When his servant called him about eight o’clock my brother sent a note to Mr. Gaskell at New College, begging him to come round to Magdalen Hall as soon as might be in the course of the morning.  His summons was at once obeyed, and Mr. Gaskell was with him before he had finished breakfast.  My brother was still much agitated, and at once told him what had happened the night before, detailing the various circumstances with minuteness, and not even concealing from him the sentiments which he entertained towards Miss Constance Temple.  In narrating the appearance which he had seen in the chair, his agitation was still so excessive that he had difficulty in controlling his voice.

Mr. Gaskell heard him with much attention, and did not at once reply when John had finished his narration.  At length he said, “I suppose many friends would think it right to affect, even if they did not feel, an incredulity as to what you have just told me.  They might consider it more prudent to attempt to allay your distress by persuading you that what you have seen has no objective reality, but is merely the phantasm of an excited imagination; that if you had not been in love, had not sat up all night, and had not thus overtaxed your physical powers, you would have seen no vision.  I shall not argue thus, for I am as certainly convinced as of the fact that we sit here, that on all the nights when we have played this suite called the ‘Areopagita,’ there has been some one listening to us, and that you have at length been fortunate or unfortunate enough to see him.”

“Do not say fortunate,” said my brother; “for I feel as though I shall never recover from last night’s shock.”

“That is likely enough,” Mr. Gaskell answered, coolly; “for as in the history of the race or individual, increased culture and a finer mental susceptibility necessarily impair the brute courage and powers of endurance which we note in savages, so any supernatural vision such as you have seen must be purchased at the cost of physical reaction.  From the first evening that we played this music, and heard the noises mimicking so closely the sitting down and rising up of some person, I have felt convinced that causes other than those which we usually call natural were at work, and that we were very near the manifestation of some extraordinary phenomenon.”

“I do not quite apprehend your meaning.”

“I mean this,” he continued, “that this man or spirit of a man has been sitting here night after night, and that we have not been able to see him, because our minds are dull and obtuse.  Last night the elevating force of a strong passion, such as that which you have confided to me, combined with the power of fine music, so exalted your mind that you became endowed, as it were, with a sixth sense, and suddenly were enabled to see that which had previously been invisible.  To this sixth sense music gives, I believe, the key.  We are at present only on the threshold of such a knowledge of that art as will enable us to use it eventually as the greatest of all humanising and educational agents.  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 VacationJohn 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.