THE SPECTRE MONK OF MESSINA.

Western Star, Issue 987, 3 October 1885, Page 2 (Supplement)

THE SPECTRE MONK OF MESSINA.

In the year 1784 there was a terrible earthquake at Messina. Houses were thrown down, many lives were lost, the very graves were opened. The only thing which escaped was the cathedral, and the people attributed its.safety to a miracle. A few years after this event, the Chevalier ——, a mart of noble French family, one of 'whose brothers was a. distinguished general officer, and the other a minister at Berlin, visited Messina for the purpose of seeing scene of devastation, and of making researches among the monuments and ruins, ■ ' ■ ; He was of the Order ofjjthe Knights of Malta, and a priest; a man of«high character, of cultivated and of great physical courage. p .7 He arrived at. Messina on a Bumpier' day, and getting: the key of the cathedral from the custode—for it was after vespers—commenced copying the inscriptions and examining the building. His researches occupied him so long, that he did not see that the day was Waning; and .when he turned round to go out by the door through which he had come in he found it locked. He tried the other doors, but all were equally closed. The custode, having let him-in some hours before, and concluding he had long since gone away, had locked up the building /and,gone home. The chevalier shouted in vain; the earthquake, had destroyed all the houses in the neighbourhood, and there was no one to hear.his cries. He had, therefore, no alternative but to submit to his fate, and to make up his mind to spend the night,in the cathers dral; - , <-V He looked round for some place to establish himself.' Everything was of marble except the confessionals, and in one of these he esconsod himself in a tolerably . comfortable chair, and tried to go to sleep. /: Sleep, however, was .not so easy; The strangeness of the situation, .the increasing darkness, and; the superstition which ’ the strongest mind might be supposed to feel under the circumstances, effectually banished any feeling of drowsiness. ; There was a' ,large : clock in the tower of the cathedral, of which the tones sounded more . clearly. ■ ; ; and solemnly within the; building than without, The chevalier, with the intensity of hearing which sleeplessness gives, listened to every stroke of the clock. First ten, then the quarters, then eleven, then the quarters again; then twelve o’clock. • „. u .j ; As'the lasjb stroke of midnight died away, he perceived suddenly a light: appearing at the high altar. The altar candles seemed suddenly to be lighted, and a figure in a monk’s, dress . and coyrl emerged from a niche at the back of the altar. . Turning wjxpn he reached the front of the alter, the figure exclaimed in '^^p k iad¥bleiaii' yoiee: : “Is there any. priest her© who vwill say h mas s for the repose of my soul ?’* No answer followed;' and the monk slowly walked down the churchy pass* ing by the confessional where the chevalier was sitting. As he passed, his eyes being'naturally riveted on the figure, the. chevalier saw that the face under the cowl was that of a dead man., 7 ■' ■'•' ■' P: Entire darkness followed; but when the clock struqk the halfrhour the. same: events, occurred j the same. light appeared, and the same figure; the same question was asked, and.no answer returned ; and the same monk, illuminated by the same unearthly light, walked softly down the chhrch., The chevalier, was a bold man; and He resolved, if the same thing, occured again, that he would answer, the question, and say the mass. .As the clock .struck one, the altar was again lighted, the monk again appeared, and when he once more exclaimed, “Is there any Christian ptfest. here, who would,say a mass for the . repose of tey soul ?” the chevalier boldly stepped out of the confessional, and replied in a firm voice i i 1 ■ “ i wiu i";. - , v. He then walked up to the alter, where he found everything prepared for the Celebration, and, summoning up all his courage," celebrated;the sacred rite. At its conclusion, the monk spoke as follows ;! . ■ For one hundred and .forty years every night have Tasked this q uestion, and, until to-night, in vain. You have conferred upon me an inestimable benefit. There is nothing. I would not do if I could for, you in return; but there is only one thing in m/power, and that is to give you notice when: the hour of your own death approaches.” Toe chevalier heard no more. He fell down in a swoon, and was found the next morning by the custode very eqrly at, the. foot of the altar. After a time he recovered and went away. ' , He returned to Yenice, where he was then living, and wrote down the circumstances as above related, which he also told to several of his intimate friends, He steadily asserted and maintained that he was never wider awake; or more completely in possession of his reasoning powers, than he was that night, until tbe moment when the monk haddone. speaking. Three years afterwards, he called ■his friends together, and, took leave of them, They asked him if he WM going qua

He said “ Yes; and one from which there was no return.” , 7^ He then told them that the night before the monk of Messina had appeared to him, and told him that he Was to die in three days. His friends laughed at him, and told him, which' was true, that he seemed perfectly well. But he persisted in his steteinants, made every preparation, and the third day was found dead in his bed.. Thip story was well known to all his. friends and contemporaries. Curious* ' ly enough, on the Cathedral 6f Messina , being restored a few years,after, 1 jthe skeleton of a monk was found, Walled up, in h?s monk’s dress, and cowh and in the very place which the chevalier , bad always described as the’Ohbdfom which'the spectre had emerged. ;': 1 t 1 ' \ ” CHAUCER’S “ CANTERBURY ■:'=v TALES.” - . i ■ The ‘f Canterbury Tales ” ware probably written in the letter yean of the poet’s life. They are a series of stories in verse each completein itself, hut the whole bound together,hi-a. fiction such as many writers, ancient and modern have employed as; a , species of framework. Chaucer.;hujkposes himself (as doubtless. Ho i l|ad, been in reality) one of a company of pilgrims journeying from London ito Canterbury, that they may payftheir ■. devotions at the shrine of Thoihssf ; a Beoket They start from the Tabjitd " Inn, in-the High Street of Southwark --a hostelry which was , s tendjmgiuhtil; a few years ago, and which: atteaetdd as many visitors as Shakespeafe’s house at Stratford-on-Af on. Whether any poftiph of the original stfuctiiire lasted into our time has by some bean doubtedjbut thecrambHngoldteyernor rather the range of buildings at the back and 1 side of the innyafd was undoubtedly ancient, and had; a singularly venerable and interesting appear-, ance. At Canterbury, also, ithere .are houses which look, as if, theymight hay© existed in the days of Richard 11. But hoyrever this may be, one thing xs ; - certain—that the continuity of Engli sh life and Character has remained; unbroken from the days of ; Chaucer to our own. The personages described itu v the Introduction to the “ Canterbury Tales'” are unmistakable people. All the principal occupations \ of medimyal life—military, eaclosunjtical, learned, and industrial—we represented in the company winch set out from Southwaak on. that April: mornings When sitting {its upper at the Tabarithe night betorfi ; their, ; departure, >the .pfigrims receivei a pK)~posjd: by the host to the effect that; a» they fide to Canterbury, slowly ; am* : blihg on their horses* mules, and pah;. freys, they shall entertain qne aaqthe!? by telling, tales, apd agam jthdli* • return to London, and that wfip tells the, best:story shall have a sippef ■ at the, cost, .of aU the first narrative, and, on the ,wholb/dh<ii finest,is,the.knight’s ;tele. TfisMthif .sfcory, of Palamoir . and Arcite*' « romance of love and chivalry, offrhich the characters and theecehe belong tci ancient Greece, while the manners are ii mainly 'those of poem might stand by itself as i work of no inconsiderable length, tipoe’ it consists 0f2250 yerses.' It Is fplbdM; on the much ;lpnger ; prbdudtMr’bf : Boccaccio, called the sens' being one of the is the same story whidi> l fiaf;; ;} told by Shakespeare and the play of Noble KinSaleiA’’^ 1 ' OusseU’s Fop.dar Educator\ . ~ • " - ' ' 1 ’■ f 1 ■» • THE SEOBET OF SUCCESS^ , ‘ What is yoiir secret of asked a lady of Turner, the distinguish- 1 ' ed painter. He rephed, ‘ I have no secret, madam, but hard work,* ; , Says Dr, Arnold* between one, boy and another is: not so - much in talent as in energy,’ J , '* Notßing,* says well-directed labour, and nothing Is to;; be .without it’ * Excellence in any department/ says i Johnson, ‘ can now be obtained only by 5 the labour of a lifetime j it is’uot to be : purchased at lesser price.’ ■. * There is ; but one method,’; said: Sidney Smith, ‘and that is and a man who will not pay .that price for distinction, had better dedicate himself;tp ;t.be pursuit of a fox.’ r, . ‘Step by. step,’ reads the French , proverb, ‘ One goes very far.’ ;J . ‘ Nothing,’ ssys Mirabeauj *is impossible to the man who can Will. “ Is that necessary ?” “ That shaH be.” This is, the only law of success.’ i? ‘Have you ever entered a cottage, ever travelled in a coach, ever talked with a peasant in the field, or loitered - with the mechanic at the loom,’ says Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, ‘and hot found that each of those men had a. talent you had not, knew sombthihg; you knew not ?’ • - v ; The most useless creature that ever' . yawned at a club, or counted tlie vermin bn his rags under the sun Of Calabra, has no excuse for want of intellect. What mon want vis ,: abfe talent, it is purpose; in other words, not the poWer to achieve, but the ; will to labour. lam nobelieverin genius, but I believe that labour, judiciously and continuously applied, becomes genius: ' • - v