of the country, we had the highest possible development of the powers of the instrument and the ability of the organist. Something in the circumstances doubtless added to the dramatic effect of the exhibition. The cathedral seemed to be full of people, but a few only could be seen, and a sense of solemnity, devotion, awe, began to steal upon me as I sat waiting for the first notes of the organ, which was lighted only by a single candle, and that unseen, so that the instrument seemed away among the stars. Some of its pipes are thirty-two feet long. They are 7,800 in number, with sixty-four stops. As I looked up expectant, I thought, “Oh, if it had only a soul!” And then, just then, a breath of melody, so soft, so sweet, so soul-like, came along on the still air, it might have been the first notes of the advent song of peace that fell like this by night over Bethlehem. This gentle stream of music rose and swelled into a river of melody that soon burst its banks and became a rushing torrent of sound, mighty in its power, almost awful in its expression. This was but the prelude. Then came, in successive anthems, songs and passages of master-pieces of the great composers; some of them familiar, all of them exquisite in their effect, to illustrate the wondrous faculties of this uninspired, untenanted mechanism, that was yet able to represent with such fidelity the deep and lofty, the softest and strongest emotions of the soul. Now, the imitation of the human voice was so perfect, it required an effort of the mind to believe that a living being was _not_ rendering those plaintive strains in some distant chamber of this vast hall; and now, the ring of bells broke musically on the ear, and the far-away toll of some solemn church-bell added its voice to the harmony. The Alpine horn, the flute, and other instruments were so distinctly given, it was hard to comprehend the truth that, in the midst of one grand performance, on a single instrument, so many and so distinct and perfect imitations of others could be introduced. Perhaps nothing was more beautiful than the tinkling of water dropping into a fountain; yet, when one effect had been enjoyed, as if the most complete, another soon succeeded, so delicate and so touching, that it seemed as if the last were more lovely than all which had been heard before.