The pleasant town of Q——, among its other attractions, possesses a
bone-cave. The cave, situated in a little valley close by the sea, had
not long been discovered to contain bones before it was invaded by an
army of geologists, who dug deep holes in the floor, and unearthed the
remains of prehistoric fires, of ancient knives and needles, and of
even a man’s jaw buried in stalagmite. And every year the fashionable
people of Q—— made an excursion into the windings of the cavern, under
the guidance of gnome-like guides with torches.
Within a certain period of its modern history, the Q—— bone-cave,
like the sacred caves of India, had a high-priest, an exponent of
its mysteries. He did not, however, dwell in its recesses, but in a
smart villa overlooking Q—— Bay. He was a local celebrity, and the
most active member of a committee appointed to examine the cavern. The
cavern was his hobby, and as it was of tolerably uniform temperature,
there was no time of year when he did not take delight in exploring
its mysteries. Every fresh discovery was a joy to Mr Grope; and though
a sceptical few laughed at him, and even called some of his flint
knives in question, his researches had thrown much light on geology and
archæology. One thing alone was wanting—he had found no dates in the
cave. There were dates and inscriptions in caves belonging to other
places, and he did not like Q—— to be behind them.
Prefacing, for the benefit of the reader, that stalac_tite_ is the
substance that hangs to the roof of caverns, like icicles, and
stalag_mite_ the substance that has fallen to the floor, a concretion
of carbonate of lime—we proceed with the story. One day, as Mr Grope
was examining a wall in one of the passages, he thought he detected a
weakness in the rock, and working at it with his great hammer he found
that it speedily crumbled away. Soon he had made a hole through which
he was able to pass, and presently he stood in a small apartment full
of large stalagmitic blocks, and with a very moderate amount of water
dripping from the roof. As he flashed his lantern about, his keen eye
caught sight of artificial markings on the smooth surface of one of
the blocks. His heart leaped within him. Here of a certainty was at
last an inscription which, composed of several well-formed letters
carved on the block but interrupted by breaks, ran as follows:
F . . ll . . . to . . . Nor.
Capt T . . ck
r . . m 20 Br
15 . . 71 k . . to ret
Mr Grope carefully copied the interesting record into his note-book.
He looked about for more inscriptions, but this was apparently the
only one; however, there might be other unexplored caverns beyond. At
present he must devote himself to deciphering these letters. He had a
clue in the date 1571, for though there was a break between the ‘15’
and the ‘71,’ it was only caused by a slight inequality in the block.
That evening, in the seclusion of his study, he devoted himself with
ardour to the inscription. He did not doubt that it was intended for
abbreviated Latin. In the sixteenth century every one who could write
knew Latin, and wrote Latin too when he or she wished to be succinct.
There were, it is true, only scraps of words on which to proceed, but
this circumstance did but occasion a pleasing exercise of Mr Grope’s
ingenuity. The conquest would have been too easy had the words been
given at length. The very uncertainty had in it that excitement which
is dear to the hearts of all true antiquaries.
Before he thoroughly set to his task, Mr Grope balanced in his mind
whether he should treat the inscription as private or political. He
inclined to the political aspect. If it were private, nothing could
be made of it, and it was unlikely that a gentleman should carve his
personal remarks in the depths of a subterranean cave. No doubt the
letters referred to public matters. For a moment Mr Grope could not
recollect who reigned in England in 1571; for though he took a great
interest in history, he was somewhat oblivious about dates. Soon,
however, a vision of Queen Elizabeth in ruff and farthingale rose
before him, and then he attacked the first line in good earnest.
F . . ll . . . to . . . Nor.
Now it seemed clear as noonday that Nor was the first syllable of a
proper name, or at least the name of a place; for Mr Grope remembered
that in the sixteenth century it was not the custom to begin every noun
with a capital letter, as it was in the eighteenth. Could it refer to
Norwich? Norwich was a long way from Q——; but the gentleman in the cave
might have been mixed up in a conspiracy which embraced the capture of
several towns. Mr Grope took down Mr Froude’s _History of England_,
and turned over the pages referring to Elizabeth’s reign in search of
names beginning with Nor. Then a great light broke upon him, and he
wondered that he had not remembered his history better. The name of
Norfolk occurred several times in connection with what Mr Froude calls
the ‘Ridolfi Plot,’ and the ‘Ridolfi Plot’ was going on in 1571. The
course of his investigation seemed to flow almost too smoothly now. He
soon found that the first line ran: ‘Fallete tollite Norfolk’ (Betray
and take Norfolk); whence it was evident that the man in the cave had
played false to all parties, and after engaging in the conspiracy,
had leagued with some fellow-conspirators to betray their chief, the
unhappy Duke who preceded Mary of Scotland to the scaffold instead of
sharing her throne. ‘Betray and take Norfolk!’ It was not good Latin
certainly, but good enough for an inscription where there were so many
breaks, which imagination could fill up with the elegances of language;
and the morality was characteristic of the sixteenth century.
The second line of the inscription puzzled Mr Grope more.