{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_35611/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_35611","id":"gutenberg_35611","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35611","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Novels","Grail -- Fiction","Wales -- Fiction"],"text":"</pre>\nTHE GREAT RETURN\n\nBy\n\nARTHUR MACHEN\n\nAUTHOR OF \"THE BOWMEN\"\n\nPUBLISHED IN LONDON BY THE FAITH\nPRESS, AT THE FAITH HOUSE, 22, BUCKINGHAM\nSTREET, STRAND, W.C.\n\n1915\n\n\n\n\nBY THE SAME AUTHOR\n\n  THE BOWMEN\n  THE HILL OF DREAMS\n  THE HOUSE OF SOULS\n     [including \"The Great God Pan\" and \"The Three Impostors\"]\n  HIEROGLYPHICS\n  THE CHRONICLE OF CLEMENDY\n  DR. STIGGINS\n\n\n\n To\n\nD.P.M.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n  I.   THE RUMOUR OF THE MARVELLOUS\n  II.  ODOURS OF PARADISE\n  III. A SECRET IN A SECRET PLACE\n  IV.  THE RINGING OF THE BELL\n  V.   THE ROSE OF FIRE\n  VI.  OLWEN'S DREAM\n  VII. THE MASS OF THE SANGRAAL\n\n\n\nGREAT RETURN\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTHE RUMOUR OF THE MARVELLOUS\n\n\nThere are strange things lost and forgotten in obscure corners of the\nnewspaper. I often think that the most extraordinary item of\nintelligence that I have read in print appeared a few years ago in the\nLondon Press. It came from a well known and most respected news agency;\nI imagine it was in all the papers. It was astounding.\n\nThe circumstances necessary--not to the understanding of this paragraph,\nfor that is out of the question--but, we will say, to the understanding\nof the events which made it possible, are these. We had invaded Thibet,\nand there had been trouble in the hierarchy of that country, and a\npersonage known as the Tashai Lama had taken refuge with us in India. He\nwent on pilgrimage from one Buddhist shrine to another, and came at last\nto a holy mountain of Buddhism, the name of which I have forgotten. And\nthus the morning paper.\n\n     His Holiness the Tashai Lama then ascended the Mountain and was\n     transfigured.--Reuter.\n\nThat was all. And from that day to this I have never heard a word of\nexplanation or comment on this amazing statement.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere was no more, it seemed, to be said. \"Reuter,\" apparently, thought\nhe had made his simple statement of the facts of the case, had thereby\ndone his duty, and so it all ended. Nobody, so far as I know, ever wrote\nto any paper asking what Reuter meant by it, or what the Tashai Lama\nmeant by it. I suppose the fact was that nobody cared two-pence about\nthe matter; and so this strange event--if there were any such event--was\nexhibited to us for a moment, and the lantern show revolved to other\nspectacles.\n\nThis is an extreme instance of the manner in which the marvellous is\nflashed out to us and then withdrawn behind its black veils and\nconcealments; but I have known of other cases. Now and again, at\nintervals of a few years, there appear in the newspapers strange\nstories of the strange doings of what are technically called\n_poltergeists_. Some house, often a lonely farm, is suddenly subjected\nto an infernal bombardment. Great stones crash through the windows,\nthunder down the chimneys, impelled by no visible hand. The plates and\ncups and saucers are whirled from the dresser into the middle of the\nkitchen, no one can say how or by what agency. Upstairs the big bedstead\nand an old chest or two are heard bounding on the floor as if in a mad\nballet. Now and then such doings as these excite a whole neighbourhood;\nsometimes a London paper sends a man down to make an investigation. He\nwrites half a column of description on the Monday, a couple of\nparagraphs on the Tuesday, and then returns to town. Nothing has been\nexplained, the matter vanishes away; and nobody cares. The tale trickles\nfor a day or two through the Press, and then instantly disappears, like\nan Australian stream, into the bowels of darkness. It is possible, I\nsuppose, that this singular incuriousness as to marvellous events and\nreports is not wholly unaccountable. It may be that the events in\nquestion are, as it were, psychic accidents and misadventures. They are\nnot meant to happen, or, rather, to be manifested. They belong to the\nworld on the other side of the dark curtain; and it is only by some\nqueer mischance that a corner of that curtain is twitched aside for an\ninstant. Then--for an instant--we see; but the personages whom Mr.\nKipling calls the Lords of Life and Death take care that we do not see\ntoo much. Our business is with things higher and things lower, with\nthings different, anyhow; and on the whole we are not suffered to\ndistract ourselves with that which does not really concern us. The\nTransfiguration of the Lama and the tricks of the _poltergeist_ are\nevidently no affairs of ours; we raise an uninterested eyebrow and pass\non--to poetry or to statistics.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBe it noted; I am not professing any fervent personal belief in the\nreports to which I have alluded. For all I know, the Lama, in spite of\nReuter, was not transfigured, and the _poltergeist_, in spite of the\nlate Mr. Andrew Lang, may in reality be only mischievous Polly, the\nservant girl at the farm. And to go farther: I do not know that I should\nbe justified in putting either of these cases of the marvellous in line\nwith a chance paragraph that caught my eye last summer; for this had\nnot, on the face of it at all events, anything wildly out of the common.\nIndeed, I dare say that I should not have read it, should not have seen\nit, if it had not contained the name of a place which I had once\nvisited, which had then moved me in an odd manner that I could not\nunderstand. Indeed, I am sure that this particular paragraph deserves to\nstand alone, for even if the _poltergeist_ be a real _poltergeist_, it\nmerely reveals the psychic whimsicality of some region that is not our\nregion. There were better things and more relevant things behind the few\nlines dealing with Llantrisant, the little town by the sea in\nArfonshire.\n\nNot on the surface, I must say, for the cutting I have preserved\nit--reads as follows:--\n\n     LLANTRISANT.--The season promises very favourably: temperature of\n     the sea yesterday at noon, 65 deg. Remarkable occurrences are\n     supposed to have taken place during the recent Revival. The lights\n     have not been observed lately. \"The Crown.\" \"The Fisherman's Rest.\"\n\nThe style was odd certainly; knowing a little of newspapers. I could see\nthat the figure called, I think, _tmesis_, or cutting, had been\ngenerously employed; the exuberances of the local correspondent had been\npruned by a Fleet Street expert. And these poor men are often hurried;\nbut what did those \"lights\" mean? What strange matters had the vehement\nblue pencil blotted out and brought to naught?\n\nThat was my first thought, and then, thinking still of Llantrisant and\nhow I had first discovered it and found it strange, I read the paragraph\nagain, and was saddened almost to see, as I thought, the obvious\nexplanation. I had forgotten for the moment that it was war-time, that\nscares and rumours and terrors about traitorous signals and flashing\nlights were current everywhere by land and sea; someone, no doubt, had\nbeen watching innocent farmhouse windows and thoughtless fanlights of\nlodging houses; these were the \"lights\" that had not been observed\nlately.\n\nI found out afterwards that the Llantrisant correspondent had no such\ntreasonous lights in his mind, but something very different. Still; what\ndo we know? He may have been mistaken, \"the great rose of fire\" that\ncame over the deep may have been the port light of a coasting-ship. Did\nit shine at last from the old chapel on the headland? Possibly; or\npossibly it was the doctor's lamp at Sarnau, some miles away. I have had\nwonderful opportunities lately of analysing the marvels of lying,\nconscious and unconscious; and indeed almost incredible feats in this\nway can be performed. If I incline to the less likely explanation of the\n\"lights\" at Llantrisant, it is merely because this explanation seems to\nme to be altogether congruous with the \"remarkable occurrences\" of the\nnewspaper paragraph.\n\nAfter all, if rumour and gossip and hearsay are crazy things to be\nutterly neglected and laid aside: on the other hand, evidence is\nevidence, and when a couple of reputable surgeons assert, as they do\nassert in the case of Olwen Phillips, Croeswen, Llantrisant, that there\nhas been a \"kind of resurrection of the body,\" it is merely foolish to\nsay that these things don't happen. The girl was a mass of tuberculosis,\nshe was within a few hours of death; she is now full of life. And so, I\ndo not believe that the rose of fire was merely a ship's light,\nmagnified and transformed by dreaming Welsh sailors.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut now I am going forward too fast. I have not dated the paragraph, so\nI cannot give the exact day of its appearance, but I think it was\nsomewhere between the second and third week of June. I cut it out partly\nbecause it was about Llantrisant, partly because of the \"remarkable\noccurrences.\" I have an appetite for these matters, though I also have\nthis misfortune, that I require evidence before I am ready to credit\nthem, and I have a sort of lingering hope that some day I shall be able\nto elaborate some scheme or theory of such things.\n\nBut in the meantime, as a temporary measure, I hold what I call the\ndoctrine of the jig-saw puzzle. That is: this remarkable occurrence, and\nthat, and the other may be, and usually are, of no significance.\nCoincidence and chance and unsearchable causes will now and again make\nclouds that are undeniable fiery dragons, and potatoes that resemble\nEminent Statesmen exactly and minutely in every feature, and rocks that\nare like eagles and lions. All this is nothing; it is when you get your\nset of odd shapes and find that they fit into one another, and at last\nthat they are but parts of a large design; it is then that research\ngrows interesting and indeed amazing, it is then that one queer form\nconfirms the other, that the whole plan displayed justifies,\ncorroborates, explains each separate piece.\n\nSo, it was within a week or ten days after I had read the paragraph\nabout Llantrisant and had cut it out that I got a letter from a friend\nwho was taking an early holiday in those regions.\n\n\"You will be interested,\" he wrote, \"to hear that they have taken to\nritualistic practices at Llantrisant. I went into the church the other\nday, and instead of smelling like a damp vault as usual, it was\npositively reeking with incense.\"\n\nI knew better than that. The old parson was a firm Evangelical; he would\nrather have burnt sulphur in his church than incense any day. So I\ncould not make out this report at all; and went down to Arfon a few\nweeks later determined to investigate this and any other remarkable\noccurrence at Llantrisant.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nODOURS OF PARADISE\n\n\nI went down to Arfon in the very heat and bloom and fragrance of the\nwonderful summer that they were enjoying there. In London there was no\nsuch weather; it rather seemed as if the horror and fury of the war had\nmounted to the very skies and were there reigning. In the mornings the\nsun burnt down upon the city with a heat that scorched and consumed; but\nthen clouds heavy and horrible would roll together from all quarters of\nthe heavens, and early in the afternoon the air would darken, and a\nstorm of thunder and lightning, and furious, hissing rain would fall\nupon the streets. Indeed, the torment of the world was in the London\nweather. The city wore a terrible vesture; within our hearts was dread;\nwithout we were clothed in black clouds and angry fire.\n\nIt is certain that I cannot show in any words the utter peace of that\nWelsh coast to which I came; one sees, I think, in such a change a\nfigure of the passage from the disquiets and the fears of earth to the\npeace of paradise. A land that seemed to be in a holy, happy dream, a\nsea that changed all the while from olivine to emerald, from emerald to\nsapphire, from sapphire to amethyst, that washed in white foam at the\nbases of the firm, grey rocks, and about the huge crimson bastions that\nhid the western bays and inlets of the waters; to this land I came, and\nto hollows that were purple and odorous with wild thyme, wonderful with\nmany tiny, exquisite flowers. There was benediction in centaury, pardon\nin eye-bright, joy in lady's slipper; and so the weary eyes were\nrefreshed, looking now at the little flowers and the happy bees about\nthem, now on the magic mirror of the deep, changing from marvel to\nmarvel with the passing of the great white clouds, with the brightening\nof the sun. And the ears, torn with jangle and racket and idle, empty\nnoise, were soothed and comforted by the ineffable, unutterable,\nunceasing murmur, as the tides swam to and fro, uttering mighty, hollow\nvoices in the caverns of the rocks.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFor three or four days I rested in the sun and smelt the savour of the\nblossoms and of the salt water, and then, refreshed, I remembered that\nthere was something queer about Llantrisant that I might as well\ninvestigate. It was no great thing that I thought to find, for, it will\nbe remembered, I had ruled out the apparent oddity of the reporter's-or\ncommissioner's?--reference to lights, on the ground that he must have\nbeen referring to some local panic about signalling to the enemy; who\nhad certainly torpedoed a ship or two off Lundy in the Bristol Channel.\nAll that I had to go upon was the reference to the \"remarkable\noccurrences\" at some revival, and then that letter of Jackson's, which\nspoke of Llantrisant church as \"reeking\" with incense, a wholly\nincredible and impossible state of things. Why, old Mr. Evans, the\nrector, looked upon coloured stoles as the very robe of Satan and his\nangels, as things dear to the heart of the Pope of Rome. But as to\nincense! As I have already familiarly observed, I knew better.\n\nBut as a hard matter of fact, this may be worth noting: when I went over\nto Llantrisant on Monday, August 9th, I visited the church, and it was\nstill fragrant and exquisite with the odour of rare gums that had fumed\nthere.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow I happened to have a slight acquaintance with the rector. He was a\nmost courteous and delightful old man, and on my last visit he had come\nacross me in the churchyard, as I was admiring the very fine Celtic\ncross that stands there. Besides the beauty of the interlaced ornament\nthere is an inscription in Ogham on one of the edges, concerning which\nthe learned dispute; it is altogether one of the more famous crosses of\nCeltdom. Mr. Evans, I say, seeing me looking at the cross, came up and\nbegan to give me, the stranger, a resume--somewhat of a shaky and\nuncertain resume, I found afterwards--of the various debates and\nquestions that had arisen as to the exact meaning of the inscription,\nand I was amused to detect an evident but underlying belief of his own:\nthat the supposed Ogham characters were, in fact, due to boys' mischief\nand weather and the passing of the ages. But then I happened to put a\nquestion as to the sort of stone of which the cross was made, and the\nrector brightened amazingly. He began to talk geology, and, I think,\ndemonstrated that the cross or the material for it must have been\nbrought to Llantrisant from the south-west coast of Ireland. This struck\nme as interesting, because it was curious evidence of the migrations of\nthe Celtic saints, whom the rector, I was delighted to find, looked upon\nas good Protestants, though shaky on the subject of crosses; and so,\nwith concessions on my part, we got on very well. Thus, with all this to\nthe good, I was emboldened to call upon him.\n\nI found him altered. Not that he was aged; indeed, he was rather made\nyoung, with a singular brightening upon his face, and something of joy\nupon it that I had not seen before, that I have seen on very few faces\nof men. We talked of the war, of course, since that is not to be\navoided; of the farming prospects of the county; of general things, till\nI ventured to remark that I had been in the church, and had been\nsurprised, to find it perfumed with incense.\n\n\"You have made some alterations in the service since I was here last?\nYou use incense now?\"\n\nThe old man looked at me strangely, and hesitated.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"there has been no change. I use no incense in the\nchurch. I should not venture to do so.\"\n\n\"But,\" I was beginning, \"the whole church is as if High Mass had just\nbeen sung there, and--\"\n\nHe cut me short, and there was a certain grave solemnity in his manner\nthat struck me almost with awe.\n\n\"I know you are a railer,\" he said, and the phrase coming from this mild\nold gentleman astonished, me unutterably. \"You are a railer and a bitter\nrailer; I have read articles that you have written, and I know your\ncontempt and your hatred for those you call Protestants in your\nderision; though your grandfather, the vicar of Caerleon-on-Usk, called\nhimself Protestant and was proud of it, and your great-grand-uncle\nHezekiah, _ffeiriad coch yr Castletown_--the Red Priest of\nCastletown--was a great man with the Methodists in his day, and the\npeople flocked by their thousands when he administered the Sacrament. I\nwas born and brought up in Glamorganshire, and old men have wept as they\ntold me of the weeping and contrition that there was when the Red\nPriest broke the Bread and raised the Cup. But you are a railer, and see\nnothing but the outside and the show. You are not worthy of this mystery\nthat has been done here.\"\n\nI went out from his presence rebuked indeed, and justly rebuked; but\nrather amazed. It is curiously true that the Welsh are still one people,\none family almost, in a manner that the English cannot understand, but I\nhad never thought that this old clergyman would have known anything of\nmy ancestry or their doings. And as for my articles and such-like, I\nknew that the country clergy sometimes read, but I had fancied my\npronouncements sufficiently obscure, even in London, much more in Arfon.\n\nBut so it happened, and so I had no explanation from the rector of\nLlantrisant of the strange circumstance, that his church was full of\nincense and odours of paradise.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI went up and down the ways of Llantrisant wondering, and came to the\nharbour, which is a little place, with little quays where some small\ncoasting trade still lingers. A brigantine was at anchor here, and very\nlazily in the sunshine they were loading it with anthracite; for it is\none of the oddities of Llantrisant that there is a small colliery in the\nheart of the wood on the hillside. I crossed a causeway which parts the\nouter harbour from the inner harbour, and settled down on a rocky beach\nhidden under a leafy hill. The tide was going out, and some children\nwere playing on the wet sand, while two ladies--their mothers, I\nsuppose--talked together as they sat comfortably on their rugs at a\nlittle distance from me.\n\nAt first they talked of the war, and I made myself deaf, for of that\ntalk one gets enough, and more than enough, in London. Then there was a\nperiod of silence, and the conversation had passed to quite a different\ntopic when I caught the thread of it again. I was sitting on the further\nside of a big rock, and I do not think that the two ladies had noticed\nmy approach. However, though they spoke of strange things, they spoke of\nnothing which made it necessary for me to announce my presence.\n\n\"And, after all,\" one of them was saying, \"what is it all about? I can't\nmake out what is come to the people.\"\n\nThis speaker was a Welshwoman; I recognised the clear, over-emphasised\nconsonants, and a faint suggestion of an accent. Her friend came from\nthe Midlands, and it turned out that they had only known each other for\na few days. Theirs was a friendship of the beach and of bathing; such\nfriendships are common, at small seaside places.\n\n\"There is certainly something odd about the people here. I have never\nbeen to Llantrisant before, you know; indeed, this is the first time\nwe've been in Wales for our holidays, and knowing nothing about the ways\nof the people and not being accustomed to hear Welsh spoken, I thought,\nperhaps, it must be my imagination. But you think there really is\nsomething a little queer?\"\n\n\"I can tell you this: that I have been in two minds whether I should not\nwrite to my husband and ask him to take me and the children away. You\nknow where I am at Mrs. Morgan's, and the Morgans' sitting-room is just\nthe other side of the passage, and sometimes they leave the door open,\nso that I can hear what they say quite plainly. And you see I understand\nthe Welsh, though they don't know it. And I hear them saying the most\nalarming things!\"\n\n\"What sort of things?\n\n\"Well, indeed, it sounds like some kind of a religious service, but it's\nnot Church of England, I know that. Old Morgan begins it, and the wife\nand children answer. Something like; 'Blessed be God for the messengers\nof Paradise.' 'Blessed be His Name for Paradise in the meat and in the\ndrink.' 'Thanksgiving for the old offering.' 'Thanksgiving for the\nappearance of the old altar,' 'Praise for the joy of the ancient\ngarden.' 'Praise for the return of those that have been long absent.'\nAnd all that sort of thing. It is nothing but madness.\"\n\n\"Depend upon it,\" said the lady from the Midlands, \"there's no real harm\nin it. They're Dissenters; some new sect, I dare say. You know some\nDissenters are very queer in their ways.\"\n\n\"All that is like no Dissenters that I have ever known in all my life\nwhatever,\" replied the Welsh lady somewhat vehemently, with a very\ndistinct intonation of the land. \"And have you heard them speak of the\nbright light that shone at midnight from the church?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nA SECRET IN A SECRET PLACE\n\n\nNow here was I altogether at a loss and quite bewildered. The children\nbroke into the conversation of the two ladies and cut it all short, just\nas the midnight lights from the church came on the field, and when the\nlittle girls and boys went back again to the sands whooping, the tide of\ntalk had turned, and Mrs. Harland and Mrs. Williams were quite safe and\nat home with Janey's measles, and a wonderful treatment for infantile\nearache, as exemplified in the case of Trevor. There was no more to be\ngot out of them, evidently, so I left the beach, crossed the harbour\ncauseway, and drank beer at the \"Fishermen's Rest\" till it was time to\nclimb up two miles of deep lane and catch the train for Penvro, where I\nwas staying. And I went up the lane, as I say, in a kind of amazement;\nand not so much, I think, because of evidences and hints of things\nstrange to the senses, such as the savour of incense where no incense\nhad smoked for three hundred and fifty years and more, or the story of\nbright light shining from the dark, closed church at dead of night, as\nbecause of that sentence of thanksgiving \"for paradise in meat and in\ndrink.\"\n\nFor the sun went down and the evening fell as I climbed the long hill\nthrough the deep woods and the high meadows, and the scent of all the\ngreen things rose from the earth and from the heart of the wood, and at\na turn of the lane far below was the misty glimmer of the still sea, and\nfrom far below its deep murmur sounded as it washed on the little\nhidden, enclosed bay where Llantrisant stands. And I thought, if there\nbe paradise in meat and in drink, so much the more is there paradise in\nthe scent of the green leaves at evening and in the appearance of the\nsea and in the redness of the sky; and there came to me a certain vision\nof a real world about us all the while, of a language that was only\nsecret because we would not take the trouble to listen to it and discern\nit.\n\nIt was almost dark when I got to the station, and here were the few\nfeeble oil lamps lit, glimmering in that lonely land, where the way is\nlong from farm to farm. The train came on its way, and I got into it;\nand just as we moved from the station I noticed a group under one of\nthose dim lamps. A woman and her child had got out, and they were being\nwelcomed by a man who had been waiting for them. I had not noticed his\nface as I stood on the platform, but now I saw it as he pointed down the\nhill towards Llantrisant, and I think I was almost frightened.\n\nHe was a young man, a farmer's son, I would say, dressed in rough brown\nclothes, and as different from old Mr. Evans, the rector, as one man\nmight be from another. But on his face, as I saw it in the lamplight,\nthere was the like brightening that I had seen on the face of the\nrector. It was an illuminated face, glowing with an ineffable joy, and I\nthought it rather gave light to the platform lamp than received light\nfrom it. The woman and her child, I inferred, were strangers to the\nplace, and had come to pay a visit to the young man's family. They had\nlooked about them in bewilderment, half alarmed, before they saw him;\nand then his face was radiant in their sight, and it was easy to see\nthat all their troubles were ended and over. A wayside station and a\ndarkening country, and it was as if they were welcomed by shining,\nimmortal gladness--even into paradise.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut though there seemed in a sense light all about my ways, I was myself\nstill quite bewildered. I could see, indeed, that something strange had\nhappened or was happening in the little town hidden under the hill, but\nthere was so far no clue to the mystery, or rather, the clue had been\noffered to me, and I had not taken it, I had not even known that it was\nthere; since we do not so much as see what we have determined, without\njudging, to be incredible, even though it be held up before our eyes.\nThe dialogue that the Welsh Mrs. Williams had reported to her English\nfriend might have set me on the right way; but the right way was outside\nall my limits of possibility, outside the circle of my thought. The\npal\u00e6ontologist might see monstrous, significant marks in the slime of a\nriver bank, but he would never draw the conclusions that his own\npeculiar science would seem to suggest to him; he would choose any\nexplanation rather than the obvious, since the obvious would also be\nthe outrageous--according to our established habit of thought, which we\ndeem final.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe next day I took all these strange things with me for consideration\nto a certain place that I knew of not far from Penvro. I was now in the\nearly stages of the jig-saw process, or rather I had only a few pieces\nbefore me, and--to continue the figure my difficulty was this: that\nthough the markings on each piece seemed to have design and\nsignificance, yet I could not make the wildest guess as to the nature of\nthe whole picture, of which these were the parts. I had clearly seen\nthat there was a great secret; I had seen that on the face of the young\nfarmer on the platform of Llantrisant station; and in my mind there was\nall the while the picture of him going down the dark, steep, winding\nlane that led to the town and the sea, going down through the heart of\nthe wood, with light about him.\n\nBut there was bewilderment in the thought of this, and in the endeavour\nto match it with the perfumed church and the scraps of talk that I had\nheard and the rumour of midnight brightness; and though Penvro is by no\nmeans populous, I thought I would go to a certain solitary place called\nthe Old Camp Head, which looks towards Cornwall and to the great deeps\nthat roll beyond Cornwall to the far ends of the world; a place where\nfragments of dreams--they seemed such then--might, perhaps, be gathered\ninto the clearness of vision.\n\nIt was some years since I had been to the Head, and I had gone on that\nlast time and on a former visit by the cliffs, a rough and difficult\npath. Now I chose a landward way, which the county map seemed to\njustify, though doubtfully, as regarded the last part of the journey. So\nI went inland and climbed the hot summer by-roads, till I came at last\nto a lane which gradually turned turfy and grass-grown, and then on high\nground, ceased to be. It left me at a gate in a hedge of old thorns; and\nacross the field beyond there seemed to be some faint indications of a\ntrack. One would judge that sometimes men did pass by that way, but not\noften.\n\nIt was high ground but not within sight of the sea. But the breath of\nthe sea blew about the hedge of thorns, and came with a keen savour to\nthe nostrils. The ground sloped gently from the gate and then rose again\nto a ridge, where a white farmhouse stood all alone. I passed by this\nfarmhouse, threading an uncertain way, followed a hedgerow doubtfully;\nand saw suddenly before me the Old Camp, and beyond it the sapphire\nplain of waters and the mist where sea and sky met. Steep from my feet\nthe hill fell away, a land of gorse-blossom, red-gold and mellow, of\nglorious purple heather. It fell into a hollow that went down, shining\nwith rich green bracken, to the glimmering sea; and before me and beyond\nthe hollow rose a height of turf, bastioned at the summit with the\nawful, age-old walls of the Old Camp; green, rounded circumvallations,\nwall within wall, tremendous, with their myriad years upon them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWithin these smoothed, green mounds, looking across the shining and\nchanging of the waters in the happy sunlight, I took out the bread and\ncheese and beer that I had carried in a bag, and ate and drank, and lit\nmy pipe, and set myself to think over the enigmas of Llantrisant. And I\nhad scarcely done so when, a good deal to my annoyance, a man came\nclimbing up over the green ridges, and took up his stand close by, and\nstared out to sea. He nodded to me, and began with \"Fine weather for the\nharvest\" in the approved manner, and so sat down and engaged me in a net\nof talk. He was of Wales, it seemed, but from a different part of the\ncountry, and was staying for a few days with relations--at the white\nfarmhouse which I had passed on my way. His tale of nothing flowed on to\nhis pleasure and my pain, till he fell suddenly on Llantrisant and its\ndoings. I listened then with wonder, and here is his tale condensed.\nThough it must be clearly understood that the man's evidence was only\nsecond-hand; he had heard it from his cousin, the farmer.\n\nSo, to be brief, it appeared that there had been a long feud at\nLlantrisant between a local solicitor, Lewis Prothero (we will say), and\na farmer named James. There had been a quarrel about some trifle, which\nhad grown more and more bitter as the two parties forgot the merits of\nthe original dispute, and by some means or other, which I could not\nwell understand, the lawyer had got the small freeholder \"under his\nthumb.\" James, I think, had given a bill of sale in a bad season, and\nProthero had bought it up; and the end was that the farmer was turned\nout of the old house, and was lodging in a cottage. People said he would\nhave to take a place on his own farm as a labourer; he went about in\ndreadful misery, piteous to see. It was thought by some that he might\nvery well murder the lawyer, if he met him.\n\nThey did meet, in the middle of the market-place at Llantrisant one\nSaturday in June. The farmer was a little black man, and he gave a shout\nof rage, and the people were rushing at him to keep him off Prothero.\n\n\"And then,\" said my informant, \"I will tell you what happened. This\nlawyer, as they tell me, he is a great big brawny fellow, with a big jaw\nand a wide mouth, and a red face and red whiskers. And there he was in\nhis black coat and his high hard hat, and all his money at his back, as\nyou may say. And, indeed, he did fall down on his knees in the dust\nthere in the street in front of Philip James, and every one could see\nthat terror was upon him. And he did beg Philip James's pardon, and beg\nof him to have mercy, and he did implore him by God and man and the\nsaints of paradise. And my cousin, John Jenkins, Penmawr, he do tell me\nthat the tears were falling from Lewis Prothero's eyes like the rain.\nAnd he put his hand into his pocket and drew out the deed of Pantyreos,\nPhilip James's old farm that was, and did give him the farm back and a\nhundred pounds for the stock that was on it, and two hundred pounds, all\nin notes of the bank, for amendment and consolation.\n\n\"And then, from what they do tell me, all the people did go mad, crying\nand weeping and calling out all manner of things at the top of their\nvoices. And at last nothing would do but they must all go up to the\nchurchyard, and there Philip James and Lewis Prothero they swear\nfriendship to one another for a long age before the old cross, and\neveryone sings praises. And my cousin he do declare to me that there\nwere men standing in that crowd that he did never see before in\nLlantrisant in all his life, and his heart was shaken within him as if\nit had been in a whirl-wind.\"\n\nI had listened to all this in silence. I said then:\n\n\"What does your cousin mean by that? Men that he had never seen in\nLlantrisant? What men?\"\n\n\"The people,\" he said very slowly, \"call them the Fishermen.\"\n\nAnd suddenly there came into my mind the \"Rich Fisherman\" who in the old\nlegend guards the holy mystery of the Graal.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nTHE RINGING OF THE BELL\n\n\nSo far I have not told the story of the things of Llantrisant, but\nrather the story of how I stumbled upon them and among them, perplexed\nand wholly astray, seeking, but yet not knowing at all what I sought;\nbewildered now and again by circumstances which seemed to me wholly\ninexplicable; devoid, not so much of the key to the enigma, but of the\nkey to the nature of the enigma. You cannot begin to solve a puzzle till\nyou know what the puzzle is about. \"Yards divided by minutes,\" said the\nmathematical master to me long ago, \"will give neither pigs, sheep, nor\noxen.\" He was right; though his manner on this and on all other\noccasions was highly offensive. This is enough of the personal process,\nas I may call it; and here follows the story of what happened at\nLlantrisant last summer, the story as I pieced it together at last.\n\nIt all began, it appears, on a hot day, early in last June; so far as I\ncan make out, on the first Saturday in the month. There was a deaf old\nwoman, a Mrs. Parry, who lived by herself in a lonely cottage a mile or\nso from the town. She came into the market-place early on the Saturday\nmorning in a state of some excitement, and as soon as she had taken up\nher usual place on the pavement by the churchyard, with her ducks and\neggs and a few very early potatoes, she began to tell her neighbours\nabout her having heard the sound of a great bell. The good women on each\nside smiled at one another behind Mrs. Parry's back, for one had to bawl\ninto her ear before she could make out what one meant; and Mrs.\nWilliams, Penycoed, bent over and yelled: \"What bell should that be,\nMrs. Parry? There's no church near you up at Penrhiw. Do you hear what\nnonsense she talks?\" said Mrs. Williams in a low voice to Mrs. Morgan.\n\"As if she could hear any bell, whatever.\"\n\n\"What makes you talk nonsense your self?\" said Mrs. Parry, to the\namazement of the two women. \"I can hear a bell as well as you, Mrs.\nWilliams, and as well as your whispers either.\"\n\nAnd there is the fact, which is not to be disputed; though the\ndeductions from it may be open to endless disputations; this old woman\nwho had been all but stone deaf for twenty years--the defect had always\nbeen in her family--could suddenly hear on this June morning as well as\nanybody else. And her two old friends stared at her, and it was some\ntime before they had appeased her indignation, and induced her to talk\nabout the bell.\n\nIt had happened in the early morning, which was very misty. She had been\ngathering sage in her garden, high on a round hill looking over the sea.\nAnd there came in her ears a sort of throbbing and singing and\ntrembling, \"as if there were music coming out of the earth,\" and then\nsomething seemed to break in her head, and all the birds began to sing\nand make melody together, and the leaves of the poplars round the garden\nfluttered in the breeze that rose from the sea, and the cock crowed far\noff at Twyn, and the dog barked down in Kemeys Valley. But above all\nthese sounds, unheard for so many years, there thrilled the deep and\nchanting note of the bell, \"like a bell and a man's voice singing at\nonce.\"\n\nThey stared again at her and at one another. \"Where did it sound from?\"\nasked one. \"It came sailing across the sea,\" answered Mrs. Parry quite\ncomposedly, \"and I did hear it coming nearer and nearer to the land.\"\n\n\"Well, indeed,\" said Mrs. Morgan, \"it was a ship's bell then, though I\ncan't make out why they would be ringing like that.\"\n\n\"It was not ringing on any ship, Mrs. Morgan,\" said Mrs. Parry.\n\n\"Then where do you think it was ringing?\"\n\n\"Ym Mharadwys,\" replied Mrs. Parry. Now that means \"in Paradise,\" and\nthe two others changed the conversation quickly. They thought that Mrs.\nParry had got back her hearing suddenly--such things did happen now and\nthen--and that the shock had made her \"a bit queer.\" And this\nexplanation would no doubt have stood its ground, if it had not been for\nother experiences. Indeed, the local doctor who had treated Mrs. Parry\nfor a dozen years, not for her deafness, which he took to be hopeless\nand beyond cure, but for a tiresome and recurrent winter cough, sent an\naccount of the case to a colleague at Bristol, suppressing, naturally\nenough, the reference to Paradise. The Bristol physician gave it as his\nopinion that the symptoms were absolutely what mighty have been\nexpected.\n\n\"You have here, in all probability,\" he wrote, \"the sudden breaking down\nof an old obstruction in the aural passage, and I should quite expect\nthis process to be accompanied by tinnitus of a pronounced and even\nviolent character.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut for the other experiences? As the morning wore on and drew to noon,\nhigh market, and to the utmost brightness of that summer day, all the\nstalls and the streets were full of rumours and of awed faces. Now from\none lonely farm, now from another, men and women came and told the story\nof how they had listened in the early morning with thrilling hearts to\nthe thrilling music of a bell that was like no bell ever heard before.\nAnd it seemed that many people in the town had been roused, they knew\nnot how, from sleep; waking up, as one of them said, as if bells were\nringing and the organ playing, and a choir of sweet voices singing all\ntogether: \"There were such melodies and songs that my heart was full of\njoy.\"\n\nAnd a little past noon some fishermen who had been out all night\nreturned, and brought a wonderful story into the town of what they had\nheard in the mist and one of them said he had seen something go by at a\nlittle distance from his boat. \"It was all golden and bright,\" he said,\n\"and there was glory about it.\" Another fisherman declared \"there was a\nsong upon the water that was like heaven.\"\n\nAnd here I would say in parenthesis that on returning to town I sought\nout a very old friend of mine, a man who has devoted a lifetime to\nstrange and esoteric studies. I thought that I had a tale that would\ninterest him profoundly, but I found that he heard me with a good deal\nof indifference. And at this very point of the sailors' stories I\nremember saying: \"Now what do you make of that? Don't you think it's\nextremely curious?\" He replied: \"I hardly think so. Possibly the sailors\nwere lying; possibly it happened as they say. Well; that sort of thing\nhas always been happening.\" I give my friend's opinion; I make no\ncomment on it.\n\nLet it be noted that there was something remarkable as to the manner in\nwhich the sound of the bell was heard--or supposed to be heard. There\nare, no doubt, mysteries in sound as in all else; indeed, I am informed\nthat during one of the horrible outrages that have been perpetrated on\nLondon during this autumn there was an instance of a great block of\nworkmen's dwellings in which the only person who heard the crash of a\nparticular bomb falling was an old deaf woman, who had been fast asleep\ntill the moment of the explosion. This is strange enough of a sound that\nwas entirely in the natural (and horrible) order; and so it was at\nLlantrisant, where the sound was either a collective auditory\nhallucination or a manifestation of what is conveniently, if\ninaccurately, called the supernatural order.\n\nFor the thrill of the bell did not reach to all ears--or hearts. Deaf\nMrs. Parry heard it in her lonely cottage garden, high above the misty\nsea; but then, in a farm on the other or western side of Llantrisant, a\nlittle child, scarcely three years old, was the only one out of a\nhousehold of ten people who heard anything. He called out in stammering\nbaby Welsh something that sounded like \"Clychau fawr, clychau\nfawr\"--the great bells, the great bells--and his mother wondered what he\nwas talking about. Of the crews of half a dozen trawlers that were\nswinging from side to side in the mist, not more than four men had any\ntale to tell. And so it was that for an hour or two the man who had\nheard nothing suspected his neighbour who had heard marvels of lying;\nand it was some time before the mass of evidence coming from all manner\nof diverse and remote quarters convinced the people that there was a\ntrue story here. A might suspect B, his neighbour, of making up a tale;\nbut when C, from some place on the hills five miles away, and D, the\nfisherman on the waters, each had a like report, then it was clear that\nsomething had happened.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd even then, as they told me, the signs to be seen upon the people\nwere stranger than the tales told by them and among them. It has struck\nme that many people in reading some of the phrases that I have reported,\nwill dismiss them with laughter as very poor and fantastic inventions;\nfishermen, they will say, do not speak of \"a song like heaven\" or of \"a\nglory about it.\" And I dare say this would be a just enough criticism if\nI were reporting English fishermen; but, odd though it may be, Wales has\nnot yet lost the last shreds of the grand manner. And let it be\nremembered also that in most cases such phrases are translated from\nanother language, that is, from the Welsh.\n\nSo, they come trailing, let us say, fragments of the cloud of glory in\ntheir common speech; and so, on this Saturday, they began to display,\nuneasily enough in many cases, their consciousness that the things that\nwere reported were of their ancient right and former custom. The\ncomparison is not quite fair; but conceive Hardy's old Durbeyfield\nsuddenly waking from long slumber to find himself in a noble\nthirteenth-century hall, waited on by kneeling pages, smiled on by sweet\nladies in silken c\u00f4tehardies.\n\nSo by evening time there had come to the old people the recollection of\nstories that their fathers had told them as they sat round the hearth of\nwinter nights, fifty, sixty, seventy years; ago; stories of the\nwonderful bell of Teilo Sant, that had sailed across the glassy seas\nfrom Syon, that was called a portion of Paradise, \"and the sound of its\nringing was like the perpetual choir of the angels.\"\n\nSuch things were remembered by the old and told to the young that\nevening, in the streets of the town and in the deep lanes that climbed\nfar hills. The sun went down to the mountain red with fire like a burnt\noffering, the sky turned violet, the sea was purple, as one told another\nof the wonder that had returned to the land after long ages.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE ROSE OF FIRE\n\n\nIt was during the next nine days, counting from that Saturday early in\nJune the first Saturday in June, as I believe--that Llantrisant and all\nthe regions about became possessed either by an extraordinary set of\nhallucinations or by a visitation of great marvels.\n\nThis is not the place to strike the balance between the two\npossibilities. The evidence is, no doubt, readily available; the matter\nis open to systematic investigation.\n\nBut this may be said: The ordinary man, in the ordinary passages of his\nlife, accepts in the main the evidence of his senses, and is entirely\nright in doing so. He says that he sees a cow, that he sees a stone\nwall, and that the cow and the stone wall are \"there.\"\n\nThis is very well for all the practical purposes of life, but I believe\nthat the metaphysicians are by no means so easily satisfied as to the\nreality of the stone wall and the cow. Perhaps they might allow that\nboth objects are \"there\" in the sense that one's reflection is in a\nglass; there is an actuality, but is there a reality external to\noneself? In any event, it is solidly agreed that, supposing a real\nexistence, this much is certain--it is not in the least like our\nconception of it. The ant and the microscope will quickly convince us\nthat we do not see things as they really are, even supposing that we see\nthem at all. If we could \"see\" the real cow she would appear utterly\nincredible, as incredible as the things I am to relate.\n\nNow, there is nothing that I know much more unconvincing than the\nstories of the red light on the sea. Several sailors, men on small\ncoasting ships, who were working up or down the Channel on that Saturday\nnight, spoke of \"seeing\" the red light, and it must be said that there\nis a very tolerable agreement in their tales. All make the time as\nbetween midnight of the Saturday and one o'clock on the Sunday morning.\nTwo of those sailormen are precise as to the time of the apparition;\nthey fix it by elaborate calculations of their own as occurring at 12.20\na.m. And the story?\n\nA red light, a burning spark seen far away in the darkness, taken at\nthe first moment of seeing for a signal, and probably an enemy signal.\nThen it approached at a tremendous speed, and one man said he took it to\nbe the port light of some new kind of navy motor-boat which was\ndeveloping a rate hitherto unheard of, a hundred or a hundred and fifty\nknots an hour. And then, in the third instant of the sight, it was clear\nthat this was no earthly speed. At first a red spark in the farthest\ndistance; then a rushing lamp; and then, as if in an incredible point of\ntime, it swelled into a vast rose of fire that filled all the sea and\nall the sky and hid the stars and possessed the land. \"I thought the end\nof the world had come,\" one of the sailors said.\n\nAnd then, an instant more, and it was gone from them, and four of them\nsay that there was a red spark on Chapel Head, where the old grey chapel\nof St. Teilo stands, high above the water, in a cleft of the limestone\nrocks.\n\nAnd thus the sailors; and thus their tales are incredible; but they are\nnot incredible. I believe that men of the highest eminence in physical\nscience have testified to the occurrence of phenomena every whit as\nmarvellous, to things as absolutely opposed to all natural order, as we\nconceive it; and it may be said that nobody minds them. \"That sort of\nthing has always been happening,\" as my friend remarked to me. But the\nmen, whether or no the fire had ever been without them, there was no\ndoubt that it was now within them, for it burned in their eyes. They\nwere purged as if they had passed through the Furnace of the Sages,\ngoverned with Wisdom that the alchemists know. They spoke without much\ndifficulty of what they had seen, or had seemed to see, with their eyes,\nbut hardly at all of what their hearts had known when for a moment the\nglory of the fiery rose had been about them.\n\nFor some weeks afterwards they were still, as it were, amazed; almost, I\nwould say, incredulous. If there had been nothing more than the splendid\nand fiery appearance, showing and vanishing, I do believe that they\nthemselves would have discredited their own senses and denied the truth\nof their own tales. And one does not dare to say whether they would not\nhave been right. Men like Sir William Crookes and Sir Oliver Lodge are\ncertainly to be heard with respect, and they bear witness to all manner\nof apparent eversions of laws which we, or most of us, consider far\nmore deeply founded than the ancient hills. They may be justified; but\nin our hearts we doubt. We cannot wholly believe in inner sincerity that\nthe solid table did rise, without mechanical reason or cause, into the\nair, and so defy that which we name the \"law of gravitation.\" I know\nwhat may be said on the other side; I know that there is no true\nquestion of \"law\" in the case; that the law of gravitation really means\njust this: that I have never seen a table rising without mechanical aid,\nor an apple, detached from the bough, soaring to the skies instead of\nfalling to the ground. The so-called law is just the sum of common\nobservation and nothing more; yet I say, in our hearts we do not believe\nthat the tables rise; much less do we believe in the rose of fire that\nfor a moment swallowed up the skies and seas and shores of the Welsh\ncoast last June.\n\nAnd the men who saw it would have invented fairy tales to account for\nit, I say again, if it had not been for that which was within them.\n\nThey said, all of them, and it was certain now that they spoke the\ntruth, that in the moment of the vision, every pain and ache and malady\nin their bodies had passed away. One man had been vilely drunk on\nvenomous spirit, procured at \"Jobson's Hole\" down by the Cardiff Docks.\nHe was horribly ill; he had crawled up from his bunk for a little fresh\nair; and in an instant his horrors and his deadly nausea had left him.\nAnother man was almost desperate with the raging hammering pain of an\nabscess on a tooth; he says that when the red flame came near he felt as\nif a dull, heavy blow had fallen on his jaw, and then the pain was quite\ngone; he could scarcely believe that there had been any pain there.\n\nAnd they all bear witness to an extraordinary exaltation of the senses.\nIt is indescribable, this; for they cannot describe it. They are amazed,\nagain; they do not in the least profess to know what happened; but there\nis no more possibility of shaking their evidence than there is a\npossibility of shaking the evidence of a man who says that water is wet\nand fire hot.\n\n\"I felt a bit queer afterwards,\" said one of them, \"and I steadied\nmyself by the mast, and I can't tell how I felt as I touched it. I\ndidn't know that touching a thing like a mast could be better than a\nbig drink when you're thirsty, or a soft pillow when you're sleepy.\"\n\nI heard other instances of this state of things, as I must vaguely call\nit, since I do not know what else to call it. But I suppose we can all\nagree that to the man in average health, the average impact of the\nexternal world on his senses is a matter of indifference. The average\nimpact; a harsh scream, the bursting of a motor tyre, any violent\nassault on the aural nerves will annoy him, and he may say \"damn.\" Then,\non the other hand, the man who is not \"fit\" will easily be annoyed and\nirritated by someone pushing past him in a crowd, by the ringing of a\nbell, by the sharp closing of a book.\n\nBut so far as I could judge from the talk of these sailors, the average\nimpact of the external world had become to them a fountain of pleasure.\nTheir nerves were on edge, but an edge to receive exquisite sensuous\nimpressions. The touch of the rough mast, for example; that was a joy\nfar greater than is the joy of fine silk to some luxurious skins; they\ndrank water and stared as if they had been _fins gourmets_ tasting an\namazing wine; the creak and whine of their ship on its slow way were as\nexquisite as the rhythm and song of a Bach fugue to an amateur of music.\n\nAnd then, within; these rough fellows have their quarrels and strifes\nand variances and envyings like the rest of us; but that was all over\nbetween them that had seen the rosy light; old enemies shook hands\nheartily, and roared with laughter as they confessed one to another what\nfools they had been.\n\n\"I can't exactly say how it has happened or what has happened at all,\"\nsaid one, \"but if you have all the world and the glory of it, how can\nyou fight for fivepence?\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe church of Llantrisant is a typical example of a Welsh parish church,\nbefore the evil and horrible period of \"restoration.\"\n\nThis lower world is a palace of lies, and of all foolish lies there is\nnone more insane than a certain vague fable about the medi\u00e6val\nfreemasons, a fable which somehow imposed itself upon the cold intellect\nof Hallam the historian. The story is, in brief, that throughout the\nGothic period, at any rate, the art and craft of church building were\nexecuted by wandering guilds of \"freemasons,\" possessed of various\nsecrets of building and adornment, which they employed wherever they\nwent. If this nonsense were true, the Gothic of Cologne would be as the\nGothic of Colne, and the Gothic of Arles like to the Gothic of Abingdon.\nIt is so grotesquely untrue that almost every county, let alone every\ncountry, has its distinctive style in Gothic architecture. Arfon is in\nthe west of Wales; its churches have marks and features which\ndistinguish them from the churches in the east of Wales.\n\nThe Llantrisant church has that primitive division between nave and\nchancel which only very foolish people decline to recognise as\nequivalent to the Oriental iconostasis and as the origin of the Western\nrood-screen. A solid wall divided the church into two portions; in the\ncentre was a narrow opening with a rounded arch, through which those who\nsat towards the middle of the church could see the small, red-carpeted\naltar and the three roughly shaped lancet windows above it.\n\nThe \"reading pew\" was on the outer side of this wall of partition, and\nhere the rector did his service, the choir being grouped in seats about\nhim. On the inner side were the pews of certain privileged houses of\nthe town and district.\n\nOn the Sunday morning the people were all in their accustomed places,\nnot without a certain exultation in their eyes, not without a certain\nexpectation of they knew not what. The bells stopped ringing, the\nrector, in his old-fashioned, ample surplice, entered the reading-desk,\nand gave out the hymn: \"My God, and is Thy Table spread.\"\n\nAnd, as the singing began, all the people who were in the pews within\nthe wall came out of them and streamed through the archway into the\nnave. They took what places they could find up and down the church, and\nthe rest of the congregation looked at them in amazement.\n\nNobody knew what had happened. Those whose seats were next to the aisle\ntried to peer into the chancel, to see what had happened or what was\ngoing on there. But somehow the light flamed so brightly from the\nwindows above the altar, those being the only windows in the chancel,\none small lancet in the south wall excepted, that no one could see\nanything at all.\n\n\"It was as if a veil of gold adorned with jewels was hanging there,\" one\nman said; and indeed there are a few odds and scraps of old painted\nglass left in the eastern lancets.\n\nBut there were few in the church who did not hear now and again voices\nspeaking beyond the veil.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nOLWEN'S DREAM\n\n\nThe well-to-do and dignified personages who left their pews in the\nchancel of Llantrisant Church and came hurrying into the nave could give\nno explanation of what they had done. They felt, they said, that they\nhad to go, and to go quickly; they were driven out, as it were, by a\nsecret, irresistible command. But all who were present in the church\nthat morning were amazed, though all exulted in their hearts; for they,\nlike the sailors who saw the rose of fire on the waters, were filled\nwith a joy that was literally ineffable, since they could not utter it\nor interpret it to themselves.\n\nAnd they too, like the sailors, were transmuted, or the world was\ntransmuted for them. They experienced what the doctors call a sense of\n_bien \u00eatre_ but a _bien \u00eatre_ raised, to the highest power. Old men felt\nyoung again, eyes that had been growing dim now saw clearly, and saw a\nworld that was like Paradise, the same world, it is true, but a world\nrectified and glowing, as if an inner flame shone in all things, and\nbehind all things.\n\nAnd the difficulty in recording this state is this, that it is so rare\nan experience that no set language to express it is in existence. A\nshadow of its raptures and ecstasies is found in the highest poetry;\nthere are phrases in ancient books telling of the Celtic saints that\ndimly hint at it; some of the old Italian masters of painting had known\nit, for the light of it shines in their skies and about the battlements\nof their cities that are founded on magic hills. But these are but\nbroken hints.\n\nIt is not poetic to go to Apothecaries' Hall for similes. But for many\nyears I kept by me an article from the _Lancet_ or the _British Medical\nJournal_--I forget which--in which a doctor gave an account of certain\nexperiments he had conducted with a drug called the Mescal Button, or\nAnhelonium Lewinii. He said that while under the influence of the drug\nhe had but to shut his eyes, and immediately before him there would rise\nincredible Gothic cathedrals, of such majesty and splendour and glory\nthat no heart had ever conceived. They seemed to surge from the depths\nto the very heights of heaven, their spires swayed amongst the clouds\nand the stars, they were fretted with admirable imagery. And as he\ngazed, he would presently become aware that all the stones were living\nstones, that they were quickening and palpitating, and then that they\nwere glowing jewels, say, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, opals, but of\nhues that the mortal eye had never seen.\n\nThat description gives, I think, some faint notion of the nature of the\ntransmuted world into which these people by the sea had entered, a world\nquickened and glorified and full of pleasures. Joy and wonder were on\nall faces; but the deepest joy and the greatest wonder were on the face\nof the rector. For he had heard through the veil the Greek word for\n\"holy,\" three times repeated. And he, who had once been a horrified\nassistant at High Mass in a foreign church, recognised the perfume of\nincense that filled the place from end to end.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt was on that Sunday night that Olwen Phillips of Croeswen dreamed her\nwonderful dream. She was a girl of sixteen, the daughter of small\nfarming people, and for many months she had been doomed to certain\ndeath. Consumption, which flourishes in that damp, warm climate, had\nlaid hold of her; not only her lungs but her whole system was a mass of\ntuberculosis. As is common enough, she had enjoyed many fallacious brief\nrecoveries in the early stages of the disease, but all hope had long\nbeen over, and now for the last few weeks she had seemed to rush\nvehemently to death. The doctor had come on the Saturday morning,\nbringing with him a colleague. They had both agreed that the girl's case\nwas in its last stages. \"She cannot possibly last more than a day or\ntwo,\" said the local doctor to her mother. He came again on the Sunday\nmorning and found his patient perceptibly worse, and soon afterwards she\nsank into a heavy sleep, and her mother thought that she would never\nwake from it.\n\nThe girl slept in an inner room communicating with the room occupied by\nher father and mother. The door between was kept open, so that Mrs.\nPhillips could hear her daughter if she called to her in the night. And\nOlwen called to her mother that night, just as the dawn was breaking.\nIt was no faint summons from a dying bed that came to the mother's ears,\nbut a loud cry that rang through the house, a cry of great gladness.\nMrs. Phillips started up from sleep in wild amazement, wondering what\ncould have happened. And then she saw Olwen, who had not been able to\nrise from her bed for many weeks past, standing in the doorway in the\nfaint light of the growing day. The girl called to her mother: \"Mam!\nmam! It is all over. I am quite well again.\"\n\nMrs. Phillips roused her husband, and they sat up in bed staring, not\nknowing on earth, as they said afterwards, what had been done with the\nworld. Here was their poor girl wasted to a shadow, lying on her\ndeath-bed, and the life sighing from her with every breath, and her\nvoice, when she last uttered it, so weak that one had to put one's ear\nto her mouth. And here in a few hours she stood up before them; and even\nin that faint light they could see that she was changed almost beyond\nknowing. And, indeed, Mrs. Phillips said that for a moment or two she\nfancied that the Germans must have come and killed them in their sleep,\nand so they were all dead together. But Olwen called, out again, so the\nmother lit a candle and got up and went tottering across the room, and\nthere was Olwen all gay and plump again, smiling with shining eyes. Her\nmother led her into her own room, and set down the candle there, and\nfelt her daughter's flesh, and burst into prayers and tears of wonder\nand delight, and thanksgivings, and held the girl again to be sure that\nshe was not deceived. And then Olwen told her dream, though she thought\nit was not a dream.\n\nShe said she woke up in the deep darkness, and she knew the life was\nfast going from her. She could not move so much as a finger, she tried\nto cry out, but no sound came from her lips. She felt that in another\ninstant the whole world would fall from her--her heart was full of\nagony. And as the last breath was passing her lips, she heard a very\nfaint, sweet sound, like the tinkling of a silver bell. It came from far\naway, from over by Ty-newydd. She forgot her agony and listened, and\neven then, she says, she felt the swirl of the world as it came back to\nher. And the sound of the bell swelled and grew louder, and it thrilled\nall through her body, and the life was in it. And as the bell rang and\ntrembled in her ears, a faint light touched the wall of her room and\nreddened, till the whole room was full of rosy fire. And then she saw\nstanding before her bed three men in blood-coloured robes with shining\nfaces. And one man held a golden bell in his hand. And the second man\nheld up something shaped like the top of a table. It was like a great\njewel, and it was of a blue colour, and there were rivers of silver and\nof gold running through it and flowing as quick streams flow, and there\nwere pools in it as if violets had been poured out into water, and then\nit was green as the sea near the shore, and then it was the sky at night\nwith all the stars shining, and then the sun and the moon came down and\nwashed in it. And the third man held up high above this a cup that was\nlike a rose on fire; \"there was a great burning in it, and a dropping of\nblood in it, and a red cloud above it, and I saw a great secret. And I\nheard a voice that sang nine times, 'Glory and praise to the Conqueror\nof Death, to the Fountain of Life immortal.' Then the red light went\nfrom the wall, and it was all darkness, and the bell rang faint again by\nCapel Teilo, and then I got up and called to you.\"\n\nThe doctor came on the Monday morning with the death certificate in his\npocket-book, and Olwen ran out to meet him. I have quoted his phrase in\nthe first chapter of this record: \"A kind of resurrection of the body.\"\nHe made a most careful examination of the girl; he has stated that he\nfound that every trace of disease had disappeared. He left on the Sunday\nmorning a patient entering into the coma that precedes death, a body\ncondemned utterly and ready for the grave. He met at the garden gate on\nthe Monday morning a young woman in whom life sprang up like a fountain,\nin whose body life laughed and rejoiced as if it had been a river\nflowing from an unending well.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow this is the place to ask one of those questions--there are many\nsuch--which cannot be answered. The question is as to the continuance of\ntradition; more especially as to the continuance of tradition among the\nWelsh Celts of today. On the one hand, such waves and storms have gone\nover them. The wave of the heathen Saxons went over them, then the wave\nof Latin medi\u00e6valism, then the waters of Anglicanism; last of all the\nflood of their queer Calvinistic Methodism, half Puritan, half pagan. It\nmay well be asked whether any memory can possibly have survived such a\nseries of deluges. I have said that the old people of Llantrisant had\ntheir tales of the Bell of Teilo Sant; but these were but vague and\nbroken recollections. And then there is the name by which the\n\"strangers\" who were seen in the market-place were known; that is more\nprecise. Students of the Graal legend know that the keeper of the Graal\nin the romances is the \"King Fisherman,\" or the \"Rich Fisherman\";\nstudents of Celtic hagiology know that it was prophesied before the\nbirth of Dewi (or David) that he should be \"a man of aquatic life,\" that\nanother legend tells how a little child, destined to be a saint, was\ndiscovered on a stone in the river, how through his childhood a fish for\nhis nourishment was found on that stone every day, while another saint,\nIlar, if I remember, was expressly known as \"The Fisherman.\" But has the\nmemory of all this persisted in the church-going and chapel-going people\nof Wales at the present day? It is difficult to say. There is the affair\nof the Healing Cup of Nant Eos, or Tregaron Healing Cup, as it is also\ncalled. It is only a few years ago since it was shown to a wandering\nharper, who treated it lightly, and then spent a wretched night, as he\nsaid, and came back penitently and was left alone with the sacred vessel\nto pray over it, till \"his mind was at rest.\" That was in 1887.\n\nThen for my part--I only know modern Wales on the surface, I am sorry to\nsay--I remember three or four years ago speaking to my temporary\nlandlord of certain relics of Saint Teilo, which are supposed to be in\nthe keeping of a particular family in that country. The landlord is a\nvery jovial, merry fellow, and I observed with some astonishment that\nhis ordinary, easy manner was completely altered as he said, gravely,\n\"That will be over there, up by the mountain,\" pointing vaguely to the\nnorth. And he changed the subject, as a Freemason changes the subject.\n\nThere the matter lies, and its appositeness to the story of Llantrisant\nis this: that the dream of Olwen Phillips was, in fact, the Vision of\nthe Holy Graal.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nTHE MASS OF THE SANGRAAL\n\n\n\"_FFEIRIADWYR Melcisidec! Ffeiriadwyr Melcisidec!_\" shouted the old\nCalvinistic Methodist deacon with the grey beard. \"Priesthood of\nMelchizedek! Priesthood of Melchizedek!\"\n\nAnd he went on:\n\n\"The Bell that is like _y glwys yr angel ym mharadwys_--the joy of the\nangels in Paradise--is returned; the Altar that is of a colour that no\nmen can discern is returned, the Cup that came from Syon is returned,\nthe ancient Offering is restored, the Three Saints have come back to the\nchurch of the _tri sant_, the Three Holy Fishermen are amongst us, and\ntheir net is full. _Gogoniant, gogoniant_--glory, glory!\"\n\nThen another Methodist began to recite in Welsh a verse from Wesley's\nhymn.\n\n     God still respects Thy sacrifice,\n     Its savour sweet doth always please;\n     The Offering smokes through earth and skies,\n     Diffusing life and joy and peace;\n     To these Thy lower courts it comes\n     And fills them with Divine perfumes.\n\nThe whole church was full, as the old books tell, of the odour of the\nrarest spiceries. There were lights shining within the sanctuary,\nthrough the narrow archway.\n\nThis was the beginning of the end of what befell at Llantrisant. For it\nwas the Sunday after that night on which Olwen Phillips had been\nrestored from death to life. There was not a single chapel of the\nDissenters open in the town that day. The Methodists with their minister\nand their deacons and all the Nonconformists had returned on this Sunday\nmorning to \"the old hive.\" One would have said, a church of the Middle\nAges, a church in Ireland today. Every seat--save those in the chancel\n--was full, all the aisles were full, the churchyard was full; everyone\non his knees, and the old rector kneeling before the door into the holy\nplace.\n\nYet they can say but very little of what was done beyond the veil. There\nwas no attempt to perform the usual service; when the bells had stopped\nthe old deacon raised his cry, and priest and people fell down on their\nknees as they thought they heard a choir within singing \"Alleluya,\nalleluya, alleluya.\" And as the bells in the tower ceased ringing, there\nsounded the thrill of the bell from Syon, and the golden veil of\nsunlight fell across the door into the altar, and the heavenly voices\nbegan their melodies.\n\nA voice like a trumpet cried from within the brightness.\n\n_Agyos, Agyos, Agyos._\n\nAnd the people, as if an age-old memory stirred in them, replied:\n\n_Agyos yr T\u00e2d, agyos yr Mab, agyos yr Yspryd Glan. Sant, sant, sant,\nDrindod sant vendigeid. Sanctus Arglwydd Dduw Sabaoth, Dominus Deus._\n\nThere was a voice that cried and sang from within the altar; most of the\npeople had heard some faint echo of it in the chapels; a voice rising\nand falling and soaring in awful modulations that rang like the trumpet\nof the Last Angel. The people beat upon their breasts, the tears were\nlike rain of the mountains on their cheeks; those that were able fell\ndown flat on their faces before the glory of the veil. They said\nafterwards that men of the hills, twenty miles away, heard that cry and\nthat singing, roaring upon them on the wind, and they fell down on\ntheir faces, and cried, \"The offering is accomplished,\" knowing nothing\nof what they said.\n\nThere were a few who saw three come out of the door of the sanctuary,\nand stand for a moment on the pace before the door. These three were in\ndyed vesture, red as blood. One stood before two, looking to the west,\nand he rang the bell. And they say that all the birds of the wood, and\nall the waters of the sea, and all the leaves of the trees, and all the\nwinds of the high rocks uttered their voices with the ringing of the\nbell. And the second and the third; they turned their faces one to\nanother. The second held up the lost altar that they once called\nSapphirus, which was like the changing of the sea and of the sky, and\nlike the immixture of gold and silver. And the third heaved up high over\nthe altar a cup that was red with burning and the blood of the offering.\n\nAnd the old rector cried aloud then before the entrance:\n\n_Bendigeid yr Offeren yn oes oesoedd_--blessed be the Offering unto the\nage of ages.\n\nAnd then the Mass of the Sangraal was ended, and then began the passing\nout of that land of the holy persons and holy things that had returned\nto it after the long years. It seemed, indeed, to many that the\nthrilling sound of the bell was in their ears for days, even for weeks\nafter that Sunday morning. But thenceforth neither bell nor altar nor\ncup was seen by anyone; not openly, that is, but only in dreams by day\nand by night. Nor did the people see Strangers again in the market of\nLlantrisant, nor in the lonely places where certain persons oppressed by\ngreat affliction and sorrow had once or twice encountered them.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut that time of visitation will never be forgotten by the people. Many\nthings happened in the nine days that have not been set down in this\nrecord--or legend. Some of them were trifling matters, though strange\nenough in other times. Thus a man in the town who had a fierce dog that\nwas always kept chained up found one day that the beast had become mild\nand gentle.\n\nAnd this is odder: Edward Davies, of Lanafon, a farmer, was roused from\nsleep one night by a queer yelping and barking in his yard. He looked\nout of the window and saw his sheep-dog playing with a big fox; they\nwere chasing each other by turns, rolling over and over one another,\n\"cutting such capers as I did never see the like,\" as the astonished\nfarmer put it. And some of the people said that during this season of\nwonder the corn shot up, and the grass thickened, and the fruit was\nmultiplied on the trees in a very marvellous manner.\n\nMore important, it seemed, was the case of Williams, the grocer; though\nthis may have been a purely natural deliverance. Mr. Williams was to\nmarry his daughter Mary to a smart young fellow from Carmarthen, and he\nwas in great distress over it. Not over the marriage itself, but because\nthings had been going very badly with him for some time, and he could\nnot see his way to giving anything like the wedding entertainment that\nwould be expected of him. The wedding was to be on the Saturday--that\nwas the day on which the lawyer, Lewis Prothero, and the farmer, Philip\nJames, were reconciled--and this John Williams, without money or credit,\ncould not think how shame would not be on him for the meagreness and\npoverty of the wedding feast. And then on the Tuesday came a letter from\nhis brother, David Williams, Australia, from whom he had not heard for\nfifteen years. And David, it seemed, had been making a great deal of\nmoney, and was a bachelor, and here was with his letter a paper good for\na thousand pounds: \"You may as well enjoy it now as wait till I am\ndead.\" This was enough, indeed, one might say; but hardly an hour after\nthe letter had come the lady from the big house (Plas Mawr) drove up in\nall her grandeur, and went into the shop and said, \"Mr. Williams, your\ndaughter Mary has always been a very good girl, and my husband and I\nfeel that we must give her some little thing on her wedding, and we hope\nshe'll be very happy.\" It was a gold watch worth fifteen pounds. And\nafter Lady Watcyn, advances the old doctor with a dozen of port, forty\nyears upon it, and a long sermon on how to decant it. And the old\nrector's old wife brings to the beautiful dark girl two yards of creamy\nlace, like an enchantment, for her wedding veil, and tells Mary how she\nwore it for her own wedding fifty years ago; and the squire, Sir Watcyn,\nas if his wife had not been already with a fine gift, calls from his\nhorse, and brings out Williams and barks like a dog at him, \"Goin' to\nhave a weddin', eh, Williams? Can't have a weddin' without champagne, y'\nknow; wouldn't be legal, don't y' know. So look out for a couple of\ncases.\" So Williams tells the story of the gifts; and certainly there\nwas never so famous a wedding in Llantrisant before.\n\nAll this, of course, may have been altogether in the natural order; the\n\"glow,\" as they call it, seems more difficult to explain. For they say\nthat all through the nine days, and indeed after the time had ended,\nthere never was a man weary or sick at heart in Llantrisant, or in the\ncountry round it. For if a man felt that his work of the body or the\nmind was going to be too much for his strength, then there would come to\nhim of a sudden a warm glow and a thrilling all over him and he felt as\nstrong as a giant, and happier than he had ever been in his life before,\nso that lawyer and hedger each rejoiced in the task that was before him,\nas if it were sport and play.\n\nAnd much more wonderful than this or any other wonders was forgiveness,\nwith love to follow it. There were meetings of old enemies in the\nmarket-place and in the street that made the people lift up their hands\nand declare that it was as if one walked the miraculous streets of Syon.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut as to the \"phenomena,\" the occurrences for which, in ordinary talk,\nwe should reserve the word \"miraculous\"? Well, what do we know? The\nquestion that I have already stated comes up again, as to the possible\nsurvival of old tradition in a kind of dormant, or torpid,\nsemi-conscious state. In other words, did the people \"see\" and \"hear\"\nwhat they expected to see and hear? This point, or one similar to it,\noccurred in a debate between Andrew Lang and Anatole France as to the\nvisions of Joan of Arc. M. France stated that when Joan saw St. Michael,\nshe saw the traditional archangel of the religious art of her day, but\nto the best of my belief Andrew Lang proved that the visionary figure\nJoan described was not in the least like the fifteenth-century\nconception of St. Michael. So, in the case of Llantrisant, I have stated\nthat there was a sort of tradition about the Holy Bell of Teilo Sant;\nand it is, of course, barely possible that some vague notion of the\nGraal Cup may have reached even Welsh country folks through Tennyson's\nIdylls. But so far I see no reason to suppose that these people had ever\nheard of the portable altar (called Sapphirus in William of Malmesbury)\nor of its changing colours \"that no man could discern.\"\n\nAnd then there are the other questions of the distinction between\nhallucination and vision, of the average duration of one and the other,\nand of the possibility of collective hallucination. If a number of\npeople all see (or think they see) the same appearances, can this be\nmerely hallucination? I believe there is a leading case on the matter,\nwhich concerns a number of people seeing the same appearance on a church\nwall in Ireland; but there is, of course, this difficulty, that one may\nbe hallucinated and communicate his impression to the others,\ntelepathically.\n\nBut at the last, what do we know?\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"The Great Return","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":14115}