By Andrew Chang ’26

Most students hear the carillon as the sound rings through the quad, drifts past Irvine Hall, and settles somewhere in the background. It’s familiar, constant, and easy to pass for the background ambience—until you climb the tower and see the instrument up close.

If you’ve never been inside the carillon, it’s probably not what you picture. The keyboard is laid out like a piano, but instead of keys, you’re striking wooden batons with “just a lightly closed fist,” as Jim Brinson put it. Brinson serves as the school organist (appointed in 2003), carillonneur (appointed in 2009), and director of the chapel music program. “If you can play the piano, you can learn the carillon,” he said, “but you add your feet.” Like an organ, the pedals stretch the instrument’s range and give the sound its weight and depth.

The carillon at Mercersburg stands out not just for who plays it, but also for how it was built. The Swoope Carillon in Barker Tower is one of only 163 traditional carillons in the U.S., gifted by Henry B. Swoope (1900) and his family. The original 43 bells were cast in 1926 by Gillett and Johnston in England, and include pieces of historic metal gathered from around the world—everything from copper coins and World War I artillery shells to shavings from the Liberty Bell. Today the instrument has 50 bells, bringing it into concert pitch. The tower honors Bryan Barker, who played for more than 50 years. (For more information about Barker, see the From the Archives story on page 73.)

When a baton is pressed, it pulls a cable that is directly connected to a bell’s clapper. “The bells don’t swing,” said Brinson, who is retiring this year from the arts faculty. “The clapper strikes the side of the bell, and that’s what makes the sound.” It’s a surprisingly involved process—mechanical, tactile, and remarkably emotional.

But how that emotion is translated into melody is what highlights our carillon’s uniqueness. According to Brinson, it’s “one of the most well-made and regulated instruments in the country.” He has played carillons across the United States, and many, he said, are simply harder to play. “This one is just a beautifully balanced instrument. The bells are so clear. Some carillons don’t have that pure tone.”

The bells have become part of the campus’s emotional fabric. “It’s hard to define,” Brinson admitted, “but the sound of the bells represents our campus. Even if somebody isn’t paying attention, the bells are there, creating the background.”

One story captures that impact perfectly. Years ago, Brinson played a Sesame Street tune for a child who was visiting the tower. The next day, he received a handwritten letter from a 9th-grade girl. “I was having a bad day,” she wrote. “I walked out of Lenfest, and I heard you playing. It made me smile.”

Brinson shrugged it off as something simple. But that’s the point. “We never know whose life we impact,” he said. “Whether it’s playing the bells, or just a kind word.”

As for the job itself? Brinson put it best: “I have the best job here. They pay me to play.”