Chapter TWELVE: A Close Corporation

I.--TROLLOPE'S MRS. PROUDIE

NO ONE WHO HAS LIVED FOR ANY length of time in a cathedral town can fail to appreciate the perfection of Anthony Trollope's Barchester series of novels. In my opinion no more artistic achievement than the creation of Barchester and its people exists on the same scale in the English language. I do not think that there is a false note in any scene--a crude tone in any character. Certainly no writer ever dealt with the members of any profession with such completeness and without ceasing to interest a reader from page to page, from chapter to chapter, from volume to volume. Fancy any writer venturing upon five long novels with all the chief characters solicitors or solicitors' wives and daughters! Fancy a dozen medical men stethoscoping their way through a thousand closely printed pages! We know what military novels we have been treated to from time to time--stuff to send guffaws round every mess-room--as crude as the red of the tunics that gave the marksmen of other armies every chance in the old days.

The personages in _Barchester Towers, The Warden, and The Last Chronicle of Barset_ are such finished pieces of characterisation that they strike one as being photographs from life. One feels that the author must have had intimate acquaintance with the originals of his portraits, as well as with their entourage, before he could produce such transcripts from nature.

I suppose there was a good deal of speculation when the Barchester novels were appearing as to the identity of the various cathedral dignitaries. It seems to me that such a “placing” of the people was inevitable. But an example was given me of the artistic way in which Trollope went to work in the case of one of his best remembered characters that let me see what a master of his art he was. I was some years under twenty when _The Last Chronicle_ fell into my hands: it was the first novel of Trollope's that I read, so that was the first acquaintance I had with Mrs. Proudie. Before I had got through many chapters I knew that I was listening to the voice of the wife of an Irish Prelate--a lady whose character and temperament had been a twenty years' tradition in the household of which I was a member, and whose reputation had followed her from one city to another. The more I read of the book the more impressed I was that this lady had been the model for Mrs. Proudie in spite of the fact that the two had practically nothing in common--nothing except the essentials that go to make up a character.

Mrs. Proudie was a plain, rather stout little woman, but my Mrs. Proudie was a tall, slight, and undoubtedly beautiful woman, even when middle-aged--the most perfect type of the traditional aristocrat. It would have been impossible for her to do any of the pettifogging of Trollope's vulgar person, in the way that Mrs. Proudie did it, but it was quite clearly understood--by no one better than the Bishop himself--that she was the ruler of the diocese. She was the mother of a family every member of which was remarkably good-looking; but Trollope laid emphasis upon the commonplace daughters of the Proudies.

Only an artist of the highest rank could create a character such as Mrs. Proudie from the suggestions he had derived from the rumours respecting our Bishop's wife, and only an artist of the highest rank could create a personage which compelled all readers who knew the original to recognise the source of his inspiration and feel certain of its identity in spite of the absence of all outward marks of identification.

For several years after reading the Barchester series I was accustomed to hear people in the neighbourhood in which I lived refer to the Bishop's wife as Mrs. Proudie--several clergymen certainly did so; but quite fifteen years had passed before I heard that, previous to his writing _Barchester Towers_, the author had been stationed in the same neighbourhood as an Inspector in the Post Office Department.

“In those days,” said my informant, who had served under Trollope, “the Bishop's wife was at the height of her fame. Every one was talking about her and the way she kept the poor Bishop under her thumb. We expected that Mr. Trollope would make something out of her.”

When I asked him how he could reconcile the difference between Mrs. Proudie and the other lady--how he could reconcile Mrs. Proudie's death in _The Last Chronicle_ with the other's still active life, he told me that he had never read any of Trollope's books: the only writings of Trollope that had come under his cognizance were the official reports which he made to the head of the Department!

Beautiful to the last, and ruling to the last, _our_ Mrs. Proudie survived the published record of the other Mrs. Proudie by nearly thirty years. I write this chapter sitting on a sofa which I bought out of the Palace. The fact that the receipt of my cheque was signed by the Bishop and not by the lady, suggests that in financial matters his lordship was permitted to discharge the humblest of clerical duties.

In Broadminster there has never been a rumour of a Mrs. Proudie; but occasionally there comes a discordant note from the belfry of the Cathedral. Only a quick ear can detect it, but having detected it, one is conscious of an impression of uneasiness, and asks oneself or anybody else if it is possible that all is not well in the Close.

What sounds like the merest tinkle of discord outside Broadminster reverberates throughout the Close, causing uneasiness and even perturbation at times.

During the past three years there have been two threatenings of huge upheavals in Minster circles. The rumblings of an earthquake were heard by some people of acute hearing, and the local seismometer--her name is Lady Birnam--foretold a cataclysm. But happily the centre of the disturbance passed away in another direction, and the foundations of the Cathedral remained intact.

II.--THE INNOVATORS

The volcanic force which caused all the alarm was a young clergyman who, by reason of his personal merits and his relationship to the Dean, became the most minor of all the canons, and probably the most pleasing. But before he had been a year in attendance it was rumoured that he had views, and no clergyman with views had ever been associated with the services at the Minster. There have been clergymen who took a lively interest in landscape photography--even colour photography--and others who had rubbed with their own hands some of the finest monumental brasses in the country. A prebendary went so far in horticulture as to stand godfather to a new rose (h.p.), and a precentor who devised an automatic reel--a fishing-rod reel, not the terpsichorean--but no dignitary had previously been known to develop views on the lines adopted by this Canon Mowbray, for his views had an intimate connection with the Church Service.

He had been heard to express the opinion that it was little short of scandalous that people should enter the Cathedral and find themselves surrounded by beauties of architecture and facing combinations of colour in glass that were extremely lovely--that they should be able to hear music of the most elevating type efficiently rendered by an organist of ability and a well-trained choir, but the moment a member of the Chapter--one of the dignitaries of the Church--began to discharge his duties, either in his stall, at the electern, or in the pulpit, the congregation were subjected to an infliction of mediocrity sometimes verging on imbecility. It was little short of scandalous, he said, that the most highly paid functionaries--men whose education had cost a great deal of money--should show themselves so imperfectly equipped to discharge their simplest duties in an intelligent manner. Few of them could even intone correctly, and he had a suspicion that intoning was invented to conceal their deficiency in reading the prayers. When they stood at the lectern and read in that artificial voice that they assumed for the Lessons for the day, treating the most splendidly dramatic episodes with a tameness that suggested rather more than indifference, they proved their inefficiency as plainly as when they stood at the altar-rails and repeated the Commandments in that apologetic tone they put on, as if they hoped the people present would understand quite clearly that they, the readers, were not responsible for the bad taste of the compiler of the Decalogue in referring to offences of which no well-bred lady or gentleman would be guilty.

And then he went on to refer to the preaching....

Now Canon Mowbray did not give expression to his views all at once. He was forced to do so by the action of the Dean and Chapter after he had startled them all, and the congregation as well, by his dramatic reading of the First Lesson, which was of the discomfiture of the Priests of Baal by the prophet Elijah--a subject treated very finely by Mendelssohn.

The truth was that Canon Mowbray had paid a visit to London every week in order to get a lesson in elocution from a well-known ex-actor, and at the end of six months had mastered, at any rate, the fundamentals of the art. His performance, regarded by itself, would have been thought quite creditable; but, judged by comparison with the usual reading of the Lessons in the Minster, it was startling--thrilling. Long before he had got to the ironic outburst of the prophet, “Cry aloud, for he is a god,” he had got such a hold upon his hearers that when he made a little pause the silence was striking. At the close also, when he had shut the Book and stood for a few moments before saying, “Here endeth the First Lesson,” the silence was the ecclesiastical equivalent to the plaudits of the playhouse at the effective close of an act: he might have said, “Here endeth the First Act.”

It seemed as if there was not a sirloin in Broad-minster over which the performance was not discussed. Sides were taken in almost every household of faith, some people condemning the innovation, others being enthusiastic in its favour. The one said it was too theatrical--it was not for clergymen to put themselves into a part, as if they were actors; the other affirmed that the Bible should be read by a clergyman as if he believed what he was reading, not in that _voix blanche,_ as the French call the insincere monotone which for some reason, hard to discover, has been almost universally adopted as the voice of the Church.

As a natural consequence of the discussion the attendance at the afternoon service was immense, for it was understood that Canon Mowbray was to read one of the Lessons. Men who had become quite lax in their churchgoing looked up their silk hats, and even chapelgoers, having heard of the morning performance, hastened to the Minster just to see how theatrical it was. The organist wished he had chosen a more showy anthem than “In Judah is God known.” This was quite too commonplace for such an occasion, he thought: it would allow of the clergy's competing with the choir for popularity, the idea of which was, of course, absurd.

The offertory was nearly double that of any afternoon of the year.

There could be no doubt that the “draw” was Canon Mowbray. He filled the stage, so to speak; when he went to the lectern the effect was the same as is produced on a full house by the entrance of the “star,” and once again the silence was felt to be a subtle form of applause.

Canon Mowbray had no chance of electrifying his hearers, for they were expectant; he managed, however, to get far more out of an unemotional chapter than had ever been got out of it before, so that it was made perfectly clear to every one that he meant to pursue the line he had struck out for himself, and for the next few days there was no real topic in Broad-minster but the innovation of Canon Mowbray.

It was not surprising that the Close should be greatly perturbed by the innovation. The Chapter was against it to a man. They had got into a groove so far as the church services were concerned, and they had been running very easily in it for many years. Where was the need to make any change? they asked. But even if some change was needed, why should it be such a one as that of which Canon Mowbray had made himself the exponent? There were the weaker brethren to consider: in every clerical discussion the question of considering the weaker brethren plays a prominent part. The weaker brethren objected very strongly to the introduction of elocution in any florid form at the lectern or in front of the altar-rails, and beyond a doubt the playhouse--a theatre is invariably alluded to as a playhouse by people who are arguing against it--the playhouse and the House of God are separate and distinct, and any attempt to introduce the atmosphere of the former into the latter savoured of irreverence, and should not be tolerated by any one having at heart the welfare of the Church.

Of course, Canon Mowbray was quickly made aware of the opinion of the Chapter regarding his innovation, and then it was that he made use of the somewhat intemperate phrases already quoted in defining the artistic incompetence of the clergy; and the clergy speedily learned all that he had said and was still saying about them, and they were naturally very much displeased.

But what could they do in the matter?

Well, it was obvious that they could be cold to him--they could delete his name from the list of invitations to their whist parties and dinner parties and luncheon parties. They could make it difficult for him to get up a set at lawn-tennis or badminton; and, sure enough, they put in motion all the apparatus of excommunication which is still at the command of the Church. But the result was not all that had been anticipated; for the people who felt that they owed Canon Mowbray a good turn for the entertainment with which he had provided them for several Sundays, got up special parties in his honour: dinner parties, and whist parties, and even “tweeny” parties--the Sunday lunch between the services at the Cathedral which occupies so prominent a position in the convivial régime of Broadminster. But Canon Mowbray was wise enough not to accept any of the invitations that he received. He knew that there was far more to be got out of a pose as persecuted reformer than from appearing at the most elaborate tweeny lunch that the most interesting house in the town could provide.

He was quite right; for within a month he was summoned before the Dean himself, and remonstrated with on the error of his excessive elocution. It was understood the great Dignitary had used his own weapons against him during this interview: his elocution was excessive as he referred to the Canon's attempt to introduce an element into the services which had previously been monopolised by the playhouse--the Dean, of course, called the theatre the playhouse.

It need scarcely be said that this interview of remonstrance represented a martyr's crown of 22 carats, hall-marked, to Canon Mowbray, and he took care to display it: he never appeared in public without it. He brushed his hair to accommodate its rim upon his head--every one who has come in contact with a martyr knows how far the brushing of his hair goes to the establishment of his claim to the crown--and it was understood that even if Canon Mowbray's “size” had been in excess of that marked on the ticket in his hat, it was nearly certain that within a short time his head would be found quite equal to the wearing of his crown without any one suggesting that it was a misfit.

But he had got the better of the Dean in the interview--he took care that this fact became known. He had not forgotten himself or his position for a moment. He had expressed his great regret that the Dean was unable to look at the question of the innovation with his, the Canon's, eyes; he had a great respect for the Dean's opinion on most matters, and he knew no one whose advice he would follow more gladly; but in this particular point he found it impossible to do so. Surely if the art of the musician was admitted into the services, the art of the elocutionist should not be excluded--and so forth. Good taste? He was said, that he could not allow any considerations of what some people called good taste to interfere with what he believed to be his duty. After all, good taste and bad taste were merely relative terms. It was not possible that on any aesthetic grounds Mr. Dean would be prepared to say that the slovenly reading of the Sacred Word to which they had been for long accustomed at the Minster was more tasteful than--than one in which the ordinary principles of elocution were observed.

It was when the Dean was confronted with arguments which he made no attempt to answer that he became grossly personal, Canon Mowbray said, attributing to him, the Canon, motives unworthy of a clergyman with any sense of his high calling, and thereby proving pretty conclusively, the Canon thought, that as an arbiter of good taste the Dean could scarcely be admitted to a position of any prominence.

The result of the Dean's remonstrance was to strengthen the Canon's cause in the eyes of his adherents; and when one of these friends wrote a letter to the newspapers, expressing the opinion that if Canon Mowbray had been guilty of any breach of discipline the ecclesiastical authorities should take action with a view to justifying themselves in the attitude they had assumed in regard to him, the general opinion was that the Canon had triumphed, for the Dean and Chapter knew perfectly well that they had no power to accept the challenge implied in the letter: the question was not one of turning to the east or turning to the west, or of lighting candles in a place where no artificial illuminant was required, or of wearing an overelaborate robe--it was solely a question of taste, and the discipline of the Church has nothing to do with matters of taste.

It was at this point that Lady Birnam, who claimed to be a local ecclesiastical seismometer, so to speak, prophesied a cataclysm that would shake the Church to its foundations. She went far beyond the advisory committee of St. Paul's in considering the consequences of making new subways by the London County Council.

III.--THE PEACEMAKERS

And yet within a couple of months the last rumble of the threatened disturbance had passed away.

This is how the _status quo ante bellum_ was restored:

The offending Canon was in the habit of confiding in his supporters his feeling of sorrow that none of his clerical brethren had the manliness to follow his example and read the Lessons as they should be read: he had quite believed, he said, that in a short time the slovenly, monotonous reader would have ceased to appear at the lectern; he was greatly disappointed.

But one Sunday an elderly Prebendary astonished every one by “putting on” two separate and distinct voices in reading the First Lesson. It was the chapter in which Moses pleads for the Children of Israel when their destruction is threatened by the Almighty. Now it will be plain to any one that to treat this duologue in an elocutionary style requires a delicacy of touch of the rarest sort; but unhappily the reader seemed to have the idea that all that was necessary to deal with the most important passages effectively was to deliver them in two voices, and this scheme he adopted. The one voice was that of a good-natured gentleman taking the part of naughty schoolboys who had been caught robbing the orchard of an irascible old farmer; the second voice was that of the irascible old farmer who had cornered them and had sent one of his staff for a dog whip.

The effect was startling at first. It seemed as if the clergyman had seen Irving in _The Lyons Mail'_ and thought he could not improve greatly upon the method of the actor in the dual rôle--speaking in the mild accents of the amiable Lesurges on the one hand and in the gruff staccato of Dubose on the other. At first this touch of realism was startling, but as it went on it became queer, then funny, and at last it had the element that made its emphatic appeal to most hearers, that of burlesque. Some of the congregation were shocked: they had no idea that “God spake these words and said” in the tone of a testy old gentleman. Others were frankly amused and showed it without reticence; and the entertainment closed with the giggling of choir-boys.

The Second Lesson was read by Canon Mowbray in a very subdued way. Contrary to the expectation of a good many people, he made no attempt to match himself in realistic effects against the Prebendary; and when during the week remarks were made in his hearing respecting that member of the Chapter and his elocution, he only shook his head sadly. The other members of the Chapter could do no more. When an elderly clergyman has made a fool of himself within the precincts of his church people can only shake their heads.

But the next Sunday the congregation who crowded the Minster at the afternoon service shook not only their heads but their bodies also in their decorous but wholly ineffectual attempts to smother their laughter while the Prebendary read a chapter in the Book of Ruth which necessitated, he thought, full orchestral treatment. He clearly saw the parts for a basso, a tenor, a soprano, and a contralto, and he set himself about doing all four by subtle modulations of his voice. Now, people do not as a rule mind a middle-aged parson's putting on a gruff voice when reading what a man said, or going up an octave or so when assuming the dialogue of a milder-mannered man; but when he puts on a falsetto, and a very high falsetto, when he essays to reproduce the words of a woman, and occasionally breaks in an attempt to lay the emphasis on the right words, the most decorous of folk will either laugh or weep--and the great majority of the worshippers in the old Minster this day did the former. Quite a number hurried from the Sacred Fane with their handkerchiefs held close to their mouths. But once outside----

That was how the scandal which threatened to make Broadminster Chapter a house divided against itself was dispersed. It was obvious that the Minster was too antique a place to be made the scene of so great an innovation as Canon Mowbray had attempted to introduce, and he at once fell back into the recognised monotone, with a suspicion of the sing-song rising and falling from sentence to sentence in his reading of the Lessons, and the Prebendary once more followed his example; and so the plague--or worse--was stayed.

But the general impression that prevailed throughout Broadminster when the whole question of the innovation was discussed was that that middle-aged Prebendary had not gone very far in making a fool of himself. They had heard of a potent form of argument technically known as _reductio ad absurdum_, but they had never before had so signal an instance of its successful operation.

IV.--THE VOX HUMANA

Some years had passed before there was another little fluttering in the Minster dovecotes; but this time the disturbing element happily did not arise within the Chapter. The fact was that at the afternoon service one Sunday a voice of extraordinary charm was heard when the first of the hymns was begun. It was the voice of a professional soprano, and one of the finest _timbre_ beyond doubt; but it was so clear and so resonant that, to make use of the verger's criticism whispered into my ear, it gave the rest of the congregation no chance whatsoever. Now every one knows that there is nothing so startling in a church as one voice ringing out even a single note above the vague cloud of sound, if one may be allowed such a phrase, that comes from a singing congregation. But here was a young woman who went through every verse of the hymn as though the volume of sound coming from the nave, the aisle, and the choir itself were only meant as a sort of background for her voice.

Of course before the third stanza was reached the great majority of those who had been singing had ceased. They saw that, in the verger's phrase, they had no chance against so brilliant a vocalist; they turned their eyes upon the young woman, some of them with frowns of indignation, but others with frank admiration. But undoubtedly all were startled.

When the second hymn began it was plain that the music presented no difficulties to the stranger; she sang as before with exquisite sweetness and expression, but still with a ringing clearness that suggested the song of the skylark soaring above a field of corncrakes. Even the efforts of the choir did not rise much above the melody of the corn-crakes in early dawn when that girl was singing.

Naturally such an unusual display caused a considerable amount of talk in Minster circles. It was pronounced in many directions to be in extremely bad taste for any young woman to sing down a whole congregation in such a way; but while some people said it must be put a stop to at once, others declared that they had never had such a treat in their lives. (They probably meant for the expenditure that was represented by their donations to the offertory.)

But when the wives of such members of the Chapter as were blessed with wives declared definitely that a stop must be put to so unreasonable a display of an undoubted gift, their husbands asked how they proposed to put a stop to it; and once again it appeared that, after all, the powers of a Cathedral Chapter are very limited.

Inquiries were made as to who the singer actually was; but no one seemed to know her. She was a stranger, and was certainly not living in the town.

The next Sunday brought about a repetition of the same rather embarrassing scene. The vocalist, who was a very handsome and an expensively but not showily dressed young woman, sang as before quite unconcernedly, and apparently oblivious of having done anything out of the common.

At the end of the first hymn, however, the organist's boy was seen to approach her, and to put a piece of paper into her hand. It obviously contained a message to which an answer was required, for the boy waited while she read the thing, and then she inclined her head, evidently signifying her assent to whatever suggestion it conveyed to her.

No one who saw the act doubted that the organist had sent her a message, begging her not to sing quite so loud.

In due course the precentor announced that “the anthem is taken from Job xix. verses 25, 26: 'I know that my Redeemer liveth... and though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.'”

The lovely notes of the organ obbligato were heard in the introduction, and then the people in the church became aware of the fact that the melody was not being sung by the usual choir-boy, but by the stranger; and never before had it been sung with such feeling or such an appreciation of its beauty. It was natural that the old Cathedral-goers should look at one another with startled eyes at first--here was an innovation indeed!--but before long the most hardened of them all had yielded to the exquisite charm of the girl's voice, and when the triumphant notes rang out there was no one who remained unmoved under that ancient canopy of Gothic arches.

And that unhappily is the end of the whole story. The girl and the elderly lady who had come with her to the Minster walked away at the close of the service, and no one was able to say in what direction they went or whence they had come. No one in the town knew either of them. They had not been at any hotel, nor had they taken the train to London--the organist made it a point to be at the station to find out. That beautiful, singer might have been a celestial visitant sent as a special compliment to the organist of the Minster--it was rumoured that the views of the organist were strongly in favour of this theory--so mysteriously had she come and so utterly had she vanished.

But during the week that followed that episode in the Minster little else was talked of in the town. The Chapter took the gravest view of the action of the organist in sending that note to the vocalist, asking her if she would kindly sing the solo: he confessed that he had done so. They said that it was quite irregular, and he acknowledged this also; in fact, he was ready to acknowledge every thing to which the Chapter took exception if they would in turn acknowledge that he had been instrumental in providing them with such an artistic treat as they had never known within the walls of the Cathedral. And then he began to laugh at them, for he knew that they all had a wholesome dread of him, from the Dean down. He broached that suspicion about the angel, and lectured them upon the good fortune of some people who had entertained angels unaware. He wondered if that mysterious vocalist had entertained them. If so, he hoped that they would contrive when intoning the prayers in future to end up within a tone or two of the note on which they had started.

They smiled and were silent. Some of them thought that he had let them off easily enough. They were trembling lest he should go into particulars.

But for that week there was a great deal of controversy in Church circles respecting the episode, and on the following Sunday the Minster was crowded; for it was rumoured that the organist had another anthem with an effective soprano solo which he meant to spring upon the Chapter in place of the baritone, “What is man that Thou art mindful of him?” which was on the board, in view of the reappearance of the girl.

Every one was disappointed, however; the service was conducted as usual, for the soprano was not there, and Mr. Stone, the very capable baritone, had it all his own way in respect of the anthem. He never sang it better in all his life, and everybody went home disappointed, except perhaps the Chapter and their womenfolk, who had perceived how easily a vocalist of exceptional ability may in certain circumstances be the means of causing confusion in the conducting of the services of the Church.

V.--THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS

I am inclined to think that the people of Broad-minster are about the best informed of all people in the county in regard to general topics. But sometimes this opinion, which so many visitors form, is not confirmed by residence in the town. In these days, when one hears that it is impossible to educate a girl as she should be educated for less than £200 a year, one expects a great deal of knowledge from girls generally. A clergyman of the town, who is not connected with the Minster, is constantly telling me of instances that have come under his notice of the most expensively educated girls showing an amount of ignorance that should, but probably would not, make a Board School girl blush were it brought home to her. He assured me that the daughter of one of the Minster dignitaries, in seeing a casual reference to Elaine, had begged him to tell her in which of Shakespeare's plays she appeared: she herself had made a diligent search through that author without success.

I could scarcely believe that such an incident had taken place, for I was under the impression that Tennyson was still read by girls; but a short time afterwards I overheard a couple of young women--one of them not so very young--talking on literature.

The elder had mentioned that she had read in a magazine that the best account of the great plague was in a book written by Defoe, and she wondered if the other girl knew what book it was in. The other shook her head, saying--

“You need not ask me; the only book of Defoe's that I ever read was _The Pilgrim's Progress_, and I never finished it.”

“I thought you might chance to know,” said the other complacently, evidently not seeing her way into any side issue in respect of the authorship of _The Pilgrim's Progress._ “I'm tremendously interested in something I have been reading on tropical diseases, and I thought that I should like to learn something about the old plagues.”

I fancy that both young women went through a course of English literature at their expensive school, and they probably would reply to your assurance that you knew the difference between Daniel Defoe and John Bunyan and their works when you were twelve years of age, that they could have done the same. What chance has Defoe against golf or Bunyan against badminton. If a girl only puts her heart into it she can forget between eighteen and twenty-four much that she has learned previously--at a cost of a couple of thousand pounds or thereabout.

But, I repeat, there is a great deal of intelligence to be found in all circles in Broadminster, and now and again one is confronted by some strong piece of evidence of original investigation on a historical as as well as a literary subject. Seldom, however, does one have an important logical conclusion to an apparently trivial incident enforced upon one with the same lucidity as characterised a lady's expression of surprise that the hallucinations of the great Duke of Wellington in the latter years of his life had not been commented on by any of his biographers. People were accustomed to laugh at the assertion of the Prince Regent that he had been present at the battle of Waterloo, and at the Duke's reply to him when appealed to for confirmation: “Indeed, I have frequently heard your Royal Highness say so.” But what about the Duke's own hallucination? Is it not recorded of him that upon one occasion, when watching the playing fields at Eton, he declared that the battle of Waterloo had been fought there? Yet although everyone knew that Waterloo was in Belgium, no one seemed to have noticed the extraordinary mental lapse on the part of a man who might reasonably be supposed to have the chief features of the locality impressed upon him. She added that she feared, if the error were not pointed out in time, the Duke's statement might become generally accepted, and so posterity might be led to believe that Napoleon's career had been brought to a close on the banks of the Thames, which was not a fact.

VI.--THE ATMOSPHERE OF THE MINSTER

The effect of residing for some time in such a town as Broadminster--a community on which the shadow of an ancient Minster has rested for nearly six hundred years--is noteworthy. One breathes of the atmosphere that clings about the old stonework, and, in time, one is conscious of one's ideas and aspirations becoming assimilated with the traditions of the place. On a fine morning in summer even an Irishman feels himself to be an English Conservative--a genuine Tory of the good old days when boys were taught to touch their hats to a “passon,” and when it was a matter of common knowledge that the finest vintage ports were reposing in the cellars of the Close.

An instance of the insidious influences of an atmosphere too strongly charged with Anglozone--one must invent a word to express this particular elixir of the cathedral town--came under my notice some years ago. A young American lady, after travelling about a good deal, settled in a beautiful old house in Broadminster. Rooms panelled with old oak, an oak staircase with well-carved newels and finials, and a room on the wall of which some frescowork of the fourteenth century had been discovered, completed the charm which the Minster bells began in the mind of the young woman, and she began to speak English as incorrectly as if she had been born in England.

I met her one day wearing mourning--not exemplary mourning, but enough to induce a mild and conventional expression of sympathy.

Oh no, it was not for any near relation, she said; but surely I had forgotten that the day was the anniversary of the execution of the Earl of Strafford. What Strafford was that? Why, of course, Charles the First's Strafford. How could Englishmen be so neglectful of the memory of one of the greatest of Englishmen?

“If you go into mourning for Strafford, I suppose you fast upon the anniversary of the death of Charles the First?” I suggested.

“The martyrdom of King Charles is commemorated in some parts of the States in the most solemn manner,” she replied. “Oh yes, I can assure you that we are Stuart in every fibre of our bodies. I am President of the White Rose Society of Chillingworth County, Massachusetts.”

“But you are not, I hope, active Jacobites?” said I.

“Well, no--not just yet; but we can never acknowledge the Hanoverian succession. We owe the Hanoverians a grudge: it was a king of that house who brought about our separation from Great Britain. That old wound rankles still.”