on the ground, he forced the point of the lever under the edge of the
stone and commenced to raise it. The stone yielded, and he proceeded to
work with the mattock. Darker and more silent than the night itself, I
stood by and watched him do it, while he, bending over his dismal toil,
streamed with sweat, panted, and his hard-coming breath seemed to have
the harsh tone of a death rattle. It was a weird scene, and had any
persons from without beheld us, they would assuredly have taken us
rather for profane wretches and shroud-stealers than for priests of God.
There was something grim and fierce in Sérapion's zeal which lent him
the air of a demon rather than of an apostle or an angel, and his great
aquiline face, with all its stern features brought out in strong relief
by the lantern-light, had something fearsome in it which enhanced the
unpleasant fancy. I felt an icy sweat come out upon my forehead in huge
beads, and my hair stood up with a hideous fear. Within the depths of my
own heart I felt that the act of the austere Sérapion was an abominable
sacrilege; and I could have prayed that a triangle of fire would issue
from the entrails of the dark clouds, heavily rolling above us, to
reduce him to cinders. The owls which had been nestling in the
cypress-trees, startled by the gleam of the lantern, flew against it
from time to time, striking their dusty wings against its panes, and
uttering plaintive cries of lamentation; wild foxes yelped in the far
darkness, and a thousand sinister noises detached themselves from the
silence. At last Sérapion's mattock struck the coffin itself, making its
planks re-echo with a deep sonorous sound, with that terrible sound
nothingness utters when stricken. He wrenched apart and tore up the lid,
and I beheld Clarimonde, pallid as a figure of marble, with hands
joined; her white winding-sheet made but one fold from her head to her
feet. A little crimson drop sparkled like a speck of dew at one corner
of her colourless mouth. Sérapion, at this spectacle, burst into fury:
"Ah, thou art here, demon! Impure courtesan! Drinker of blood and gold!"
And he flung holy water upon the corpse and the coffin, over which he
traced the sign of the cross with his sprinkler. Poor Clarimonde had no
sooner been touched by the blessed spray than her beautiful body
crumbled into dust, and became only a shapeless and frightful mass of
cinders and half-calcined bones.
"Behold your mistress, my Lord Romuald!" cried the inexorable priest, as
he pointed to these sad remains. "Will you be easily tempted after this
to promenade on the Lido or at Fusina with your beauty?" I covered my
face with my hands, a vast ruin had taken place within me. I returned to
my presbytery, and the noble Lord Romuald, the lover of Clarimonde,
separated himself from the poor priest with whom he had kept such
strange company so long. But once only, the following night, I saw
Clarimonde. She said to me, as she had said the first time at the
portals of the church: "Unhappy man! Unhappy man! What hast thou done?
Wherefore have hearkened to that imbecile priest? Wert thou not happy?
And what harm had I ever done thee that thou shouldst violate my poor
tomb, and lay bare the miseries of my nothingness? All communication
between our souls and our bodies is henceforth forever broken. Adieu!
Thou will yet regret me!" She vanished in air as smoke, and I never saw
her more.
Alas! she spoke truly indeed. I have regretted her more than once, and I
regret her still. My soul's peace has been very dearly bought. The love
of God was not too much to replace such a love as hers. And this,
brother, is the story of my youth. Never gaze upon a woman, and walk
abroad only with eyes ever fixed upon the ground; for however chaste and
watchful one may be, the error of a single moment is enough to make one
lose eternity.
THE STALLS OF BARCHESTER CATHEDRAL
MONTAGUE RHODES JAMES
This matter began, as far as I am concerned, with the reading of a
notice in the obituary section of the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for an
early year in the nineteenth century:
"On February 26th, at his residence in the Cathedral Close of
Barchester, the Venerable John Benwell Haynes, D.D., aged 57,
Archdeacon of Sowerbridge and Rector of Pickhill and Candley. He
was of ---- College, Cambridge, and where, by talent and assiduity,
he commanded the esteem of his seniors; when, at the usual time, he
took his first degree, his name stood high in the list of
_wranglers_. These academical honours procured for him within a
short time a Fellowship of his College. In the year 1873 he
received Holy Orders, and was shortly afterwards presented to the
perpetual Curacy of Ranxton-sub-Ashe by his friend and patron the
late truly venerable Bishop of Lichfield.... His speedy
preferments, first to a Prebend, and subsequently to the dignity of
Precentor in the Cathedral of Barchester, form an eloquent
testimony to the respect in which he was held and to his eminent
qualifications. He succeeded to the Archdeaconry upon the sudden
decease of Archdeacon Pulteney in 1810. His sermons, ever
conformable to the principles of the religion and Church which he
adorned, displayed in no ordinary degree, without the least trace
of enthusiasm, the refinement of the scholar united with the graces
of the Christian. Free from sectarian violence, and informed by the
spirit of the truest charity, they will long dwell in the memories
of his hearers. (Here a further omission.) The productions of his
pen include an able defence of Episcopacy, which, though often
perused by the author of this tribute to his memory, afford but one
additional instance of the want of liberality and enterprise which
is a too common characteristic of the publishers of our generation.
His published works are, indeed, confined to a spirited and elegant
version of the _Argonautica_ of Valerius Flaccus, a volume of
_Discourses upon the Several Events in the Life of Joshua_,
delivered in his Cathedral, and a number of the charges which he
pronounced at various visitations to the clergy of his
Archdeaconry. These are distinguished by etc., etc. The urbanity
and hospitality of the subject of these lines will not readily be
forgotten by those who enjoyed his acquaintance. His interest in
the venerable and awful pile under whose hoary vault he was so
punctual an attendant, and particularly in the musical portion of
its rites, might be termed filial, and formed a strong and
delightful contrast to the polite indifference displayed by too
many of our Cathedral dignitaries at the present time."
The final paragraph, after informing us that Dr. Haynes died a bachelor,
says:
"It might have been augured that an existence so placid and
benevolent would have been terminated in a ripe old age by a
dissolution equally gradual and calm. But how unsearchable are the
workings of Providence! The peaceful and retired seclusion amid
which the honoured evening of Dr. Haynes' life was mellowing to its
close was destined to be disturbed, nay, shattered, by a tragedy as
appalling as it was unexpected. The morning of the 26th of
February----"
But perhaps I shall do better to keep back the remainder of the
narrative until I have told the circumstances which led up to it. These,
as far as they are now accessible, I have derived from another source.
I had read the obituary notice which I have been quoting, quite by
chance, along with a great many others of the same period. It had
excited some little speculation in my mind, but, beyond thinking that,
if I ever had an opportunity of examining the local records of the
period indicated, I would try to remember Dr. Haynes, I made no effort
to pursue his case.
Quite lately I was cataloguing the manuscripts in the library of the
college to which he belonged. I had reached the end of the numbered
volumes on the shelves, and I proceeded to ask the librarian Whether
there were any more books which he thought I ought to include in my
description. "I don't think there are," he said, "but we had better come
and look at the manuscript class and make sure. Have you time to do that
now?" I had time. We went to the library, checked off the manuscripts,
and, at the end of our survey arrived at a shelf of which I had seen
nothing. Its contents consisted for the most part of sermons, bundles of
fragmentary papers, college exercises, _Cyrus_, an epic poem in several
cantos, the product of a country clergyman's leisure, mathematical
tracts by a deceased professor, and other similar material of a kind
with which I am only too familiar. I took brief notes of these. Lastly,
there was a tin box, which was pulled out and dusted. Its label, much
faded, was thus inscribed: "Papers of the Ven. Archdeacon Haynes.
Bequeathed in 1834 by his sister, Miss Letitia Haynes."
I knew at once that the name was one which I had somewhere encountered,
and could very soon locate it. "That must be the Archdeacon Haynes who
came to a very odd end at Barchester. I've read his obituary in the
_Gentleman's Magazine_. May I take the box home? Do you know if there is
anything interesting in it?"
The librarian was very willing that I should take the box and examine it
at leisure. "I never looked inside it myself," he said, "but I've always
been meaning to. I am pretty sure that is the box which our old Master
once said ought never to have been accepted by the college. He said that
to Martin years ago; and he said also that as long as he had control
over the library it should never be opened. Martin told me about it,
and said that he wanted terribly to know what was in it; but the Master
was librarian, and always kept the box in the lodge, so there was no
getting at it in his time, and when he died it was taken away by mistake
by his heirs, and only returned a few years ago. I can't think why I
haven't opened it; but, as I have to go away from Cambridge this
afternoon, you had better have first go at it. I think I can trust you
not to publish anything undesirable in our catalogue."
I took the box home and examined its contents, and thereafter consulted
the librarian as to what should be done about publication, and, since I
have his leave to make a story out of it, provided I disguise the
identity of the people concerned, I will try what can be done.
The materials are, of course, mainly journals and letters. How much I
shall quote and how much epitomize must be determined by considerations
of space. The proper understanding of the situation has necessitated a
little--not very arduous--research, which has been greatly facilitated
by the excellent illustrations and text of the Barchester volume in
Bell's _Cathedral Series_.
When you enter the choir of Barchester Cathedral now, you pass through a
screen of metal and coloured marbles, designed by Sir Gilbert Scott, and
find yourself in what I must call a very bare and odiously furnished
place. The stalls are modern, without canopies. The places of the
dignitaries and the names of the prebends have fortunately been allowed
to survive, and are inscribed on small brass plates affixed to the
stalls. The organ is in the triforium, and what is seen of the case is
Gothic. The reredos and its surroundings are like every other.
Careful engravings of a hundred years ago show a very different state of
things. The organ is on a massive classical screen. The stalls are also
classical and very massive. There is a baldacchino of wood over the
altar, with urns upon its corners. Further east is a solid altar screen,
classical in design, of wood, with a pediment, in which is a triangle
surrounded by rays, enclosing certain Hebrew letters in gold. Cherubs
contemplate these. There is a pulpit with a great sounding-board at the
eastern end of the stalls on the north side, and there is a black and
white marble pavement. Two ladies and a gentleman are admiring the
general effect. From other sources I gather that the archdeacon's stall
then, as now, was next to the bishop's throne at the south-eastern end
of the stalls. His house almost faces the western part of the church,
and is a fine red-brick building of William the Third's time.
Here Dr. Haynes, already a mature man, took up his abode with his sister
in the year 1810. The dignity had long been the object of his wishes,
but his predecessor refused to depart until he had attained the age of
ninety-two. About a week after he had held a modest festival in
celebration of that ninety-second birthday, there came a morning, late
in the year, when Dr. Haynes, hurrying cheerfully into his
breakfast-room, rubbing his hands and humming a tune, was greeted, and
checked in his genial flow of spirits, by the sight of his sister,
seated, indeed, in her usual place behind the tea-urn, but bowed forward
and sobbing unrestrainedly into her handkerchief. "What--what is the
matter? What bad news?" he began. "Oh, Johnny, you've not heard? The
poor dear archdeacon!" "The archdeacon, yes? What is it--ill, is he?"
"No, no; they found him on the staircase this morning; it is so
shocking." "Is it possible! Dear, dear, poor Pulteney! Had there been
any seizure?" "They don't think so, and that is almost the worst thing
about it. It seems to have been all the fault of that stupid maid of
theirs, Jane." Dr. Haynes paused. "I don't quite understand, Letitia.
How was the maid at fault?" "Why, as far as I can make out, there was a
stair-rod missing, and she never mentioned it, and the poor archdeacon
set his foot quite on the edge of the step--you know how slippery that
oak is--and it seems he must have fallen almost the whole flight and
broken his neck. It is so sad for poor Miss Pulteney. Of course, they
will get rid of the girl at once. I never liked her." Miss Haynes's
grief resumed its sway, but eventually relaxed so far as to permit of
her taking some breakfast. Not so her brother, who, after standing in
silence before the window for some minutes, left the room, and did not
appear again that morning.
I need only add that the careless maid-servant was dismissed forthwith,
but that the missing stair-rod was very shortly afterwards found _under_
the stair-carpet--an additional proof, if any were needed, of extreme
stupidity and carelessness on her part.
For a good many years Dr. Haynes had been marked out by his ability,
which seems to have been really considerable, as the likely successor of
Archdeacon Pulteney, and no disappointment was in store for him. He was
duly installed, and entered with zeal upon the discharge of those
functions which are appropriate to one in his position. A considerable
space in his journals is occupied with exclamations upon the confusion
in which Archdeacon Pulteney had left the business of his office and the
documents appertaining to it. Dues upon Wringham and Barnswood have been
uncollected for something like twelve years, and are largely
irrecoverable; no visitation has been held for seven years; four
chancels are almost past mending. The persons deputized by the
archdeacon have been nearly as incapable as himself. It was almost a
matter for thankfulness that this state of things had not been permitted
to continue, and a letter from a friend confirms this view. "[Greek: ho
katechôn]," it says (in rather cruel allusion to the Second Epistle to
the Thessalonians), "is removed as last. My poor friend! Upon what a
scene of confusion will you be entering! I give you my word that, on the
last occasion of my crossing his threshold, there was no single paper
that he could lay hands upon, no syllable of mine that he could hear,
and no fact in connection with my business that he could remember. But
now, thanks to a negligent maid and a loose stair-carpet, there is some
prospect that necessary business will be transacted without a complete
loss alike of voice and temper." This letter was tucked into a pocket in
the cover of one of the diaries.
There can be no doubt of the new archdeacon's zeal and enthusiasm. "Give
me but time to reduce to some semblance of order the innumerable errors
and complications with which I am confronted, and I shall gladly and
sincerely join with the aged Israelite in the canticle which too many, I
fear, pronounce but with their lips." This reflection I find, not in a
diary, but a letter; the doctor's friends seem to have returned his
correspondence to his surviving sister. He does not confine himself,
however, to reflections. His investigation of the rights and duties of
his office are very searching and businesslike, and there is a
calculation in one place that a period of three years will just suffice
to set the business of the Archdeaconry upon a proper footing. The
estimate appears to have been an exact one. For just three years he is
occupied in reforms; but I look in vain at the end of that time for the
promised _Nunc dimittis_. He has now found a new sphere of activity.
Hitherto his duties have precluded him from more than an occasional
attendance at the Cathedral services. Now he begins to take an interest
in the fabric and the music. Upon his struggles with the organist, an
old gentleman who had been in office since 1786, I have no time to
dwell; they were not attended with any marked success. More to the
purpose is his sudden growth of enthusiasm for the Cathedral itself and
its furniture. There is a draft of a letter to Sylvanus Urban (which I
do not think was ever sent) describing the stalls in the choir. As I
have said, these were of fairly late date--of about the year 1700, in
fact.
"The archdeacon's stall, situated at the south-east end, west of the
episcopal throne (now so worthily occupied by the truly excellent
prelate who adorns the See of Barchester), is distinguished by some
curious ornamentation. In addition to the arms of Dean West, by whose
efforts the whole of the internal furniture of the choir was completed,
the prayer-desk is terminated at the eastern extremity by three small
but remarkable statuettes in the grotesque manner. One is an exquisitely
modelled figure of a cat, whose crouching posture suggests with
admirable spirit the suppleness, vigilance, and craft of the redoubted
adversary of the genus _Mus_. Opposite to this is a figure seated upon a
throne and invested with the attributes of royalty; but it is no earthly
monarch whom the carver has sought to portray. His feet are studiously
concealed by the long robe in which he is draped: but neither the crown
nor the cap which he wears suffice to hide the prick-ears and curving
horns which betray his Tartarean origin; and the hand which rests upon
his knee is armed with talons of horrifying length and sharpness.
Between these two figures stands a shape muffled in a long mantle. This
might at first sight be mistaken for a monk or 'friar of orders grey,'
for the head is cowled and a knotted cord depends from somewhere about
the waist. A slight inspection, however, will lead to a very different
conclusion. The knotted cord is quickly seen to be a halter, held by a
hand all but concealed within the draperies; while the sunken features
and, horrid to relate, the rent flesh upon the cheek-bones, proclaim the
King of Terrors. These figures are evidently the production of no
unskilled chisel; and should it chance that any of your correspondents
are able to throw light upon their origin and significance, my
obligations to your valuable miscellany will be largely increased."
* * * * *
There is more description in the paper, and, seeing that the woodwork in
question has now disappeared, it has a considerable interest. A
paragraph at the end is worth quoting:
"Some late researches among the Chapter accounts have shown me that
the carving of the stalls was not, as was very usually reported,
the work of Dutch artists, but was executed by a native of this
city or district named Austin. The timber was procured from an oak
copse in the vicinity, the property of the Dean and Chapter, known
as Holywood. Upon a recent visit to the parish within whose
boundaries it is situated, I learned from the aged and truly
respectable incumbent that traditions still lingered amongst the
inhabitants of the great size and age of the oaks employed to
furnish the materials of the stately structure which has been,
however imperfectly, described in the above lines. Of one in
particular, which stood near the centre of the grove, it is
remembered that it was known as the Hanging Oak. The propriety of
that title is confirmed by the fact that a quantity of human bones
was found in the soil about its roots, and that at certain times of
the year it was the custom for those who wished to secure a
successful issue to their affairs, whether of love or the ordinary
business of life, to suspend from its boughs small images or
puppets rudely fashioned of straw, twigs, or the like rustic
materials."
So much for the archdeacon's archaeological investigations. To return to
his career as it is to be gathered from his diaries. Those of his first
three years of hard and careful work show him throughout in high
spirits, and, doubtless, during this time, that reputation for
hospitality and urbanity which is mentioned in his obituary notice was
well deserved. After that, as time goes on, I see a shadow coming over
him--destined to develop into utter blackness--which I cannot but think
must have been reflected in his outward demeanour. He commits a good
deal of his fears and troubles to his diary; there was no other outlet
for them. He was unmarried, and his sister was not always with him. But
I am much mistaken if he has told all that he might have told. A series
of extracts shall be given:
"_Aug._ 30, 1816.--The days begin to draw in more perceptibly than
ever. Now that the Archdeaconry papers are reduced to order, I
must find some further employment for the evening hours of autumn
and winter. It is a great blow that Letitia's health will not allow
her to stay through these months. Why not go on with my _Defence of
Episcopacy_? It may be useful.
"_Sept. 15._--Letitia has left me for Brighton.
"_Oct. 11._--Candles lit in the choir for the first time at evening
prayers. It came as a shock: I find that I absolutely shrink from
the dark season.
"_Nov. 17._--Much struck by the character of the carving on my
desk: I do not know that I had ever carefully noticed it before. My
attention was called to it by an accident. During the _Magnificat_
I was, I regret to say, almost overcome with sleep. My hand was
resting on the back of the carved figure of a cat which is the
nearest to me of the three figures on the end of my stall. I was
not aware of this, for I was not looking in that direction, until I
was startled by what seemed a softness, a feeling as of rather
rough and coarse fur, and a sudden movement, as if the creature
were twisting round its head to bite me. I regained complete
consciousness in an instant, and I have some idea that I must have
uttered a suppressed exclamation, for I noticed that Mr. Treasurer
turned his head quickly in my direction. The impression of the
unpleasant feeling was so strong that I found myself rubbing my
hand upon my surplice. This accident led me to examine the figures
after prayers more carefully than I had done before, and I realized
for the first time with what skill they are executed.
"_Dec. 6._--I do indeed miss Letitia's company. The evenings, after
I have worked as long as I can at my _Defence_, are very trying.
The house is too large for a lonely man, and visitors of any kind
are too rare. I get an uncomfortable impression when going to my
room that there _is_ company of some kind. The fact is (I may as
well formulate it to myself) that I hear voices. This, I am well
aware, is a common symptom of incipient decay of the brain--and I
believe that I should be less disquieted than I am if I had any
suspicion that this was the cause. I have none--none whatever, nor
is there anything in my family history to give colour to such an
idea. Work, diligent work, and a punctual attention to the duties
which fall to me is my best remedy, and I have little doubt that it
will prove efficacious.
"_Jan. 1._ My trouble is, I must confess it, increasing upon me.
Last night, upon my return after midnight from the Deanery, I lit
my candle to go upstairs. I was nearly at the top when something
whispered to me, 'Let me wish you a happy New Year.' I could not be
mistaken: it spoke distinctly and with a peculiar emphasis. Had I
dropped my candle, as I all but did, I tremble to think what the
consequences must have been. As it was, I managed to get up the
last flight, and was quickly in my room with the door locked, and
experienced no other disturbance.
"_Jan. 15._--I had occasion to come downstairs last night to my
workroom for my watch, which I had inadvertently left on my table
when I went up to bed. I think I was at the top of the last flight
when I had a sudden impression of a sharp whisper in my ear '_Take
care_.' I clutched the balusters and naturally looked round at
once. Of course, there was nothing. After a moment I went on--it
was no good turning back--but I had as nearly as possible fallen: a
cat--a large one by the feel of it--slipped between my feet, but
again, of course, I saw nothing. It _may_ have been the kitchen
cat, but I do not think it was.