Part 12 (1/2)
And as they sauntered up the street he gave his bride a poke, And said, ”In them there mansions live the friends of whom I spoke.”
She glanced her eye along the plates of bra.s.s upon each door, And then her anger rose as it had never done before.
She said, ”That Johnson has an h! that Thompson has a p!
The Smith that spells without a y is not the Smith for me!”
And darkly scowled she then upon that rover of the wave; ”False! False!” she shrieked, and spoke of him as ”Monster, traitor, slave!”
And then she wept and tore her hair, and filled the air with groans, And cursed with bitterness the day she let them chop up Jones.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
And when she'd spent on him at last the venom of her tongue, She seized her pongee parasol and stabbed him in the lung.
A few more energetic jabs were at his heart required, And then this scand'lous buccaneer rolled over and expired.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
Still brandis.h.i.+ng her parasol she sought the pirate boat; She loaded up a gun and jammed her head into its throat; And fixing fast the trigger, with string tied to her toe, She breathed ”Mother!” through the touch-hole, and kicked and let her go.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
A snap, a fizz, a rumble; some stupendous roaring tones-- And where upon earth's surface was the recent Mrs. Jones?
Go ask the moaning winds, the sky, the mists, the murmuring sea; Go ask the fish, the coroner, the clams--but don't ask me.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
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.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
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 fellows.h.i.+p with them, or to speak of them as of our flesh and blood.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
It makes no difference where the empty sh.e.l.l 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.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
I like this old church for its simplicity; not only for the absence of splendor in its adornment, but for the methods of wors.h.i.+p 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 wors.h.i.+pers 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 a.s.sembly 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 wors.h.i.+p. 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 fas.h.i.+on 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 bra.s.s 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.
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE OLD CHURCH.]
[Ill.u.s.tration]
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: