CHAPTER I.

THERE was a time when our church had no choir, but gloried in the fact that we had congregational singing. At least the conservative fathers gloried in it; but the aggressive young people grumbled much.

And certainly the most gentle spirit might have found some occasion for grumbling. If the thing had been named "congregational drawling" instead of "singing," perhaps it would have been as correct. Our church was large, and the leader, a dear old man who had led the singing from time immemorial, until his ears had deafened and his voice cracked in the service, was unable to keep the scattered elements of his army in order. Sing as slow as he might, he always finished the line at least two syllables in advance of old Auntie Barber, who sat in the southwest corner back pew, and who had a chronic affection of the nose and throat which caused her to pronounce her words somewhat after this fashion:

"Naow be the gospil banner I-n'every lan-d'unfurl'; An' be the shout hosanner Re-yeehoed raound the worl'."

Auntie Barber was fond of singing, and sang loud. Then there was Uncle Charlie Bennett, who had a deep bass voice, and who always sang a note below the key, making a distinct heavy monotone of growl, all on one note, and who frequently paused in the middle of a line to clear his throat with an "Ahem-h-e-m," then quickened his growl to catch up, and come in triumphant on the last word.

This is only a hint of the peculiarities of our music.

The day came when our exasperated young people arose en masse and declared it was not in human nature to endure such tortures longer.

No doubt this climax was hastened by the fact that the church had received a thorough renovation—fresh carpets, fresh paint, modernized pulpit, even a new minister. What better time to introduce a thorough change in the music?

The modern element prevailed. A congregational meeting was held, in which, after much discussion, and not without a sharp word or two, the matter was put into the hands of a committee, every one of them young people, without instructions, to perfect their plans and report them at a called meeting.

The young people lost no time; in fact they had known just what they wanted to do at least three weeks before the meeting was called. There was a certain Theodore Pemberton in town, a clerk in one of the drug stores, who was a perfectly elegant singer, and the way he sang:

"I wander alone, my love, to-night"

was enough to draw tears from the heart of a stone. Then, he was an excellent leader. He actually drilled a chorus in Grandville to sing one of the most difficult operas in the list, and they say that every member of his chorus cried when they found he was coming away. And if Grandville thought so highly of him, he must be superior.

It was the unanimous opinion of the young people that the immaculate Theodore should be invited to take charge of the music in their church, and be allowed to follow out his own ideas. Then they would have music worth hearing.

This report was followed by much discussion. There were difficulties which presented themselves to the minds of some. First and foremost, money. Brother Hoarding did not consider it just the thing to pay people for singing the praises of God. But then, Brother Hoarding believed that everything connected with the church should be free as air—always excepting the oil for the lamps, which was bought from his store, and the wood for the stoves, which was chopped from his wood lots. So, really, Brother Hoarding's opinion did not weigh as much as it might. The truth is, Auntie Barber put in her weak word at this point. "I always love to sing," she said; "and I always sang the air in our choir when I was a girl, and nobody thought of paying for it. But then, times is changed; and I ain't one of them that think it's a sin to spend money paying folks for giving of their time and their talents for the church. If this young man will spend his Saturday evenings in teachin' folks how to sing better, why shouldn't he be paid for it? The Lord's people ain't paupers!"

"Free-will offerings, Sister Barber," spoke up Brother Hoarding, in a good, strong voice; "freewill offerings. That is what the church should have."

"Well, I don't know. Why in the singin' any more than in kerosene and wood and sich things?"

Auntie Barber couldn't sing; I will insist that she couldn't; but she could reason, bless her! And her keen, clear eyes saw through the films of selfishness and penuriousness wherever found. The committee of young people looked over at her and smiled and nodded approvingly. They had found an unexpected ally.

Here Deacon Turner put in a demur. He had no objection to a church spending money for music, provided they had it to spend; but did the brethren think that in their condition, with a larger salary to raise, and the home mission collection not yet taken, and new books to pay for, they ought to put in an extra bill for music?

Now, this argument might have had more weight, but for the fact that Deacon Turner was in the mood to want all the money given to foreign missions when the subject of home missions was broached, and he wanted it given to the library, or the salary, or some other needy cause, when the question of foreign missions was before them. Anything but the matter in hand, was Deacon Turner's motto.

I have not time to give you all the pros and cons of that discussion; but the result was a partial vote to invite Theodore Pemberton to take charge of their music.

Great was the joy of the young people. So pleased were they with Auntie Barber that they gave kindly answer to her somewhat timidly put question:

"I suppose he is a good young man?"

"Oh, dear, yes! Judge Bourne said his habits were very correct, indeed; noticeably so for a young man in his position. Those were Judge Bourne's very words."

"Yes—but I meant—you know—I hope he is a Christian?"

"Well, as to that, I believe he is not a church member; but he respects religion. Why, when he put his price so very low, he said it was for the sake of the cause. 'We must work cheap for the cause, you know,' he said, and he smiled very pleasantly. I am sure that sounds Christian-like."

Auntie Barber sighed a little. She could not be certain from that remark that the young man served the Lord.

"Besides," said little Miss Parker briskly, "it will be a help to him, you know; he isn't very regular in his attendance at church; no young men are, nowadays. I think it will be doing a good deed to put him in a position where he will feel obliged to be in church."

Over this idea, Auntie Barber went home to think, and the triumphant committee went to formally invite Mr. Pemberton.

The next Sabbath morning, it must be confessed that our church was unusually full, and all eyes turned expectantly toward the choir gallery, which was just back of the pulpit, and had for several years been vacant. All the seats were filled now, with bright, expectant faces. Mr. Pemberton believed in a chorus choir, and had been prodigal in his invitations. All the pretty girls he knew had been cordially asked to come and help sing.

Auntie Barber looked up at the rows of faces with a benignant smile.

"The young folks like it," she murmured, "and it ain't a bad looking sight. They'll drown'd our voices, and that will be all right. I've been most afraid this good while that I sung too loud, for I s'pose my voice is getting old, but now I needn't be afraid of troubling anybody."

"You'll have to permit congregational singing," explained lively Miss Parker to Mr. Pemberton, at their first rehearsal. "It was the only ground on which the innovation was permitted, that the choir should simply lead the congregation. It's in the charter, or the constitution, or something; no, the man who gave the organ, fifty years or so ago, stipulated that there should always be congregational singing."

"Oh, certainly," said the affable Mr. Pemberton; "we'll simply lead the congregation; that is all in the world we propose to do; they may sing to their heart's content." And he twinkled his handsome eyes, and looked so good-naturedly about him, that the girls voted him "perfectly delightful."

So now everything was in readiness, and the pastor was reading the hymn:

"All hail the power of Jesus' name; Let angels prostrate fall; Bring forth the royal diadem And crown Him Lord of all."

"Coronation!" Auntie Barber's special favorite, and the tune to which Uncle John Bennett always growled his heaviest bass. Old Deacon Slocumb, the former leader, adjusted his spectacles, found the place and meekly waited. He was about to sing the songs of Zion in a strange land, or at least under strange circumstances; but he loved the service, and struggled for a meek and quiet spirit.

And the song burst forth. Coronation indeed! Old Coronation was hoary-haired when the tune was born. How it rolled and swelled in triumph through the astonished church!

"All hail!" said the tenor in clear, full tones. "All hail!" repeated the bass in voice of thunder. "All hail!" shrieked the soprano in full volume, followed hard after by the alto, who would not be outdone; and then the entire strength of the choir took up the words and shouted and roared, "All hail the power!" Then, wonderful to relate, went back to the "All hail" and did it over. About this time Auntie Barber had reached, through much quavering, the last word of the second line, then lifted her bewildered eyes to the choir and listened.

"I must have lost the place," she meekly said. Even yet, it had not occurred to her that the choir could possibly be singing anything but Coronation to those words!

As for Deacon Slocumb, he took off his spectacles, carefully wiped and re-adjusted them, and was looking for his place again by the time the choir reached the word "power." They finished the line in unison, then went off into a whirl of ecstasy over the angels. "Let a-a-a angels—" sang one part, "prostrate fall, FALL, FALL," thundered another part; until Joe Slocumb, the Deacon's graceless son, looked about him and grinned, and wondered where they were falling to!

Before this time Uncle Charlie's growl had been vanquished, and Deacon Slocumb's book was closed; and dear Auntie Barber, although she kept her book open and her meek eyes fixed on the page, knew that Coronation had gone far beyond her reach.

The triumphant choir swept through to the close, and seated themselves in smiling satisfaction.

"I'm sure we led the congregation," whispered Mr. Pemberton into the ear of the first soprano. "They can't complain of our part of the contract."

And that entire company let itself explode into a succession of giggles, over the peculiar aptness of the text at that moment announced: "He leadeth me by a way that I have not known."

"That's as true as preaching!" whispered the leader of the choir, and then that ripple of laughter went again through the triumphant company.