The Corner of Harley Street: Being Some Familiar Correspondence of Peter Harding, M.D.Bashford, H. H. (Henry Howarth), Sir
General
The Corner of Harley Street: Being Some Familiar Correspondence of Peter Harding, M.D.
Bashford, H. H. (Henry Howarth), Sir
England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Epistolary fiction; Physicians -- Fiction
He preached upon the value of communicating before breakfast; and, as
far as I could see, his remarks upon the subject were received,
especially by the male portion of his congregation, with the same kind
of curious, impassive gusto that had been noticeable in their delivery
of the responses and the hymns. I remember a verse of one of these, and
am quoting it exactly:
Whatever, Lord, we lend to Thee
Repaid a thousandfold will be;
_Then_ gladly will we give to Thee,
Who givest all.
Could they have known what they were singing? Had their vicar read these
lines before he gave them out? Let us hope not.
But, as I said, it was the stained-glass window that dominated me, and
seemed to contain in itself an epitome--yet not quite that, perhaps--of
sermon and service and hymn, and the system that had made their survival
possible in twentieth-century England. And yet, let me first put down
that through it came light, real if distorted, and distilled, but how
faintly, from the true arch of the outside heaven. And let me not forget
this as I go on to remember its eight divisions, containing each a
worshipping and apparently musical young woman, arrayed as no being has
ever been arrayed, and regarding with upturned eyes--well, fortunately
the artist had stopped short there, though merely, one fears, from want
of space. I have called these maidens musical for the rather inadequate
reason that in the hands of each were instruments by and through which
sounds might conceivably be produced. But at the nature of these one
could, alas, guess only too readily. Even in the grasp of experts one
would have been justly dubious about the capabilities of those
two-stringed violins, that one-keyed portable organ, those twin-trumpets
with a common mouthpiece. And imagination reeled before their combined
contemplation in the hands of these anæmic and self-evident amateurs.
Nor could one turn from the subject, and find consolation in its colour
or history. The window was not forty years old, and the colour was but
a ghost of what colour might be.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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