The Rev. John Pye began the service; it was his week for chanting. He
was one of the senior minor canons, and head-master of the college
school. At the desk opposite to him sat the Rev. William Yorke, a young
man who had only just gained his minor canonry.
The service went on smoothly until the commencement of the anthem. In
one sense it went on smoothly to the end, for no person present, not
even the judges themselves, could see that anything was wrong. Mr. Pye
was what was called "chanter" to the cathedral, which meant that it was
he who had the privilege of selecting the music for the chants and
other portions of the service, when the dean did not do so himself. The
anthem he had put up for this occasion was a very good one, taken from
the Psalms of David. It commenced with a treble solo; it was, moreover,
an especial favourite of Mr. Pye's; and he complacently disposed
himself to listen.
But no sooner was the symphony over, no sooner had the first notes of
the chorister sounded on Mr. Pye's ear, than his face slightly flushed,
and he lifted his head with a sharp, quick gesture. _That_ was not the
voice which ought to have sung this fine anthem; that was a cracked,
_passee_ voice, belonging to the senior chorister, a young gentleman of
seventeen, who was going out of the choir at Michaelmas. He had done
good service for the choir in his day, but his voice was breaking now;
and the last time he had attempted a solo, the bishop (who interfered
most rarely with the executive of the cathedral; and, indeed, it was
not his province to do so) had spoken himself to Mr.
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