wasted away, Maydew called him, and asked
him to direct for him those two letters, as
his eyes were grown feeble. "Don't let it
be in your own hand," he added, "take care
of that." So our simple music man did as
he was bid, and wrote, not in his own or
anybody else's hand, a direction to Reverend
Doctor Dilly.

It might have been about a week after
that day, when Canon Maydew had somehow
pulled through his light fever, and was
gone for a few days (perhaps on a money
quest), that a rumour got abroad in the
town that Doctor Dilly, the Great Dean and
Magnus Apollo ecclesiastical, had received
certain letters of anonymous character:
letters that spoke plainly, and told him the
mind of the whole parish concerning him.
Presently there came to be no need for
mystery or rumour, or anything savouring of
uncertainty; for Doctor Dilly, with colour in
his swelled cheek, and fuming tempestuously,
was seen passing and repassing the little square
all day long, and was heard to proclaim with a
trumpet–tongue, that he would drag to light
the infamous author of those unsigned letters.
Such diaconal indignation could not well be
conceived; and indeed Lord R. Penguin and
the Honourable Mrs. Bolster joined in
agreeing that it was a monstrous affront.
Mrs. Blushington, Doctor Brown, and others
of that stamp, who had had the line drawn
between them and diaconal dining, were in
singular glee, and hoped he might receive a
bushel of them. As to the canons, lay and
cleric, they were all, as it were, bound hand
and foot, and dragged into the presence of
Doctor Dilly, to be fiercely put to the question;
but without profit.

"It is that mean, cringing fellow, Maydew,"
said Doctor Dilly, without disguise; and he
did not dissolve his Star Chamber.

The whole parish atmosphere hurtled with
speculation, clatter, scandal, and untiring
gossip. How would the thing end? Whose
was the guilty hand? Doctor Dilly fumed
to no purpose, and was likely to continue so
fuming, only for a sudden deus ex machina,
or theatrical god, which came to help him, in
the shape of Smug Wilmer Smythe, R.A.M.,
who, prying cursorily over the letter and its
direction, burst out, as inspired with sudden
afflatus:

"I know the writing! That fellow
Twingles has done it!" and, fetching from
his pocket another envelope, placed the two
together. One was disguised, beyond a doubt:
but still there was the same twirl and
flourish peeping out. It was unhappy
Twingles who had directed it, beyond all
question. No one had dreamt of that limping,
inoffensive, retiring person.

"Send over to his house," Doctor Dilly
said, visibly swelling. (Lord R. Penguin,
with other noble inquisitors, was present.)

Wilmer Smythe, R.A.M., walked to the
window, to hide his smirks of satisfaction.

Presently, Organist Twingles came shuffling
humbly in, and shrank away from the awful
countenances of the inquisitors. He felt
nervous before this terrible gathering, and his
shrunk white cheeks grew more white and
shrunk.

"Did you write this letter, sir?" said
Doctor Dilly, in tones that made the
prisoner's heart feel cold.

With trembling fingers he took it, and
tried to read it. "No, sir," he answered, "I
did not!"

"He dares to deny it," said the Grand
Inquisitor, looking round.

"Never wrote it, sir," Twingles answered,
gathering courage, "and let Heaven be my
witness!"

"Matchless effrontery?" murmured the
Dean, shaken a good deal, nevertheless.

"Show him the envelope," whispered
Familiar Smythe, R.A.M.

"Look at that, sir," says Doctor Dilly,
again, sternly.

Twingles looked at it, and started. "That's
like my writing," he said, doubtfully. "O, I
recollect."

"Ha! ha! " says Dean and Familiar,
together.

"Indeed, sir," says poor Twingles, almost
crouching, "I did not write it. I only—"
Then it all flashed upon him—his sick friend,
and the bed strewn with writing.

"Well, sir?" said the Dean.

But Organist Twingles was silent—had
seals upon his lips. No one word would he
speak, had they their rack, oiled and new–
roped, in the next room. He would not
betray his broken, wretched friend; though
he felt that those words would soon fit his
own case.

Mr. Dean saw how things were at once;
but voted him particeps criminis all the
same. He should rue it. He had got him
on the hip now, as he had said long before.
Out he should go, packing. Bring forth the
San Benito garment: give him over to the
Familiars. Wretched, miserable ex–Organist!
Smug Wilmer is now in thy room. Day of
jubilation for R.A.M.!!

Out he shall go! From the snug little
tenement (green door, ditto palings, and
shining knocker, two storied, and snug as a
baby house) which from time of the foundation
has been shifted from organist to
organist. From the little garden attached,
planted, sown, and cultivated by his own
hands. From the old town where he was
born and bred and reared up from a chorister
boy upwards. From the rookery where he
has grown to be an old man. Sunday to
Sunday, years after years. From old Silbermann
himself, dear old Dutch fellow—here
was cracking of heart–strings, wrenching of
old affections in the cruelest, deadliest way.
Out he must go, said Mr. Dean.

It was a Saturday evening, an evening
whereof the morning had brought him this