded by an obtusely-pointed arch, resting upon slender granite pillars; and the intervening space was filled up with a variety of tablets, escutcheons, shields, and inscriptions, recording the titles and heraldic honors of the departed. There were no doors to the niches; and within might be seen piles of coffins, packed one upon another, till the floor groaned with the weight of lead. Against one of the pillars, upon a hook, hung a rack of tattered, time-out-of-mind hatchments; and in the centre of the tomb might be seen the effigies of Sir Ranulph de Rokewode, the builder of the mausoleum, and the founder of the race who slept within its walls. This statue, wrought in black marble, differed from most monumental carved-work, in that its posture was erect and lifelike. Sir Ranulph was represented as sheathed in a complete suit of mail, decorated with his emblazoned and gilded surcoat, his arm leaning upon the pommel of a weighty curtal-axe. The attitude was that of stern repose. A conically-formed helmet rested upon the brow; the beaver was raised, and revealed harsh but commanding features. The golden spur of knighthood was fixed upon the heel; and, at the feet, enshrined in a costly sarcophagus of marble, dug from the same quarry as the statue, rested the mortal remains of one of "the sternest knights to his mortal foe that ever put speare in the rest."
Streaming in a wavering line upon the roof, the sickly flame of a candle partially fell upon the human figures before alluded to, throwing them into darkest relief, and casting their opaque and fantastical shadows along the ground. An old coffin upon a bier, we have said, served the mysterious twain for a seat. Between them stood a bottle and a glass, evidences that whatever might be the ulterior object of their stealthy communion, the immediate comfort of the creature had not been altogether overlooked. At the feet of one of the personages were laid a mattock, a horn lantern — from which the candle had been removed —, a crowbar, and a bunch of keys. Near to these implements of a vocation which the reader will readily surmise, rested a strange superannuated terrier with a wiry back and frosted muzzle; a head minus an ear, and a leg wanting a paw. His master, for such we shall suppose him, was an old man with a lofty forehead, covered with a singularly shaped nightcap, and clothed, as to his lower limbs, with tight, ribbed, gray worsted hose, ascending externally, after a bygone fashion, considerably above the knee. The old man's elbow rested upon the handle of his spade, his wrist supported his chin, and his gray glassy eyes, glimmering like marsh-meteors in the candle-light, were fixed upon his companion with a glance of searching scrutiny.
The object of his investigation, a much more youthful and interesting person, seemed lost in reverie, and alike insensible to time, place, and the object of the meeting. With both hands grasped round the barrel of a fowling-piece, and his face leaning upon the same support, the features were entirely concealed from view; the light, too, being at the back, and shedding its rays over, rather than upon his person, aided his disguise. Yet, even thus imperfectly defined, the outline of the head, and the proportions of the figure, were eminently striking and symmetrical. Attired in a rough forester's costume, of the mode of 1737, and of the roughest texture and rudest make, his wild garb would have determined his rank as sufficiently humble in the scale of society, had not a certain loftiness of manner, and bold, though reckless deportment, argued pretensions on the part of the wearer to a more elevated station in life, and contradicted, in a great measure, the impression produced by the homely appearance of his habiliments. A cap of shaggy brown fur, fancifully, but not ungracefully fashioned, covered his head, from beneath which, dropping, in natural clusters over his neck and shoulders, a cloud of raven hair escaped. Subsequently, when his face was more fully revealed, it proved to be that of a young man, of dark aspect, and grave, melancholy expression of countenance, approaching even to the stern, when at rest; though sufficiently animated and earnest when engaged in conversation, or otherwise excited. His features were regular, delicately formed, and might be characterized as singularly handsome, were it not for a want of roundness in the contour of the face which gave the lineaments a thin, worn look, totally distinct, however, from haggardness or emaciation. The nose was delicate and fine; the nostril especially so; the upper lip was short, curling, graceful, and haughtily expressive. As to complexion, his skin had a truly Spanish warmth and intensity of colouring. His figure, when raised, was tall and masculine, and though slight, exhibited great personal vigour.
We will now turn to his companion, the old man with the great gray glittering eyes. Peter Bradley, of Rookwood — comitatû Ebor —, where he had exercised the vocation of sexton for the best part of a life already drawn out to the full span ordinarily allotted to mortality, was an odd caricature of humanity. His figure was lean, and almost as lank as a skeleton. His bald head reminded one of a bleached skull, allowing for the overhanging and hoary brows. Deep-seated, and sunken within their sockets, his gray orbs gleamed with intolerable lustre. Few could endure his gaze; and, aware of his power, Peter seldom failed to exercise it. He had likewise another habit, which, as it savored of insanity, made him an object of commiseration with some, while it rendered him yet more obnoxious to others. The habit we allude to, was the indulgence of wild screaming laughter at times when all merriment should be checked; and when the exhibition of levity must proceed from utter disregard of human grief and suffering, or from mental alienation.
Wearied with the prolonged silence, Peter at length condescended to speak. His voice was harsh and grating as a rusty hinge.
"Another glass?"said he, pouring out a modicum of the pale fluid.
His companion shook his head. — Book One, "The Wedding Ring," Chapter 1, "The Vault," p. 2-4.
Although the chief background element of the Rookwood vault, the stacked coffins, and the other obvious piece, the larger-than-life black marble statue of the Rookwood ancestor, are evident in Cruikshank's composition, in contrast to Sir John Gilbert's later illustration of the same name, the 1836 figures are singularly uninteresting. Gilbert's interlocutors in The Vault are much more credible, and correspond in their clothing and gestures to Ainsworth's descriptions of the aged sexton and family retainer, Peter Bradley, and his grandson, Luke, the eiron of the tale. (For the moment, these names and identities will suffice.) Gilbert's three-dimensional handling of the scene and modelling of the figures (including the statue) is undoubtedly a realistic re-interpretation of Cruikshank's caricatural approach to his material in that Gilbert attempts to visualise as much of Ainsworth's text as possible. However, Cruikshank read the chapter carefully enough to realise the importance of the coffin to the ensuing action.
As George Worth notes, the general creepiness of the midnight scene in the Rookwood vault as much as the establishing of the initial situation through the dialogue are "representative of the Gothic strain in Ainsworth's work" (81):
It opens as two men, an old sexton and his grandson Luke, are talking in hushed tones . . . while a sputtering candle throws "opaque and fantastical shadows." Seated on a coffin, surrounded by stacked coffins, they are discussing Sir Piers Rookwood, who has just died, and his clandestine relationship with Luke's late mother. The sexton has brought Luke to this place expressly to tell him that Sir Piers was her murderer, and Luke's reaction is everything the old man could have wished. . . .
One of the coffins falls to the ground, with a "thunderous crash"; it splits open, and "a dead bpdy, clothed in all the hideous apparel of the tomb," rolls out (I, i). It is, of course, Luke's mother's corpse, remarkably well preserved. Luke seizes her hand and kisses it; and, oblivious to what his companion is doing, does not relinquish his hold while the sexton attempts to replace the body in the coffin. — Worth 80-81.
The wedding ring on the skeletal finger which Luke is left gripping as the sexton attempts to restore the corpse to the coffin is crucial to the inheritance plot since it proves that the youth's mother was Sir Piers' wife rather than his mistress and that, therefore, Luke is Sir Piers' legitimate heir, a fact that will drive much of the remainder of the novel. The skeleton of Luke's mother makes a surprise appearance at Luke's wedding in another subterranean vault.
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Last modified 14 February 2017