Legend of a Haunted Minster

The Argosy, March 1891. The issue is available from Gutenberg! I
noted this story to look up from the title.


LEGEND OF AN ANCIENT MINSTER.
[by John Graeme]

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.