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Title: The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral
Author: James, Montague Rhodes (1862-1936)
Date of first publication: April 1910
   [Contemporary Review, XCVII, no. 35];
   included in "More Ghost Stories of an Antiquary" (1911)
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   "The Collected Ghost Stories of M. R. James"
   (New York: Longmans, Green;
   London: Edward Arnold, 1931)
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 10 January 2010
Date last updated: 10 January 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #453

This ebook was produced by:
David T. Jones, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




THE STALLS OF BARCHESTER CATHEDRAL


This matter began, as far as I am concerned, with the reading of a
notice in the obituary section of the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for an
early year in the nineteenth century:

     "On February 26th, at his residence in the Cathedral
     Close of Barchester, the Venerable John Benwell Haynes,
     D.D., aged 57, Archdeacon of Sowerbridge and Rector of
     Pickhill and Candley. He was of ----College, Cambridge,
     and where, by talent and assiduity, he commanded the
     esteem of his seniors; when, at the usual time, he took
     his first degree, his name stood high in the list of
     _wranglers_. These academical honours procured for him
     within a short time a Fellowship of his College. In the
     year 1783 he received Holy Orders, and was shortly
     afterwards presented to the perpetual Curacy of
     Ranxton-sub-Ashe by his friend and patron the late
     truly venerable Bishop of Lichfield.... His speedy
     preferments, first to a Prebend, and subsequently to
     the dignity of Precentor in the Cathedral of
     Barchester, form an eloquent testimony to the respect
     in which he was held and to his eminent qualifications.
     He succeeded to the Archdeaconry upon the sudden
     decease of Archdeacon Pulteney in 1810. His sermons,
     ever conformable to the principles of the religion and
     Church which he adorned, displayed in no ordinary
     degree, without the least trace of enthusiasm, the
     refinement of the scholar united with the graces of the
     Christian. Free from sectarian violence, and informed
     by the spirit of the truest charity, they will long
     dwell in the memories of his hearers. (Here a further
     omission.) The productions of his pen include an able
     defence of Episcopacy, which, though often perused by
     the author of this tribute to his memory, afford but
     one additional instance of the want of liberality and
     enterprise which is a too common characteristic of the
     publishers of our generation. His published works are,
     indeed, confined to a spirited and elegant version of
     the _Argonautica_ of Valerius Flaccus, a volume of
     _Discourses upon the Several Events in the Life of
     Joshua_, delivered in his Cathedral, and a number of
     the charges which he pronounced at various visitations
     to the clergy of his Archdeaconry. These are
     distinguished by etc., etc. The urbanity and
     hospitality of the subject of these lines will not
     readily be forgotten by those who enjoyed his
     acquaintance. His interest in the venerable and awful
     pile under whose hoary vault he was so punctual an
     attendant, and particularly in the musical portion of
     its rites, might be termed filial, and formed a strong
     and delightful contrast to the polite indifference
     displayed by too many of our Cathedral dignitaries at
     the present time."

The final paragraph, after informing us that Dr. Haynes died a
bachelor, says:

     "It might have been augured that an existence so placid
     and benevolent would have been terminated in a ripe old
     age by a dissolution equally gradual and calm. But how
     unsearchable are the workings of Providence! The
     peaceful and retired seclusion amid which the honoured
     evening of Dr. Haynes' life was mellowing to its close
     was destined to be disturbed, nay, shattered, by a
     tragedy as appalling as it was unexpected. The morning
     of the 26th of February----"

But perhaps I shall do better to keep back the remainder of the
narrative until I have told the circumstances which led up to it.
These, as far as they are now accessible, I have derived from another
source.

I had read the obituary notice which I have been quoting, quite by
chance, along with a great many others of the same period. It had
excited some little speculation in my mind, but, beyond thinking that,
if I ever had an opportunity of examining the local records of the
period indicated, I would try to remember Dr. Haynes, I made no effort
to pursue his case.

Quite lately I was cataloguing the manuscripts in the library of the
college to which he belonged. I had reached the end of the numbered
volumes on the shelves, and I proceeded to ask the librarian whether
there were any more books which he thought I ought to include in my
description. "I don't think there are," he said, "but we had better
come and look at the manuscript class and make sure. Have you time to
do that now?" I had time. We went to the library, checked off the
manuscripts, and, at the end of our survey, arrived at a shelf of
which I had seen nothing. Its contents consisted for the most part of
sermons, bundles of fragmentary papers, college exercises, _Cyrus_, an
epic poem in several cantos, the product of a country clergyman's
leisure, mathematical tracts by a deceased professor, and other
similar material of a kind with which I am only too familiar. I took
brief notes of these. Lastly, there was a tin box, which was pulled
out and dusted. Its label, much faded, was thus inscribed: "Papers of
the Ven. Archdeacon Haynes. Bequeathed in 1834 by his sister, Miss
Letitia Haynes."

I knew at once that the name was one which I had somewhere
encountered, and could very soon locate it. "That must be the
Archdeacon Haynes who came to a very odd end at Barchester. I've read
his obituary in the _Gentleman's Magazine_. May I take the box home?
Do you know if there is anything interesting in it?"

The librarian was very willing that I should take the box and examine
it at leisure. "I never looked inside it myself," he said, "but I've
always been meaning to. I am pretty sure that is the box which our old
Master once said ought never to have been accepted by the college. He
said that to Martin years ago; and he said also that as long as he
had control over the library it should never be opened. Martin told me
about it, and said that he wanted terribly to know what was in it; but
the Master was librarian, and always kept the box in the lodge, so
there was no getting at it in his time, and when he died it was taken
away by mistake by his heirs, and only returned a few years ago. I
can't think why I haven't opened it; but, as I have to go away from
Cambridge this afternoon, you had better have first go at it. I think
I can trust you not to publish anything undesirable in our catalogue."

I took the box home and examined its contents, and thereafter
consulted the librarian as to what should be done about publication,
and, since I have his leave to make a story out of it, provided I
disguise the identity of the people concerned, I will try what can be
done.

The materials are, of course, mainly journals and letters. How much I
shall quote and how much epitomize must be determined by
considerations of space. The proper understanding of the situation has
necessitated a little--not very arduous--research, which has been
greatly facilitated by the excellent illustrations and text of the
Barchester volume in Bell's _Cathedral Series_.

When you enter the choir of Barchester Cathedral now, you pass through
a screen of metal and coloured marbles, designed by Sir Gilbert Scott,
and find yourself in what I must call a very bare and odiously
furnished place. The stalls are modern, without canopies. The places
of the dignitaries and the names of the prebends have fortunately
been allowed to survive, and are inscribed on small brass plates
affixed to the stalls. The organ is in the triforium, and what is seen
of the case is Gothic. The reredos and its surroundings are like every
other.

Careful engravings of a hundred years ago show a very different state
of things. The organ is on a massive classical screen. The stalls are
also classical and very massive. There is a baldacchino of wood over
the altar, with urns upon its corners. Farther east is a solid altar
screen, classical in design, of wood, with a pediment, in which is a
triangle surrounded by rays, enclosing certain Hebrew letters in gold.
Cherubs contemplate these. There is a pulpit with a great
sounding-board at the eastern end of the stalls on the north side, and
there is a black and white marble pavement. Two ladies and a gentleman
are admiring the general effect. From other sources I gather that the
archdeacon's stall then, as now, was next to the bishop's throne at
the south-eastern end of the stalls. His house almost faces the west
front of the church, and is a fine red-brick building of William the
Third's time.

Here Dr. Haynes, already a mature man, took up his abode with his
sister in the year 1810. The dignity had long been the object of his
wishes, but his predecessor refused to depart until he had attained
the age of ninety-two. About a week after he had held a modest
festival in celebration of that ninety-second birthday, there came a
morning, late in the year, when Dr. Haynes, hurrying cheerfully into
his breakfast-room, rubbing his hands and humming a tune, was greeted,
and checked in his genial flow of spirits, by the sight of his sister,
seated, indeed, in her usual place behind the tea-urn, but bowed
forward and sobbing unrestrainedly into her handkerchief. "What--what
is the matter? What bad news?" he began. "Oh, Johnny, you've not
heard? The poor dear archdeacon!" "The archdeacon, yes? What is
it--ill, is he?" "No, no; they found him on the staircase this
morning; it is so shocking." "Is it possible! Dear, dear, poor
Pulteney! Had there been any seizure?" "They don't think so, and that
is almost the worst thing about it. It seems to have been all the
fault of that stupid maid of theirs, Jane." Dr. Haynes paused. "I
don't quite understand, Letitia. How was the maid at fault?" "Why, as
far as I can make out, there was a stair-rod missing, and she never
mentioned it, and the poor archdeacon set his foot quite on the edge
of the step--you know how slippery that oak is--and it seems he must
have fallen almost the whole flight and broken his neck. It _is_ so
sad for poor Miss Pulteney. Of course, they will get rid of the girl
at once. I never liked her." Miss Haynes's grief resumed its sway, but
eventually relaxed so far as to permit of her taking some breakfast.
Not so her brother, who, after standing in silence before the window
for some minutes, left the room, and did not appear again that
morning.

I need only add that the careless maid-servant was dismissed
forthwith, but that the missing stair-rod was very shortly afterwards
found _under_ the stair-carpet--an additional proof, if any were
needed, of extreme stupidity and carelessness on her part.

For a good many years Dr. Haynes had been marked out by his ability,
which seems to have been really considerable, as the likely successor
of Archdeacon Pulteney, and no disappointment was in store for him. He
was duly installed, and entered with zeal upon the discharge of those
functions which are appropriate to one in his position. A considerable
space in his journals is occupied with exclamations upon the confusion
in which Archdeacon Pulteney had left the business of his office and
the documents appertaining to it. Dues upon Wringham and Barnswood
have been uncollected for something like twelve years, and are largely
irrecoverable; no visitation has been held for seven years; four
chancels are almost past mending. The persons deputized by the
archdeacon have been nearly as incapable as himself. It was almost a
matter for thankfulness that this state of things had not been
permitted to continue, and a letter from a friend confirms this view.
"[Greek: ho kategn]," it says (in rather cruel allusion to the Second
Epistle to the Thessalonians), "is removed at last. My poor friend!
Upon what a scene of confusion will you be entering! I give you my
word that, on the last occasion of my crossing his threshold, there
was no single paper that he could lay hands upon, no syllable of mine
that he could hear, and no fact in connection with my business that he
could remember. But now, thanks to a negligent maid and a loose
stair-carpet, there is some prospect that necessary business will be
transacted without a complete loss alike of voice and temper." This
letter was tucked into a pocket in the cover of one of the diaries.

There can be no doubt of the new archdeacon's zeal and enthusiasm.
"Give me but time to reduce to some semblance of order the innumerable
errors and complications with which I am confronted, and I shall
gladly and sincerely join with the aged Israelite in the canticle
which too many, I fear, pronounce but with their lips." This
reflection I find, not in a diary, but a letter; the doctor's friends
seem to have returned his correspondence to his surviving sister. He
does not confine himself, however, to reflections. His investigation
of the rights and duties of his office are very searching and
business-like, and there is a calculation in one place that a period
of three years will just suffice to set the business of the
Archdeaconry upon a proper footing. The estimate appears to have been
an exact one. For just three years he is occupied in reforms; but I
look in vain at the end of that time for the promised _Nunc dimittis_.
He has now found a new sphere of activity. Hitherto his duties have
precluded him from more than an occasional attendance at the Cathedral
services. Now he begins to take an interest in the fabric and the
music. Upon his struggles with the organist, an old gentleman who had
been in office since 1786, I have no time to dwell; they were not
attended with any marked success. More to the purpose is his sudden
growth of enthusiasm for the Cathedral itself and its furniture. There
is a draft of a letter to Sylvanus Urban (which I do not think was
ever sent) describing the stalls in the choir. As I have said, these
were of fairly late date--of about the year 1700, in fact.

     "The archdeacon's stall, situated at the south-east
     end, west of the episcopal throne (now so worthily
     occupied by the truly excellent prelate who adorns the
     See of Barchester), is distinguished by some curious
     ornamentation. In addition to the arms of Dean West, by
     whose efforts the whole of the internal furniture of
     the choir was completed, the prayer-desk is terminated
     at the eastern extremity by three small but remarkable
     statuettes in the grotesque manner. One is an
     exquisitely modelled figure of a cat, whose crouching
     posture suggests with admirable spirit the suppleness,
     vigilance, and craft of the redoubted adversary of the
     genus _Mus_. Opposite to this is a figure seated upon a
     throne and invested with the attributes of royalty; but
     it is no earthly monarch whom the carver has sought to
     portray. His feet are studiously concealed by the long
     robe in which he is draped: but neither the crown nor
     the cap which he wears suffice to hide the prick-ears
     and curving horns which betray his Tartarean origin;
     and the hand which rests upon his knee is armed with
     talons of horrifying length and sharpness. Between
     these two figures stands a shape muffled in a long
     mantle. This might at first sight be mistaken for a
     monk or 'friar of orders gray,' for the head is cowled
     and a knotted cord depends from somewhere about the
     waist. A slight inspection, however, will lead to a
     very different conclusion. The knotted cord is quickly
     seen to be a halter, held by a hand all but concealed
     within the draperies; while the sunken features and,
     horrid to relate, the rent flesh upon the cheek-bones,
     proclaim the King of Terrors. These figures are
     evidently the production of no unskilled chisel; and
     should it chance that any of your correspondents are
     able to throw light upon their origin and significance,
     my obligations to your valuable miscellany will be
     largely increased."

There is more description in the paper, and, seeing that the woodwork
in question has now disappeared, it has a considerable interest. A
paragraph at the end is worth quoting:

     "Some late researches among the Chapter accounts have
     shown me that the carving of the stalls was not, as was
     very usually reported, the work of Dutch artists, but
     was executed by a native of this city or district named
     Austin. The timber was procured from an oak copse in
     the vicinity, the property of the Dean and Chapter,
     known as Holywood. Upon a recent visit to the parish
     within whose boundaries it is situated, I learned from
     the aged and truly respectable incumbent that
     traditions still lingered amongst the inhabitants of
     the great size and age of the oaks employed to furnish
     the materials of the stately structure which has been,
     however imperfectly, described in the above lines. Of
     one in particular, which stood near the centre of the
     grove, it is remembered that it was known as the
     Hanging Oak. The propriety of that title is confirmed
     by the fact that a quantity of human bones was found in
     the soil about its roots, and that at certain times of
     the year it was the custom for those who wished to
     secure a successful issue to their affairs, whether of
     love or the ordinary business of life, to suspend from
     its boughs small images or puppets rudely fashioned of
     straw, twigs, or the like rustic materials."

So much for the archdeacon's archological investigations. To return
to his career as it is to be gathered from his diaries. Those of his
first three years of hard and careful work show him throughout in high
spirits, and, doubtless, during this time, that reputation for
hospitality and urbanity which is mentioned in his obituary notice was
well deserved. After that, as time goes on, I see a shadow coming over
him--destined to develop into utter blackness--which I cannot but
think must have been reflected in his outward demeanour. He commits a
good deal of his fears and troubles to his diary; there was no other
outlet for them. He was unmarried, and his sister was not always with
him. But I am much mistaken if he has told all that he might have
told. A series of extracts shall be given:

     "_Aug. 30, 1816._--The days begin to draw in more
     perceptibly than ever. Now that the Archdeaconry papers
     are reduced to order, I must find some further
     employment for the evening hours of autumn and winter.
     It is a great blow that Letitia's health will not allow
     her to stay through these months. Why not go on with my
     _Defence of Episcopacy_? It may be useful.

     "_Sept. 15._--Letitia has left me for Brighton.

     "_Oct. 11._--Candles lit in the choir for the first
     time at evening prayers. It came as a shock: I find
     that I absolutely shrink from the dark season.

     "_Nov. 17._--Much struck by the character of the
     carving on my desk: I do not know that I had ever
     carefully noticed it before. My attention was called to
     it by an accident. During the _Magnificat_ I was, I
     regret to say, almost overcome with sleep. My hand was
     resting on the back of the carved figure of a cat which
     is the nearest to me of the three figures on the end of
     my stall. I was not aware of this, for I was not
     looking in that direction, until I was startled by what
     seemed a softness, a feeling as of rather rough and
     coarse fur, and a sudden movement, as if the creature
     were twisting round its head to bite me. I regained
     complete consciousness in an instant, and I have some
     idea that I must have uttered a suppressed exclamation,
     for I noticed that Mr. Treasurer turned his head
     quickly in my direction. The impression of the
     unpleasant feeling was so strong that I found myself
     rubbing my hand upon my surplice. This accident led me
     to examine the figures after prayers more carefully
     than I had done before, and I realized for the first
     time with what skill they are executed.

     "_Dec. 6._--I do indeed miss Letitia's company. The
     evenings, after I have worked as long as I can at my
     _Defence_, are very trying. The house is too large for
     a lonely man, and visitors of any kind are too rare. I
     get an uncomfortable impression when going to my room
     that there _is_ company of some kind. The fact is (I
     may as well formulate it to myself) that I hear voices.
     This, I am well aware, is a common symptom of incipient
     decay of the brain--and I believe that I should be less
     disquieted than I am if I had any suspicion that this
     was the cause. I have none--none whatever, nor is there
     anything in my family history to give colour to such an
     idea. Work, diligent work, and a punctual attention to
     the duties which fall to me is my best remedy, and I
     have little doubt that it will prove efficacious.

     "_Jan. 1._--My trouble is, I must confess it,
     increasing upon me. Last night, upon my return after
     midnight from the Deanery, I lit my candle to go
     upstairs. I was nearly at the top when something
     whispered to me, 'Let me wish you a happy New Year.' I
     could not be mistaken: it spoke distinctly and with a
     peculiar emphasis. Had I dropped my candle, as I all
     but did, I tremble to think what the consequences must
     have been. As it was, I managed to get up the last
     flight, and was quickly in my room with the door
     locked, and experienced no other disturbance.

     "_Jan. 15._--I had occasion to come downstairs last
     night to my workroom for my watch, which I had
     inadvertently left on my table when I went up to bed. I
     think I was at the top of the last flight when I had a
     sudden impression of a sharp whisper in my ear '_Take
     care_.' I clutched the balusters and naturally looked
     round at once. Of course, there was nothing. After a
     moment I went on--it was no good turning back--but I
     had as nearly as possible fallen: a cat--a large one by
     the feel of it--slipped between my feet, but again, of
     course, I saw nothing. It _may_ have been the kitchen
     cat, but I do not think it was.

     "_Feb. 27._--A curious thing last night, which I should
     like to forget. Perhaps if I put it down here I may see
     it in its true proportion. I worked in the library from
     about 9 to 10. The hall and staircase seemed to be
     unusually full of what I can only call movement without
     sound: by this I mean that there seemed to be
     continuous going and coming, and that whenever I ceased
     writing to listen, or looked out into the hall, the
     stillness was absolutely unbroken. Nor, in going to my
     room at an earlier hour than usual--about half-past
     ten--was I conscious of anything that I could call a
     noise. It so happened that I had told John to come to
     my room for the letter to the bishop which I wished to
     have delivered early in the morning at the Palace. He
     was to sit up, therefore, and come for it when he heard
     me retire. This I had for the moment forgotten, though
     I had remembered to carry the letter with me to my
     room. But when, as I was winding up my watch, I heard a
     light tap at the door, and a low voice saying, 'May I
     come in?' (which I most undoubtedly did hear), I
     recollected the fact, and took up the letter from my
     dressing-table, saying, 'Certainly: come in.' No one,
     however, answered my summons, and it was now that, as I
     strongly suspect, I committed an error: for I opened
     the door and held the letter out. There was certainly
     no one at that moment in the passage, but, in the
     instant of my standing there, the door at the end
     opened and John appeared carrying a candle. I asked him
     whether he had come to the door earlier; but am
     satisfied that he had not. I do not like the situation;
     but although my senses were very much on the alert, and
     though it was some time before I could sleep, I must
     allow that I perceived nothing further of an untoward
     character."

With the return of spring, when his sister came to live with him for
some months, Dr. Haynes's entries become more cheerful, and, indeed,
no symptom of depression is discernible until the early part of
September, when he was again left alone. And now, indeed, there is
evidence that he was incommoded again, and that more pressingly. To
this matter I will return in a moment, but I digress to put in a
document which, rightly or wrongly, I believe to have a bearing on the
thread of the story.

The account-books of Dr. Haynes, preserved along with his other
papers, show, from a date but little later than that of his
institution as archdeacon, a quarterly payment of 25 to J. L. Nothing
could have been made of this, had it stood by itself. But I connect
with it a very dirty and ill-written letter, which, like another that
I have quoted, was in a pocket in the cover of a diary. Of date or
postmark there is no vestige, and the decipherment was not easy. It
appears to run:

     Dr Sr.

     I have bin expctin to her off you theis last wicks, and
     not Haveing done so must supose you have not got mine
     witch was saying how me and my man had met in with bad
     times this season all seems to go cross with us on the
     farm and which way to look for the rent we have no
     knowledge of it this been the sad case with us if you
     would have the great [liberality _probably, but the
     exact spelling defies reproduction_] to send fourty
     pounds otherwise steps will have to be took which I
     should not wish. Has you was the Means of me losing my
     place with Dr. Pulteney I think it is only just what I
     am asking and you know best what I could say if I was
     Put to it but I do not wish anything of that unpleasant
     Nature being one that always wish to have everything
     Pleasant about me.

                                  Your obedt Servt,
                                              JANE LEE.

About the time at which I suppose this letter to have been written
there is, in fact, a payment of 40 to J. L.

We return to the diary:

     "_Oct. 22._--At evening prayers, during the Psalms, I
     had that same experience which I recollect from last
     year. I was resting my hand on one of the carved
     figures, as before (I usually avoid that of the cat
     now), and--I was going to have said--a change came over
     it, but that seems attributing too much importance to
     what must, after all, be due to some physical affection
     in myself: at any rate, the wood seemed to become
     chilly and soft as if made of wet linen. I can assign
     the moment at which I became sensible of this. The
     choir were singing the words _(Set thou an ungodly man
     to be ruler over him and) let Satan stand at his right
     hand._

     "The whispering in my house was more persistent
     to-night. I seemed not to be rid of it in my room. I
     have not noticed this before. A nervous man, which I am
     not, and hope I am not becoming, would have been much
     annoyed, if not alarmed, by it. The cat was on the
     stairs to-night. I think it sits there always. There
     _is_ no kitchen cat.

     "_Nov. 15._--Here again I must note a matter I do not
     understand. I am much troubled in sleep. No definite
     image presented itself, but I was pursued by the very
     vivid impression that wet lips were whispering into my
     ear with great rapidity and emphasis for some time
     together. After this, I suppose, I fell asleep, but was
     awakened with a start by a feeling as if a hand were
     laid on my shoulder. To my intense alarm I found myself
     standing at the top of the lowest flight of the first
     staircase. The moon was shining brightly enough through
     the large window to let me see that there was a large
     cat on the second or third step. I can make no comment.
     I crept up to bed again, I do not know how. Yes, mine
     is a heavy burden. [Then follows a line or two which
     has been scratched out. I fancy I read something like
     'acted for the best.']"

Not long after this it is evident to me that the archdeacon's firmness
began to give way under the pressure of these phenomena. I omit as
unnecessarily painful and distressing the ejaculations and prayers
which, in the months of December and January, appear for the first
time and become increasingly frequent. Throughout this time, however,
he is obstinate in clinging to his post. Why he did not plead
ill-health and take refuge at Bath or Brighton I cannot tell; my
impression is that it would have done him no good; that he was a man
who, if he had confessed himself beaten by the annoyances, would have
succumbed at once, and that he was conscious of this. He did seek to
palliate them by inviting visitors to his house. The result he has
noted in this fashion:

     "_Jan. 7._--I have prevailed on my cousin Allen to give
     me a few days, and he is to occupy the chamber next to
     mine.

     "_Jan. 8._--A still night. Allen slept well, but
     complained of the wind. My own experiences were as
     before: still whispering and whispering: what is it
     that he wants to say?

     "_Jan. 9._--Allen thinks this a very noisy house. He
     thinks, too, that my cat is an unusually large and fine
     specimen, but very wild.

     "_Jan. 10._--Allen and I in the library until 11. He
     left me twice to see what the maids were doing in the
     hall: returning the second time he told me he had seen
     one of them passing through the door at the end of the
     passage, and said if his wife were here she would soon
     get them into better order. I asked him what coloured
     dress the maid wore; he said grey or white. I supposed
     it would be so.

     "_Jan. 11._--Allen left me to-day. I must be firm."

These words, _I must be firm_, occur again and again on subsequent
days; sometimes they are the only entry. In these cases they are in an
unusually large hand, and dug into the paper in a way which must have
broken the pen that wrote them.

Apparently the archdeacon's friends did not remark any change in his
behaviour, and this gives me a high idea of his courage and
determination. The diary tells us nothing more than I have indicated
of the last days of his life. The end of it all must be told in the
polished language of the obituary notice:

     "The morning of the 26th of February was cold and
     tempestuous. At an early hour the servants had
     occasion to go into the front hall of the residence
     occupied by the lamented subject of these lines. What
     was their horror upon observing the form of their
     beloved and respected master lying upon the landing of
     the principal staircase in an attitude which inspired
     the gravest fears. Assistance was procured, and an
     universal consternation was experienced upon the
     discovery that he had been the object of a brutal and a
     murderous attack. The vertebral column was fractured in
     more than one place. This might have been the result of
     a fall: it appeared that the stair-carpet was loosened
     at one point. But, in addition to this, there were
     injuries inflicted upon the eyes, nose and mouth, as if
     by the agency of some savage animal, which, dreadful to
     relate, rendered those features unrecognizable. The
     vital spark was, it is needless to add, completely
     extinct, and had been so, upon the testimony of
     respectable medical authorities, for several hours. The
     author or authors of this mysterious outrage are alike
     buried in mystery, and the most active conjecture has
     hitherto failed to suggest a solution of the melancholy
     problem afforded by this appalling occurrence."

The writer goes on to reflect upon the probability that the writings
of Mr. Shelley, Lord Byron, and M. Voltaire may have been instrumental
in bringing about the disaster, and concludes by hoping, somewhat
vaguely, that this event may "operate as an example to the rising
generation"; but this portion of his remarks need not be quoted in
full.

I had already formed the conclusion that Dr. Haynes was responsible
for the death of Dr. Pulteney. But the incident connected with the
carved figure of death upon the archdeacon's stall was a very
perplexing feature. The conjecture that it had been cut out of the
wood of the Hanging Oak was not difficult, but seemed impossible to
substantiate. However, I paid a visit to Barchester, partly with the
view of finding out whether there were any relics of the woodwork to
be heard of. I was introduced by one of the canons to the curator of
the local museum, who was, my friend said, more likely to be able to
give me information on the point than anyone else. I told this
gentleman of the description of certain carved figures and arms
formerly on the stalls, and asked whether any had survived. He was
able to show me the arms of Dean West and some other fragments. These,
he said, had been got from an old resident, who had also once owned a
figure--perhaps one of those which I was inquiring for. There was a
very odd thing about that figure, he said. "The old man who had it
told me that he picked it up in a wood-yard, whence he had obtained
the still extant pieces, and had taken it home for his children. On
the way home he was fiddling about with it and it came in two in his
hands, and a bit of paper dropped out. This he picked up and, just
noticing that there was writing on it, put it into his pocket, and
subsequently into a vase on his mantelpiece. I was at his house not
very long ago, and happened to pick up the vase and turn it over to
see whether there were any marks on it, and the paper fell into my
hand. The old man, on my handing it to him, told me the story I have
told you, and said I might keep the paper. It was crumpled and rather
torn, so I have mounted it on a card, which I have here. If you can
tell me what it means I shall be very glad, and also, I may say, a
good deal surprised."

He gave me the card. The paper was quite legibly inscribed in an old
hand, and this is what was on it:

    "When I grew in the Wood
    I was water'd w^{th} Blood
    Now in the Church I stand
    Who that touches me with his Hand
    If a Bloody hand he bear
    I councell him to be ware
    Lest he be fetcht away
    Whether by night or day,
    But chiefly when the wind blows high
    In a night of February."

    "This I drempt, 26 Febr. A^o 1699. JOHN AUSTIN."

"I suppose it is a charm or a spell: wouldn't you call it something of
that kind?" said the curator.

"Yes," I said, "I suppose one might. What became of the figure in
which it was concealed?"

"Oh, I forgot," said he. "The old man told me it was so ugly and
frightened his children so much that he burnt it."


Transcriber's Note:

The notation ^x or ^{xx} signifies that the following letter(s) are
superscript.




[The end of _The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral_ by M. R. James]
