Music will prove a ladder to the loftier regions of thought; indeed I
have long found for myself that I cannot attain to the highest range of
my intellectual power except when hearing good music. All poets, and
most writers of prose, will say that their thought is never so exalted,
their sense of beauty and proportion never so just, as when they are
listening either to the artificial music made by man, or to some of the
grander tones of nature, such as the roar of a western ocean, or the
sighing of wind in a clump of firs. Though I have often felt on such
occasions on the very verge of some high mental discovery, and though
a hand has been stretched forward as it were to rend the veil, yet it
has never been vouchsafed me to see behind it. This you no doubt were
allowed in a measure to do last night. You probably played the music
with a deeper intuition than usual, and this, combined with the
excitement under which you were already labouring, raised you for a
moment to the required pitch of mental exaltation." "It is true," John said, "that I never felt the melody so deeply as when
I played it last night." "Just so," answered his friend; "and there is probably some link between
this air and the history of the man whom you saw last night; some fatal
power in it which enables it to exert an attraction on him even after
death. For we must remember that the influence of music, though always
powerful, is not always for good. We can scarcely doubt that as certain
forms of music tend to raise us above the sensuality of the animal, or
the more degrading passion of material gain, and to transport us into
the ether of higher thought, so other forms are directly calculated to
awaken in us luxurious emotions, and to whet those sensual appetites
which it is the business of a philosopher not indeed to annihilate or to
be ashamed of, but to keep rigidly in check. This possibility of music
to effect evil as well as good I have seen recognised, and very aptly
expressed in some beautiful verses by Mr. Keble which I have just
read:--

  "'Cease, stranger, cease those witching notes,
      The art of syren choirs;
    Hush the seductive voice that floats
      Across the trembling wires. "'Music's ethereal power was given
      Not to dissolve our clay,
    But draw Promethean beams from heaven
      To purge the dross away.'" "They are fine lines," said my brother, "but I do not see how you apply
your argument to the present instance." "I mean," Mr. Gaskell answered, "that I have little doubt that the
melody of this _Gagliarda_ has been connected in some manner with the
life of the man you saw last night. It is not unlikely, either, that it
was a favourite air of his whilst in the flesh, or even that it was
played by himself or others at the moment of some crisis in his history. It is possible that such connection may be due merely to the innocent
pleasure the melody gave him in life; but the nature of the music
itself, and a peculiar effect it has upon my own thoughts, induce me to
believe that it was associated with some occasion when he either fell
into great sin or when some evil fate, perhaps even death itself,
overtook him. You will remember I have told you that this air calls up
to my mind a certain scene of Italian revelry in which an Englishman
takes part. It is true that I have never been able to fix his features
in my mind, nor even to say exactly how he was dressed. Yet now some
instinct tells me that it is this very man whom you saw last night. It
is not for us to attempt to pierce the mystery which veils from our eyes
the secrets of an after-death existence; but I can scarcely suppose that
a spirit entirely at rest would feel so deeply the power of a certain
melody as to be called back by it to his old haunts like a dog by his
master's whistle. It is more probable that there is some evil history
connected with the matter, and this, I think, we ought to consider if it
be possible to unravel." My brother assenting, he continued, "When this man left you, Johnnie,
did he walk to the door?" "No; he made for the side wall, and when he reached the end of the
bookcase I lost sight of him." Mr. Gaskell went to the bookcase and looked for a moment at the titles
of the books, as though expecting to see something in them to assist
his inquiries; but finding apparently no clue, he said--

"This is the last time we shall meet for three months or more; let us
play the _Gagliarda_ and see if there be any response." My brother at first would not hear of this, showing a lively dread of
challenging any reappearance of the figure he had seen: indeed he felt
that such an event would probably fling him into a state of serious
physical disorder. Mr. Gaskell, however, continued to press him,
assuring him that the fact of his now being no longer alone should
largely allay any fear on his part, and urging that this would be the
last opportunity they would have of playing together for some months. At last, being overborne, my brother took his violin, and Mr. Gaskell
seated himself at the pianoforte. John was very agitated, and as he
commenced the _Gagliarda_ his hands trembled so that he could scarcely
play the air. Mr. Gaskell also exhibited some nervousness, not
performing with his customary correctness. But for the first time the
charm failed: no noise accompanied the music, nor did anything of an
unusual character occur. They repeated the whole suite, but with a
similar result. Both were surprised, but neither, had any explanation to offer. My
brother, who at first dreaded intensely a repetition of the vision, was
now almost disappointed that nothing had occurred; so quickly does the
mood of man change. After some further conversation the young men parted for the Long
Vacation--John returning to Worth Maltravers and Mr. Gaskell going to
London, where he was to pass a few days before he proceeded to his home
in Westmorland. CHAPTER V


John spent nearly the whole of this summer vacation at Worth Maltravers. He had been anxious to pay a visit to Royston; but the continued and
serious illness of Mrs. Temple's sister had called her and Constance to
Scotland, where they remained until the death of their relative allowed
them to return to Derbyshire in the late autumn. John and I had been
brought up together from childhood. When he was at Eton we had always
spent the holidays at Worth, and after my dear mother's death, when we
were left quite alone, the bonds of our love were naturally drawn still
closer. Even after my brother went to Oxford, at a time when most young
men are anxious to enjoy a new-found liberty, and to travel or to visit
friends in their vacation, John's ardent affection for me and for Worth
Maltravers kept him at home; and he was pleased on most occasions to
make me the partner of his thoughts and of his pleasures. This long
vacation of 1842 was, I think, the happiest of our lives.