Chapter 49 - Page 2

always the rich best fancy the sad, and the poor the
merry."

"But do you not sometimes meet with cross and crabbed old men," said
Harry, "who would much rather have your room than your music?"

"Yes, sometimes," said Carlo, playing with his foot, "sometimes I do."

"And then, knowing the value of quiet to unquiet men, I suppose you
never leave them under a shilling?"

"No," continued the boy, "I love my organ as I do myself, for it is my
only friend, poor organ! it sings to me when I am sad, and cheers me;
and I never play before a house, on purpose to be paid for leaving off,
not I; would I, poor organ?"--looking down the hatchway where it was.
"No, that I never have done, and never will do, though I starve; for
when people drive me away, I do not think my organ is to blame, but they
themselves are to blame; for such people's musical pipes are cracked,
and grown rusted, that no more music can be breathed into their souls."

"No, Carlo; no music like yours, perhaps," said Harry, with a laugh.

"Ah! there's the mistake. Though my organ is as full of melody, as a
hive is of bees; yet no organ can make music in unmusical breasts; no
more than my native winds can, when they breathe upon a harp without
chords."

Next day was a serene and delightful one; and in the evening when the
vessel was just rippling along impelled by a gentle yet steady breeze,
and the poor emigrants, relieved from their late sufferings, were
gathered on deck; Carlo suddenly started up from his lazy reclinings;
went below, and, assisted by the emigrants, returned with his organ.

Now, music is a holy thing, and its instruments, however humble, are to
be loved and revered. Whatever has made, or does make, or may make
music, should be held sacred as the golden bridle-bit of the Shah of
Persia's horse, and the golden hammer, with which his hoofs are shod.
Musical instruments should be like the silver tongs, with which the
high-priests tended the Jewish altars--never to be touched by a hand
profane. Who would bruise the poorest reed of Pan, though plucked from a
beggar's hedge, would insult the melodious god himself.

And there is no humble thing with music in it, not a fife, not a
negro-fiddle, that is not to be reverenced as much as the grandest
architectural organ that ever rolled its flood-tide of harmony down a
cathedral nave. For even a Jew's-harp may be so played, as to awaken all
the fairies that are in us, and make them dance in our souls, as on a
moon-lit sward of violets.

But what subtle power is this, residing in but a bit of steel, which
might have made a tenpenny nail, that so enters,