Told in California
Originally published in St. James's Magazine (W. Kent) vol.3 #3 (Feb 1862).
Far, far away from the shores of merry old England, I, Arthur Helsingham, sat before the door of that elegant, commodious, and otherwise desirable messuage or tenement, my own Log-house, in California. It was Sunday evening; but I had not been to church, simply because there was no church to go to; and if any kind philanthropist had benevolently sent us one of those iron churches, so useful and so justly appreciated in that wild El Dorado of the nineteenth century, I am sure that nothing short of a miracle could have produced anything like a congregation, since, stretching the limits of our possible parish, to the furthest degree, there would have been found only five human parishioners: and of these but three were good churchmen viz., myself; an English youth named Paul Bradburn, who lived higher up the mountains, in one of the gorges; and another person whom it is unnecessary to specify, as he does not appear at all in the course of my story. Of the other two whom parochial legislation might have adopted, one was an austere Roman Catholic, an old Spanish woman, called Dolores—I do not know whether she had any other name; and the other an American, a most rigid and entirely uncompromising Nonconformist!
Nevertheless, I had had my own service after my usual fashion. Nature had provided me with a cathedral of wondrous extent and magnificence. The spot which I had chosen for my sanctuary, and where every Sunday I read in solitude the Service of my Church, was a nearly circular glade or opening, in the depths of a magnificent forest. Mosses—crimson, green, olive and amber: lycopodiums of loveliest emerald hue, and rich with their own peculiar glaucus-like bloom; flowers of exquisite beauty and of purest fragrance, served me instead of a tessellated pavement. All around, like airy pinnacles and graceful shafts, shot up the tall pines and arrowy cypresses, and my dome was the deep azure concave of the great sky. And from this central space diverged five long shadowy aisles, with here and there the golden-green light falling through the thickly-woven branches of the giant trees, and casting into deeper gloom the solemn, silent shades, where ray of sun, or moon, or star might never penetrate. Never was minster-aisle more awfully grand, more thrillingly beautiful.
"Mighty shades,
Weaving their gorgeous tracery o'er my head,
With the light melting through their high arcades
As through a pillar'd cloisters. But the dead
Slept not beneath, nor did the sunbeam pass
To marble shrines through rainbow-tinted glass;
Yet I—by fount and forest murmur led
To worship—I, was blest! To me was shown
Earth in her holy pomp, decked for her God alone."
Well; so much for my Californian Cathedral, where I was at once—and alone—priest, and chorister, and worshipper! Then I sat near my own threshold, and I was thinking—as one very far from the beloved land of his birth and his kindred is prone to think, in the gorgeous sunset of a quiet Sunday evening! The valley in which I had made my home was 2,500 feet above the level of the Pacific; it was nearly two miles in length, and of nearly the same width; and it was belted almost continuously with groves of the black oak and the yellow or pitch pine. To the south was a hill of comparative insignificance, but impenetrably wooded; on the west were lofty snow-crowned peaks, wearing at that sunset hour dazzling coronals of flaming gold—monarchs of the mighty Cordillera chain; and on the east, sheer up from my quiet green valley, rose a dark scarred precipice of at least 2,000 feet, and beyond that was the white spectral brow of a long-extinct volcano. To the north was the forest, which enclosed the verdurous aisles and transepts of my vast cathedral!
Higher up the spurs of the mountains, and above the oaks and pines that skirted the vale, were forests of the sugar-pine, and hoary, monstrous cedars, their huge limbs covered and curtained with moss; and it is in this belt that the groves of "Big Trees" occur. There are as yet, I believe, but three of the groves discovered—one in Calavaras County, one in my own neighbourhood, and one in Fresno County. These sylvan monsters are, many of them, larger than the one whose bark was stripped off and sent to England for exhibition in the Sydenham Palace; and there are few, if any of them, of an altitude less than three hundred feet. Competent botanists pronounce them over three thousand years old. But, oh! confusion seize the Vandal who conferred upon these patriarchal giants of a primeval world the hideous name of "Wellingtonia Gigantea!" But all this has nothing to do with the singular story I am about to relate. Gradually, as I mused upon things past and present, I found myself recalling, with mingled pleasure and sadness, a circumstance that occurred just before I quitted England for the Western world. It was the close of the Birmingham Musical Festival, which all the world knows is held triennially, and generally, if I mistake not, in the last week of August, or the first week of September. The date of the year was 1846. It was the evening of an unusually hot and brilliant day. That morning and the preceding evening I had spent in the Town Hall, listening to strains so glorious, so instinct with immortal melody, that till the day of death I shall remember with wonder and exultation those hours of rapt and awed delight! Nay, more: I believe they will not be forgotten in the other world!
I had heard Mendelssohn performing on the powerful organ—of which Birmingham is so intensely and so justly proud; and it seemed to me as if the glad instrument rang out joyfully to the touch of the mighty master. I heard him play the "Sanctus," from Beethoven's "Mass in C;" the "Hallelujah Chorus" (Handel); and the "Death Chant," from the opera of "Lucrezia Borgia." The manner in which he brought in the great opheiclide stop, then, if not now, unequalled in any organ in the world, was unanimously granted to be beyond all previous conception, and beyond all praise. And it is of this same gifted Mendelssohn that my strange tale comes.
I was returning from the swimming-baths in the lower part of the town; and, beguiled by the extraordinary beauty of the evening, I felt unwilling to return home. About half-past eight I reached the piazzas of the Town Hall, where a Grand Dress Ball was about to commence—the said ball being the rather incongruous finale of the programme of the Festival. The piazzas were crowded with people of all ranks and all ages, and, as a certain Milesian sagely remarked, of all sexes; they were striving to catch glimpses of the splendour in which they were not permitted to share. But I had already seen finery enough in the shop windows to satisfy me for the whole term of my natural life; and, after the classic music of the Oratorios and the Operas, I shuddered at the idea of the "Caledonians" or the "Redowa Polka," though sustained by the finest band in Christendom; and not caring to mix myself up with this omnium gatherum of sightseers and policemen, I crossed the road, where the Peel statue now stands, and took up my position on the lower steps of that sacred building of unmitigated ugliness and bad taste, commonly known as Christ Church, or the Free Church of Birmingham.
Ignoring the heavy portico, the sturdy steeple, and the warehouse-like windows of the highly-respectable building behind me, I fixed my regards on the fagade of the Town Hall, silvered as it was by the soft, clear rays of the brilliant full moon. I thought then that this English Parthenon needed only completion to render it the most beautiful secular modern building in the world. I think so still, though I have seen, since those days, the Gerard College of Philadelphia, U.S., built of dazzling white marble. Long I lingered, gazing on the grey mass, as it rose against a serene and mellow sky, with its long rows of pillars, thin fluted shafts, and beauteous capitals. I marvelled to find so much beauty in the very heart of a busy, smoky, manufacturing town!
At length, roused by the striking of Christ Church clock, I ran down to the bottom of the church area; and thence, stepping upon the side-walk, I encountered a small man, wrapped in a heavy cloak—curiously heavy for the time of the year and for such an evening—who ran tilt up against me, and would inevitably have had a serious fall had I not caught him in my arms. He thanked me profusely, in fair English, but with an unmistakable Teutonic accent; and he and I walked together down New Street, to the Hen and Chickens Hotel, where he came to a halt, and where, as I had already gone out of my way and must retrace my steps, I also paused to bid him good night. But he would not part with me so quickly. "We must pledge each other in a cup of wine," he said, "before we make our farewells." And entering the hotel, he called for "Johannisberger," that liquor of good repute, from Prince Metternich's own gardens on the kingly Rhine! We drank standing, in a dimly-lighted room; I wondering almost painfully who my host might be, and haunted all the while with a dim recollection of having seen his face before. That he was no common man I was well aware—his first words had impressed me with reverence and admiration.
We were exchanging adieus under the well-known portico of the hotel, when the moon, which had been obscured behind a silvery cloud from the moment of our meeting, suddenly emerged into the pure ether, and shone out with redoubled brilliancy and power. I knew him then! I knew my host. I knew that glorious Oriental head! It was Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, the great composer, the master-genius of the nineteenth century!
While these reminiscences passed through my mind, I seemed to see once more the noble Hall—the busy streets of the thronged town; and, above all, in the fair and mellow moonlight, the pale, clear-cut face of the mighty master! all so far removed from me now by time and by space—even by the shadows of the tomb—and so distinct from the blackening forests that stretched around my lonely home—from the dim mountain-passes and the snowy peaks of the stupendous Cordilleras.
The twilight had fallen, and the stars were shedding their soft, lustrous splendour over the lonely world. One planet burned large and red over the awful brow of the ,precipice. Two voices broke the stillness of the hour: the deep, low murmur of the woods, and the booming sound of the cataract. I was going in to light my lamp, when I heard my name spoken. It was the American before referred to; and he had been absent all day nursing a sick friend, high up in one of the passes that diverged from the valley where I lived.
"Are you tired, Mr. Helsingham?" inquired my companion, before I could accost him.
"Not at all! Why do you ask?"
"Why, you are wanted up yonder," pointing in the direction whence he had come. "That poor fellow there is dying; he's fixed to go off before morning, you'll see; and he seems to fancy your company considerable. He says you're his countryman, and you must close his eyes, and say something to him at the last, that will make him think of the old country. I told him I'd go and fetch you right away!"
"I'll come this minute," I replied. "The starlight is clear enough for anything, even if we did not know the paths, as we do, Just wait till I get my rifle."
In three minutes we were on our way; and after an hour and a half's hard walking, we reached our destination—a lovely plateau, nearly 2,000 feet higher than the elevation from which we had started. Our sick friend was listening for us: he was tended only by the ancient female Spaniard, Dolores, who was earnestly imploring him to abjure his heretical tenets ere it was too late. To my unpractised eye—for I had never before seen a death of slow decay—he seemed better; his voice was clearer, and his clasp less feeble. I did not know that the lamp of mortal life sometimes burns most brilliantly just ere it is extinguished, I thought he might linger yet for some time; but I was wrong—the days of Paul Bradburn's exile were over! And from his lips—the lips of a man who knew he had reached the confines of Time, and who was looking calmly and trustfully into the great Eternity—I heard the story, which I desire to relate simply and faithfully, as it was confided to me by my dying friend, in that most solemn hour.
The American, and Dolores, had withdrawn, leaving me to the night-watch. First of all, he desired me to write certain letters to certain people, after his decease, and to forward certain papers and properties to his friends in England. Also, he requested me to bury him under the shade of a certain cedar, in a little valley close by, and to read over his remains the Burial Service of the English Church.
All this being settled and agreed upon, I besought him to sleep; but instead of composing himself, he went on talking quietly and affectionately of his kindred on the other side of the Atlantic, whom he might meet no more, till they should clasp hands in the spirit world! He spoke too of his boyhood—of London Streets—of the pleasant Temple Gardens, and the ancient Temple Church, of which his father had been one of the vergers.
Of that venerable sanctuary he said much, and seemed to dwell on the subject with a lingering, wistful tenderness, as if every stone of the stately old pile were associated with the story of his young life. At length he said suddenly—"Helsingham, did you ever see Mendelssohn?"
I started, and replied that I had. The inquiry moved me strangely;—perhaps because my last thoughts, apart from my dying friend, had been concentred on the memory of our brief intercourse fourteen years ago in the busy Birmingham streets!
"Did you ever see him—ever speak with him?" I inquired in my turn.
A strange expression came over his wasted features, as he answered in low, distinct, solemn tones, "Ay! that I have! And with him, what did I not see? It was strange—an awful mystery! But I shall soon know all about it!"
"What mystery?—What shall you know?—What did you see?" I asked, half awed, and half wondering, at his singular tone and look.
"Listen," he replied, "and I will tell you. I have never disclosed it before; I could not bear to narrate the facts that I will now no longer conceal from you, lest my story should meet with incredulity or ridicule. But you will not doubt me, and you will not tell me I dreamed; oh, no!—it was true and real; no fancy, no overwrought phantom of a fevered brain! I can see them now as I saw them then, long, long ago, when I was a youth—a mere lad of nineteen!"
"See them now?" I said, looking involuntarily round.
"Only with my mind's eye," he returned. "My fast failing vision discerns only these familiar walls and your kind English face! But listen! You know that my father was a verger of the Temple Church; and it is widely known that the organ of that church is an instrument of singular power, and sweetness, and capability. And it was Mendelssohn's great delight to play upon it; he saying frequently, in my hearing, that it was the most musical and richest toned organ in Europe!
"One afternoon my father being too sick to attend to his duties, I was expected to take his place; I had often done so before, and I knew every nook and cranny of the great church as well as I know my poor little log-house here, where I have lived these three years, and where I am now spending the last hours of my life! The afternoon service was over, and Mendelssohn, who had strolled in at the prayer of St. Chrysostom, went up into the organ-loft and began playing. The Vicars-Choral gave orders that he should not be disturbed; and, as my father was the person then responsible for the keys, I remained to close the doors when Mendelssohn should choose to take his departure. I sat a long time, till it grew quite dark; and then feeling rather dreary, all alone in the body of the huge old church, I thought I would go up to Mendelssohn. Besides, I was curious to know how he managed to play in the dark, and I half suspected he must have a private taper of his own. Even as I ascended the gallery stairs, it struck me that I was listening to the most extraordinary and glorious music that mortal ears ever heard!
Often the midnight wind in the pine forests here has made me think of the floods of sound that rolled through the arches of that dark, lonely church, in that never-to-be-forgotten hour! As I went higher the chords rang out fuller and deeper, blended with such celestial harmony as might befit the choruses of Heaven, and when I reached the organ-loft there was Mendelssohn—I could just trace the outline of his figure—playing away in the darkness, like one inspired! Moreover, he rejected my offer of bringing him lights: he went on, and the music swelled in great waves of melody—higher and louder, and grander!—till I wondered whether he were mortal man, or an archangel from the choirs above.
"Suddenly, as I stood close by the mighty musician, I became aware of a dusky, yellow light, pervading the church—or I think, at first, only a part of the church; and looking down in my surprise I saw—nay, don't tell me I thought I saw—I did see—a double line of men drawn up in solid column, each one clad in a long white cloak or mantle, and each one with a heavy red cross on his breast. Starting at so strange and unaccountable a sight, I rushed back to the key-board, which I had left for the moment, and seizing Mendelsshon unceremoniously by the arm, I called his attention to the ghostly procession in the body of the church. To my surprise, and not at all to my comfort, Felix, leaving the organ, drew me to the front of the gallery, or loft, and gazing down upon the multitude that now seemed to throng the aisles of the ancient fane, said, 'Ay, I know them! I have seen them before. They are the Crusaders, the men who fought and died for the tomb of our dear dead and risen Lord!' (Mendelssohn, you know, lived and died in the Christian faith.) 'And there is nothing strange in what we now see. It is not strange that the old defenders of Jerusalem should rise from their quiet sleep when the last of the Royal House of David makes the church ring and echo, as if the son of Jesse, even in our day, laid the evil spirit that troubled Saul.'
"And then, for a minute or more, Felix was quiet; while all the time the yellow light increased, and the thick dusky crowd in the body of the church grew larger and larger; till at length, emerging from the mass, there stepped forward a man of gigantic height, with a noble mien, and an immense dark flowing beard. Then the voice of Mendelssohn rang out—'Godfrey of Bouillon! stormer of Ascalon, first on the walls of Jerusalem, what do you here? You are no Templar!'
"I saw no more, and I heard no more; but half an hour afterwards, when I awoke from a swoon, Mendelssohn was throwing water on my head and face, and there was no light in the vast church, save that which the glimmering of his candle afforded. He knew the ways of the place, and he had found both taper and water for my benefit. As soon as full consciousness returned, I remembered all that had taken place; and shudderingly, I appealed to my companion to assure me that the spectral army no longer occupied the body of the church, through which we must necessarily pass on our way to the outer world. He replied, that there was no one now in the church save ourselves; and he advised me to be silent as to what I had witnessed. I replied, that I would never mention it to any one: and he thanked me with that singular urbanity which was so peculiarly one of his characteristics; concluding with—'at least, not during my life,—afterwards it will not matter; and very soon --' He broke off abruptly, and I concluded that he anticipated his own speedy demise.
"We spoke further on the subject; but as I cannot pretend now faithfully to record our conversation, and as I desire to omit nothing and to exaggerate nothing, I will not try to repeat it. After a while we closed the organ and went down stairs. I tried to be calm and brave; but my limbs trembled, my heart. palpitated, and my whole body was bathed in a chilly sweat, as we passed along, arm in arm, through the very aisles where the ghostly columns had been, erewhile, drawn up. I was glad when the key was turned in the outer door; and I took care never again to be left alone in the ancient church of the Templars. The noise of the streets, the gaslights, and the fresh evening breeze, revived me; and soon Mendelssohn and I parted, never to meet again on earth. He went his way, and I went mine; he to die in his own beloved Vater land, and I—But you know my story, Helsingham—I came here to these gorgeous wilds to find my last resting-place beneath the cedars. Well; no matter! it will be all one at the great rising day—all one—cathedral cloisters, depths of the sea, village churchyard, or Californian solitudes."
When the sun shone full and red on the icy peaks of the eastern mountains, Paul Bradburn was dead! English hands closed his eyes—English hands laid him in his quiet, solitary grave! I should have liked to bury him in the green cloisters of my forest-cathedral, but he had chosen the cedar-shade; and there I laid the turfs on his breast, after reading over his uncoffined remains the Burial Service of the English Church.
And now, I have nothing further to add. I have related the facts exactly as I received them from the lips of my dying friend—"I tell the tale as 'twas told to me"—confessing, however, most fully and unreservedly, that I believe every word of the whole marvellous story, feeling positive, in my own mind, that Paul Bradburn was neither deceiving, nor deceived; neither under any illusion, nor seeking to delude others; but speaking, in that most solemn hour, the hour of death, the simple, unvarnished and unmitigated truth. Any attempt of mine to convince the readers of this Magazine of the veracity of Paul Bradburn's story would be, I am aware, equally futile and out of place. I hold my own opinion, and I leave it to them to form theirs.
Had Paul Bradburn wished to invent a supernatural romance, or had I desired to round off my story to a thrilling climax, it would have been easy to carry on the tale to a far higher pitch, instead of closing it thus succinctly and abruptly. I have nothing more to say.