Chopin sometimes sat in the choir and played the organ. One day when the celebrant had sung the “Oremus,” Frederic improvised, in a highly ingenious manner, on the motive of the portion of the mass already performed, working out the fundamental thought with the most interesting combinations and contrapuntal devices. The choristers and band, spell-bound by the magic power of his fancy, left their desks, and surrounded the player, listening with rapt attention, as if they had been in the concert room rather than the church. The priest, at the altar, patiently awaited the conclusion, but the sacristan rushed angrily into the choir, exclaiming: “what the d—— are you doing? The priest has twice intoned, _Per omnia sæcula sæculorum_, the ministrant has rung repeatedly, and still you keep on playing. The superior who sent me is out of all patience.” [Sidenote: HIS REVERIE IN CHURCH.] Chopin awoke from his reverïe, and his hands lay motionless on the keys. Although his wonderful improvisations generally cost him but little trouble, he spared no pains when preparing a work for publication. When absorbed by a thought he would brood over it for hours and days in perfect silence and solitude. What passed in the soul of the tone-poet at these seasons cannot be described; with such psychological conditions the imaginative can sympathise, and all who are sensible to the influences of poetry and art may in some measure understand. Chopin had an instrument in his bed-room, and often worked far on into the night; sometimes when the rest of the household were asleep, he would spring out of bed, rush to his piano, and strike a few chords, developing some immatured thought, or resolving some imperfect harmony. Then he would lie down, but only to rise and do the same thing again, daylight frequently finding him thus occupied. The servants, by whom Frederic was much beloved, but who could not understand such proceedings, shook their heads compassionately, and said, “The poor young gentlemanʼs mind is affected.” When on an excursion with his father to the suburbs, or spending his holidays in the country, he always listened attentively to the song of the reaper, and the tune of the peasant fiddler, fixing in his memory and delighting to idealise these frequently original and expressive melodies. He often wondered who was the creator of the beautiful melodies interwoven in the Mazurkas, Cracoviennes, and Polonaises, and how the Polish peasants learnt to sing and play the violin with such purity. No one could give him any information. Indeed both the words and melodies of these songs are the creation of several minds. An artless, spontaneous melody, poured forth by one person, is altered, and perhaps improved, by another, and so passes from mouth to mouth till finally it becomes a possession of all the people. Slavonic folk-songs differ greatly from the Romance and Germanic; they are historical records of the feelings, customs, and character of the people.[8]