trouble—a cold, frosty, nipping, grey–tinted
evening. Of an indigo tinted, bluish grey
complexion that sent spirits down to lowest
Fahrenheit point. There was a sombre look
over the town also, it being whispered with
mystery that the conspiracy had been
discovered and the guilty parties punished. It
was a great thing to talk of, a great gossiping
god–send. The question was, who would
play the evening service at three o'clock.

That would set men's minds at rest.
Certainly it would. Three o'clock came, and with
it the greatest gathering known for years back
at a week–day's service. The pious folk felt a
sudden yearning for week–day religious nutriment,
and so they clustered in and filled every
nook of the place. The Dean himself was
present and triumphant: so was Lord R.
Penguin who, with a noble relation of his, was
to dine that evening with Mr. Dean. The
auspicious exploding of this new gunpowder–
plot should be decently celebrated. But who
was to play? Any who might be loitering
near the bottom of the church might have
heard feeble, tottering footsteps shuffling up
the narrow stairs leading to the rookery.
Such as looked back would have seen the
poor bent figure, grown older by ten years
since the morning, dragging itself with
difficulty to the feet of old Silbermann. The
smug, R.A.M., was not so ready (nor fitted,
perhaps) to undertake the handling of him
at an instant's warning; was shy and
nervous, and himself asked of the ejected organist
to play for one service more. "For the last
time," said Twingles, with a choking in his
throat, "certainly, for the last time." And
so tottered on to his bench, drew out his
stops, and rubbed together his long thin
fingers before laying them on the keys. Many
eyes from below wandered furtively to the
gnarled clusters of silver Silbermann; the
great antique decorated poop and lantern
being between them and the player. But
who shall be the player?

Finally it comes. Such a rich tumultuous
sweep of sound from every golden throat of
melodious Silbermann: such sweet, full
luxuriance: such overflow of harmony, going
home to hearts of the most unmusical there
present: such dying falls: such stirring
ascensions: such low wails of sound: Silbermann,
with all his olden fame, would scarcely
be credited capable of. Every bit of ancient
oak, the dark marble counters lying in
corners, John, second Earl of Beagles, noble
Janet his wife, acrobatic kinsmen and children
perched up and down on uncomfortable points
and corners—even the august cap and tassel
of our stony dean set up on edge before him
—all were felt to vibrate musically to the
strange pedal thrum of old Dutch Silbermann.
Were there pipes lurking secretly within
him, never till this hour thought of? So he
played on—played them through it all—
until it came to playing of them out—for the
last time. He was grand, prodigious,
magnificent, the new organist! Though our
sympathies are with the poor evicted one,
still must it be conceded that Smith, R.A.M.,
was a giant among the stops and pedals. So
the men and women of the little town thought
in their heart of hearts, as they trooped down
to the porch—being played out—their eyes
wandering speculatively to the gallery, where
behind his Spanish poop, there was a hurricane
blowing and ship's timbers creaking,
and our poor Twingles possessed as by some
sweet musical devil, was riding the storm.
So he played them out, for the last, time,
until the last soul was clear of the porch.
Then brought all up with a full swelling
chord: and to him Silbermann was to be
now silent for ever. O, the sore, straining,
and long distending of those heart strings, as
he moved away, only to be drawn back again
to the shadow of loved Silbermann. Such
violent agonising stretching for poor old ex–
organist! Would he ever be set free, save
by sudden snap and rupture of the ligaments?
Had there been any prying souls left in the
church—but it was only the little cherubs'
heads, so queerly cut out of stone, on the tops
of the great pillars, and whom nothing
escapes, that saw him do it—they must have
observed him return softly when he had
locked old Silbermann up for ever, and press
his lips fervently on the keyhole. Then he
fled away, and was gone, with all scanty
goods, by the night coach.

When it had got wind that, after all, it was
not Smug Smith, with his Roman letters, who
had so handled great Silbermann, but poor,
expelled Twingles, there was much sensation.
The noble person joined in ties of
consanguinity to my lord, and who was what
is called a distinguished amateur, swore,
with a noble oath, that it was a shame to
turn out a fellow like that. By something!
if he were dean and chapter and the rest
of them, he would double the man's
salary and set him up there for good.
Everlasting punishment on—(word of four
letters only)—these country town little
squabbles. Why, up in London, they would
see,—the man would get his own price—
everlasting punishment on himself if he
couldn't. To which Doctor Dilly very
doubtfully said, "Only wait till they heard
the new organist, that was all." And they
might as well, for he was to begin
tomorrow. So back again to the little
cathedral.

Sunday in the cathedral. Dean, minor
canonry, vicars–choral—distinguished persons—
and smart audience as before. Second
Baron Beagles and the noble Janet his wife,
with their noble progeny; heirs male of the
body, lawfully begotten, perched, pigeon–
wise, on the sharp edges and corners as
before. Great Silbermann as before, in
aspect, that is. Organist not as before. Nor
indeed.