Ghost Stories of an Antiquary

If anyone is curious about my local settings, let it be recorded that StBertrand de Comminges and Viborg are real places: that in “Oh, Whistle,and I’ll Come to You” I had Felixstowe in mind. As for thefragments of ostensible erudition which are scattered about my pages, hardlyanything in them is not pure invention; there never was, naturally, any suchbook as that which I quote in “The Treasure of Abbot Thomas”.“Canon Alberic’s Scrap-book” was written in 1894 and printedsoon after in the National Review, “Lost Hearts” appeared inthe Pall Mall Magazine; of the next five stories, most of which wereread to friends at Christmas-time at King’s College, Cambridge, I onlyrecollect that I wrote “Number 13” in 1899, while “TheTreasure of Abbot Thomas” was composed in the summer of 1904.

M. R. JAMES

CANON ALBERIC’S SCRAP-BOOK

St Bertrand de Comminges is a decayed town on the spurs of the Pyrenees, notvery far from Toulouse, and still nearer to Bagnères-de-Luchon. It was the siteof a bishopric until the Revolution, and has a cathedral which is visited by acertain number of tourists. In the spring of 1883 an Englishman arrived at thisold-world place—I can hardly dignify it with the name of city, for thereare not a thousand inhabitants. He was a Cambridge man, who had come speciallyfrom Toulouse to see St Bertrand’s Church, and had left two friends, whowere less keen archaeologists than himself, in their hotel at Toulouse, underpromise to join him on the following morning. Half an hour at the church wouldsatisfy them, and all three could then pursue their journey in thedirection of Auch. But our Englishman had come early on the day in question,and proposed to himself to fill a note-book and to use several dozens of platesin the process of describing and photographing every corner of the wonderfulchurch that dominates the little hill of Comminges. In order to carry out thisdesign satisfactorily, it was necessary to monopolize the verger of the churchfor the day. The verger or sacristan (I prefer the latter appellation,inaccurate as it may be) was accordingly sent for by the somewhat brusque ladywho keeps the inn of the Chapeau Rouge; and when he came, the Englishman foundhim an unexpectedly interesting object of study. It was not in the personalappearance of the little, dry, wizened old man that the interest lay, for hewas precisely like dozens of other church-guardians in France, but in a curiousfurtive, or rather hunted and oppressed, air which he had. He was perpetuallyhalf glancing behind him; the muscles of his ba

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