The Sun.
London, England, 1859-09-05 00:00:00

THE NEGLECTED ORGANIST.

And now, turning into vast courts and rnder
immense walls, like the fortress walls of a city, we
see, on a lofty tower which rises above a lordly en-
trance, the tattered hatchrnent of the fast earl, slowly
flapping in the wind, and passing through a wicket
in the door of a wide arched entrance, we find our-
selves in the gorgeous chapel of the old line. Two
faiths as well as two families dispute the possession
of this place, and we are led onward by a pale-
faced young man, whose heart yearns to the old
Romish religion, and who sees in every ornament
of this sainted chapel a portion, as it were, of his
own soul. He is mean-looking, and has an anxious,
depressed countenance.. He points out the grand,
pictures, the jewelled crucifix, the holy emblazon-
ment of the altar, the sacred purport of each splen-
did window, with a deep sigh. He cannot speak
without sighing, for he is very anxious and sorrow-
ful. He evidently has no joyful hope from the long-
delayed telegraphic message. And now he turns our
eyes from the caryatidal rows of kneeling angels, each
rending a book emblazoned with gold and crimson
—from saint and symbol, from old family pr:mp of
worship, and the encrusted ornamentation of the
chancel, representing one mass of jewels—from all
these he turns our eyes, and, with melancholy de-
meanour, claims our attention for the magnificent
organ, which, facing the altar, rises aloft, as it were,
among the kneeling angels, the mournful majesty
of unuttered music. "To think," ho says, "that
it has been silent all these years !" " You love
music, then," we say. " Better than anything else
in the world," is his short reply. " But mass is
performed here still," we observe, "though there is
no family." " Only low mass," he says, with that
mournful cadence, " and, therefore, no music."
" But do not you yourself play on the organ ?" we
inquire. " Yes," he answers, when there is any
one to blow ; there is a man in the village who
blows for me sometimes, and a servant in the house
when he has time. It is a splendid organ," says he
proudly, "with three sets of keys !" " Will you
not play for us ?" we ask. He looks at us with his
melancholy eyes; as if measuring our worthiness
for so great a privilege, and says, "Yes, I will."
We leave the chapel, and ascending two flights of
stairs, the first of which lands us on a level with
the gilded gallery in which the great family had
knelt to worship our Lord and His mother, we
stand face to face with the mighty slumbering soul
of music, which that melancholy, young man is
about to awake. Of course, if he plays we must
blow ; accordingly, mounting upon a low step, first
one and then the other works the heavy iron lever
which gives breath to the Leviathan ; and the
next moment the lofty chapel, from the highest
centre of its roof to the lowest level of its floor, seems
to throb and heave with the swelling pulsations
oft he most wonderful melody. It is bard work to
blow that great organ, but light indeed for such a
repayment ; and not more astonishing than the
pulsing, surging torrent of harmony which pealed
forth into the silence is the total change in that
young man's being. No longer dim-eyed, dreamy,
and melancholy, he sits there an inspired musician,
with flushed cheek and upturned eyes, as a brother
of St. Cecilia might have appeared. First,,he gives
expression to a low, mournful symphony, as if all
the surrounding angels were lamenting the sorrows
and humiliations of their church. Anything sadder,
grander, or more heart-touching cannot be conceived.
It is as if the immense sorrow with which our Lord
wept over Jerusalem had here found expression.
Then follows another strain. Above the lamenting
voices of the angels is heard the triumph of the
eternal church, which no time or change can over-
turn, the jubilant utterance of thousands and tens
of thousands whose garments are washed white in
the blood of the Lamb, who have come forward
from great tribulation and suffering, from contumely
and poverty, to be crowned kings, rejoicing for
ever and ever !—.lllary Hotoitt, in " The Eclectic"
for September,