Then let us stand on the broad stone steps beneath the clanging chimes and gilded spire. See the white-gloved drivers curb the prancing steeds—the liveried footmen hold the blazoned door, while silken trains sweep down the carriage step and rustle up the aisle. Let us go in and stand in the purpled gloom of the soft stained light. The golden legend over the chancel is illegible in the darkness, and only the bright figures on the windows up in the vaulted roof show that the glorious sunlight is over the earth. The tufted aisles make no echo to the footsteps, and the only sound is the occasional closing of a pew door by the silent ushers. The cushioned seats are filled, the gas jets around the preacher’s stand are lit, and all is so hushed we almost expect the sermon to be whispered, when, with a trembling sob, as if its very pipes were sinful, the organ’s wail of penitence is heard. Moaning and groaning at the very bottom of its voice, it grows louder and higher, till its weird minor strains peal through the church, as if its windy heart will burst, and still higher and higher it screams and shrieks, in its agony of remorse, then, with a galop down the scale, it breaks out into a lively polka of forgiveness, and is as happy as an organ can be, till its jig-and-break-down repertoire is exhausted, when it stands on one leg of a note and waits for the singing. A low, soft trill, like a mocking bird’s song at night, breaks forth from we know not where, and its quivering melody fills the vast edifice; but ere we have discovered its source or meaning it is joined by another sound—a high zooning tone—like a bee far up in the air. This follows the first through all its wonderful manœuvres, and a faint conception begins to dawn on us that perhaps a song is intended. This idea is entertained for a few seconds, when it is forever put to flight by the sudden, sonorous bellowing of a bull over its slaughtered kindred, and while its terrible tones are thundering from the floor to the roof, we find that it, too, is following the others, and adding its powerful roar to their melody. But surprises are not over yet, for just as the three get fairly under way, they are quickly joined by a bronchial cat, unusually hoarse, that also takes after the others, though on a lower key and in strange fuzzy tones. This zoological vocale is persevered in by the four till, at last, they approximate a tune. We have some light thrown on the subject from the remark of a gentleman with an eye-glass to a lady with diamonds sitting just in front of us:
“Trilla’s soprano is better to-day in Te Deum than ‘twas last evening in Trovatore, but Catta’s contralto is horrid.” “Taurini’s bass is magnificent, though, isn’t it?” the young fop adds in a whisper, as, with a long orchestral flourish, the organ ceases to play and the services commence. Worshipping God by proxy! Because Taurini has a richer, better voice, and can say “We praise Thee, oh! God” in a deeper tone than we, we pay him to say it in our most holy place, careless whether an oath were last on his lips, or an early bar-room his only preparation for the Sabbath. But all is so different from the little wooden church, that we almost feel that they are serving another God with a different religion. We feel out of place and disappointed, and are about to leave, when the preacher ascends the pulpit and announces his text:
“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have eternal life.”
We are at home now; the same verse that has brought tears from the simple minded, carries conviction to the heart of the rich and the wise. Though the service in its appointments may be fanciful—though the sermon be burdened with rhetorical roses, or ridiculous in rustic exposition, or flagrant misconstruction—Christ’s words stand forth with the same grandeur of simplicity and force as they did when the trembling, conscience-convicted Sanhedrimite sought Him in the darkness, and received the light of God.
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
The first of October found us all again in Wilmington. Father returned from Havana the latter part of September, having completed all the necessary arrangements in reference to Carlotta’s property. He found the agent reliable, and having proved the death and identity of Mr. Rurleston, he administered on the estate, and qualified as guardian for Carlotta under the Spanish law.
Ned and I began the winter in hard study, as our last session in a preparatory school. Frank, however, declared his intention of going to Chapel Hill, the seat of the University of North Carolina, in January, and joining the Freshman Class, half advanced, getting the advantage of a year’s start by the half session.
Sure enough, in January he left for the Hill, and we soon received letters from him telling of the wonderful charms of college life, and of the rapid progress he was making in his studies.
The spring passed and Frank came home a Sophomore. Ned and I felt quite tame before him, though his foppish ways and overbearing air only added to the dislike I entertained for him.