testimony of their existence--music, "silver key of the fountain of

tears," child of love, soother of grief, inspirer of heroism and radiant

thoughts, O music, in this our desolation, we had forgotten thee! Nor pipe

at eve cheered us, nor harmony of voice, nor linked thrill of string; thou

camest upon us now, like the revealing of other forms of being; and

transported as we had been by the loveliness of nature, fancying that we

beheld the abode of spirits, now we might well imagine that we heard their

melodious communings. We paused in such awe as would seize on a pale

votarist, visiting some holy shrine at midnight; if she beheld animated and

smiling, the image which she worshipped. We all stood mute; many knelt. In

a few minutes however, we were recalled to human wonder and sympathy by a

familiar strain. The air was Haydn's "New-Created World," and, old and

drooping as humanity had become, the world yet fresh as at creation's day,

might still be worthily celebrated by such an hymn of praise. Adrian and I

entered the church; the nave was empty, though the smoke of incense rose

from the altar, bringing with it the recollection of vast congregations, in

once thronged cathedrals; we went into the loft. A blind old man sat at the

bellows; his whole soul was ear; and as he sat in the attitude of attentive

listening, a bright glow of pleasure was diffused over his countenance;

for, though his lack-lustre eye could not reflect the beam, yet his parted

lips, and every line of his face and venerable brow spoke delight. A young

woman sat at the keys, perhaps twenty years of age. Her auburn hair hung on

her neck, and her fair brow shone in its own beauty; but her drooping eyes

let fall fast-flowing tears, while the constraint she exercised to suppress

her sobs, and still her trembling, flushed her else pale cheek; she was

thin; languor, and alas! sickness, bent her form. We stood looking at the

551

The Last Man