the door, that
made my old heart leap with joy and pride. I never expected it; and the
soft tones of the harmonium, and the blending of the children's voices,
floating out there in the dark of the little chapel, made tears of
delight stream down the wrinkles of my cheeks. And what was the
_Gloria_, do you think? From Mozart's "Twelfth Mass," if you please.
Nothing else would do. The pride of Kilronan is gone so high since that
famous concert, that I am almost sure they would challenge the seraphim
to a fair contest, that is, if the latter would put aside their golden
viols and sambucae, and compete only with their voices against the "new
choir of Kilronan." I violated egregiously one strict rubric at the
_Dominus vobiscum_. I raised my eyes and took a good long look at choir
and people. I couldn't help it. If Martinucci and Baruffaldi, Gavantus
and Merati, Gardellini and Bauldry, and the whole Congregation of Sacred
Rites were there in the front bench, I couldn't help myself. I kept my
hands open for at least a quarter of a minute, whilst I surveyed my
little congregation. It was a pathetic sight. The lights from the altar
shone on the faces of Captain Campion and Bittra, and one or two of the
better-class parishioners on the front bench; but all behind were buried
in a deep well of darkness. I could barely distinguish the pale faces of
the confused mass that stretched in the deep gloom towards the door; but
overhead, about a dozen dark figures were outlined against the light of
the two wax candles on the harmonium, over which, on this eventful
morning, Father Letheby presided. And this was the object of the concert
at last. I should have known that there was some supernatural object
behind it. This young man does not care much to develop or elicit the
dormant energies of the people, unless he can turn therewith the mills
of God. But what trouble it must have given him! How many a cold night
did he leave his room, and there, on that gallery, contend with the
rough and irregular voices, until he brought them into that stream of
perfect unison. I can imagine what patience he exercised, what subtle
flatteries he administered, what gentle sarcasm he applied, before he
succeeded in modulating the hoarse thunders of Dave Olden's voice, that
rose like a fog-horn over the winds and waves whenever he ventured upon
the high seas; and how he cut off remorselessly the grace-notes of Abby
Lyden, who has begun to think herself an Alba