I shall not weary you, my dear Edward, by recounting similar experiences which occurred on nearly every occasion that the young men met in the evenings for music.  The repetition of the phenomenon had accustomed them to expect it.  Both professed to be quite satisfied that it was to be attributed to acoustical affinities of vibration between the wicker-work and certain of the piano wires, and indeed this seemed the only explanation possible.  But, at the same time, the resemblance of the noises to those caused by a person sitting down in or rising from a chair was so marked, that even their frequent recurrence never failed to make a strange impression on them.  They felt a reluctance to mention the matter to their friends, partly from a fear of being themselves laughed at, and partly to spare from ridicule a circumstance to which each perhaps, in spite of himself, attached some degree of importance.  Experience soon convinced them that the first noise as of one sitting down never occurred unless the Gagliarda of the “Areopagita” was played, and that this noise being once heard, the second only followed it when they ceased playing for the evening.  They met every night, sitting later with the lengthening summer evenings, and every night, as by some tacit understanding, played the “Areopagita” suite before parting.  At the opening bars of the Gagliarda the creaking of the chair occurred spontaneously with the utmost regularity.  They seldom spoke even to one another of the subject; but one night, when John was putting away his violin after a long evening’s music without having played the “Areopagita,” Mr. Gaskell, who had risen from the pianoforte, sat down again as by a sudden impulse and said

“Johnnie, do not put away your violin yet.  It is near twelve o’clock and I shall get shut out, but I cannot stop to-night without playing the Gagliarda.  Suppose that all our theories of vibration and affinity are wrong, suppose that there really comes here night by night some strange visitant to hear us, some poor creature whose heart is bound up in that tune; would it not be unkind to send him away without the hearing of that piece which he seems most to relish?  Let us not be ill-mannered, but humour his whim; let us play the Gagliarda.”

They played it with more vigour and precision than usual, and the now customary sound of one taking his seat at once ensued.  It was that night that my brother, looking steadfastly at the chair, saw, or thought he saw, there some slight obscuration, some penumbra, mist, or subtle vapour which, as he gazed, seemed to struggle to take human form.  He ceased playing for a moment and rubbed his eyes, but as he did so all dimness vanished and he saw the chair perfectly empty.  The pianist stopped also at the cessation of the violin, and asked what ailed him.

“It is only that my eyes were dim,” he answered.

“We have had enough for to-night,” said Mr. Gaskell; “let us stop.  I shall be locked out.”  He shut the piano, and as he did so the clock in New College tower struck twelve.  He left the room running, but was late enough at his college door to be reported, admonished with a fine against such late hours, and confined for a week to college; for being out after midnight was considered, at that time at least, a somewhat serious offence.

Thus for some days the musical practice was compulsorily intermitted, but resumed on the first evening after Mr. Gaskell’s term of confinement was expired.  After they had performed several suites of Graziani, and finished as usual with the “Areopagita,” Mr. Gaskell sat for a time silent at the instrument, as though thinking with himself, and then said

“I cannot say how deeply this old-fashioned music affects me.  Some would try to persuade us that these suites, of which the airs bear the names of different dances, were always written rather as a musical essay and for purposes of performance than for persons to dance to, as their names would more naturally imply.  But I think these critics are wrong at least in some instances.  It is to me impossible to believe that such a melody, for instance, as the Giga of Corelli which we have played, was not written for actual purposes of dancing.  One can almost hear the beat of feet upon the floor, and I imagine that in the time of Corelli the practice of dancing, while not a whit inferior in grace, had more of the tripudistic or beating character than is now esteemed consistent with a correct ball-room performance.  The Gagliarda too, which we play now so constantly, possesses a singular power of assisting the imagination to picture or reproduce such scenes as those which it no doubt formerly enlivened.  I know not why, but it is constantly identified in my mind with some revel which I have perhaps seen in a picture, where several couples are dancing a licentious measure in a long room lit by a number of silver sconces of the debased model common at the end of the seventeenth century.  It is probably a reminiscence of my late excursion that gives to these dancers in my fancy the olive skin, dark hair, and bright eyes of the Italian type; and they wear dresses of exceedingly rich fabric and elaborate design.  Imagination is whimsical enough to paint for me the character of the room itself, as having an arcade of arches running down one side alone, of the fantastic and paganised Gothic of the Renaissance.  At the end is a gallery or balcony for the musicians, which on its coved front has a florid coat of arms of foreign heraldry.  The shield bears, on a field or, a cherub’s head blowing on three liliesa blazon I have no doubt seen somewhere in my travels, though I cannot recollect where.  This scene, I say, is so nearly connected in my brain with the Gagliarda, that scarcely are its first notes sounded ere it presents itself to my eyes with a vividness which increases every day.  The couples advance, set, and recede, using free and licentious gestures which my imagination should be ashamed to recall.  Amongst so many foreigners, fancy pictures, I know not in the least why, the presence of a young man of an English type of face, whose features, however, always elude my mind’s attempt to fix them.  I think that the opening subject of this Gagliarda is a superior composition to the rest of it, for it is only during the first sixteen bars that the vision of bygone revelry presents itself to me.  With the last note of the sixteenth bar a veil is drawn suddenly across the scene, and with a sense almost of some catastrophe it vanishes.  This I attribute to the fact that the second subject must be inferior in conception to the first, and by some sense of incongruity destroys the fabric which the fascination of the preceding one built up.”

My brother, though he had listened with interest to what Mr. Gaskell had said, did not reply, and the subject was allowed to drop.