It is quite impossible to speak of the closing performance without being suspected, by those who have not heard it, of exaggeration. And, indeed, so differently are we constituted, that some will be charmed with a picture or statue, ravished with eloquence of oratory or music, and delighted with a landscape or waterfall, while others exposed to the same influences are as unmoved as the marble or the instrument. I know that I am not one of them, thanks to him who made us to differ; and I know, too, that they who sat near me, when the last grand movement of this organ was made, are not of them. For when the strong wind began to shake the walls of the old cathedral, the rain to pour in torrents on the roof, the thunder rolling in terrific majesty, “Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, Marching upon the storm in vengeance seemed,” we bowed our heads, with such a sense of awe and adoration, as could scarcely have been increased if the war of elements had indeed been bursting on us, and the voice of the Almighty had suddenly filled his temple. I will not describe the effect of this music: how it soothed, subdued, and melted the heart when its tenderest utterances fell like balm on a wounded spirit; how it carried me away to other days, and far-away lands, and lifted me again to thoughts of heaven and the harmonies of the saints; and so pure, so holy were the strains and the associations they brought with them, I wept that I had ever lived but in the hallowed atmosphere of the Good, the Unseen, and Infinite! Nor was this a transient sentiment, fading when the hour of such strange teaching was ended, and the gothic temple ceased to tremble with these majestic tones. It has followed me for days and nights among these stupendous mountain fastnesses, over ice-clad plains, where “motionless torrents, silent cataracts,” proclaim the power of him who “clothes them with rainbows,” only less lustrous than the one around his throne. I hear the voice of God everywhere, in this sublime and awful land. But if these silent works of his are eloquent to speak his praise, how much more is such a voice as that organ, the great achievement of a mind and hand that God made, endowed, and guided in their work. I have thought in years past that words are not essential to a train of thought: we think in words, always and only in words. But now I know that we need no words to make us feel, and words are not made that are capable of expressing what we feel. As we sat in silence beneath the majestic harmonies of this surpassing instrument, even so it were better that I had made no attempt to portray with pen what is not in the compass of words to utter. It is to be heard and felt and enjoyed.