Musings AND Meditations

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 22, 27 May 1908, Page 2

Musings AND Meditations

By

Dog Toby

THE NEW CANON.

I REMEMBER the excitement caused by the news that a new Canon had been appointed to our Cathedral. I was only a lad, but 1 had heard so much about the appointment that I felt nearly as much interest as my elders. For, sooth to tell, neither the Archdeacons nor the Canons then on the Chapter were brilliant preachers; they belonged to the ■I»1<1 school known as “high and dry,” and the services were at best poorly attended. But the new man had earned a distinguished name as a, preacher before one of the most critical audiences in London, and he was even better known as a man of letters than as a theologian. He was comparatively young, but I noted with astonishment that his hair was perfectly white, and he had the look of a man who had experienced a life sorrow. The great building was crowded t ohear his first sermon, and it was evident that a new power had come among us. He preached on character, and illustrated his meaning by showing how a strong man like Saul was in danger of egoism and jealousy, how a weak man like Coleridge was in danger of irresoluteness and lack of moral principle, and how a brilliant character like Queen Guinevere hankered after warmth and colour. Virtue often shone with a cold, dry light, “but we needs must worship the highest when we see it, not Lancelot nor another.” We had had very orthodox sermons from the other Canons, sermons dealing with the Church and the Trinity and the Athanesian Creed, and the Eutychian and Nestorian and Macedonian heresies. And men had ceased to go to the services, and the women who’ had gone had openly yawned. But this was all very different, and soon it became sill'dost impossible for a late corner to get a seat at all. We all felt that experience as well as intellect lay behind his preaching. The Canon was very kind to me, and seemed especially interested when I told him I was going up to his old College at Cambridge. He gave me much useful advice, and promised me introductions to some of the tutors. He talked often about Charles Lamb, his favourite writer, and Lamb’s devotion to his sister, and the great sacrifice he had made in order to look after her. He touched tenderly, albeit regretfully, on Lamb’s failings, and said that only the few .could really appreciate Lamb’s character. I saw that Lamb’s story must very nearly touch his own. He must have seen that I understood, for he continued:

“When my parents died I was left, in charge of my only sister. She was wot very strong, and I had promised to care for her for the rest of my life’. But as she grew up she became possessed of a most ungovernable temper, coupled with an insane jealousy of myself. I consulted doctors, who pronounced the case one of neurasthenia, and said that unless she could be cured she would make the lives of those around her a little hell upon earth. But they seemed powerless to cure her, and day by day she got steadily worse. It was impossible to keep a servant in the house, no wages would induce them to remain. and even trained attendants quailed before her vitriolic tongue. At last I got a gentlewoman as companion to her, and for a time she

seemed to exercise a restraining influence. 1 felt grateful, and in my loneliness gratitude quickly ripened into love. My whole life seemed changed. I had new ambitions, new hopes, and I found myself rapidly becoming famous. I pictured a future of happiness and prosperity, a life soothed and cheered by what Lowell calls “the fireside sweetnesses, the heavenward lift, the hourly mercy of a woman’s soul.” And then my sister suspected; she grew ahnost insanely jealous, and she visited her wrath on her companion. The poor girl led a most miserable existence; I was powerless to shield her, and she told me one day "with tears in her eyes that she was afarid she could not stay. Her health was breaking down, she started

at the least noise, and my sister’s presence seemed to throw her into a state of abject terror. I wanted to soothe her, to tell her of my love, to ask ’ her to link her life to mine. I knew only too well that she would not refuse. But I felt that this might only be to wreck her life. I could not leave the sister I had promised to protect, and I could not ask the woman 1 loved to expose herself to the fury of my sister’s temper. I never spoke. 1 let her go. But my hair went white the night she left.” Some time, after he had come among us it was reported that the Canon’s health was rapidly failing. His voice grew feebler, fihere seemed an almost pathetic wistfulness in*his sermons, the wistfulness of one who seeks a better country—that is, a heavenly. He told me he feared that next Sunday’s sermon would be his last. How well I remember it. During the anthem, “O for the Wings of a Dove,” I saw a look of most unutterable longing come over his face. He preached on sacrifice, and a solemn awed hush fell on the large congregation as his voice, low, but perfectly clear, told of how men had died to lose. “The greatest sacrifice of all was the sacrifice of Calvary. The sacrifice of One who went out from life and joy, and warmth, to the cold and darkness without, to the judgment hall and to death, that a St. Peter might warm his hands at the fire of coals, for the night was cold.” It was the last time any of us heard his voice. Next Sunday the Dean preached his funeral sermon. He dwelt on the unsullied purity and goodness of the Canon’s life, on his great fame as a man of letters, on his gifts as a preacher. He dwelt especially on the pathos of his last words. * But, as I listened, I felt that I alone really understood. 1