The Somerset press. [volume] (Somerset, Ohio) 1873-1977, 1878-12-19
OUR STORY TELLER
SAVED BY A SONG.

II was Christmas Eve. A cold, old |
fashioned Christmas, with snow lying
thick on the ground and still falling
heavily, with touch of fog in the air.
1t was past ten o'clock, and the streets
and lanes of the great city were all but
deserted. Merchant and broker, clerk
and warehousemen, and the rest of the
busy crowd who had thronged those
streets by day, had. one by one drifted
away TO their homes, and the lofty ware
house loomed black and forbidding over
the silent thoroughfares. Here and
there the CLEAN Of a solitary window
struggled Intellectually with the outer
darkness, and served but to bring into
stronger relief the general gloom and
solitude.
And nowhere was the darkness deeper
ur the scene Of desolation more profound
than in st. Winifred's court. St. Wini-
fred's is one of those queer little alleys
which intersect the heart of eastern
London, and consists, with one excep-
tion, of houses let out as offices, and
utterly deserted at night. The court is
bounded on one side by st. Winifred's
Church, while in one corner stands a
quaint old house, occupying a nearly
triangular piece of ground, and forming
the exception we have referred to, hav-
ing been for many years the residence
of st. Winifred's organist, Michael Fray.
The only sign of life, on this Christ
mas Eve, in st. Winifred's court, was
faint gleam of Pickering freight pro-
ceeding from one of the windows of the
quaint three-cornered house in which
,a
istence. Many years before the period
VT our story, the same month had taken
from him vile and child, and since
that time Michael Fray had lived DESC
late, his only solace being the rare old
organ, the friend and companion of his
lonely hours. The loss of his wife and
daughter had left him without kith or
kin. His father and mother had died
in his early youth, an only brother, q
gifted but wayward youth, had run
away to sea, and had there found a
watery grave. Being thus left alone in
the world, Michael Fray's love fol
music, which had always been the mos
marked feature of his character, haC
become intensified into an absolut,
pas, ion. Evening after evening, whel
darkness had settled on the city, ant
none could complain that his music in
terfered with business or distracted tn
attention from the noble clink of gold
he was accustomed to creep quietly int
the church and there "talk to himself,
as he called it, at the old organ, whic
answered him back again with tende
sympathy and power of consolatio
which NJ mere human listener coul
ever have afforded. The organ of S
Winifred's was of comparatively sma
size and made but scanty show of pipe
or pedals; but the blackened case an
yellow much-worn keys had been fast
ioned by the cunning brain and skillfl
fingers of Father Smith" himself, an
never had the renowned old orgal
builder turned out more skillful pie(
of workmanship. And Michael Fra,
by use of years and loving tender stud
had got by heart every pipe and stop
the rare old instrument, and had a
quired AN almost magical power
bringing out its tenderest tones ar
noblest harmonies.
Hear him this Christmas Eve, as
sits before the ancient keyboard, OF
. feeble candle dimly glimmering ov
the well-worn page before him; flicke
ing weirdly over the ancient carvin
and calling into momentary life the ei
gies of mitred abbot and mailed or
sader. A feeble old man, whose san
OF life have all but run out; a sad
weak and tremulous old man, with sha
ing hands and dim, uncertain eyes. Br
when they are placed upon those yellc
keys, the shaking hands shake
longer; the feeble sight finds no lab
in those well-remembered pages. g
der the touch of Michael Fray's de
fingers the ancient organ becomes
stinct with life and harmony. The gra
old masters lend their noblest strai,
and, could they revisit earth, need a
no better interpreter. From sadd,
vail ofsorrow to sweetest strain of &C
and lost, to the paan of the iubila
victor-each shade of human passiC
each tender message of divine enco
agement, take form and color in g
oession, under the magic of that
mans touch. Thus, sometimes borrC
ing the song of other singers, sometin
wandering into quaint Eolian harr
nies, the spontaneous overflow of his o
rare genius, Michael Fray sat q
made music, charming his sorrows
temporary sleep.
Time crept on, but the player heet
it not, till the heavy bell in the toy
above mis- head doomed forth the h'
of midnight, and recalled him to re
ity again. With two or three wall
minor chords he brought his weird
provisation to an end.
Dear me-" he said, with he;
sigh, christmas againl Christi
againl How many times, l wond
Well, this will be the last; and
Christmas comes again, and finds
here still, all alone. Dear, dear! Fl
poor Dick; and then my darling A
and little Nell-all gone! Young
bright and merry-all takenl i
here am I-old, sad and friendle
and yet live on, live onl Well,
pose God knows bestp While I
thinking aloud, the old man was
parently searching for something am
his music books, and now produced
ancient page of manuscript, worr
most to fragments, but pasted for |
ervation on a piece of paper of
date. eyes, here it is, poor d
Christmas song. What a sweet '
he had, dear boy! If he had
lived-but there I'm murmuring az