But all this time there is music pouring out of the organ-loft at the end of the church, and flooding all its spaces with its volume.In front of the organ is a choir of boys, led by a round-faced and jolly monk, who rolls about as he sings, and lets the deep bass noise rumble about a long time in his stomach before he pours it out of his mouth.I can see the faces of all of them quite well, for each singer has a candle to light his music-book.
And next to the monk stands the boy,--the handsomest boy in the whole world probably at this moment.I can see now his great, liquid, dark eyes, and his exquisite face, and the way he tossed back his long waving hair when he struck into his part.He resembled the portraits of Raphael, when that artist was a boy; only I think he looked better than Raphael, and without trying, for he seemed to be a spontaneous sort of boy.And how that boy did sing! He was the soprano of the choir, and he had a voice of heavenly sweetness.When he opened his mouth and tossed back his head, he filled the church with exquisite melody.
He sang like a lark, or like an angel.As we never heard an angel sing, that comparison is not worth much.I have seen pictures of angels singing, there is one by Jan and Hubert Van Eyck in the gallery at Berlin,--and they open their mouths like this boy, but Ican't say as much for their singing.The lark, which you very likely never heard either) for larks are as scarce in America as angels,--is a bird that springs up from the meadow and begins to sing as he rises in a spiral flight, and the higher he mounts, the sweeter he sings, until you think the notes are dropping out of heaven itself, and you hear him when he is gone from sight, and you think you hear him long after all sound has ceased.
And yet this boy sang better than a lark, because he had more notes and a greater compass and more volume, although he shook out his voice in the same gleesome abundance.
I am sorry that I cannot add that this ravishingly beautiful boy was a good boy.He was probably one of the most mischievous boys that was ever in an organ-loft.All the time that he was singing the vespers he was skylarking like an imp.While he was pouring out the most divine melody, he would take the opportunity of kicking the shins of the boy next to him, and while he was waiting for his part, he would kick out behind at any one who was incautious enough to approach him.There never was such a vicious boy; he kept the whole loft in a ferment.When the monk rumbled his bass in his stomach, the boy cut up monkey-shines that set every other boy into a laugh, or he stirred up a row that set them all at fisticuffs.
And yet this boy was a great favorite.The jolly monk loved him best of all and bore with his wildest pranks.When he was wanted to sing his part and was skylarking in the rear, the fat monk took him by the ear and brought him forward; and when he gave the boy's ear a twist, the boy opened his lovely mouth and poured forth such a flood of melody as you never heard.And he did n't mind his notes; he seemed to know his notes by heart, and could sing and look off like a nightingale on a bough.He knew his power, that boy; and he stepped forward to his stand when he pleased, certain that he would be forgiven as soon as he began to sing.And such spirit and life as he threw into the performance, rollicking through the Vespers with a perfect abandon of carriage, as if he could sing himself out of his skin if he liked.
While the little angels down below were pattering about with their wax tapers, keeping the holy fire burning, suddenly the organ stopped, the monk shut his book with a bang, the boys blew out the candles, and I heard them all tumbling down-stairs in a gale of noise and laughter.The beautiful boy I saw no more.
About him plays the light of tender memory; but were he twice as lovely, I could never think of him as having either the simple manliness or the good fortune of the New England boy.
ON HORSEBACK
I
"The way to mount a horse"- said the Professor.
"If you have no ladder--put in the Friend of Humanity.
The Professor had ridden through the war for the Union on the right side, enjoying a much better view of it than if he had walked, and knew as much about a horse as a person ought to know for the sake of his character.The man who can recite the tales of the Canterbury Pilgrims, on horseback, giving the contemporary pronunciation, never missing an accent by reason of the trot, and at the same time witch North Carolina and a strip of East Tennessee with his noble horsemanship, is a kind of Literary Centaur of whose double instruction any Friend of Humanity may be glad to avail himself.
"The way to mount a horse is to grasp the mane with the left hand holding the bridle-rein, put your left foot in the stirrup, with the right hand on the back of the saddle, and---"Just then the horse stepped quickly around on his hind feet, and looked the Professor in the face.The Superintendents of Affairs, who occupy the flagging in front of the hotel, seated in cane-bottomed chairs tilted back, smiled.These useful persons appear to have a life-lease of this portion of the city pavement, and pretty effectually block it up nearly all day and evening.When a lady wishes to make her way through the blockade, it is the habit of these observers of life to rise and make room, touching their hats, while she picks her way through, and goes down the street with a pretty consciousness of the flutter she has caused.The war has not changed the Southern habit of sitting out-of-doors, but has added a new element of street picturesqueness in groups of colored people lounging about the corners.There appears to be more leisure than ever.
