A PICTURESQUE CHURCH--SOME REFLECTIONS UPON CHURCH MUSIC--BOB
PARKER IN THE CHOIR--OUR UNDERTAKER--A GLOOMY MAN--OUR EXPERIENCE
WITH THE HOT-AIR FURNACES--A SERIES OF ACCIDENTS--MR. COLLAMER'S
VOCALISM--AN EXTRAORDINARY MISTAKE.
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There are but few old villages in the United States that contain ancient
churches so picturesque in situation and in appearance as that which
stands in the centre of our town, the most conspicuous of its buildings.
The churchyard is filled with graves, for the people still cling to
that kindly usage which places the sacred dust of the departed in holy
ground. And so here, beneath the trees, and close to the shadow of the
sanctuary walls, villagers of all ages and generations lie reposing
in their final slumber, while from among them the snow-white spire
rises heavenward to point the way their souls have gone. There are
many of us who were not born here, and who are, as it were, almost
strangers in the town, who can wander down the narrow paths of the
yard, to out-of-the-way corners, where the headstones are gray with
age and sometimes covered with a film of moss, and read in the quaint
characters with which the marble is inscribed our own family names. Here
lies the mortal part of men and women who were dear to our grandsires;
of little children too, sometimes, whose departure brought sorrow to
the hearts of those who joined them in Paradise long, long before we
began to play our parts in the drama of existence. The lives that ended
in this quiet resting-place are full of deepest interest to us; they
have a controlling influence upon our destiny, and yet they are very
unreal to us. The figures which move by us as we try to summon up the
panorama of that past are indistinct and obscure. They are shadows
walking in the dusk, and we strive in vain to vest them with a semblance
of the personality which once was theirs. They should seem very near to
us their kindred, and yet, as we attempt to come closer to them, they
appear so remote, so far away in the dead years, that we hardly dare
to claim fellowship with them, or to speak of them as of our flesh and
blood.
[Illustration]
It makes no difference where the empty shell is cast when the spiritual
man is gone, but I reverence that human instinct which induces a man to
wish to be laid at the last by the side of his ancestors and near to
those whom he has loved in life. It is at least a beautiful sentiment
which demands that those who are with each other in immortality should
not be separated here on earth, but together should await the morning of
the resurrection.
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I like this old church for its simplicity; not only for the absence of
splendor in its adornment, but for the methods of worship of which it
approves. The choir, from its station in the organ-loft, never hurls
down upon the heads of the saints and sinners beneath any of those
surprising sounds which rural choirs so often emit, with a conviction
that they are achieving wonderful feats of vocalism, and no profane
fingers compel the pipes of the microscopic organ to recall to the mind
of the listener the music of the stage and the concert-room. From the
instrument come only harmonies round, sweet and full, melting in solemn
cadences from key to key and rolling down through the church, bringing
the souls of the worshipers into full accord with the spirit of the
place and the occasion, or else pouring forth some stately melody on
which the voices of the singers are upborne. The choir fulfills its
highest purpose by leading the people through the measures of those
grand old tunes, simple in construction but sublime in spirit, which
give to the language of the spiritual songs of the sanctuary a more
eloquent beauty than their own. I would rather hear such music as may be
found in "Federal Street," in "Old Hundred," in "Hursley" and in the
"Adeste Fideles," sung by an entire assembly of people who are in
earnest in their religion, than to listen to the most intricate fugue
worked out by a city choir of hired singers, or the most brilliant
anthem sung by a congregation of surpliced boys who quarrel with each
other and play wicked games during the prayers. Such tunes as these are
filled with solemn meaning which is revealed to him whose singing is
really an act of worship. There is more genuine religious fervor in
"Hursley" than in a library of ordinary oratorios. A church which
permits its choir to do all the singing might as well adopt the Chinese
fashion of employing a machine to do its praying. A congregation which
sits still while a quartette of vocalists overhead utters all the
praises, need not hesitate to offer its supplications by turning a brass
wheel with a crank. Our people do their singing and their praying for
themselves, and the choir merely takes care that the music is of a
fitting kind.
[Illustration: THE OLD CHURCH.]
[Illustration]
Miss Magruder sits in the organ-loft now that she is at home, and I
doubt not she contributes much to the sweetness of the strains which
float from out that somewhat narrow enclosure. Her presence, I observe,
ensures the regular attendance of young Mr. Parker at the church, and
last Sunday he even ventured to sit with the choir and to help with the
singing. I have never considered him a really good performer, although
he cherishes a conviction that he has an admirable voice, and such
acquaintance with the art of using it as would have given him eminence
if he had chosen the career of a public singer. After service I had
occasion to speak to the clergyman for a moment, and as soon as he saw
me he said:
"Mr. Adeler, did you notice anything about the organ or the choir to-day
that was peculiar?"
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"No; I do not think I did."
"It is very odd; but it seemed to me when they were singing the two last
hymns that something must be the matter with one of the pipes. There was
a sort of a rough, buzzing, rasping sound which I have never observed
before. The instrument must need repairing."
"I think I know what it was," remarked Mr. Campbell, the basso, who
stepped up at that moment.
"The valves a little worn, I suppose?" said the minister.
[Illustration]
"Well, no," replied Campbell; "the fact is that extraordinary noise was
produced by Mr. Parker, who was making a strenuous effort to sing bass.
He seemed to be laboring under a strong conviction that the composers
had made some mistakes in the tunes, which he proposed to correct as he
went along. Parker's singing is like homoeopathic medicine--a very
little of it is enough."
[Illustration]
Bob attributes the criticism of Campbell to professional jealousy, but
he will probably sit down stairs after this. He prefers not to waste his
talents upon provincial people who cannot appreciate genuine art. He
will content himself with walking home with the fair Magruder after
service.
There is one thing about the church with which I must find fault. I
have never been able to comprehend why it is customary throughout this
country, even in the large cities, to permit undertakers to decorate the
exteriors of churches with their advertisements, as ours is decorated by
our undertaker. In old times, when the sexton was the grave-digger and
general public functionary, it was well enough to give publicity to his
residence by posting its whereabouts in a public place. There were
oftentimes little offices which he had to perform for the congregation
and for the neighborhood, and it was necessary that he should be found
quickly. But the present fashion, which allows an undertaker--who has no
other connection with the church than that he sits in a pew occasionally
and goes to sleep during the sermon--to nail a tin sign, bearing a
picture of a gilt coffin, right by the church door, so that no man,
woman or child can enter that sanctuary without thinking of the grave,
is monstrous.
[Illustration]
It is very proper that the minds of the people should be turned to
contemplation of the certainty of death whenever they go to church. But
it is hardly necessary to disturb a man's reflections upon the necessity
of preparing for the grave by confronting him with an advertisement
which compels him to remember how much it is going to cost his relations
to put him there. Besides this, it makes the undertakers covetous, and
fills their gloomy souls with murderous wishes.
I have seen ours standing against the wall in the churchyard on a Sunday
morning with his hands in his pockets, glowering at the congregation as
they go in, eyeing and criticising the members, and muttering to
himself, "Splendid fit _he'd_ make in that mahogany coffin I've got at
home!" "There goes a man who ought to have died five years ago if _I'd_
been treated right!" "I'll souse that Thompson underground some of
these fine days!" "Those Mulligan girls _certainly_ can't give the old
man anything less than a four-hundred-dollar funeral when _he_ dies!"
"Healthiest looking congregation of its size _I ever_ saw!" etc., etc.
[Illustration]
If I were in authority in the church, I would suppress that gilded
advertisement and try to convert the owner of it. No man should be
permitted to waste his Sabbaths in vain longings for the interment of
his fellow-men.
They are very busy now at the church putting in new furnaces in order to
be prepared for the cold weather. New ones were introduced last winter,
I am told, but they were not entirely successful in operation. The first
time the fire was put in them was on Saturday morning, and on Sunday
the smoke was so dense in the church that nobody could see the
clergyman. The workman had put the stove-pipe into the hot-air flue.
Next Saturday night the fires were lighted, out on Sunday morning only
the air immediately under the roof was warm, and the congregation nearly
froze to death. The sexton was then instructed to make the fire on
Thursday, in order to give the church a chance to become thoroughly
heated. He did so, and early Sunday morning the furnaces were so choked
up with ashes that the fires went out, and again the thermometer in the
front pew marked zero.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Then the sexton received orders to make that fire on Thursday, and to
watch it carefully until church-time on the following Sabbath. He did
so, and both furnaces were in full blast at the appointed hour. That was
the only warm Sunday we had last winter. The mercury was up to eighty
degrees out of doors, while in the church everybody was in a profuse
perspiration, and the bellows-blower at the organ fainted twice. The
next Sunday the sexton tried to keep the fires low by pushing in the
dampers, and consequently the church was filled with coal-gas, and the
choir couldn't sing, nor could the minister preach without coughing
between his sentences.
[Illustration]
Subsequently the sexton removed one of the cast-iron registers in the
floor for the purpose of examining the hot-air flue. He left the hole
open while he went into the cellar for a moment, and just then old Mr.
Collamer came in to hunt for his gloves, which he thought he had left in
his pew. Of course he walked directly into the opening, and was dragged
out in a condition of asphyxia. That very day one of the furnaces burst
and nearly fired the church. The demand for heaters of another kind
seemed to be imperative.
[Illustration]
Old Collamer, by the way, is singularly unfortunate in his experiences
in the sanctuary. He is extremely deaf, and a few Sundays ago he made a
fearful blunder during the sermon. The clergyman had occasion to
introduce a quotation, and as it was quite long, he brought the volume
with him; and when the time came, he picked up the book and began to
read from it. We always sing the Old Hundred doxology after sermon at
our church, and Mr. Collamer, seeing the pastor with the book, thought
the time had come, so while the minister was reading; he opened his
hymn-book at the place. Just as the clergyman laid the volume down the
man sitting next to Mr. Collamer began to yawn, and Mr. Collamer,
thinking he was about to sing, immediately broke out into Old Hundred,
and roared it at the top of his voice. As the clergyman was just
beginning "secondly," and as there was of course perfect silence in the
church, the effect of Mr. Collamer's vociferation was very startling.
But the good old man failed to notice that anything was the matter, so
he kept right on and sang the verse through.
When he had finished, he observed that everybody else seemed to be
quiet, excepting a few who were laughing, so he leaned over and said out
loud to the man who yawned,
[Illustration]
"What's the matter with this congregation, anyhow? Why don't they go
home?"
The man turned scarlet, and the perspiration broke out all over him, for
he felt that the eyes of the congregation were upon him, and he knew
that he would have to yell to make Mr. Collamer hear. So he touched his
lips with his fingers as a sign for the old man to keep quiet. But Mr.
Collamer misunderstood the motion:
"Goin' to sing another hymn, hey? All right."
And he began to fumble his hymn-book again. Then the sexton hurried up
the aisle, and explained matters out loud to Mr. Collamer, and that
gentleman subsided, while the minister proceeded with his discourse. The
clergyman has written Mr. Collamer a note requesting him in the future
not to join in the sacred harmony. The effect is too appalling upon the
ribald boys in the back pews.
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