THE GREAT ORGAN. 297 



away on the winds of century after century. Then stole 

 out on the air a low, sad, thrilling note which struggled 

 at first as if it was an unearthly voice endeavoring to 

 catch the key-note of our suffering nature. It sobbed, 

 and broke, and wailed mournfully a little while, and then 

 it rose and swelled, until it caught the voice of the wind 

 that was thundering over the mountain-top, and like a 

 cataract let loose it sprang into unison with the tempest. 

 Then the story began. It was not Fra Bartolomeo that 

 did it, at least that thought never entered my mind ; it 

 was the spirit of the splendid instrument, shut up I know 

 not how many years in the old chapel, that now began to 

 recite the story of the monks of St. Benedict. One died 

 in prison, and the clanging doors made discord with his 

 miserere; one perished on the battle-field, and the rush of 

 armed hosts, the tread of horses, fierce battle-cries, chok- 

 ing death-gasps and shrieks of agony mingled with the 

 solemn mine dimittis. One sank in the ocean, and the 

 waves dashed over rocks as the story of his death was re- 

 cited. One died in the arms of his mother, and her 

 voice, intensely human and womanly, wailed over him. 

 Then the history rose to greater themes, as men measure 

 greatness, and I heard of kings and priests in many lands 

 who had honored the order, and their national hymns, 

 one after another, shook the walls of the gorgeous church. 

 I can give no idea of the power of this instrument. 

 Every ordinary wind and stringed instrument was imi- 

 tated with perfection ; and the human voice, in solo or in 

 chorus, seemed to be a part of the organ. For just one 

 hour I sat in silence, awed, astonished, nay, astounded, 

 by a power I had never dreamed of before. Then it 

 ceased, and in the silence Fra Bartolomeo glided noise- 

 lessly across the church, pale, slender, with the same sad 



