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,

affords 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 Flacus,

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 disguised 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

katechon],' 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 connexion 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 archaeological 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. 30th 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 L25 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 L40 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 tonight. 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 tonight. 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 today. 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 woodyard, 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. Anno 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.'





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