Then comes the organ again, in a sweet strain from some flute-like stop, from where the faint light rises in a halo, like the herald of the rising of some great orb of sound. And now come, in a powerful crescendo, strains loud and deep, then higher and higher, till the glorious fugue culminates in a mighty burst of harmony, poured forth by the instrument’s full power, but only to die away in distant mutterings as of thunder, from the deep-toned pedal pipes; for the practice is at an end.
That was Jared Pellet’s touch – that was the old organist, fettered by no ten-minute edicts of old tea-dealing Timson; that was Jared, rising on the wings of his music far away from earth; and now, as the last muttering peal of softened thunder dies away, the faint light is shining upon the bent grey head of my old friend.