CHAPTER X.
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.
There are but few old villages in the United States that contain ancientchurches so picturesque in situation and in appearance as that whichstands in the centre of our town, the most conspicuous of its buildings.The churchyard is filled with graves, for the people still cling tothat kindly usage which places the sacred dust of the departed in holyground. And so here, beneath the trees, and close to the shadow of thesanctuary walls, villagers of all ages and generations lie reposingin their final slumber, while from among them the snow-white spirerises heavenward to point the way their souls have gone. There aremany of us who were not born here, and who are, as it were, almoststrangers in the town, who can wander down the narrow paths of theyard, to out-of-the-way corners, where the headstones are gray withage and sometimes covered with a film of moss, and read in the quaintcharacters with which the marble is inscribed our own family names. Herelies the mortal part of men and women who were dear to our grandsires;of little children too, sometimes, whose departure brought sorrow tothe hearts of those who joined them in Paradise long, long before webegan to play our parts in the drama of existence. The lives that endedin this quiet resting-place are full of deepest interest to us; theyhave a controlling influence upon our destiny, and yet they are veryunreal to us. The figures which move by us as we try to summon up thepanorama of that past are indistinct and obscure. They are shadowswalking in the dusk, and we strive in vain to vest them with a semblanceof the personality which once was theirs. They should seem very near tous their kindred, and yet, as we attempt to come closer to them, theyappear so remote, so far away in the dead years, that we hardly dareto claim fellowship with them, or to speak of them as of our flesh andblood.
It makes no difference where the empty shell is cast when the spiritualman is gone, but I reverence that human instinct which induces a man towish to be laid at the last by the side of his ancestors and near tothose whom he has loved in life. It is at least a beautiful sentimentwhich demands that those who are with each other in immortality shouldnot be separated here on earth, but together should await the morning ofthe resurrection.
I like this old church for its simplicity; not only for the absence ofsplendor in its adornment, but for the methods of worship of which itapproves. The choir, from its station in the organ-loft, never hurlsdown upon the heads of the saints and sinners beneath any of thosesurprising sounds which rural choirs so often emit, with a convictionthat they are achieving wonderful feats of vocalism, and no profanefingers compel the pipes of the microscopic organ to recall to the mindof the listener the music of the stage and the concert-room. From theinstrument come only harmonies round, sweet and full, melting in solemncadences from key to key and rolling down through the church, bringingthe souls of the worshipers into full accord with the spirit of theplace and the occasion, or else pouring forth some stately melody onwhich the voices of the singers are upborne. The choir fulfills itshighest purpose by leading the people through the measures of thosegrand old tunes, simple in construction but sublime in spirit, whichgive to the language of the spiritual songs of the sanctuary a moreeloquent beauty than their own. I would rather hear such music as may befound in "Federal Street," in "Old Hundred," in "Hursley" and in the"Adeste Fideles," sung by an entire assembly of people who are inearnest in their religion, than to listen to the most intricate fugueworked out by a city choir of hired singers, or the most brilliantanthem sung by a congregation of surpliced boys who quarrel with eachother and play wicked games during the prayers. Such tunes as these arefilled with solemn meaning which is revealed to him whose singing isreally an act of worship. There is more genuine religious fervor in"Hursley" than in a library of ordinary oratorios. A church whichpermits its choir to do all the singing might as well adopt the Chinesefashion of employing a machine to do its praying. A congregation whichsits still while a quartette of vocalists overhead utters all thepraises, need not hesitate to offer its supplications by turning a brasswheel with a crank. Our people do their singing and their praying forthemselves, and the choir merely takes care that the music is of afitting kind.
THE OLD CHURCH.]
Miss Magruder sits in the organ-loft now that she is at home, and Idoubt not she contributes much to the sweetness of the strains whichfloat from out that somewhat narrow enclosure. Her presence, I observe,ensures the regular attendance of young Mr. Parker at the church, andlast Sunday he even ventured to sit with the choir and to help with thesinging. I have never considered him a really good performer, althoughhe cherishes a conviction that he has an admirable voice, and suchacquaintance with the art of using it as would have given him eminenceif he had chosen the career of a public singer. After service I hadoccasion to speak to the clergyman for a moment, and as soon as he sawme he said:
"Mr. Adeler, did you notice anything about the organ or the choir to-daythat was peculiar?"
"No; I do not think I did."
"It is very odd; but it seemed to me when they were singing the two lasthymns that something must be the matter with one of the pipes. There wasa sort of a rough, buzzing, rasping sound which I have never observedbefore. The instrument must need repairing."
"I think I know what it was," remarked Mr. Campbell, the basso, whostepped up at that moment.
"The valves a little worn, I suppose?" said the minister.
"Well, no," replied Campbell; "the fact is that extraordinary noise wasproduced by Mr. Parker, who was making a strenuous effort to sing bass.He seemed to be laboring under a strong conviction that the composershad made some mistakes in the tunes, which he proposed to correct as hewent along. Parker's singing is like homoeopathic medicine--a verylittle of it is enough."
Bob attributes the criticism of Campbell to professional jealousy, buthe will probably sit down stairs after this. He prefers not to waste histalents upon provincial people who cannot appreciate genuine art. Hewill content himself with walking home with the fair Magruder afterservice.
There is one thing about the church with which I must find fault. Ihave never been able to comprehend why it is customary throughout thiscountry, even in the large cities, to permit undertakers to decorate theexteriors of churches with their advertisements, as ours is decorated byour undertaker. In old times, when the sexton was the grave-digger andgeneral public functionary, it was well enough to give publicity to hisresidence by posting its whereabouts in a public place. There wereoftentimes little offices which he had to perform for the congregationand for the neighborhood, and it was necessary that he should be foundquickly. But the present fashion, which allows an undertaker--who has noother connection with the church than that he sits in a pew occasionallyand goes to sleep during the sermon--to nail a tin sign, bearing apicture 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.
It is very proper that the minds of the people should be turned tocontemplation of the certainty of death whenever they go to church. Butit is hardly necessary to disturb a man's reflections upon the necessityof preparing for the grave by confronting him with an advertisementwhich compels him to remember how much it is going to cost his relationsto put him there. Besides this, it makes the undertakers covetous, andfills their gloomy souls with murderous wishes.
I have seen ours standing against the wall in the churchyard on a Sundaymorning with his hands in his pockets, glowering at the congregation asthey go in, eyeing and criticising the members, and muttering tohimself, "Splendid fit _he'd_ make in that mahogany coffin I've got athome!" "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 ofthese fine days!" "Those Mulligan girls _certainly_ can't give the oldman anything less than a four-hundred-dollar funeral when _he_ dies!""Hea
lthiest looking congregation of its size _I ever_ saw!" etc., etc.
If I were in authority in the church, I would suppress that gildedadvertisement and try to convert the owner of it. No man should bepermitted to waste his Sabbaths in vain longings for the interment ofhis fellow-men.
They are very busy now at the church putting in new furnaces in order tobe prepared for the cold weather. New ones were introduced last winter,I am told, but they were not entirely successful in operation. The firsttime the fire was put in them was on Saturday morning, and on Sundaythe smoke was so dense in the church that nobody could see theclergyman. The workman had put the stove-pipe into the hot-air flue.Next Saturday night the fires were lighted, out on Sunday morning onlythe air immediately under the roof was warm, and the congregation nearlyfroze to death. The sexton was then instructed to make the fire onThursday, in order to give the church a chance to become thoroughlyheated. He did so, and early Sunday morning the furnaces were so chokedup with ashes that the fires went out, and again the thermometer in thefront pew marked zero.
Then the sexton received orders to make that fire on Thursday, and towatch it carefully until church-time on the following Sabbath. He didso, and both furnaces were in full blast at the appointed hour. That wasthe only warm Sunday we had last winter. The mercury was up to eightydegrees out of doors, while in the church everybody was in a profuseperspiration, and the bellows-blower at the organ fainted twice. Thenext Sunday the sexton tried to keep the fires low by pushing in thedampers, and consequently the church was filled with coal-gas, and thechoir couldn't sing, nor could the minister preach without coughingbetween his sentences.
Subsequently the sexton removed one of the cast-iron registers in thefloor for the purpose of examining the hot-air flue. He left the holeopen 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 inhis pew. Of course he walked directly into the opening, and was draggedout in a condition of asphyxia. That very day one of the furnaces burstand nearly fired the church. The demand for heaters of another kindseemed to be imperative.
Old Collamer, by the way, is singularly unfortunate in his experiencesin the sanctuary. He is extremely deaf, and a few Sundays ago he made afearful blunder during the sermon. The clergyman had occasion tointroduce a quotation, and as it was quite long, he brought the volumewith him; and when the time came, he picked up the book and began toread from it. We always sing the Old Hundred doxology after sermon atour church, and Mr. Collamer, seeing the pastor with the book, thoughtthe time had come, so while the minister was reading; he opened hishymn-book at the place. Just as the clergyman laid the volume down theman 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 justbeginning "secondly," and as there was of course perfect silence in thechurch, the effect of Mr. Collamer's vociferation was very startling.But the good old man failed to notice that anything was the matter, sohe kept right on and sang the verse through.
When he had finished, he observed that everybody else seemed to bequiet, excepting a few who were laughing, so he leaned over and said outloud to the man who yawned,
"What's the matter with this congregation, anyhow? Why don't they gohome?"
The man turned scarlet, and the perspiration broke out all over him, forhe felt that the eyes of the congregation were upon him, and he knewthat he would have to yell to make Mr. Collamer hear. So he touched hislips 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 upthe aisle, and explained matters out loud to Mr. Collamer, and thatgentleman subsided, while the minister proceeded with his discourse. Theclergyman has written Mr. Collamer a note requesting him in the futurenot to join in the sacred harmony. The effect is too appalling upon theribald boys in the back pews.
Out of the Hurly-Burly; Or, Life in an Odd Corner Page 13
