A Reverie During an Organ Recital at the Tabernacle

A Reverie During an Organ Recital at the Tabernacle BY AUGUSTINE DWYER, M. A. The winter afternoon was wearing on to its dull close. The great sun at setting had looked with steadfast eye upon the spires of the Temple, and before throwing his final glance across the world toward the east, lit up with a faint radiance the golden statue of the Angel Moroni, and rested on it like a smile of peace. At such an hour I wended my way toward the portals of the Tabernacle. I became one of the great crowd that climbed the stairway to the sweeping gallery where through the passing years, thousands have come, and thousands have gone, each bearing his burden of grief and sorrow, the common destiny of the common lot. Who they were, I knew not, whence they came, I knew not, but this I knew, that they had come with the same expectancy that I had come — to hear the glorious music of the great world-famed organ. A solemn stillness rested upon the waiting multitude. For a moment "the restless pulse of care was still." Every ear was strained to listen. I noticed near me such evidences of restlessness as betray in a seated throng high-wrought expectancy of some pleasure too long deferred. But at last the performer took his place at the keyboard. And now there was a breathless hush, as from the heart of the organ, a low, minor prelude was heard, making its way through the great Tabernacle, falling upon listening ears like the first notes of the advent song that fell upon the hills of Bethlehem, announcing the birth of the Prince of Peace. From my place in the gallery I could see the face of the player. His eyes fairly beamed with the harmony he was bringing forth from the mighty instrument. I now understood why the name of Prof. McClellan is hallowed in the hearts of all the lovers of music who have sat under the spell of his genius. And then the tones swelled in volume, beautiful and clear, more tender than love, more solemn than death, the organ poured

A REVERIE 1027 out the sweet strains of a selection from Verdi's opera // Trovatore. When these majestic strains died away, once more the skillful fingers of the performer swept the keys, and the organ gave forth the grand old hymn, "Nearer, My God, to Thee." It was like the cry of divine hunger to the throne of love. Still higher and higher it rose, clear and uncommingled to the vaulted roof, borne triumphantly upward, as if by love and aspiration, until its volume of harmony seemed spending itself in an effort to make itself understood in the ear of God. Solemn and sweet the sounds penetrated the whole edifice. They impressed the heart as if heaven had come down a little nearer to earth, so that its melodies might soothe the souls of struggling, suffering men. With eyes closed one could have supposed it was music from the heavenly city. Slowly the majestic strains of the old hymn died away. There was a pause. The stillneess of death was on the listening throng. The full organ now sent out a gentle stream of music ; it rose and fell 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. It thundered like the mighty fall of Niagara; it wailed like a prophet warning a sinful people of the wrath of an offended God. Then came, in successive anthems, songs, and passages of masterpieces 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 recess of the great Tabernacle. And now the Alpine horn, the flute and other instruments were so distinctively 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

1028 IMPROVEMENT ERA last were more lovely than all which had been heard before. It is quite impossible to speak of a performance on this great organ of the "Mormon" Tabernacle without being suspected, by those who have not heard it, of exaggeration. My body and spirit seemed ravished in ecstasy. I was transported and wrapt in contemplation, so that there was no room left in my mind except for divine and heavenly raptures. I was no longer a creature of earth. There had come to me a foretaste of that joy eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, nor hath the human heart conceived. I opened my eyes, looked at the golden pipes, and wondered if the organ had a soul. I simply cannot 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 great Tabernacle ceased to tremble with these majestic tones, as if the voice of the Almighty had suddenly filled it. The tones of that organ have followed me for days and nights. They followed me into the mountain fastnesses of Emigration Canyon, amid snow-capped peaks, bounding torrents and roaring cataracts, proclaiming the power of Him who created them. I hear the voice of God everywhere in the sublime natural scenery of this lovely land of Utah. But if these lofty mountains, with their Titan peaks, if these mighty waterfalls and warring Niagaras, if the great Salt Lake and its hidden mysteries, if the gigantic rocks and awful precipices ; if these 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 since listening to the great organ of the Tabernacle, I know that we need no words to make us feel, and words are not made that are capable of expressing what we feel. Even so, as I draw

A REVERIE 1029 the description of this reverie to a close, I feel that perhaps it were better that I had made no attempt to portray with pen what is not in the compass of words to utter. The tones of that mighty instrument are to be heard, and felt and enjoyed. That winter afternoon has passed into eternity. The throng that listened have scattered. I sometimes wonder if in life's turmoil they still catch fragments of the music that entered their souls that winter afternoon, and bore them upward to the heights of peace. I sometimes wonder, and as I wonder, I pray : God bless them, one and all, wherever they may be. Writing from Christiania, Norway, April 27, Elder Lorenzo Swenson says: "At our conference held a short time ago there were thirty-two missionaries present— two ladies and two boys, and a large attendance of Saints and friends from this and other branches. One concert and six meetings were held, including a session of each of the M. I. A. and Sunday School. The business of the conference was transacted, and interesting and instructive sermons were given by elders Andrew Jenson, Martin Christopherson, John Halvorsen, C. M. Nielsen and others. Many strangers were in attendance and we believe much good will result. The elders are now in their fields of labor, from Odalen on the north to Arendal on the south, on both sides of the fjord. Many desire to know the truth, but it is hard for them to believe that the teachings of 'Mormonism' are the divine doctrines of Christ; nevertheless, by the help of the Lord, we hope to convince the people that the gospel of salvation and authority from heaven have been restored. The enemy is busy fighting the truth, but we fear not, for we believe firmly in the words of the Lord that this work has been restored never to be taken away again; and who can stand against the Lord? It is amusing to watch our enemies go about their work: discussion-meetings are advertised, in which 'Mormonism,' in large letters, is used as a drawing card and an entrance fee of ten or twenty ore is charged. The meetings are turned over to a discussion of the teachings of 'Mormonism,' although th-y know nothing about the subject whatever. Often these meetings end in a quarrel. At other times such subjects as the 'God of the 'Mormons,'' 'Are the 'Mormons' Christians?' are advertised, but when the meetings are over, people are no wiser than before, because the real subject has not been discussed. The speakers have tried to outdo each other in reviling words, and in speaking on the threadbare topic of polygamy and of things a thousand miles away, but never a word of true information on the advertised subject. We have paid little attention to their warfare. The gospel is to be preached by peace and kindness, not by strife and ill feelings. It is a gospel of charity, not antagonism."