THE MASSACRE OF CHURCH MUSIC.
There has been an effort made for the last twenty years to kill
congregational singing. The attempt has been tolerably successful; but it
seems to me that some rules might be given by which the work could be done
more quickly, and completely. What is the use of having it lingering on in
this uncertain way? Why not put it out of its misery? If you are going to
kill a snake, kill it thoroughly, and do not let it keep on wagging its
tail till sundown. Congregational singing is a nuisance, anyhow, to many of
the people. It interferes with their comfort. It offends their taste. It
disposes their nose to flexibility in the upward direction. It is too
democratic in its tendency. Down with congregational singing, and let us
have no more of it.
The first rule for killing it is to have only such tunes as the people
cannot sing!
In some churches it is the custom for choirs at each service to sing one
tune which the people know. It is very generous of the choir to do that.
The people ought to be very thankful for the donation. They do not deserve
it. They are all "miserable offenders" (I heard them say so), and, if
permitted once in a service to sing, ought to think themselves highly
favored. But I oppose this singing of even the one tune that the people
understand. It spoils them. It gets them hankering after more. Total
abstinence is the only safety; for if you allow them to imbibe at all, they
will after a while get in the habit of drinking too much of it, and the
first thing you know they will be going around drunk on sacred psalmody.
Beside that, if you let them sing one tune at a service, they will be
putting their oar into the other tunes and bothering the choir. There is
nothing more annoying to the choir than, at some moment when they have
drawn out a note to exquisite fineness, thin as a split hair, to have some
blundering elder to come in with a "Praise ye the Lord!" Total abstinence,
I say! Let all the churches take the pledge even against the milder musical
beverages; for they who tamper with champagne cider soon get to Hock and
old Burgundy.
Now, if all the tunes are new, there will be no temptation to the people.
They will not keep humming along, hoping they will find some bars down
where they can break into the clover pasture. They will take the tune as an
inextricable conundrum, and give it up. Besides that, Pisgah, Ortonville
and Brattle Street are old fashioned. They did very well in their day. Our
fathers were simple-minded people, and the tunes fitted them. But our
fathers are gone, and they ought to have taken their baggage with them. It
is a nuisance to have those old tunes floating around the church, and
sometime, just as we have got the music as fine as an opera, to have a
revival of religion come, and some new-born soul break out in "Rock of
Ages, Cleft for Me!" till the organist stamps the pedal with indignation,
and the leader of the tune gets red in the face and swears. Certainly
anything that makes a man swear is wrong--ergo, congregational singing is
wrong. "Quod erat demonstrandum;" which, being translated, means "Plain as
the nose on a man's face."
What right have people to sing who know nothing about rhythmics, melodies,
dynamics? The old tunes ought to be ashamed of themselves when compared
with our modern beauties. Let Dundee, and Portuguese Hymn, and Silver
Street hide their heads beside what we heard not long ago in a church--just
where I shall not tell. The minister read the hymn beautifully. The organ
began, and the choir sang, as near as I could understand, as follows:
Oo--aw--gee--bah
Ah--me--la--he
O--pah--sah--dah
Wo--haw--gee-e-e-e.
My wife, seated beside me, did not like the music. But I said: "What
beautiful sentiment! My dear, it is a pastoral. You might have known that
from 'Wo-haw-gee!' You have had your taste ruined by attending the Brooklyn
Tabernacle." The choir repeated the last line of the hymn four times. Then
the prima donna leaped on to the first line, and slipped, and fell on to
the second, and that broke and let her through into the third. The other
voices came in to pick her up, and got into a grand wrangle, and the bass
and the soprano had it for about ten seconds; but the soprano beat (women
always do), and the bass rolled down into the cellar, and the soprano went
up into the garret, but the latter kept on squalling as though the bass, in
leaving her, had wickedly torn out all her back hair. I felt anxious about
the soprano, and looked back to see if she had fainted; but found her
reclining in the arms of a young man who looked strong enough to take care
of her.
Now, I admit that we cannot all have such things in our churches. It costs
like sixty. In the Church of the Holy Bankak it coats one hundred dollars
to have sung that communion, piece:
"Ye wretched, hungry, starving poor!"
But let us come as near to it as we can. The tune "Pisgah" has been
standing long enough on "Jordan's stormy banks." Let it pass over and get
out of the wet weather. Good-bye, "Antioch," "Harwell" and "Boylston."
Good-bye till we meet in glory.
But if the prescription of new tunes does not end congregational singing, I
have another suggestion. Get an irreligious choir, and put them in a high
balcony back of the congregation. I know choirs who are made up chiefly of
religious people, or those, at least, respectful for sacred things. That
will never do, if you want to kill the music. The theatrical troupe are not
busy elsewhere on Sabbath, and you can get them at half price to sing the
praises of the Lord. Meet them in the green room at the close of the "Black
Crook" and secure them. They will come to church with opera-glasses, which
will bring the minister so near to them they can, from their high perch,
look clear down his throat and see his sermon before it is delivered. They
will make excellent poetry on Deacon Goodsoul as he carries around the
missionary box. They will write dear little notes to Gonzaldo, asking him
how his cold is and how he likes gum-drops. Without interfering with the
worship below, they can discuss the comparative fashionableness of the
"basque" and the "polonaise," the one lady vowing she thinks the first
style is "horrid," and the other saying she would rather die than be seen
in the latter; all this while the chorister is gone out during sermon to
refresh himself with a mint-julep, hastening back in time to sing the last
hymn. How much like heaven it will be when, at the close of a solemn
service, we are favored with snatches from Verdi's "Trovatore,"
Meyerbeer's "Huguenots" and Bellini's "Sonnambula," from such artists as
Mademoiselle Squintelle,
Prima Donna Soprano, from Grand Opera House, Paris.
Signor Bombastani,
Basso Buffo, from Royal Italian Opera.
Carl Schneiderine,
First Baritone, of His Majesty's Theatre, Berlin.
If after three months of taking these two prescriptions the congregational
singing is not thoroughly dead, send me a letter directed to my name, with
the title of O.F.M. (Old Fogy in Music), and I will, on the receipt
thereof, write Another prescription, which I am sure will kill it dead as a
door nail, and that is the deadest thing in all history.