CHAPTER VI.

_Mr. De Lancaster proposes to revive certain ancient Modes of curing Diseases._

A project had been conceived by Mr. De Lancaster for calling together an assembly of the chief neighbouring minstrels on Saint Cecilia’s day, in which he had the double purpose of patronizing that ancient British instrument, which he had so much at heart, and at the same time paying a side-way compliment to his daughter, named after that harmonious saint.

Great preparations were now going forward for celebrating that musical festival (which was a kind of revival of the ancient eisteddfods) with becoming splendour. Invitations had been circulated to all the neighbouring gentry; notices were dispersed over the country for assembling the most celebrated harpers, and David Williams was warmly engaged in making daily libations of metheglin to propitiate his muse for that grand occasion.

The castle hall in the mean time resounded with the hammers of the workmen, employed in erecting a stage for the minstrels, and in fitting up seats and benches for the company. The banners were overhauled, taken down and cleaned, and a great display of these and warlike weapons was disposed in groups and trophies under the direction of Colonel Wilson. Cecilia’s province was to superintend supplies, and adapt the several entertainments to the several degrees of guests, to whom they were allotted.

Philip De Lancaster still maintained his natural tranquillity, though from some cause, or it might be from none, he had abated of the frequency of his visits to the abbey. He gave himself however no trouble in a business perfectly indifferent to him: the utmost stretch of his exertions went no further than to the making of an artificial fly for angling in a stream, where there were no trout, and Wilson had but little time to spare for chess. Two qualifications Philip had to boast of; the one was that of being an excellent and unwearied hearer, so long as any other person would take the trouble of talking; the other, that of an everlasting sleeper, provided nobody would put him to the trouble of waking. Between these two happy properties he could dispose both of day and of night passably well.

His lady in the meanwhile contrived to fill up her hours with sighs and groans, which were echoed back to her in groans and sighs by sympathizing Betty. Cecilia visited her at leisure times; her son occasionally, when called for, and her husband by her desire very rarely, and of his own accord never. Llewellyn was in regular attendance and full confidence; he pronounced her case to be atrabilious and hypochondriac in an extreme degree, and as there could be no doubt of his being right in deciding on the nature of her complaint, it seemed rather unlucky that he was so unsucessful in removing it. As far however as the frequency of attendances and repetition of medicines went, Mr. Llewellyn was clear in conscience.

One evening, whilst the Colonel and Squire Philip were engaged at chess, and De Lancaster was tracing out for the edification of Edward Wilson the route of Solomon’s ships to Ophir for gold, Llewellyn came into the room to announce his bulletin of the patient above stairs. Philip’s game was lost, and he had quitted the field; the colonel put the chess-board by, and all ears were open to the report, of which the sage’s countenance augured nothing favourable. The question was put to him by more than one, the answer was--The lady my patient is by no means as I could wish her.--Then I am afraid, observed the colonel, she is by no means well.

I hope that does not absolutely follow, said De Lancaster.

She is extremely ill, repeated Llewellyn--She is incurable, cried Philip with an emphasis and in a tone above his usual pitch.

I think not, replied the father.

She is the most decided hypochondriac I ever met with, resumed the man of medicine.

Pooh! repeated De Lancaster, if my daughter-in-law has no other complaint than what is caused by melancholy humours and impeded circulation, she may be cured at once; the remedy is immediate.

Why; what should cure her? demanded the colonel.

That, which alone can heal the mind and its diseases, said De Lancaster; music.

Whuh! cried Llewellyn, (whistling out his admiration and contempt in an under-note, not meant to reach the ears of the old gentleman) This is a new discovery in medicine, and one more than the dispensary has yet taken notice of.

Pardon me, resumed De Lancaster, it is no new discovery, but the very doctrine held by Theophrastus, Aristoxenus and by Pythagoras himself; the last of whom depended almost entirely on the flute or flagelet for the expulsion of melancholy; and, as I am no dealer in assertions without authorities, I shall take the liberty of quoting the very words of Martianus Capella in his ninth book, which to Mr. Edward Wilson at least I have no doubt will be familiar, and these they are--_Pythagorei enim, ferociam animi tibiis aut fidibus mollientes, docuerunt cum corporibus adhærere nexum fædus animarum_. In this practice however I must beg leave slightly to differ from the Pythagoreans, and recommend the harp or lyre in preference, forasmuch as these were the proper instruments of Apollo, the god of healing, whereas the flute or flagelet belonged to Tritonia, whose attributes we all know were of a different description. Let me however do Pythagoras the justice to acknowledge, that he recommends the lute also as a sedative in the paroxysms of rage and anger.

Here the colonel interposed, by observing, that what effect a flute, or a lute, or a flagelet might have upon the passions of mankind he could not pretend to say, but he apprehended neither one nor the other could have any thing to do with their diseases, and to this Llewellyn assented with a significant nod of approbation. De Lancaster had now got amongst his sophists and grammarians, and committed himself much too far to halt upon a nod; he proceeded therefore as follows--

Whilst there subsists a sympathy between the senses and the soul, the intellectual remedy for man must be sought for in harmony. All the nations under heaven, whether civilized or not, have borne witness to the powers and effects of music. The Mariandyni, a wild people inhabiting the confines of Bithynia, made their national music from pipes, which they formed of the reeds, that grew upon the borders of the lake Acherusia. The pipe was also the favourite of those mountain shepherds of Bœotia, called Aonians; whilst the Egyptians with more ingenuity struck out the complex instrument called Pandura, which was composed of no less than seven pipes.

We have in our practice, said Llewellyn, an instrument with one pipe, but I can’t for my soul conceive the use, that can be made of seven.

It was doubtless an instrument of no inconsiderable difficulty to the performer, replied De Lancaster gravely.

I should not chuse to perform upon it, said the apothecary.

The good old gentleman was in the high road of philology, and kept steadily on--The characters of nations, said he, are to be traced in the different characters of their warlike instruments. The Cretans marched in compact and orderly phalanx to the solemn sound of the harp: the Lacedemonians rushed into battle to the high-pitched screaming notes of the shrill-toned fife; whilst the effeminate Sybarites would not move without the soft accompaniment of their melodious flutes.

But which of all these instruments, said the colonel, is to cure Mrs. De Lancaster?

Refer that question to Asclepiades, replied De Lancaster, and he will answer you; Asclepiades will tell you, when the citizens of Prusa were in actual insurrection, and the city on the point of being laid in ashes, how he contrived to appease the tumult, and sent them all to their homes in peace.

But Mrs. De Lancaster is at home already, said Llewellyn, and peaceable enough, Heaven knows. How does the case of these rioters apply to her?

The colonel saw his friend was staggered, and handsomely turned out to his relief--It is impossible, he said, to foresee what turn a case may take, therefore it is well to be armed against accidents. I should be glad if our good friend would tell us how it was that Asclepiades, whom I have no means of resorting to, contrived to disperse the mob of incendiaries at Prusa.

By a song, replied the old gentleman; he dispersed them by the sweet and soothing melody of a pathetic strain, which assuaged their fury, and lulled them into peace, as an obstreperous child (for men are only children of a larger growth) is hushed to sleep by the humming of its nurse.

I am perfectly satisfied, said the colonel.