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the conclusion - that the art which created the glorious abbeys and
minsters, the beautiful parish churches so plentifully dotted over
our country - abbeys, minsters, and churches which the churchmen of
the second half of the nineteenth century so reverently and wisely
restore and seek to copy stone by stone, arch by arch, window by
window, down to the smallest bit of ornament - is a lost art! Men
have come sorrowfully to see that mediæval architecture is the
last link - perhaps the most beautiful as well as the last link - of
that long chain of architectural styles, 'commencing in far-back
ages in Egypt and passing on in continuous course through Assyria,
Persia, Greece, Rome, and Byzantium, and thence taken up by the
infant nations of modern Europe, and by them prolonged through
successive ages of continuous progress till it terminated in the
beautiful thirteenth-and fourteenth-century Gothic, and has never
since produced a link of its own.... Alas! it is the last link
of that mighty chain which had stretched unbroken through nearly
four thousand years - the glorious termination of the history of
original and genuine architecture.'" Well may men love it and seek
to preserve the examples they possess of it, and aim at copying it
as well as they can. These remarkable and melancholy words above
quoted were deliberately spoken by Sir Gilbert Scott, R.A., LL.D.,
in his first lecture on Mediæval Architecture delivered at the Royal
Academy some years ago.

So much for my note of sadness. Now let me strike a different chord.

Such a gathering as the present, I repeat, is an inspiring one, for
it tells me that if one great art dies, He who loves us and has
redeemed us at so great a price, gives His children something in its
place. Now it is strange that amidst all the gorgeous and striking
ceremonial of the mediæval services, with their wealth of colour
and ornament, with all their touching and elaborate symbolism,
music, as it is now understood, was unknown and comparatively
neglected. In the noblest cathedral of the Middle Ages, in the
stateliest Benedictine or Cistercian abbey, while the eye was filled
with sights of solemnity and beauty, each sight containing its
special and peculiar teaching, the ear was comparatively uncared
for. Strangely monotonous and even harsh would chaunt and psalm
and hymn, as rendered in the mighty abbeys of Westminster, Durham,
or Gloucester in the days of the great Plantagenets, of the White
Rose or Red Rose kings, sound to the musically trained ears of the
worshippers of the second half of the nineteenth century. Indeed,
music as a great science was unknown in pre-Reformation times. The
most complete anthem-book may be searched through by the curious
scholar, but scarcely a musical composer of any note will be found
in these collections of a date earlier than the reign of Queen
Elizabeth. It would seem as though, when architecture ceased in the
sixteenth century to be a living craft, a new art was discovered and
worked at by men.

A new art! I say these words, strange to some, with emphasis.
One who has indeed a right to speak of music[1] thus voices my
assertion. While telling us that certain grand forms of music loom
out of the darkness of the earlier centuries of our era, the famous
musician to whom I refer adds that little of what we understand of
music existed before the later years of the fifteenth century. It
was no mere renaissance, for that which had never been born could
not be born again.

[1] Professor Hullah, in his "Lectures on the History of Modern
Music," delivered at the Royal Institution of Great Britain,
published 1884. See, too, Professor Hullah's Royal Institution
Lecture on the Transition Period of Musical History (1876).

In case some should think that too strong expressions are here
used, it may be well to quote some of Professor Hullah's own
words, which he used in the above-mentioned lecture at the Royal
Institution: - "Music is a new art.... What we now call music ...
what answers to our definition of music, has come into being only
within comparatively few years; almost within the memory of men
living." "I should say that in the scholastic music there was no
art, and in the popular music no science; whence it is that the
former has ceased to please, and the latter has for the most part
perished utterly."

It was a new art which charmed and delighted men as they listened to
the magic of the sounds evoked by the majesty of the compositions
of Palestrina, or by the sweetness of the music of Marenzio. It is
true, as I said, that certain grand forms of music loom out of the
darkness of the remote past - shadowy forms - and the rare composers
and writers of the music of the past are, as far as music is
concerned, but the shadow of names now. I allude, as famous examples
of these shadows of names, to names such as Gregory and Isidore,
Hucbald and the eleventh-century _maestro_, Guido Aretino.

With extraordinary rapidity developed the new craft. To give here
some familiar landmarks -

Henry VIII. was reigning before Josquin Deprès, whom all musicians
revere as one of the earliest, certainly the most renowned, of the
pioneers of modern music, became generally known in Europe. Josquin
Deprès was born somewhere about the year 1466, dying about 1515,
some ten or fifteen years before Palestrina was born. Luther said of
him, "Other musicians do what they can with notes; Josquin does what
he likes with them." The Abbate Baini alludes to him as "the idol of
Europe"; and again writes, "Nothing is beautiful unless it be the
work of Josquin."

The famous Roman School of music only dates from 1540. The oratorio,
even in its more simple forms, made its appearance some seventy
years later.

Not until the last years of our Queen Elizabeth were the names of
Palestrina and Marenzio, those great early composers, conspicuous,
and the Queen so loved of Englishmen had long fallen asleep before
Carissimi, the earliest master of the sacred cantata in its many
forms, gave his mighty impulse to the new-born art; while the works
of his world-famed pupil Scarlatti, and of our own English Purcell,
belong to the art-records of the days of William and Mary and Queen
Anne. See how the whole of the marvellous story of music - as we
understand music - belongs to quite recent days!

All through the eighteenth century, when the Georges reigned,
architecture slept its well-nigh dreamless sleep. But the new art of
music grew with each succeeding year, while the men whose names will
never die lived and wrote.

It was this eighteenth century which saw a Beethoven, a Handel, a
Bach, a Haydn, and a Mozart. As masters of the new-born craft none
can be conceived greater.

The century now closing boasts, however, a long line of true
followers and worthy disciples of those great ones, men whose names
are household words in every European city.

But my brief record, necessarily dry and bald, of a momentous
change in the teaching of the world would be incomplete without one
word on the glorious instrument - the voice, so to speak - of these
masters of a new art, the organ. The first organ known in Western
Europe traditionally was sent to Pepin in France by the Emperor of
Constantinople in 759, but Aldhelm, Bishop of Sherborne, in his poem
on Virginity, some half a century earlier, apparently describes
what appears to have been the organ. Elphege, Abbot of Winchester
in the tenth century, is said to have caused a very large organ to
be constructed; but, with this solitary exception, all the mediæval
organs seem to have been small and comparatively unimportant
instruments. The oldest organ-cases preserved do not date back
further than the last years of the fifteenth century, and these by
the side of modern organs are insignificant in size. Viollet le Duc,
in his great work, gives us a picture of the Perpignan organ, one of
the earliest (early in the sixteenth century). From this date the
size rapidly increased.

In the "Rites of Durham," where a great mediæval church is described
at the period of the Dissolution (1530-40), there were three organs
in use in the abbey church, the principal one being only used at
"principall Feasts," the pipes being "very faire and partly gilded."
"Only two organs in England," says the "Rites," "of the same
makinge, one in Yorke and another in Paules."


The most magnificent organ-case in Europe is the one in St.
Janskirk at Bois le Duc, and, like the vast majority of the great
organ-cases, is Renaissance in style. Viollet le Duc sums up the
question in the following sentence: -

"It does not appear that great organs were in use before the
fifteenth century, and it was only towards the close of the
fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries that the idea of
building organs of dimensions hitherto unknown was first conceived."

The organ, as we now know it, was born among us at the same date
when architecture died. Like the music of the Middle Ages, in the
days when these vast and peerless buildings arose, it is true the
organ was not unknown; but, like mediæval music, it was a small,
poor thing compared with the stupendous instrument we know and love.
There was no great organ before the last years of the fifteenth
century, when the Tudors reigned. The sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries witnessed its development, and acknowledged its surpassing
grandeur, and recognised its fitness as one of the chief handmaids
of the new great art.

Now the secret of the men who built this lordly abbey is lost; never
again will such a triumph of, alas! a dead art arise to charm and
to delight, to instruct and inspire the children of men. But we
may still preserve and reverently use this rare and noble legacy
of a vanished age as a shrine and a peerless teaching-home - a
prayer-home, in which are taught the great evangelical truths
by which Christian men live and breathe and have their being,
the saving knowledge of the work of the Precious Blood, the glad
Redemption-story, the story loved of men; the story which never
ages, never palls, but which, like dew, descends on each succeeding
generation of believers, and gives them new stores of faith and hope
and love. This - these things - we try to do, and not without success,
for as God's bright glory-cloud once brooded over the sacred
desert-tent and the holy Jerusalem Temple, so now upon our beloved
and ancient cathedral, with its almost countless services of praise
and prayer and teaching, God's blessing surely rests.

"It sleeps," does our cathedral, as one has lately said in words
beautiful as true - "it sleeps with its splendid dreams upon its
lifted face." But it has, too, its many wakeful working hours. Not
the least memorable of these will strike this week, when the charmed
strains of Handel and Haydn, Mozart, Mendelssohn, and Beethoven, and
of the great Englishmen, Gibbons and Boyce and Walmisley and Wesley,
and last, but not least, of Hubert Parry, peal through these fretted
vaults, "lingering and wandering on" among these wondrous chambers
of inspired imagery; while the almost prophetic words of that truest
English song-man Wordsworth become history: -

"Give all thou canst; high heaven rejects the lore
Of nicely calculated less or more;
So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells,
Where light and shade repose, where music dwells
Lingering and wandering on as loth to die -
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof
That they were born for immortality."

[Illustration: Decorative]

[Illustration: A Hero in Disguise]


A Complete Story. By M. Westrup.

The girl was little, slender, insignificant - only her love made her
heroic. The man was big, broad, one to be noticed in a crowd, and
his love made him as helpless as a little child.

They stood opposite each other in the poor, shabby little room. His
eyes devoured her face wildly, incredulously, but her eyes were
fixed on a great hole in the faded carpet.

Her mind was chaotic, for with his eager words of love rang others,
bewildering her. Side by side with his passionate outpouring of his
love for her, his longing to have her for his own, to live for her
and work for her, were other words - words of ambition and great
aspirations, words of intending travel into far-away countries, of
hardships and discomforts to be borne for the sake of the book that
was to be written - the book that was to bring fame and satisfaction
to the writer of it.

And these words rang with a deep note of earnestness and strength,
and overpowered those eager, present tones that were pleading to her
so wildly.

"I called you Kathleen Mavourneen last night, you remember, and you
smiled and blushed!" he protested, roughly. "Why did you do it?
Kathleen, you _do_ love me, you do! Why don't you speak to me? I
tell you, I have seen it in your eyes. Why do you deny it now?"

She shook her head, and her heart cried in agony, "How long? How

"Won't you try, then?" with a humbleness that was not natural to
him. "Oh, Kitty, little Kitty, I cannot live without you!"

He held out his arms to her despairingly.

"I have a singing lesson to give at one o'clock," she said.

His arms fell to his sides. The sun streamed in on to the pretty,
pale, downbent face of the girl, and on to the white, haggard face
of the man who stood opposite.

There were no shadows in the little room - it was all glare and

"I will go," he said, and then his eyes caught fire; "but you are
a flirt! Do you hear, a paltry, heartless flirt! You have led me
on - played with me. You have made your eyes soft, your lips sweet,
to amuse yourself at my expense! How do you do it?" with a little
cynical laugh. "It's really clever - of its kind - you know - - "

He moved towards the door.

"I beg your pardon," he said icily. "I should not have spoken so to
a woman. Good-bye."

"You will begin your travels now?" she said.

He laughed.

"Why keep up the pretence?" he said; "it's rather late now to
pretend any interest in my life."

She was silent.

At the door he paused.

He was a proud man, and he had an iron will.

But his love made him helpless and weak as a little child.

"Kathleen," he breathed, "you are sure?"

A moment she stood still and rigid as a statue.

"Little one, I love you so - - " His voice was soft and caressing;
but her love made her heroic. She raised her head. "I am sure," she
said steadily.

* * * * *

The girl sat in a corner of the warm, gorgeous drawing-room, and
wished vaguely that people would not nod and stare at her so
energetically. She was used to it now, and tired of it.

She had never liked it, but fame brings notoriety in its train, and
notoriety brings nods and whispers and stares.

She was dressed beautifully. She had always liked pretty things, and
now she could have as many as she wanted.

The man stood over in a doorway and watched her with cynical eyes.

He had not seen her for five years, and as he stood there another
man lounged up and spoke to him.

"Looking at _la belle Philomèle_?" he said; "she's quite the rage,
you know. Ever heard her sing? You're only just back from the wilds,
aren't you? Oh, well, of course you'll go to St. James's Hall
to-morrow? She's going to sing, you know. Her voice is splendid. I
never go to hear her myself - makes me feel I'm a miserable sinner
somehow - does, 'pon my word. I've heard her twice, and then I
dropped it. Don't like feeling small, you know."

He lounged away again, and the man with the cynical eyes still
watched her.

Her head was turned away from him - only a soft, fair cheek and
little ear nestling in a soft mass of hair, a white throat, and a
lot of pale chiffon and silk, could he see. And suddenly the cheek
and even neck were flooded with a red blush, and then they looked
whiter than before. He wondered, and smiled bitterly as he did so.

And the girl's eyes remained fixed, eager, fascinated, on the long
looking-glass before her.

But she was not looking at herself.

Afterwards he sought her.

"You were wise," he said mockingly, and her eyes grew dark with pain.

He took the seat beside her and played with the costly fan he had
picked up.

[Illustration: "You were wise," he said, mockingly.]

"I must congratulate you," he said indifferently. "This" - with
a comprehensive wave towards her dress and the diamonds at her
throat - "is better than the old days."


"But perhaps you have forgotten so long as - what is it? - ten - no,
five years ago?"


He furled and unfurled the fan in silence, and wondered who had
given her the Parma violets in her hair.

"Your - book?" she said timidly.

He stared at her blankly.

She reddened slowly.

"You - you - were going to - to travel, and write about it - strange
places - - " she faltered.

"Oh, ah! yes, I believe I was - five years ago."

Her face was white again now.

"You _have_ travelled?" she ventured at last.

"Oh, yes! I've done nothing else for five years. I've shot tigers,
bears - I've lived with Chinamen and negroes - chummed with cannibals
once - oh!" - with a laugh - "I've had a fine time!"

Her eyes were wistful.

Her hostess brought up a man to be introduced, and when she turned
again, the chair was empty.

She did not see him again for two weeks.

There was an added pathos in the beautiful voice.

_La belle Philomèle_ brought tears to many thousands of eyes, but
her own were dry and restless. It was dawning on her that she had
made a mistake - five years ago.

"Seen Hugh Hawksleigh?" she heard one man say to another. "Never
been so disappointed in a chap in my life. Years ago he promised
great things. Those articles of his on 'Foreign Ways and Doings'
made quite a sensation, you know. And there was some talk of wild
travels and a book that was going to be _the_ book of the day. The
travels are all right, but where's the book?"

"The usual thing - a woman," drawled the other. "Didn't you know?
Some pretty coquette - the usual game - but the cost was heavier than
usual - to him. It knocked it out of him, you know. I never saw a
fellow so hard hit. That was five years ago, and he's never written
a line since. Poor fellow!"

The knowledge that she had made a mistake five years ago was growing
plainer to her.

At the end of the fortnight she met him and asked him to come and
see her.

He smiled, and did not come.

Her eyes grew too big for the small, sad face.

She met him again, and asked him why he had not come.

He looked down into the sweet, true eyes, and his love weakened his
will again.

He promised he would come. He came, and stayed five minutes. He
looked at her sternly as he greeted her.

"Why do you want me?" he said, and watched the colour come and go in
her cheeks with pitiless eyes.

"We - used - to be - friends," she whispered.

He laughed.

"Never! I never felt friendship for you," he said, "nor you for
me. You forget. Five years is a long time, but I have a retentive
memory. I forget nothing."

"Nor I," she murmured.

"No? Then why do you ask me to come and see you?"

She did not answer.

He looked round the pretty shaded room.

He laughed again.

"There is a difference," he said, "in you too."

She looked up quickly.

"I am the same," she said, knowing her own heart.

"Are you?" His eyes grew stormy. "Listen," he said, in a low, tense
voice: "I am five years wiser than I was - then. I will not be a tool
again. You have ruined my life - doesn't that content you? I would
have staked my life on your goodness and purity - once. I dare not
believe in any woman since you, with your angel's eyes, are false.
I was full of ambition and hope once; you killed both. I tried to
write - after. I could not. I shall never do anything now - never be
anything. I despise myself, and it's not a nice feeling to live
with. It makes men desperate. I love you still. Do you understand? I
have loved you all the time, and I loathe myself for it." His voice
changed. "You may triumph," he said, "but now you understand - I will
not come again."

She stretched out her arms after him, but he was gone. And she knew
now quite clearly that she had made a mistake five years ago.

For three weeks and a half she did not see him.

Then she saw him when he thought he was alone.

She studied his face with eyes that ached at what they saw. Then she
went forward and touched him gently on his arm.

"Well?" he said.

"Will you come," she said in a low voice, "to see me - - "

"Thanks, no."

His eyes rested bitterly on her rich gown.

It came across him again how wise she had been. Tied to him, she
could not have been as she was now.

"I have something I must say to you," she said tremulously; "will
you come - just this once?"

He looked down into the soft eyes with the beautiful light in them.

"I would rather not," he said gently.

The weariness in his eyes brought a sob to her throat.

"Ah, do!" she entreated; "I will never ask you again."

He looked at her with searching incredulity.

Then he turned away.

Just so had she looked five years ago.

She laid a small, despairing hand on his.

The iciness of it went to his heart.

"I will come," he said gently, and went away.

* * * * *

When he came, he wondered at the agitation in her small white face.

Her eyes were burning.

He waited silently.

She twisted her hands restlessly together, and he saw that she was

He drew a chair forward.

"Won't you sit down?" he said.

She sat down in a nest of softest cushions.

"I - I - - " she began, and put up her hand to her throat, "I want
to - to - to explain."

His face darkened.

She got up restlessly and faced him.

He thought of that time when they had faced each other before - in
the shabby, glaring little room - and his face hardened.

"When you - - " she began; "I thought it was for you - I had heard you
say - - "

"Are you going back five years?" he asked.


"Then would you mind _not_?" he said. "There can be no good in it,
and to me at least it is not a pleasant subject."

"I must!" she burst out. "Oh! cannot you help me? It is so hard!"

She held out her hands pathetically.

A deep colour came into his tanned face, and he stood still, looking
at her strangely.

"I think I will go," he said; "there is no use in prolonging this."

"Do you - love - me still?" she cried suddenly.

He turned on her in a white passion of anger.

"Not content yet?" he breathed. "What are you made of? Do you
want me to show you all my degradation? Why? Oh, Kitty, Kitty, be
merciful! Be true to those eyes of yours - - "

He stopped abruptly and moved over to the door.

"Hugh, I love you!"

It was the veriest whisper, but it stayed his steps, and brought a
great light leaping to his eyes.

The light died down.

"It is too late!" he said, and turned away.

"Hugh, listen - I loved you always - five years ago. It was for your
sake - - "

He turned again.

"Kitty?" he said uncertainly.

She went on bravely, always heroic through her love.

"I was poor - insignificant; you were ambitious - clever. I had heard
your longings after greatness. Hugh, how could you travel into those
wild countries with me? I knew you would give it up, and how could I
bear that? To be a drag, a hindrance to you! And in the coming years
I thought you would regret - - Hugh, you were poor, too, though not
so poor as I. I did it for you - it nearly killed me, Hugh. I was ill
after, but it was for you!"

Her voice died away into silence.

He stood very still, and his face was white and bloodless.

But in his eyes there was a great reverence.

"Forgive me!" he said.

She smiled softly.

"Oh, yes," she said.

The cynicism had gone from his face, and the hardness and bitterness

[Illustration: "Oh, cannot you help me? It is so hard!"]

She looked at him wistfully. He turned away from her eyes and hid
his face in his hands.

"It was a mistake," he said, slowly, dully.


Still she waited.

He looked up, and she strove to read his face in vain.

Sad it was, and set, and yet there was a light there too.

He took her hands gently in his.

"Kathleen," he said earnestly, "God knows what I think of you. I can
work now. Good-bye, dear."

She raised her eyes to his - mystified and anxious.

He answered them, very gently, but with a firmness there was no

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