The conservatory opened into the dining-room, and there we found a table and chairs, and tea ready. “It’s from my nephew, Percy,” Chaunters said, waving the letter. “He is mad on music, and architecture, and is making a tour of the southern cathedrals this autumn; among others he has taken Sudchester, and I gave him an introduction to the organist.” “What, old Thingumy in E flat?” “Pedler? No: he has been dead some years: it’s that queer fellow Trackers; wrote a cantata called Boanerges, don’t you know? They had it at Birmingham, or Leeds, or somewhere last time. Here is the letter: “He begins, like most travellers, with the hotel: ‘Why do all Cathedral towns have an hotel that was forgotten in the Reformation? Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer used to lie here, and the place has not been done up since. The fish they gave me for dinner yesterday was bought for Cranmer’s dinner one Friday, and he wouldn’t have it because it wasn’t fresh. The head waiter used to be Ridley’s page, and he has the episcopal scorn for a layman. The chamber-maid was a buxom lass in Latimer’s time; she has lost the bloom of her youth, but retains her sixteenth century domestic methods;’ and so on; you know he is young, and out for a holiday. “Then he gets to the flying buttresses and the Norman arches, but you are in a hurry: this is what I thought you would have time for: “‘I was just in time for afternoon service, and I took your letter with me and told the verger I wanted to speak to the organist, to whom I had a letter of introduction.’ “‘Dr. Trackers, sir? certainly,’ said the official with official patronage; ‘never heard the Doctor play? then you’ll ’ave a treat: hevery one says so; perhaps he’ll give you a bit with his new stop, “nux vomica,” they call it; but _I_ think it sounds like a choir of hangels playing on a comb’ (’hïngels plyin hon a ca-omb’--in the original). I hadn’t time to digest this graphic description of the Vox Humana before T. arrived, and accepted my note: ‘What, the old Precentor?’ he said, ‘come up to the organ-loft;’ and I went.” (“We may skip a good deal here about the organ, and its stops, and pneumatic machinery--did I ever tell you about Old Dick the blower?--and come to the music.” “_Cut the cackle and come to the ’osses_,” I murmured to myself.)