The towers and steeples of St. Pol de Léon raised themselves mightily in

front of us as we walked, beautiful and imposing. The town dates back to

the sixth century, and though once important, is now almost deserted.

Pol, or Paul, a monk, who, according to one tradition was Welsh,

according to another Cornish, went over to a neighbouring island about

the year 530 and there established a monastery. He became so famous for

his piety that a Breton king founded a bishopric at Léon, and presented

him with the mitre. The name of the town was then changed to St. Pol de

Léon. His successors were men distinguished for their goodness, and St.

Pol became one of the most famous ecclesiastical towns in Brittany.

Churches were built, monasteries and convents were founded.

In course of time its reputation for wealth excited the envy of the

Counts of Léon, and in 875 the Normans came down upon it, pillaged the

town and devastated the cathedral. It was one of those Counts of Léon

who so vigorously claimed his rights "de bris et d'épaves"--the laws of

flotsam and jetsam--esteeming priceless as diamonds certain rocks upon

which vessels were frequently wrecked. This law, rigorously enforced

through long ages, has now almost died out.

In the fourteenth century du Guesclin took possession of the town in

the name of Charles V., but the French garrison was put to the sword by

the barbarous Duke John IV. of Brittany in the year 1374. In 1590 the

inhabitants of the town joined a plot formed for their emancipation, and

the neighbouring villages rose up in insurrection against an army of

three hundred thousand men raised by the Convention. The rebels were

conquered after two disastrous battles--one within, the other without

the town--when an immense number of the peasants were slain.

Seeing it to-day, no one would imagine that it had once passed such

stirring times: had once been a place of importance, wealth, and envy.

Its streets are deserted, its houses grey and sad-looking. The place

seems lifeless. The shadows cast by the sun fall athwart the silent,

grass-grown streets, and have it all their own way. During our short

visit I do not think we met six people. Yet the town has seven thousand

inhabitants. Some we saw within their houses; and here and there the

sound of the loom broke the deadly silence, and in small cottages

pale-faced men bent laboriously over their shuttles. The looms were

large and seemed to take up two-thirds of the room, which was evidently

the living-room also. Many were furnished with large open cabinets or

wardrobes carved in Breton work, rough but genuine.

Passing up the long narrow street leading to the open and deserted

market-place, the Chapelle de Creisker rises before you with its

wonderful clock-tower that is still the pride of the town. The original

chapel, according to tradition, was founded by a young girl whom St.

Kirec, Archdeacon of Léon in the sixth century, had miraculously cured

of paralysis; but the greater part of the present chapel, including the

tower and spire, was built towards the end of the fourteenth century, by

John IV., Duke of Brittany. The porches are fifteenth century; the north

porch, in the Flamboyant style, being richly decorated with figures and

foliage deeply and elaborately carved. On the south side are six

magnificent windows, unfortunately not filled in with magnificent glass.

The interior possesses nothing remarkable, excepting its fine rose

window and the opposite east window, distinguished for their size and

tracery.

The tower is its glory. It is richly ornamented, and surmounted by a

cornice so projecting that, until the eye becomes accustomed to it, the

slender tower beneath seems overweighted: an impression not quite lost

at a first visit. The light and graceful tower, two hundred and

sixty-three feet high, rises between the nave and the choir, upon four

arches sustained by four quadrangular pillars four yards wide, composed

of innumerable small columns almost resembling bundles of rods, in which

the arms of Jean Prégent, Chancellor of Brittany and Bishop of Léon in

1436, may be seen on the keystone of each arch. The upper tower, like

those of the cathedral, is pierced by narrow bays, supported on either

side by false bays. From the upper platform, with its four-leaved

balustrade, rises the beautiful open-work spire, somewhat resembling

that of St. Peter's at Caen, and flanked by four turrets. This tower is

said to have been built by an English architect, but there is no

authority for the tradition.

Proceeding onwards to the market-place, there rises the cathedral, far

better placed than many of the cathedrals abroad. It is one of the

remarkable buildings of Brittany, possessing certain distinguishing

features peculiar to the Breton churches.

The cathedral dates from three periods. A portion of the north transept

is Romanesque; the nave, west front, and towers date from the thirteenth

century and the commencement of the fourteenth; the interior, almost

entirely Gothic, and very striking, lost much of its beauty when

restored in 1866. It is two hundred and sixty feet long and fifty-two

feet high to the vaulting, the latter being attributed to William of

Rochefort, who was Bishop of Léon in 1349. The towers are very fine,

with central storeys pierced by lancet windows, like those of the

Creisker. The south transept has a fine circular window, with tracery

cut in granite.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF CATHEDRAL, ST. POL DE LÉON.]

The stalls, the chief beauty of the choir, are magnificently carved, and

date from 1512. The choir, completely surrounded by a stone screen, is

larger and more ornamented than the nave, and is surrounded by double

aisles, ending in a Lady Chapel possessing some good carved woodwork of

the sixteenth century.

The towers are almost equal in dimension but somewhat different in

design. One of them--the south tower--possesses a small lancet doorway

on the west side, called the Lepers' Doorway, where probably lepers

entered to attend mass in days gone by, remaining unseen and isolated

from the rest of the congregation. The south wall possesses a

magnificent rose window, above which is another window, called the

_Window of Excommunication_. The rose window is unfortunately filled

with modern glass, but one or two of the side windows are good. The

basin for holy-water, dating from the twelfth century, is said to have

been the tomb of Conan Mériadec, first of the Breton kings.

A small bell, said to have belonged to St. Pol, is kept in the church,

and on the day of the _Pardon_ of Léon (the chief fête of the year) is

carried up and down the nave and rung vigorously over the heads of the

faithful to preserve them from headache and ear-ache.

The best view of the interior is obtained by standing in the choir, as

near as possible to the tomb of St. Pol--distinguished by a black marble

slab immediately in front of the altar--and looking westward. The

long-drawn aisle is very fine; the stalls and decoration of the choir

stand out well, whilst the Early-Pointed arches on either side are

marked by beauty and refinement. The west end of the nave seems quite

far off and becomes almost dream-like.

Yet in some way the Cathedral of St. Pol de Léon left upon us a certain

feeling of disappointment. The interior did not seem equal to the

exterior; and as the church has been much praised at different times by

those capable of distinguishing the good in architecture, we attributed

this impression to the effect of its comparatively recent restoration.

Behind the cathedral is an old prebendal house, belonging to the

sixteenth century and possessing many interesting details. Beyond it

again was the small chapel of St. Joseph, attached to the convent of the

Ursuline nuns, founded in 1630. For St. Pol de Léon is still essentially

a religious and ecclesiastical town, living on its past glory and

reputation. Once immensely rich, it now impresses one with a feeling of

sadness and poverty.

One wonderful little glimpse we had of an earthly paradise.

Not far from the cathedral we had strayed into a garden, for the great

gates were open and the vision dazzled us. We had rarely seen such a

wealth of flowers. Large rose-trees, covered with blooms, outvied each

other in scenting the air with delicious perfume. Some of these trees or

bushes were many yards round. Immense rhododendrons also flourished.

Exquisite and graceful trees rose above them; the laburnum, no longer in

bloom, acacias, and the lovely pepper tree. Standing out from a wealth

of blossom and verdure was an old well, surmounted by some ancient and

picturesque ironwork. Beyond it was a yet more ancient and picturesque

house of grey stone, an equally venerable flight of steps leading up to

the front entrance. The house was large, and whatever it might be now,

must once have fulfilled some ecclesiastical purpose. It occupied the

whole length of the large garden, the remainder being closed in by high

walls. Opposite, to the right, uprose the Bishop's palace, and beyond it

the lovely towers and spires of the cathedral.

It was one of those rare scenes very seldom met with, which plunge one

at once out of the world into an Arcadia beautiful as dreamland. We

stood and gazed, silent with rapture and admiration; threw

conventionality to the winds, forgot that we had no right here, and

wandered about, inhaling the scent of the flowers, luxuriating in their

rich colours, feasting our eyes and senses on all the old-world beauty

of architecture by which we were surrounded; carrying our sight upwards

to the blue skies and wondering if we had not been transported to some

paradise beyond the veiling. It was a Garden of Eden.

[Illustration: CHAPEL OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ROSCOFF.]

Then suddenly at the open doorway of the house appeared a lady with a

wealth of white hair and a countenance full of the beauty of sweetness

and age. She was dignified, as became the owner of this fair domain, and

her rich robe rustled as she quietly descended the steps.

We now remembered ourselves and our intrusion, yet it was impossible to

retreat. We advanced bareheaded to make our humble apologies and sue for

grace.

The owner of this earthly paradise made us an elaborate curtsey that

surely she had learned at the Tuileries or Versailles in the bygone days

of an illustrious monarchy.

"Monsieur," she said, in a voice that was still full of melody, "do not

apologise; I see that you are strangers and foreigners, and you are

welcome. This garden might indeed entice anyone to enter. I have grown

old here, and my eyes are never tired of beholding the beauties of

Nature. In St. Pol we are favoured, you know, in possessing one of the

most fertile soils in France."

And then she bade us enter, with a politeness that yet sounded like a

command; and we obeyed and passed up the ancient steps into a

richly-panelled hall. Over the doorways hung boars' heads, shot by her

sons, Countess C---- for she told us her name--informed us, in the

forests of Brittany.

"They are great sportsmen," she added with a smile, "and you know we

Bretons do nothing by halves. Our sportsmen are fierce and strong in the

chase, and know nothing of the effeminate pastimes of those who live in

more southern latitudes."

Then, to do us honour, and because she thought it would interest us, she

showed us through some of the reception rooms, magnificent with tapestry

and carved oak and dark panelling, and family portraits of bygone

generations, when people were taken as shepherds and shepherdesses, and

the world was a real Arcadia; and everywhere were trophies of the chase.

And, conducting us up an ancient oak staircase to a large recess looking

to the back, there our dazzled vision saw another garden stretched out

before us, longer, broader, than the paradise in front, full of roses

and lilies, and a countless number of fruit trees.

"That is my orchard," she said; "but I must have flowers everywhere, and

so, all down the borders my lilies and roses scent the air; and there I

walk and try to make my old age beautiful and contented, as every old

age ought to be. My young days were passed at Court; my later years in

this quiet seclusion, out of the world. Alas! there is no more Court for

old or young."

Then again we descended into a salon so polished that you could trace

your features on the parquet flooring; a room that would have dignified

a monarch; a room where everything was old-fashioned and beautiful,

subdued and refined; and our hostess, pointing to lovely old chairs

covered with tapestry that had been worked a century-and-a-half ago,

touched a bell and insisted upon our refreshing ourselves with some wine

of the country and a cake peculiar to St. Pol de Léon. It is probable

that H.C.'s poetical eyes and ethereal countenance, whilst captivating

her heart, had suggested a dangerous delicacy of constitution. These

countenances, however, are deceptive; it is often your robust and florid

people who fail to reach more than the stage of early manhood.

In response to the bell there entered a Breton maid with cake and wine

on a silver tray. She was youthful and comely, and wore a picturesque

Breton cap with mysterious folds, the like of which we had seen neither

in Morlaix nor in St. Pol de Léon. As far as the latter town was

concerned it was not surprising, since we had met so few of the

inhabitants.

[Illustration: HOUSE IN WHICH THE YOUNG PRETENDER TOOK REFUGE AFTER THE

BATTLE OF CULLODEN, ROSCOFF.]

The maid curtsied on entering, placed the tray upon the table, curtsied

again to her mistress, and withdrew. All was done in absolute silence:

the silence of a well-bred domestic and a perfectly organised household.

She moved as if her feet had been encased in down.

With her own fair and kindly hands, the Comtesse poured out the red and

sparkling liquid, and, breaking the cake, once more bade us welcome.

We would rather have been excused; such hospitality to strangers was so

rare, excepting in remote places where the customs of the primitive ages

still existed. But hospitality so gracefully and graciously offered had

to be met with graciousness and gratitude in return.

"The cake I offer you," she remarked, "is peculiar to St. Pol de Léon.

There is a tradition that it has come to us from the days of St. Pol

himself, and that the saintly monk-bishop made his daily meal of it. But

I feel very sure," she added with a smile, "that those early days of

fasting and penance never rejoiced in anything as refined and civilized

and as good as this."

And then for a little while we talked of Brittany and the Bretons; and

if we could have stayed longer we should have heard many an anecdote and

many an experience. But time and a due regard to politeness forbade a

"longer lingering," charming as were the old lady's manners and

conversation, delightful the atmosphere in which she lived. With mingled

stateliness and grace she accompanied us to the wonderful garden and

bade us farewell.

"This is your first visit to St. Pol," she said, as she gave us her hand

in the English fashion; "I hope it will not be your last. Remember that

if ever you come here again my doors will open to you, and a welcome

will await you. Only, let your next visit be a longer one. You see that

I speak with the freedom of age; and if you think me impulsive in thus

tendering hospitality to one hitherto unknown, I must answer that I have

lived in the world, and make no mistakes. I believe also in a certain

mental mesmerism, which rarely fails. When I saw you enter, something

told me that I might come to you. Fare you well!--Sans adieu!" she added

as we expressed our gratitude and bent over her hand with an earnest "Au

revoir!"

We went our way, both charmed into silence for a time. I felt that we

were thinking the same thoughts--rejoicing in our happy fortune in these

occasional meetings which flashed across the horizon of our lives and

disappeared, not without leaving behind them an abiding effect; an

earnest appreciation of human nature and the amount of leaven that must

exist in the world. We thought instinctively of Mdlle. Martin, the

little Receveuse des Postes de Retraite at Grâce: and of Mdlle. de

Pressensé at Villeneuve, who had welcomed us even as the Comtesse had

now done; and we felt that we were favoured.

Time was up, and we decided to make this our last impression of St. Pol

de Léon. We passed down the quiet streets, under the shadow of the

Creisker, out into the open country and the railway station. We were

just in time for the train to Roscoff, and in a very few minutes had

reached that little terminus.

Immediately we felt more out of the world than ever. There was something

so primitive about the station and its surroundings and the people who

hovered about, that this seemed a true _finis terre_. It was, however,

sufficiently civilized to boast of two omnibuses; curiously constructed

machines that, remembering our St. Pol experience, we did not enter. The

town was only a little way off, and its church steeple served us as

beacon.

We passed a few modern houses near the station, which looked like a

settlement in the backwoods with the trees cut down, and then a short

open road led to the quiet streets.

Quiet indeed they were, with a look about them yet more old-world,

deadly and deserted even than St. Pol de Léon. The houses are nearly all

built of that grey _Kersanton_ stone, which has a cold and cheerless

tone full of melancholy; like some of the far away Scotch or Welsh

villages, where nature seems to have died out, no verdure is to be seen,

and the very hedges, that in softer climes bud and blossom and put forth

the promise of spring to make glad the heart of man, are replaced by dry

walls that have no beauty in them.

Yet at once we felt that there was a certain charm about Roscoff, and a

very marked individuality. Never yet, in Brittany, had we felt so out of

the world and removed from civilization. Its quaint houses are

substantial though small, and many of them still possess the old cellars

that open by large winged doors into the streets, where the poorer

people live an underground life resembling that of the moles. The

cellars go far back, and light never penetrates into their recesses.

Again, some of the houses had courtyards of quaint and interesting

architecture. One of them especially is worth visiting. A long narrow

passage leads you to a quaint yard with seven arches supported by

columns, with an upper gallery supported by more columns. It might have

formed part of a miniature cloister in days gone by.

On the way towards the church, we passed the chapel dedicated to St.

Ninian, of which nothing remains now but the bare enclosure and the

ancient and beautiful gateway. This, ruined as it is, is the most

interesting relic in Roscoff. It was here that Mary Queen of Scots

landed when only five years old, to be married to the Dauphin of France.

The form of her foot was cut out in the rock on which she first stepped,

but we failed to see it. Perhaps time and the effect of winds and waves

have worn it away. Footsteps disappear even on a stronger foundation

than the sands of time. The little chapel was built to commemorate her

landing, and its ruins are surrounded by a halo of sadness and romance.

Four days after her landing she was betrothed. But the happy careless

childhood was quickly to pass away; the "fevered life of a throne" was

most essentially to be hers; plot and counterplot were to embitter her

days; until at last, at the bidding of "great Elizabeth," those

wonderful eyes were to close for the last time upon the world, and that

lovely head was to be laid upon the block.

The sad history overshadows the little chapel in Roscoff as a halo; for

us overshadowed the whole town.

Adjoining the chapel still exists the house in which the child-queen

lodged on landing, also with a very interesting courtyard.

Looking down towards the church from this point, the houses wore a grey,

sad and deserted aspect. The church tower rises above them, quaint and

curious, in the Renaissance style. The interior is only remarkable for

some curious alabaster bas-reliefs, representing the Passion and the

Resurrection; an old tomb serving as _bénitier_, some ancient fonts, and

the clever sculpturing of a boat representing the arms of the town; a

device also found on the left front of the tower.

There is also a large ossuary in the corner of the small churchyard, now

disused. These ossuaries, or _reliquaires_, in the graveyards of

Brittany were built to carry out a curious and somewhat barbarous

custom. It was considered by "those of old time" to be paying deference

to the dead to dig up their coffins after a certain number of years, and

to place the skulls and bones in the ossuary, arranging them on shelves

and labelling them in a British Museum style so that all might gaze upon

them as they went by. This custom is still kept up in some places; for,

as we have said, the Bretons are a slow moving people in the way of

progress, and cling to their habits and customs as tenaciously as the

Medes and Persians did to their laws. They are not ambitious, and what

sufficed for the sires a generation or two ago suffices for the sons

to-day.

But to us, the chief beauty of the town was its little port, with its

stone pier. The houses leading down to it are the quaintest in Roscoff,

of sixteenth century date, with many angles and gables. In one of them

lodged Charles Stuart, the Young Pretender, when he escaped after the

battle of Culloden, the quaintest and most interesting of all.

Looking back from the end of the jetty, it lies prominently before you,

together with the whole town, forming a group full of wonderful tone and

picturesque beauty. In the foreground are the vessels in the harbour,

with masts rising like a small forest, and flags gaily flying. The water

which plashes against the stone pier is the greenest, purest, most

translucent ever seen. It dazzled by its brilliancy and appeared to

"hold the light." Before us stretched the great Atlantic, to-day calm

and sleeping and reflecting the sun travelling homewards; but often

lashed to furious moods, which break madly over the pier, and send their

spray far over the houses. Few scenes in Brittany are more

characteristic and impressive than this little unknown town.

A narrow channel lies between Roscoff and L'Ile de Batz, which would

form a fine harbour of refuge if it were not for the strong currents for

ever running there. At high water the island is half submerged. It is

here that St. Pol first came from Cornwall, intending to live there the

remainder of his life; but, as we have seen, he was made Bishop of Léon,

and had to take up his abode in the larger town.

No tree of any height is to be seen here, but the tamarisk grows in

great abundance. All the men are sailors and pass their lives upon the

water, coming home merely to rest. The women cultivate the ground. The

church possesses, and preserves as its greatest treasure, a stole worn

by St. Pol. Tradition has it that when St. Pol landed, the island was a

prey to a fierce and fiery dragon, whom the monk conquered by throwing

his stole round the neck of the monster and commanding it to cast itself

into the sea; a command it instantly and amiably obeyed by rushing to

the top of a high rock and plunging for ever beneath the waves. The rock

is still called in Breton language Toul ar Sarpent, signifying Serpent's

Hole.

[Illustration: ROSCOFF.]

Roscoff itself is extremely fertile; the deadly aspect of the little

town is not extended to the surrounding plains. The climate is much

influenced by the Gulf Stream, and the winters are temperate. Flowers

and vegetables grow here all the year round that in less favoured

districts are found only in summer. Like Provence in the far South,

Roscoff is famous for its primeurs, or early vegetables. If you go to

some of the great markets in Paris in the spring and notice certain

country people with large round hats, very primitive in appearance,

disposing of these vegetables, you may at once know them for Bretons

from Roscoff. You will not fall in love with them; they are plain,

honest, and stupid. We found the few people we spoke to in Roscoff quite

answering to this description, and could make nothing of them.

On our way back to the station we visited the great natural curiosity of

the place: a fig tree whose branches cover an area of nearly two hundred

square yards, supported by blocks of wood or by solid masonry built up

for the purpose. It yields an immense quantity of fruit, and would

shield a small army beneath its foliage. Its immense trunk is knotted

and twisted about in all directions; but the tree is full of life and

vigour, and probably without parallel in the world.

Soon after this, we were once more steaming towards Morlaix, our

head-quarters. As we passed St. Pol de Léon, its towers and steeples

stood out grandly in the gathering twilight. Before us there rose up the

vision of the aged Countess who had received and entertained us with so

much kindness and hospitality. It was not too much to say that we longed

to renew our experience, to pass not hours but days in that charmed and

charming abode, refined by everything that was old-world and artistic;

and to number our hostess amongst those friends whom time and chance,

silence and distance, riches or poverty, life or death, can never

change.

We re-entered Morlaix with the shadows of night. Despising the omnibus,

we went down Jacob's Ladder, rejoicing and revelling in all the

old-world atmosphere about us, and on our way passed our Antiquarian. He

was still at his doorway, evidently watching for our arrival, and might

have been motionless as a wooden sentry ever since we had left him in

the morning.

The workshop was lighted up, and the old cabinets and the modern

wood-carving looked picturesque and beautiful in the lights and shadows

thrown by the lamps. The son, handsome as an Adonis, was bending over

some delicate carving that he was chiseling, flushed with the success of

his work, yet outwardly strangely quiet and gentle. The cherub we had

seen a morning or two ago at the doorstep ought now to have been in bed

and asleep. Instead of that he was perched upon a table, and with large,

wide-opened blue eyes was gazing with all the innocence and inquiry of

infancy into his father's face, as if he would there read the mystery of

life and creation, which the wondering gaze of early childhood seems for

ever asking.

It was a rare picture. The rift within the lute was out of sight

upstairs, and there was nothing to disturb the harmony of perfection.

The child saw us, and immediately held out his little arms with a

confiding gesture and a crow of delight that would have won over the

sternest misanthropist, as if he recognised us for old friends between

whom there existed a large amount of affection and an excellent

understanding. His father threw down his chisel, and catching him up in

his arms perched him upon his shoulder and ran him up and down the room,

while the little fellow shrieked with happiness. Then both disappeared

up the staircase, the child looking, in all his loveliness, as if he

would ask us to follow--a perfect representation of trust and

contentment, as he felt himself borne upwards, safe and secure from

danger, in the strong arms of his natural protector.

The old man turned to us with a sigh. Was he thinking of his own past

youth, when he, too, was once the principal actor in a counterpart

scene? Or of a day, which could not be very far off, when such a scene

as this and all earthly scenes must for him for ever pass away? Or of

the little rift within the lute? Who could tell?

"So, sirs, you are back once more," was all he remarked. "Have you seen

Roscoff? Was I not right in praising it?"

"You were, indeed," we replied. "It is full of indescribable beauty and

interest. Why is it so little known?"

"Because there are so few true artists in the world," he answered. "It

cannot appeal to any other temperament. Those who see things only with

the eyes and not with the soul, will never care for it. And so it has

made no noise in the world, and few visit it. Of those who do, probably

many think more of the wonderful fig tree than of the exquisite tone of

the houses, the charm of the little port, the matchless purity of the

water."

We felt he was right. Then he pointed to the marvellous crucifix that

hung upon the wall, and seemed by its beauty and sacredness almost to

sanctify the room.

"Is it not a wonderful piece of art?" he cried, with quiet enthusiasm.

"If Michel Angelo had ever carved in ivory, I should say it was his

work. But be that as it may, it is the production of a great master."

We promised to return. There was something about the old man and his

surroundings which compelled one to do so. It was so rare to find three

generations of perfection, about whom there clung a charm indescribable

as the perfume that clings to the rose. We passed out into the night,

and our last look showed him standing in his quaint little territory,

thrown out in strong relief by the lamplight, gazing in rapt devotion

upon his treasures, all the religious fervour of the true Breton

temperament shining out of his spiritual face, thinking perhaps of the

"one far-off Divine event" that for him was growing so very near.

A SOCIAL DÉBUT.

It is hoped that the following anecdote of the ways and customs of that

rare animal, the modest, diffident youth (soon, naturalists assure us,

to become as extinct in these islands as the Dodo), may afford a

moment's amusement to the superior young people who rule journalism,

politics, and life for us to-day.

Some ten years ago Mr. Edward Everett came up from the wilds of

Devonshire to study law with Braggart and Pushem, in Chancery Lane. He

was placed to board, by a prudent mother, with a quiet family in

Bayswater.

That even quiet Bayswater families are not without their dangers

Everett's subsequent career may be taken as proof, but with this, at

present, I have nothing to do. I merely intend to give the history of

his début in society, although the title is one of which, after reading

the following pages, you may find reason to complain.

Everett had not been many weeks in London when he received, quite

unexpectedly, his first invitation to an evening party.

His mother's interest had procured it for him, and it came from Lady

Charlton, the wife of Sir Robert, the eminent Q.C. It was with no little

elation that he passed the card round the breakfast-table for the

benefit of Mrs. Browne and the girls. There stood Lady Charlton's name,

engraved in the centre, and his own, "Mr. Edward Everett," written up in

the left-hand corner; while the date, a Thursday in February, was as yet

too far ahead for him to have any inkling of the trepidation he was

presently to feel.

Everett, although nineteen, had never been to a real party before; in

the wilds of Devonshire one does not even require dress clothes;

therefore, after sending an acceptation in his best handwriting, his

first step was to go and get himself measured for an evening suit.

Now, Everett looked even younger than his age, and this is felt to be a

misfortune when one is still in one's teens. Later in life people appear

to bear it much better. He found himself feeling more than usually young

and insignificant on presenting himself to his tailor and stating his

requirements. Mr. Lucas condescended to him from the elevation of six

inches superior height and thirty years' seniority. He received

Everett's orders with toleration, and re-translated them with decision.

"Certainly, sir, I understand what you mean precisely. What you require

is this, that, or the other;" and the young gentleman found himself

meekly gathering views that never had emanated from his own bosom.

Nevertheless he took the most profound interest in the building up of

his suit, and constantly invented excuses to drop in upon Mr. Lucas and

see how the work was getting on.

Meanwhile, at home he, with the Browne girls, especially with Lily, the

youngest, often discussed the coming "At Home." Lily wondered what Lady

Charlton was like, if she had any daughters, whether there would be

dancing. Everett had never seen his hostess; thought, however, he had

heard there were daughters, but sincerely hoped they wouldn't dance;

for, although the Browne girls had taught him to waltz, he was conscious

he did them small credit as pupil.

"I'm sure it will be a splendid party!" cried Lily the enthusiastic.

"How I wish some good fairy would just transport me there in the middle

of the evening, so that I might have a peep at you in all your glory!"

"I wish with all my heart you were going too, Lil," said Everett; "I

shan't know a soul, I'm sure." And though he spoke in an airy,

matter-of-fact tone, qualms were beginning to shake his bosom as he

pictured himself thus launched alone on the tide of London society.

He began to count the days which yet remained to him of happy obscurity;

and as Time moves with inexorable footsteps, no matter how earnestly we

would hurry or delay him, so at length there remained but a week's

slender barrier between Everett and the fatal date. For while he would

not acknowledge it even yet to himself, all sense of pleasurable

anticipation had gradually given place to the most unmitigated condition

of fright.

Thus when he awoke on the actual Monday morning preceding the party, he

could not at first imagine to what cause he owed the burden of

oppression which immediately descended on his breast; just so used he to

feel as a boy when awaking to the consciousness of an impending visit to

the dentist. Then all at once he remembered that in four days more

Thursday night would have come, and his fate would be sealed.

He carried a sinking spirit to his legal studies all that day and the

next, and yet was somewhat cheered on returning home on the Tuesday

evening to find a parcel awaiting him from the tailor's. He experienced

real pleasure in putting on the new suit after dinner and going down to

exhibit himself to the girls in the drawing-room. It was delightful to

listen to their exclamations and their praise; to hear Lily declare,

"Oh, you do look nice, Ted! Splendacious! Doesn't it suit him well,

mammy?"

In that intoxicating moment, Everett felt he could hold his own in any

drawing-room in the land; nor could he help inwardly agreeing on

catching sight of himself in the chimney-glass that he did look

remarkably well in spite of a hairless lip and smooth young cheeks. He

mentally decided to get his hair cut, buy lavender gloves and Parma

violets, and casually inquire of Leslie, their "swell" man down at old

Braggart's, whether coloured silk socks were still considered "good

form."

But when he donned those dress clothes for the second time, on the

Thursday night itself, he didn't feel half so happy. He suffered from

"fright" pains in his inside, and his fingers shook so, he spoilt a

dozen cravats in the tying. He got Lily to fix him one at last, and it

was she who found him a neat little cardboard box for his flowers, that

his overcoat might not crush them. For, as the night was fine, and

shillings scarce with him in those days, he intended walking to his

destination.

Of course he was ready much too soon, and spent a restless, not to say a

miserable hour in the Brownes' drawing-room, afraid of starting, yet

unable to settle down to anything. Then, when half-past nine struck,

seized with sudden terror lest he should be too late, he made most hasty

adieux and rushed from the house. Only to hear Lily's light foot-fall

immediately following him, and her little breathless cry of "Oh, Ted!

you've forgotten your latch-key."

"I wish to Heaven I was going to pass the evening quietly with you,

Lil!" sighed the poor youth, all his heart in his boots; but she begged

him not to be a goose, told him he would meet much nicer girls, and made

him promise to notice how they were all dressed, so as to describe the

frocks to her next day. Then she tripped back into the house, gave him a

final smile, the door closed, and there was nothing for Everett to do

but set off.

He has told me since what a dreadful walk that was. He can remember it

vividly across all the intervening years, and he declares that no

criminal on his way to the gallows could have suffered from more

agonising apprehensions. He pictured his reception in a thousand dismal

forms. He saw himself knocking at the door; the moment's suspense; the

servant facing him. What ought he to say? "Is Lady Charlton at home?"

But that was ridiculous, since he knew she was at home; should he then

walk straight in without a word? but what would the servant think? Or,

supposing--awful thought!--he had made a mistake in the date; supposing

this wasn't the night at all? He searched in his pockets for the card

with feverish eagerness, and remembered he had left it stuck in the

dining-room chimney glass.

His forehead grew damp with sweat, his hands clammy. He slackened his

speed. Why was he walking so fast? He would get there too soon: how

embarrassing to be the first arrival! Then he saw by the next baker's

shop it was on the stroke of ten, and terror lent him wings. How much

more embarrassing to arrive the last!

The Charltons lived in Harley Street, which he had no sooner reached

than he guessed that must be the house, mid-way down. For a stream of

light expanded wedge-wise from the door, which was flung open as a

carriage drew up to the kerbstone. Everett calculated he should arrive

precisely as the occupants were getting out. Better wait a couple of

minutes.

Blessed respite! He crossed the road and loitered along in the shadow of

the opposite side. He examined the house from this point of vantage. It

was a blaze of light from top to bottom. The balcony on the drawing-room

floor had been roofed in with striped canvas. One of the red curtains

hanging from it was drawn aside; he caught glimpses of moving forms and

bright colours within.

He heard the long-drawn notes of a violin. The ever-opening hall-door

exhibited a brilliant interior, with numberless men-servants conspicuous

upon a scarlet background. Ladies in light wraps had entered the house

from the carriage, and other carriages arriving in quick succession had

disgorged other lovely beings. If the door closed for one instant it

sprang open the next at the sound of wheels.

"I'll walk to the top of the street," Everett determined, "cross over,

and then present myself." But as he again approached with courage

screwed to the sticking-place, a spruce hansom dashed up before him. Two

very "masher" young men sprang out. They stood for a moment laughing

together while one found the fare. The other glanced at Everett, and, as

it seemed to my too sensitive young friend, with a certain amusement.

"Is it possible that this little boy is coming to Lady Charlton's too?"

This at least is the meaning Everett read in an eye probably devoid of

any meaning at all. He felt he could not go in the company of these

gentlemen. He must wait now until they were admitted. So assuming as

unconscious an air as possible he stepped through the band of gaslight,

and was once more swallowed up in the friendly darkness beyond.

"I'll just walk once to the corner and back," said he; but, fresh

obstacle! when he returned, a servant with powdered head swaggered on

the threshold exchanging witticisms with the commissionaire keeping

order outside; and the crimson carpet laid down across the pavement was

fringed with loiterers at either edge, some of whom, as he drew near,

turned to look at him with an expectant air.

It was a moment of exquisite suffering. Should he go in? Should he pass

on? Only those, (and nowadays such are rare) who have themselves gone

through the agonies of shyness can appreciate the situation. As he

reached the full glare of the house-light, Everett's indecision was

visible in his face.

"Lady Charlton's, sir?" queried Jeames.

My poor Everett! His imbecility will scarcely be believed.

"Thanks--no--ah--er!" he stammered feebly; "I am looking for Mr.

Browne's!"

Which was the first name that occurred to him, and he heard the men

chuckling together as he fled. After this he walked up and down the

long, accursed length of Harley Street, on the dark side of the way, no

less than seven mortal times; until, twice passing the same policeman,

his sapience began to eye the wild-faced youth with disfavour. Then he

made a tour, east, south, west, north, round the block in which Lady

Charlton's house stands, and so came round to the door once more.

Yet it was clearly impossible to present himself there now, after his

folly. It was also too late--or he thought it so. On the other hand, it

was too early to go home. Mrs. Browne had said she should not expect to

hear he was in before two or three. On this account he dared not return,

for never, never would he confess to her the depths of his cowardice! He

therefore continued street-walking with treadmill regularity, cold,

hungry, and deadly dull.

But when twelve was gone on the church clocks, he could endure it no

longer. He turned and slunk home. Delicately did he insert the key in

the door; most mouse-like did he creep in; and yet someone heard him.

Lily, with flying locks, looked over the balusters, and then ran

noiselessly down to the hall.

"Oh, Teddy, I couldn't go to bed for thinking of your party and how much

you must be enjoying yourself! But what is the matter? You look

so--funny!"

Somehow Everett found himself telling her the whole story, and never

perhaps has humiliated mortal found a kinder little comforter. Far from

laughing at him, as he may have deserved, tears filled her pretty eyes

at the recital of his unfortunate evening, and no amount of petting was

deemed too much. She took him to the drawing-room, where she had

hitherto been sitting unplaiting her hair; stirred the fire into a

brighter blaze, wheeled him up the easiest couch, and, signal proof of

feminine heroism, braved the kitchen beetles to get him something to

eat.

What a delightful impromptu picnic she spread out upon the sofa! How

capital was the cold beef and pickles, the gruyère cheese, the bottled

beer! How they laughed and enjoyed themselves, always with due

consideration not to disturb the sleepers above. How Everett, with the

audacity born of the swing back of the pendulum, seized upon this

occasion to--

But no! I did not undertake to give further developments; these must

stand over to another time.

LEGEND OF AN ANCIENT MINSTER.

I.

Fairchester Abbey is noted for the mixed character of its architecture.

Such a confused blending of styles is very rarely to be met with in any

of our English cathedrals. There is no such thing as uniformity and no

possibility of tracing out the original architect's plan; it has been so

altered by later builders.

The Norman pillars of the nave still remain, but they are surmounted by

a vaulted Gothic roof. The side aisles of the choir are also Norman, but

this heavier work is most beautifully screened from view and completely

panelled over with the light tracery of the later Perpendicular.

It is almost impossible to adequately describe the beauties of this

noble choir. The architect seems to have been inspired, in the face of

unusual difficulty, to preserve all that was beautiful in the work of

his predecessors, and to blend it in a marvellous manner with his more

perfect conceptions. There is nothing sombre or heavy about it. It is a

perfect network of tall, slender pillars and gauzy tracery, and at the

east end there is the finest window to be seen in this country,

harmonising in the colour of its glass with the rest of the building;

shedding, in the sun's rays, no gloomy, heavy colourings, but bright

golden, creamy white, and even pink tints, on the receptive freestone,

which, unlike marble, is not cold or forbidding, but naturally warm and

pleasing to the eye.

To conclude this brief description, we can choose no better words than

these: "Gloria soli Deo."

They occur on the roof of the choir at its junction with the nave, and

explain the unity and harmony which exists amidst all this diversity.

Each successive architect worked with this one object in view, the glory

of God alone, and so he did not ruthlessly destroy, but recognised the

same purpose in the work of his predecessors and endeavoured to blend

all into one harmonious whole, thus leaving for future ages a lesson

written in stone which churchmen of the present day would do well to

learn.

Early in the year 188--, I was appointed Precentor of this cathedral,

and in the course of duty was brought much in contact with Dr. F., the

organist.

It was my custom frequently, after service, to join him in the

organ-loft and to discuss various matters of interest connected with our

own church and the outside world. He was a most charming companion; a

first-rate organist and master of theory, and a man of large experience

and great general culture.

One morning, soon after my appointment, I joined Dr. F. with a special

purpose in view.

We had met to discuss the music for the approaching festival of Easter.

The Doctor was in his shirt-sleeves, standing in the interior of the

organ, covered with cobwebs and dirt, inspecting the woodwork, which was

getting into a very ruinous condition, and endeavouring to replace a

pipe which had fallen from its proper position so as to interfere with

many of its neighbours.

"Here's a nice state of things," said he, ruefully regarding his

surroundings. "If we don't have something done soon the whole organ will

fall to pieces; and I am so afraid, lest in re-modelling it, the tone of

these matchless diapasons will be affected. There is nothing like them

anywhere in England. We must have it done soon, however; I only hope we

may gain more than we lose."

It was indeed time something was done. The key-boards of the old organ

were yellow and uneven with age. They reminded one of steps hollowed by

the knees of pilgrims, they were so scooped out by the fingers of past

generations of organists. Its stops were of all shapes and sizes, and

their character was indicated by paper labels gummed underneath. It had

been built about the year 1670 by Renatus Harris and, although added to

on several occasions, the original work still remained. Being placed on

a screen between the nave and the choir, it occupied an unrivalled

position for sound.

After awhile Dr. F. succeeded in putting matters a little to rights and,

seated at the key-boards, proceeded to play upon the diapasons, the tone

of which he had so extolled. It would really be impossible to exaggerate

the solemnity, the richness, and the indescribable sadness of the sounds

which proceeded from them; one never hears anything like it in modern

organs. These have their advantages and their peculiar effects, but they

lack that mellowed richness of tone which seems an art belonging to the

builders of the past.

Presently the Doctor ceased, and producing a roll of music told me it

was a Service he was accustomed to have each Easter, and asked me to

listen and say what I thought of it.

It would be impossible for me to express in words the admiration I felt

on hearing it. It was a most masterly composition, and was moreover

entirely original and unlike the writing of any known composer. It

possessed an individuality which distinguished it from every other work

of a like nature. All one could say with certainty about it was that it

was not modern music. There was a simplicity and a severity about it

which stamped it unmistakably as belonging to an age anterior even to

Bach or Handel: modern writers employ more ornamentation and are not so

restricted in their harmonies; modern art sanctions a greater liberty, a

less simplicity of method, and a less rigid conformity to rule.

The movement which most impressed me was the Credo.

There was a certainty of conviction in its opening phrases pointing to

a real earnestness of purpose. It was as if the composer's faith had

successfully withstood all the doubts, anxieties, and conflicts of life.

It was the song of the victorious Christian who saw before him the prize

for which he had long and steadfastly contended. _He believed_; he did

more than that; he actually _realised_. It was the joy, not of

anticipation, but of actual possession, the consciousness of the Divine

life dwelling in the heart, cramped and hindered by its surroundings,

but destined to develop in the light of clearer and fuller knowledge.

As the story of the Incarnation and Passion was told, there crept over

the listener feelings of mingled sadness and thanksgiving: sadness at

the life of suffering and pain endured "For us men and for our

salvation," and thanksgiving for the Gift so freely bestowed. And then

Heaven and Earth combined to tell the story of the Resurrection morning,

and the strains of thankfulness and praise increased until it seemed as

if the writer had at length passed from Earth to Heaven, and was face to

face with the joys of the "Life Everlasting" which all the resources of

his art were powerless fully to express.

The music ceased, and I awoke as from a dream.

"You need not tell me your opinion," said the Doctor; "your face shows

it most unmistakably; you can form only a very faint idea of its

beauties without the voice parts. When you hear our choir sing it you

will say it is the most powerful sermon you have ever heard within these

walls."

"Who is the composer?" I asked excitedly, my curiosity thoroughly

aroused.

"My dear fellow," replied Dr. F., "before telling its history, you must

see the proofs I have in my possession, for I shall have to relate one

of the most remarkable stories you have ever heard. So strange indeed

are the circumstances connected with that old Service that I have kept

them to myself, lest people should think me an eccentric musician. Our

late Dean knew part of them and witnessed some of the things I shall

tell you. The story will take some little time, but if you will come

across to my house you shall hear it and also see the proofs I hold in

my possession."

II.

We went direct from the cathedral into the library of Dr. F.'s house,

where, without wasting any time, he produced a roll of manuscript and

gave it me to read.

It was tied up neatly with tape and enclosed in another sheet of paper,

which bore the date January, 1862, and a note in the Doctor's

handwriting stating that he had discovered it in an old chest in the

cathedral library.

The document itself was yellow with age and was headed:

"Certain remarkable passages relating to the death of the late

Ebenezer Jenkins, sometime organist of this cathedral, obiit April

3, 1686; related by John Gibson, lay clerk."

Enclosed within it was also a fragment of music. Unrolling the

parchment, I proceeded to decipher with difficulty this narrative.

"On the Wednesday evening before Easter, A.D. 1686, I, John Gibson,

was called to the bedside of Master Jenkins.

"He had manifested a wish to hold converse with me, and to see me

concerning some matters in which we had both been engaged. He had

suffered grievously for many days, and it was plain to all his

friends that he had not long to tarry with us. A right skilful

player upon the organ was Master Jenkins, and a man beloved of all.

He had written much music for the Glory of God and the edification

of his Church, wherein his life seemed mirrored, for his music

appealed to men's hearts and led them to serve God, as did also the

example of his blameless life and conversation among us. He had

been busied for some time in the writing of a Service for Easter

Day, in the which he designed to express the thoughts of his waning

years. I had been privileged to hear some of these sweet strains,

and do affirm that finer music hath never been written by any man

in this realm of England. The Italians do make much boast of their

skill in music, and doubtless in their use of counterpoints,

fugues, and divers other devices they have hitherto excelled our

nation; but I doubt if Palestrina himself could have written more

excellent music, or have devised more cunning harmonies than those

of Master Jenkins.

"The work had of late been hindered by the pains of sickness, for

the master's eyes were dim with age, and his hands could scarce

hold pen; and so I, his most intimate friend, had on sundry

occasions transcribed his thoughts as he related them.

"On receiving his message I forthwith hastened to the presence of

my friend, and was sore troubled to find him in so grievous a

plight. It was plain to all beholders that his course was well-nigh

run, for a great change had taken place even in the last few hours.

"He revived somewhat on seeing me, and begged me at once to fetch

paper and ink. 'I am going,' said he, 'to keep Easter in my Lord's

Court; but ere I go, I fain would finish what hath been my life's

work. Then shall I rest in peace.'

"There was but little time, and so I made haste to fetch pen and

paper, and waited for his words.

"Never, I trow, hath music been written before at such a season as

this. We were finishing the last movement--the Creed, and those

words went direct to my heart as they had never done before. I

could scarce refrain from weeping, but joy was mingled even with

tears, for the light upon the master's face was not of earth, and

there was a sound of triumph in his voice which told of conflict

well-nigh ended and rest won.

"We had come to the words 'I believe in the resurrection of the

dead, and the life of the world to come.' For the moment, strength

seemed to have returned and my pen could scarce keep pace with his

thoughts, so rapid and so earnest were they. But the end was closer

even than I had supposed, for just as we reached the word 'life,'

the light suddenly failed from his face and he fell back. He smiled

once, and whispered that word Life, and I saw that his soul had

departed.

"In fulfilment of his last wishes I made diligent search for the

remaining portions of this his work, but failed to find them, and

can only suppose that they have been heedlessly destroyed. It would

scarce have seemed right to imprint so small a fragment, and so I

have deemed it wise to place it, with this narrative of its

history, in the cathedral library.

"Ere I close this narrative I must record certain strange passages

which came under my notice and which are vouched for by Gregory

Jowett, who likewise beheld them. They happened in this wise. On

the year after Master Jenkins's death, on the same date and about

the same hour, we were passing through the cathedral, having come

from a practice of the singers, and Master Jowett remembered some

music he had left by the side of the organ. He went up the stair

leading to the claviers and I remained below.

"Of a sudden he surprised me by rushing down, greatly affrighted,

and affirmed that he had seen Master Jenkins sitting at the organ;

whereupon I reassured him, and at length prevailed upon him to

return with me. Then, indeed, did we both actually behold Master

Jenkins, just as he had appeared in life, attired in somewhat

sad-coloured raiment, playing upon the keys from which no sound

proceeded. I was not one to be easily affrighted, and so advanced

as if to greet him, when of a sudden the figure vanished.

"We do both of us affirm the truth of this marvellous relation, and

do here append our joint signatures, having made solemn affirmation

upon oath, in the presence of Master Simpson, attorney, of this

city:

"(_Signed_) JOHN GIBSON.

"GREGORY JOWETT.

"Witnessed by me; Nicholas Simpson, Attorney-at-law, the 27th day

of April, 1687."

III.

The Doctor smiled at the perplexity which showed itself most

unmistakably in my face as I laid down the manuscript.

"Are you a believer in ghosts or apparitions?" said he.

"Theoretically but not practically," I replied. "They resolve

themselves, more or less, into a question of evidence; I would never

believe one man's word on the subject without further proof, because it

is always a fair solution of the difficulty to suppose him the victim of

a delusion. There are so many cases of mysterious appearances, however,

vouched for upon overwhelming evidence, that I am compelled to admit

their truth, at the same time believing they would be scientifically

explainable if we understood all the laws governing this world and could

more clearly distinguish between the spiritual and the material. There

is one thing usually noticeable about these appearances which, to my

mind, is very significant: they never actually do anything, they only

appear to do it and vanish away, leaving behind them no sign of their

presence."

"Are you prepared to accept that narrative as true?" said the Doctor.

"The balance of evidence compels me to accept it," I replied. "There

appears to be no motive for fraud; one could, of course, invent theories

to account for the apparition, but I am forced to believe, nevertheless,

that two highly trustworthy men did actually imagine that they saw the

organist's ghost. Whether they actually did so or not is another

matter."

"Very good," replied Dr. F. "Now will you believe me if I tell you still

more wonderful things which I myself have witnessed; and will you give

me credit for being a perfectly reliable witness? I only ask you to

believe; I, myself, cannot explain."

"My dear Doctor," I replied, "I shall receive anything you tell me with

great respect, for you are a most unlikely subject to ever be the victim

of a delusion."

At this the Doctor laughed and said: "Here goes, once and for ever, my

reputation for practical common-sense; henceforth, I suppose, you will

class me with musicians generally, who I know bear a character for

eccentricity. I will tell the tale, however, and you shall see I possess

proofs of its being no delusion, and can contradict your assertion that

ghosts never leave behind them traces of their presence.

"I put the old manuscript aside, intending, at some future time, to have

the Credo sung as a fragment. It would have been presumption on my part

to have completed the Service, so I left it, and being much occupied,

forgot all about it. Just about this time we decided to do away with

manual labour in blowing the organ, and substituted a small hydraulic

engine. I mention this because it has a bearing on what follows.

"To be as brief as possible. Just before Easter I was called away

suddenly on business for a day, and, on returning, was surprised at

receiving a visit from the Dean. He appeared annoyed, and complained

that his rest had been broken the previous night by someone playing the

organ quite into the small hours. He was surprised beyond measure on my

informing him of my absence from home. We tried to discover a solution

to the mystery, but failed. One day, however, I showed the Dean the old

manuscript in my possession, and was surprised to hear that he knew of a

tradition of the appearance, once a year, of the apparition. An old

verger, since dead, had declared several times that he had seen it; but,

being old and childish, no one took any notice of the story.

"Strange to say, the date when the ghost appeared was always the

same--the Wednesday before Easter. That was also the date mentioned in

the manuscript, and also the date when the organ was heard by the Dean.

We considered these facts of sufficient importance to warrant our making

further investigation; and decided, when the time came round again, to

go ourselves into the cathedral; meanwhile we kept our own counsel.

"The time soon passed on and the week before Easter again arrived, and

on the Wednesday evening, about 11.45, we entered the cathedral by the

transept door. The moon shone brightly and we easily found our way into

the nave; and sitting down, awaited the development of events. The

shadows cast by the moonlight were very weird and ghostly in their

effect; and had we been at all impressionable, we should doubtless have

wished ourselves back again. After remaining some time, however, we came

to the conclusion that we had come upon a foolish errand, and had just

risen to go, when an exquisite strain of very soft music came from the

organ. We listened spell-bound, rooted to the spot. The theme was

simple, almost Gregorian in its character, but handled in a most

masterly way. Such playing I had never before heard; it was the very

perfection of style.

"We were listening evidently to what was an opening prelude, for several

different subjects were introduced and only partially worked out.

"Several times I fancied a resemblance to the old Credo, and once

distinctly caught a well-known phrase; my doubts were soon solved,

however, for in a few moments we heard it in its entirety.

"You know how difficult it is to put one's impressions of music into

words; language never fully expresses them. Music can be easily

described in dry technical language, the language which deals in

'discords and their resolutions,' but that does not express its

influence upon ourselves. No language can do that, for it is an attempt

to fathom the infinite.

"As the varied harmonies echoed through the vaulted nave, flooding it

with a perfect sea of melody, it appeared as if we were listening to the

story of a man's life.

"There were the uncertain strains of youth, the shadowing forth of vague

possibilities, the expression of hope undimmed by disappointment. A

nameless undefined longing for greater liberty. The desire to be free

from the restraints of home, and to mingle with the busy world in all

the pride of early manhood. Soon the voyager puts off from the shore,

and at first all seems smooth and alluring. He drifts along the ocean of

life, wafted by favourable winds, delighting in each new pleasure. But

storm soon succeeds calm, as night follows day, and the young man is

soon encompassed with the sorrows and temptations of this life, battling

against evil habits, struggling to keep himself unspotted from the

world.

'Bella premunt hostilia

Da robur, fer auxilium.'

"Youth passes on to middle age, there is now an earnestness of purpose

which at first was lacking. Material pleasures are losing their hold,

there are traces of another holy influence: two lives are joined in

happy union, leading and encouraging each other to high and noble

thoughts and actions. A sound of thankfulness and praise is heard, to be

followed only too soon by the strain which tells of mourning and

heaviness: one was taken, the other left to toil on alone. But still

there was a purpose in life, a work to be done, something to live for.

And with lamentation is blended hope.

"The years roll on and the spiritual more and more overshadows the

material. The little spark of the Divine life dwelling in the heart has

developed and permeated the whole being. The soul seems chained and

hampered by its surroundings. Like a bird it beats itself against its

prison walls, until at length it wings its way heavenward.

"And then that ancient hymn, which before had wedded itself in my

imagination to the music, pealed forth in all its grandeur, and I seemed

to hear the songs of men united to the purer strains of angelic music:

'Uni trinoque Domino

Sit sempiterna gloria

Qui vitam sine termino

Nobis donet in patria.'

"The music ceased and we awoke as from a dream, and, remembering why we

had come, rushed up to the organ loft, only to find it in perfect

darkness."

IV.

In relating his experience in the cathedral, and in attempting to

describe the music he had heard, Dr. F. grew excited and even dramatic,

and his voice had quite a ring of triumph in it as he recited the "O

Salutaris"--to my mind, the grandest of all the old Latin hymns, lost

for many years to our Church, but at length restored in our native

tongue.

He paused for a few moments to recover himself and then continued.

"On the morrow I resolved, if possible, to write from memory the

complete Service as we had heard it. During the day, being much

occupied, I was only able to jot down phrases which recurred to my

memory. The principal themes were well impressed upon my mind, and,

although my treatment of them was sure to differ in many ways from the

original, I felt more justified than formerly in attempting what seemed

rather a piece of presumption.

"After a fairly early dinner I settled down in my study about 6.30 p.m.,

determined to work right on until my task was finished.

"My success did not please me. Several times I rose and tried the score

over upon the piano. There was no doubt about it, the main ideas were

there, but still there was everything lacking. The whole affair was

weak, unworthy of my own reputation, and doubly unworthy of the great

writer who had written the Credo. Time after time I studied that

fragment, and strove to find out what it was that gave it such vigour

and force, but it was useless. That was undoubtedly the work of a great

genius, and everything I had written was nothing short of a libel upon

myself, strung together so as to be quite correct in harmony and

counterpoint, but full, nevertheless, of nothing but commonplaces.

"In thorough disgust I gave it up altogether, when suddenly I remembered

there was no Kyrie in the Service we had heard.

"A something prompted me to supply the want out of my own mind. All I

strove was to make the style blend with the Credo; in every other

respect it was perfectly original, and when finished gave me great cause

to be pleased with my own work.

"Looking at my watch I discovered it was fast getting on to midnight, so

I drew an arm-chair up to the fire and lighted a cigar. It was only

natural that my mind should be full of the music heard the previous

evening. I was no believer in the supernatural, and had unsparingly

ridiculed all ghost stories heard at various times. Now there was no

doubt: I had listened to music played by no earthly fingers. What could

it all mean? Why did the old man's ghost return to haunt the scene of

his former labours? Was it because he had left a solemn injunction which

had never been complied with? Was it because his life's purpose had been

left unfulfilled, and his last cherished wish had died with him?

"There was the solution, no doubt. And what a loss it was to the world;

only to think of so priceless a work being lost for ever!

"At this stage I was conscious of nodding, and waking up with a start,

endeavoured to pursue my train of thought. The fire was comfortable, and

my cigar was still alight; only a few moments more, and then bed. The

resolution was scarcely formed before my head dropped again and I was

fast asleep.

"How long I slept I know not; a sensation of coldness caused me to

awake, only to find the fire nearly out, my reading-lamp smouldering,

and the moon brightly shining into the room. Imagine, if you can, my

surprise, when, turning round, there, full in the light of the moon, was

a figure writing at my table. It was an old man dressed in old-fashioned

style, just like what was worn two hundred or more years ago. There was

the wig, the coat with square flaps, the shoes with silver

buckles--everything except the sword. The face could not be clearly

defined, but the figure was most distinct.

"My first sensations were, to say the least, peculiar. I was for the

moment frightened, and it was several moments before common sense

asserted itself. A feeling of intense curiosity soon overpowered all

sense of fear. Sitting in my chair I could hear the scratching of his

pen upon the paper. He wrote at a very rapid pace and seemed too intent

upon his labours to notice my presence. I waited for some time in

absolute stillness, but then, becoming weary of the situation,

endeavoured to attract his attention with a cough. He took no notice,

and so I arose and walked towards him.

"I am telling you the entire truth when I assure you I could find

nothing in that chair. I grasped nothing tangible, and the chair

appeared quite empty, while still the scratching of the pen continued;

and as I walked away from the window the apparition appeared as plain as

ever. Every line of the figure was clear as if in life. At last while I

watched, the sound of writing ceased, and the figure vanished from my

view, leaving the roll of manuscript just as it had been before I fell

asleep.

"Rushing up to the mantelpiece I seized a box of matches, hurriedly

lighted a candle, and approached the desk, and there found the Service

written out in full in a strange handwriting. My own work was

obliterated, the pen drawn through it all with the exception of the

Kyrie, which was as I left it, save that the word Kyrie was written over

it in the strange handwriting. At the conclusion of the Service were

written these words: 'E.I. hoc fecit. R.I.P.'"

As the Doctor uttered these words, he went to the bookshelf and drew

down a book bound carefully in calf, which he opened and passed to me.

It was the original copy as he had found it, his own work crossed out

just as he had said, and the Service written in an altogether strange

hand.

"I took those letters, R.I.P., to impose a solemn obligation upon me,"

continued the Doctor. "The Service was at length restored, and I felt

sure that if it were used his soul would rest in peace. That is why we

have it here every Easter Sunday. It has become, in fact, quite a

tradition of the cathedral, which I hope no future organist will ever

depart from. The apparition has never since appeared, so I take it that

was evidently the wish expressed, and the reason why the old man's ghost

for so many years haunted the scene of his former labours."

* * * * *

This story is finished. I leave it just as the Doctor related it. Do I

believe it? Undoubtedly I do, but all explanation I leave as impossible.

Perhaps some day we shall know better the relation existing between the

material world and the unknown. At present the subject is best left

alone. Facts we must accept, our imperfect knowledge prevents their

explanation.

JOHN GRÆME.

THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER.

BY LETITIA MCCLINTOCK.

"Dear Mrs. Archer, be consoled; I promise to stand by Henry as if he

were my brother. Indeed, I look upon him quite as my brother, having no

near ties of my own."

"God bless you for the promise," said Mrs. Archer. "You are better to

Henry than any brother could be. Thy love is wonderful, passing the love

of woman."

Mrs. Archer, the widowed mother of an only child, was deeply imbued with

sacred lore. No great reader of general literature, she knew her Bible

from cover to cover, and was much in the habit of expressing herself in

Scriptural language. Her husband had been the Rector of a lonely parish

in Donegal, where for twenty-five years he had taught an unsophisticated

people, "letting his light shine," as his wife expressed it.

One recreation he had: the writing of a Commentary on the Epistle to the

Romans. While he was shut up in his study, little Henry, a mischievous,

wild urchin, had to be kept quiet. Here was field for the full exercise

of Mrs. Archer's ingenuity. As the boy's life went on, she gained an

able assistant in this loving labour, namely Malcolm McGregor, Henry's

school-friend. Malcolm and Henry were sent to Foyle College at the same

time. Mrs. Archer could hardly read for joy the day she expected her

darling home for his first vacation, accompanied by "the jolliest chap

in the school," whom he had begged leave to bring with him.

From the Rectory door the parents could watch the outside car coming

down the steep hill; King William, the Rector's old horse, slipping a

little, and two shabby, hair-covered trunks falling on his back, to be

recovered by Jack Dunn, the man-of-all-work, who could drive on

occasion.

Which of the little black figures running on in front of the car was the

mother's treasure? Henry was up to as many pranks as ever, but now he

had a quiet friend to restrain him, and his mother and the parish were

very glad of it.

"Dear mistress, thon's a settled wee fellow, thon McGregor: he's the

quare wise guide for we'er ain wichel." Thus spoke Jack Dunn when the

holidays drew near an end. "Fleech him to come back."

"There is no need to urge him, Jack," replied his mistress, smiling; "he

is very anxious to visit us again."

"Weel-a-weel, ma'am, I never tould you how Master Henry blew up the

sexton wi' his crackers, twa nights afore he went to school--"

"Never, Jack!"

"Na, na! Jack wadna be for vexin' you an' his reverence. Master Henry

an' Mat, the herd, let off fireworks outside the sexton's door, an' him

an' the wife, an' the sisters an' the grannie jumpin' out o' their beds,

an' runnin' about the house, thinkin' the Judgment Day was come, an'

maybe that the Old Enemy was come for them--"

"Oh, Jack, hush; how terrible! Think what you are saying."

"Nae word o' lie, mistress. The sexton was in a quare rage, an' the

grannie lay for three weeks wi' the scare. It was hushed up becase there

isna a soul in the parish wad like to annoy his reverence. But

whist--not a word out o' your mouth! Our wean has got thon ither wee

comrade to steady him _now_."

McGregor did steady Henry. They fished Gartan Lough; they boated, they

shot over the mountains, they skated on the same lovely expanse of lake,

and they heard, in the marshes each Easter the whirring bleat of the

snipe. This was the history of school and college vacations for many

years. Then first love came--society was sought for; the neighbouring

clergy and their families came to Gartan Rectory; young couples wandered

blissfully in the fairest scenes in all the world. The friends loved the

same sweet maiden, and she deceived them both, and married a ponderous

rector, possessed of six hundred per annum, the very year they left old

Trinity! They were firmer friends than ever, yet that sweet false one

was never mentioned between them. In a reverently-veiled corner in each

heart, however, still dwelt a dear ideal which the false beloved had not

been able to destroy.

Then events crowded upon Mrs. Archer. The Rector died, and she left her

old home; and her son and his friend went into the army, Henry as sub.,

Malcolm as surgeon.

At the commencement of the story, Malcolm was assuring the mother that

he would stand by Henry in all dangers--under all circumstances

whatever.

"You will hear of the 5th Fusiliers favourably, I am sure," said he

lightly, trying to calm her agitation.

"Henry is so rash and ardent," she returned.

"And I am a cool, quiet fellow, ma'am. Oh, you may trust me--I'll have

an eye to him."

"Will there be wars, Doctor dear, where you ones is goin'?" asked old

Jack Dunn, wistfully, as he polished the young gentlemen's boots for the

last time before their departure. The friends were smoking a last pipe

by the kitchen fire of the cottage where Mrs. Archer lived in her

husband's old parish, among the people who had loved him. Jack was

polishing the boots close to them, pausing every now and then to

exchange a word with his "wichel," whom he had nursed as an infant,

petted and scolded as a schoolboy, and shielded from punishment on

innumerable occasions. His "wichel" was now a huge young man, taller

than Dr. McGregor by four inches.

"Wha'll black them boots now?" said Jack in a sentimental tone. "Wha'll

put the richt polish on them? Some scatter-brained youngster, I'm

thinkin', that shouldna be trusted to handle boots like these anes."

Thus he spoke, making the hissing, purring noise with which he

accompanied his rubbing down of King William.

The friends smiled at each other. "That's hard work, Jack," remarked

Henry.

"But are ye goin' to the wars, my wean? Doctor dear, tell me, will he be

fightin' them savage Indians?"

"We believe so, Jack. We are to join the 5th Fusiliers, and they are to

fight the warlike Hill Tribes, fine soldiers--tall, fine men they are,

we are told."

"Alase-a-nie! You'll nae be fightin' yoursel, Doctor?"

"No," smiled McGregor, "my duty will be to cure, not to kill."

"Then, man alive, ye'll hae an eye to Henry."

So the young men tore themselves away from the sobbing mother, and,

through her blinding tears, she watched them mount the steep road

leading to Letterkenny first and then to the outside world, where danger

must be faced and glory won. Her husband's loving people collected that

evening in her cottage garden to condole with her and offer their

roughly-expressed but heartfelt sympathy.

"Dinna be cryin' that way, mistress dear," said old Jack. "Sure thon's a

quare steady fellow, thon Doctor, an' he will hae an eye to Henry."

* * * * *

It was November, 1888, when our troops were obliged to retreat from the

Black Mountain, and Mrs. Archer's son and his friend were among them.

Need it be recorded here how bravely Englishmen had fought, how

unmurmuringly they had endured the extremity of cold and fatigue? Their

Gourka allies had stood by them well; but the wild Hill Tribes, the

"fine soldiers" of whom McGregor had told Jack Dunn, were getting the

best of it, and we were forced to retreat. Many months had passed since

the two friends first saw the Black Mountain, compared with which the

mightiest highland in wild Donegal, land of mountains, was an anthill.

Dear Gartan Lough was as a drop of water in their eyes, their

snipe-haunted marshes as a potato garden, when they saw the gigantic

scale of Indian scenery. Henry had fought well in many a skirmish and

had escaped without a wound. Malcolm had used his surgical skill pretty

often, generally with good effect. He was beloved by officers and men

for his kindness of heart. Was there a letter to be written for any poor

fellow--a last message to be sent home, words of Christian hope to be

spoken, Dr. McGregor was called upon.

On the 4th of November, the first column began the retreat, the enemy

"sniping," as usual, and a party had to be sent out to clear the flank,

before the troops left camp. The retiring column then got carefully

along the Chaila Ridge as far as the Ghoraphir Point, where some of the

5th Fusiliers were placed with a battery of guns, and ordered to remain

until all were passed. The enemy, in force, followed the last regiment

and were steadily shelled from the battery. The guns were then sent down

and the men, firing volleys, followed the guns, only two companies being

left. Of these, Lieutenant Archer and ten men were told to stay as the

last band to cover the retreat, and the enemy made a determined attempt

to annihilate them. McGregor was with Henry and his ten. All the pluck

that ever animated hero inspired those twelve men. Each felt the honour

of being chosen for such a post. No time for words; no time for more

thoughts than one, namely, "England expects every man to do his duty."

But of course Malcolm McGregor had a thought underlying the thought of

duty to Queen and country; he remembered his promise to the widowed

mother: he must "have an eye to Henry!"

The path that led down the hill was a most difficult one, being winding

and very rocky. Above the soldiers rose a precipice, manned by parties

of the enemy, who harassed them incessantly by throwing fragments of

rock down upon their heads. These immense stones were hurled from a

height of fifty yards; but the companies wound round the mountain in

good order.

Last of all came Henry Archer and his ten men, attended by the Doctor.

Theirs was the chief post of honour and of peril. Henry's foot slipped;

he tried to recover himself, but in vain. Down he rolled with the loose

stones that had been hurled from above. McGregor stopped, and two of the

men with him; the other eight men pushed forward. Henry's leg was

broken; he could not move. Here was, indeed, an anxious dilemma.

"We must carry him, of course," said the surgeon. "You are the best man

of us three, Henderson; we'll hoist him on your back."

To stagger along such a path, bearing a heavy burden, was well-nigh

impossible, even for the stalwart soldier. Dark faces might have been

seen looking over the ridge, had they glanced upwards. They knew of the

presence of these foes by the falling of the rocks about their ears. The

peril of the situation demoralised the second soldier; he picked up his

rifle, which he had laid on the ground while he helped the surgeon to

lift Henry upon Henderson's back, and ran.

"Oh, Doctor dear, he's too weighty for me," groaned Henderson. "I canna

carry him anither foot o' the way; sure, sure he's the biggest man in

the regiment."

"Lay me down, Henderson, and save yourself; why should I sacrifice

_you_?" groaned the wounded man.

"I'll take him from you, man; quick, quick, help me to get him on my

back."

"Why, Doctor, he's a bigger man nor you," said Henderson in his Ulster

dialect.

"No matter. I'll carry him or die! He has fainted. He is a dead weight

now--but we leave this road together, or we stay here together."

Muttering the last words, Malcolm set out, and he carried him safely

over very rough ground, under a heavy shower of bullets and rockets, for

one hundred and fifty yards to where the nine men awaited them.

Malcolm's strength was now gone; but Henderson had recovered his powers

a little, and joining hands with him, they managed to carry Henry on to

the spot where the last company of the Fusiliers and a company of

Gourkas were forming, a sharp fire being kept up all the time on both

sides.

Neither of them expected to reach the company, as they told one another

in after days. Their sole expectation was to drop with their burden on

the stony path of Ghoraphir, and leave their bones among the wild hill

tribes.

"McGregor, you have carried Archer all the way?--Incredible!" cried his

brother officers.

"Not I alone--Henderson helped. Let us improvise some kind of stretcher,

and get him on with us, men, for Heaven's sake."

A stretcher was obtained, and he was carried on, while the retreat

continued, the two companies alternately firing to keep back the enemy,

who pursued for three miles.

* * * * *

Henry lay helpless in a bare room in the fort--a blessed haven of refuge

for the sick and wounded. Dr. McGregor had invalids in every room; his

whole time was occupied, and his ingenuity was taxed to make the poor

fellows somewhat comfortable.

"Another death, Doctor," said the officer in command one morning.

"Indeed, yes; it is that brave chap, Henderson, who helped me to bring

Archer in. Bronchitis has carried him off; a man of fine physique; a

fine young fellow, and a countryman of my own. The cold of this mountain

district is fearful. I can't keep my patients warm enough, all I can

do."

"How is Archer? Will he pull through?"

"He is low to-day; but the limb is doing all right. There is more fever

than I like to see," and the surgeon, looking very grave, hurried away.

Not to neglect any duty, and yet to nurse his comrade as he ought to be

nursed was the problem our Jonathan had to solve.

Henry's fever ran high for several days, leaving him utterly weak. It

was midnight. The patient and his surgeon were alone; the latter

beginning to cherish a feeble hope, the former believing that he had

done with earthly things.

"You carried me on your back down Ghoraphir, old fellow," he said

faintly, stretching out a hand and arm that were dried up to skin and

bone.

"What of that, Henry? Keep quiet, I'd advise you."

"You took off your tunic and laid it over me on the stretcher. Henderson

told me that; and you might have caught your death of cold--"

"Hush, my good man; you are talking too much."

"You doctors are all tyrants. I _will_ speak, for I may not be able

again. Reach me that writing-case. Yes. Open it and take out the things.

The Bible--her own Bible--is for the mater, with my love. My meerschaum

is for Jack Dunn; and please tell them both that you looked after

me--you 'had an eye to Henry.'"

This with a smile. Then, as Malcolm took a photograph out of the

case--"Ah, you did not know I had it? Emmie gave it me that time when

she--well, well, they put a pressure upon her, and I had nothing to

marry on--a pauper, eh?"

"She liked you the best of us two, Henry."

"Ay, but she did not like me well enough. I dreamt of her yesterday, and

I quite forgive her. If you care to keep that photo., you can, and the

case, and gold pen and studs."

"Now, my chap, you just drink this, and hold your tongue. Please God,

you and I will _both_ see Gartan parish again; and you may tell mother

and Jack that I stood by you and looked after you, if you please. You're

mad angry with me this minute; but I'm shutting you up for your good."

* * * * *

A time came, through the mercy of God, when the widow received her son

back again, with the friend who was now almost as dear to her, and when

tar barrels blazed on every hill around Gartan Lough.

Jack polished the boots that had travelled so far, the while tales of

adventure delighted his ear.

Henry talked the most, his quiet friend hearing him with pleasure.

Surgeon McGregor never realised that he was a hero; yet his deeds were

bruited abroad and became the talk of all that countryside.