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DAISY CANNOT DECIDE IN FAVOR OF THE THEATRE.
"Our little girl has caught him in her snare," she said, kissing Daisy tenderly. "The naughty boy declared to me only two months ago that he could not think of any inducement strong enough to make him submit to the boredom of an hour in Sunday-school; and here, for the sake of witnessing the innocent delight of his pretty cousin over new sights and sounds, he is willing to pledge himself. You must look your very prettiest to-night, my dear."
"But, Aunt Mattie, you know what mamma and papa think about these things; and how I have been brought up to feel."
Whereupon her Aunt Mattie kissed her again. "Yes, dear child, I know. Your mother and I had the same bringing up, and we thought very much alike; and your uncle was fully in sympathy with such views; but he died before his children became of an age to modify them in the least; and your father and mother have been blessed with one dear child who imbibed their views so early that they have had no need to make sacrifices on her account; but there is a great difference in children.
"Neither Blanche nor Phil thought as I do about these things, though I brought them up. And, indeed, my views, as I said, have been somewhat modified. I do not approve of the indiscriminate theatre any more than I ever did, nor of frequent attendance. But occasionally, when there is a strictly moral play, presented by artists of acknowledged worth, I have found it necessary to let my children go; and I have, once or twice, yielded to Phil's coaxing, and gone myself."
"Aunt Mattie, it is Saturday evening."
"I know, my dear, and that part I regret. I do not, by any means, consider it the best preparation for the Sabbath; but the occasion, you know, is exceptional. It is this evening, or not at all, for this play; and I thought you would not mind making your little sacrifice for Phil's sake, when there may be so much at stake."
After that, Daisy was glad at the coming of callers who took her aunt to the parlor, and left her alone. She must think. What was her duty? What would mamma and papa say? It was certainly an exceptional case; she had never heard the line of argument which would have helped her to answer her aunt and cousin. She, too, believed that Mr. Easton's influence over her handsome and brilliant young cousin would be invaluable, and she knew only too well how much he needed influencing. Ought she not to help, when the way was plainly opened to her? This was an exceptional play; she knew enough about the theatre to be sure of it. She did not fear hearing or seeing what would cause her to blush.
Her pretty new dress was all ready to wear to some place demanding a brilliant costume. Her aunt would be bitterly disappointed if she failed her. Perhaps, just for this once, she ought to go.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, she came to this decision; but she opened the little box of delicate laces, and let herself think: "If I should go, I wonder if this, or this, would look the prettiest?" She opened her glove-box, and wondered whether she ought to get new kids.
Oh, there was her darling little hand-painted bouquet-holder. Phil ought to get her some lovely flowers to wear in it to-night. She wondered if he would think of it.
She reached down into the box for the pretty toy, and her hand touched a little book in a plain gray paper cover. What was this? Oh, she remembered; papa had brought it home on the evening before her departure, and had said: "There is something for you to study at your leisure, daughter. I don't know that you need it; but it is well for every Christian to be prepared to give a reason for his opinions."
She had thanked him, and kissed him, and dropped the book into the box she was packing, and had not thought of it since. There had been no occasion to go to the bottom of this particular box before.
Now she drew it out, and felt startled and flushed over the title: "Plain Talks About the Theatre." Could this be mere chance?
She hesitated but a moment, then closed the drawer and sat resolutely down with the little gray book. Certainly, if ever she needed any plain talk about the theatre, it was now. There was much to read; much that was new and startling to this young girl.
The statements made there, coming from the honored minister whose name she well knew, were such as to make the glow on her cheek something to notice and remember. Still, they all had to do with the regular drama, and not those occasional and exceptional plays such as were being performed by a rare company in this little city. Could there not be such things as exceptions, which even a Christian might be justified in enjoying?
Wait; what was this? She bent her brown head lower over the page, and read the keen, clear-cut sentences: "What if it be also true that this dark programme of the theatre is padded here and there with the so-called standard drama, to win the countenance and patronage of the most respectable and decent! I do not need to be told that to some extent it wins them. But neither do you need to be told, moral and Christian men and women, of decent and cleanly homes, thus drawn to see an exceptional play of high and chaste form and tone, that you are quoted and paraded as friends and supporters of the establishment—an establishment, three fourths or nine tenths of whose influence is pernicious and poisonous. Your patronage goes to swell the receipts of, and to give countenance to, the house whose common and most characteristic features are an offense to purity, to religion and to God."
The gray book dropped from her hands and slid to the floor. The young girl put both hands up to her flushed forehead, and pushed back the masses of hair. Then she spoke four words, fraught with intense and far-reaching meaning, "I want to pray," and dropped upon her knees.
DURING the afternoon, the handsome house in Lincoln Place was filled with uncomfortable and disappointed people.
Daisy, the bright and generally-yielding cousin, was quiet and gentle, but firm as a rock in her decision to attend no theatre, either on that evening or any other. She had tried to present her arguments to Aunt Mattie and to Blanche, but neither mother nor daughter was in the mood to be reached by argument.
The former had silenced her young guest by coldly referring to the tendency of the times, which led young people to fancy themselves wiser than their elders, even in matters of morals and religion, and the latter had only that unanswerable reply, 'Oh, fiddlesticks!' to make to any form of argument.
Matters had not improved by the six o'clock dinner hour.
Daisy watched for and waylaid Phil in the hall, and dashed eagerly into her subject without introduction:
"Oh, Phil, I am sorry; but I can't do what you want, because I don't think it is right. I don't approve of any sort of theatre, and I cannot, of course, attend one; yet you know I would do anything to please you that I could."
But Phil had been cold, too, and had replied with dignity that he was sorry he was supposed to desire to take her to improper places; that she must, at least, give him the credit of not intending anything wrong.
And to her earnest attempts at explanation, had finally answered in his usual tone of gayety that it was all right; of course, he did not want to take her where she did not want to go, and that he had expected no other answer to his invitation, which was what had made him so willing to give the promise that Blanche had been ridiculous enough to claim.
Then they had gone in to dinner; and all through the dinner hour Phil had been ceremoniously polite, and the other members of the family had been noticeably silent. At last the mother broached the sore topic:
"My son, will you be willing to take your old mother for a companion this evening? I suppose it is too late for you to make pleasanter plans; and while you know it is not my custom to go out on Saturday evening, yet there is no sacrifice I am not ready to make, and no place where I am not ready to go, if it will give my boy any pleasure."
Then had Phil arched his eyebrows slightly, but answered promptly that it would give him great pleasure to attend her, if she would really like to go; but he hoped there would be no martyrs on his account, as he was not absolutely dependent upon the theatre that evening for occupation; or, for the matter of that, he could go alone.
It was finally decided, however, that the mother would accompany him, and she made her young guest miserable with elaborate excuses for leaving her alone. Under ordinary circumstances, she would not think of such a thing, and the theatre was the last place where she cared to go; but she desired above all things to help Phil to find always his companionship at home, and dreaded above all things his seeking doubtful acquaintances under the impulse of a sore feeling of repulse from those whose society he had imagined he could command.
With a swelling heart, and eyes that wanted constantly to brim with tears, did the young Daisy go through with the trials of the early evening. She arranged the flowers in Blanche's frizzed hair, and the bows of her sash, and buttoned her kids, and attended to all the little details of that particular young lady's toilet; and folded her aunt's shawl, and held her fan and gloves, and went herself to the door with them, to see the carriage roll away, leaving her to solitude. After that she cried, but not long.
Then she wrote a cheery letter to her mother, saying not a word of theatre or loneliness. Then she read a little more in the gray book, and went from that to her Bible, choosing words that matched the thoughts of her heart, beginning, "Wherefore, come out from among them, and be ye separate;" and from that she went to her knees.
Her face was peaceful when she at last began to prepare for rest; and she even hummed a sweet, tender tune, breaking once into language:
"Father, I know that all my lifeIs portioned out by thee;And the trials that will surely come,I do not fear to see.But I ask thee for a present mind,Intent on serving thee."
It proved the next morning that the week had been too much for Phil. He did not come to breakfast, and sent word that he meant to rest until afternoon.
From the lunch table, at noon, he was summoned to see some friends in the parlor.
"There," said the mother, with an air and tone of general reproach, "I was going to advise you, Blanche, to remain from Sabbath-school, and try to entertain your brother this afternoon. Sabbath-schools and everything else sink in importance compared with the effort to keep a soul from going astray. Now those miserable fellows have come for him, and he will be away with them all the afternoon. I knew there was some special scheme for to-day, which made me doubly anxious that Phil should be rescued from them; but it is too late now."
The tone and manner of the speaker made poor Daisy feel like a criminal who had deliberately led her Cousin Phil to his ruin. Blanche had only a sigh for answer. Presently she said:
"I shall stay at home, anyway, mamma, if Daisy will excuse me. My head aches, and I don't feel like talking nor thinking."
"Oh! Daisy will excuse us, I think. She is quite an independent little lady, I am sure, and able to go alone to Sabbath-school or elsewhere; aren't you, dear?"
"Yes 'm," said Daisy bravely, "I shall not mind going alone, if you are not able to go."
Then she went away in haste, lest the tears should fall. They had not cared to have her stay: She would willingly have done so, if that would have helped Phil; but she had lost her influence over him, and disappointed mother and sister, and she felt as she set her brown hat on her head, that she wanted to go home to her mother. She had done right; of that she felt sure. But doing right was very hard work sometimes, especially when one was away from one's mother.
Down-stairs she could hear Phil moving up and down the room, whistling snatches of tune. He had not gone out yet, it seemed. Perhaps if she hurried away, Blanche could coax him to stay and sing. She seized her Bagster Bible, and ran hastily down-stairs. The whistler came to the hall to meet her.
"What a ponderous book!" he said, in mock dismay. "Is it really necessary to carry such a great Bible as that?"
"I like it," she said simply.
"Like to carry it, I suppose. You ought to have it expressed; but that would not do for Sunday. I see that I shall have to go and carry it." He was donning his overcoat with speed, and possessed himself of the Bible before Daisy could recover from her surprise.
It was a long walk to the church, and the air was brisk and clear. The sun shone brilliantly, and Phil was at his brightest; every trace of ill humor seemed to have passed away. It was not until they neared the church, that he referred to the events of the day before.
"So, Daisy, you wouldn't go to a theatre with me, even to save my soul, which has seemed to trouble you so much?"
"Oh, Phil, I couldn't do wrong, you know, whatever the imaginary motive; and I had no hope at all that my doing a wrong thing would help you or any one in the least. I had to do as I did; I wish I could make you understand that."
"Was it hard work?"
"What? To stay at home, do you mean?"
"Yes; did you really want to go?"
"It was hard to refuse you, and disappoint Aunt Mattie and Blanche. Yes; I should have wanted to go, should have liked to go, if it had seemed right. But you know I couldn't want to do anything that it was made plain to me would dishonor Christ. I desire above all things to please him; and he made it very plain to me, Phil."
Now they were at the church door, and she reached for her Bible.
"You are not going to invite me in, I suppose? You are tired of that effort, and have given me up?"
"'You said you would not go," she answered, with a wistful smile. She believed he was mocking her eagerness, and meant nothing else.
"I know I did; but isn't a bad promise better broken than kept? You need not ask me again. There is no need. I am going to accept your former invitations. Take me into your class, and introduce me to Mr. Easton."
"Did he really go into the class?"
"Oh, Daisy, you darling, you don't mean it? And what did Mr. Easton say? He liked him, didn't he? I knew he would."
"Oh, Daisy, how did you get him to go? I thought it was all over."
These were some of the exclamations and queries of the delighted mother and sister, who had waited between alternate hope and fear, to see whether Phil would really return with his cousin, or had joined his Sunday friends elsewhere.
Before she could make other than the most general answers, he had come down-stairs again, and joined the group in the back parlor.
"He is here to answer for himself," she said, with a smile, as he leaned over his mother's chair.
"My dear boy," she said fondly, reaching up her hand to his, "you have made your mother very happy. Do tell me that you mean to go again."
"Yes 'm, I mean to go again. I have joined the class, and promised to be there regularly."
"Oh, Phil!" This from the mother, with tremulous lips.
"I knew Mr. Easton would fascinate you." This from Blanche, with a pleased little laugh.
Her brother turned to her.
"No, Blanche; I must be honest. I liked him, and shall like him, I think. But the decision of to-day was made before I saw him, and reaches farther than to the Bible Class. I have determined to serve God. I have gone on my knees, and asked him to make what he can of me.
"And the immediate reason for doing so is, because I have decided that there is such a thing as genuine religion which satisfies, so that the heart does not need the world in the shape of theatres or operas or dancing-parties, or any such thing; and that one who unreservedly gives herself to Him can resist all the lighter and safer forms of its fascinations, if she suspects evil lurking in them—can resist them steadily and gently, and remain calm under fire."
He paused for a moment, while the astonished group waited for what might come next. Then he bent lower over his mother.
"Mamma dear, I honor your intentions, but believe it is a mistake. No young man will ever be won to Christ by going with him to the theatre. He understands them too well. And while I never asked you or my sister to attend a place of amusement that was in itself objectionable, I knew in my soul that I insulted your religion by asking you at all. They all flourish under the rebel flag.
"Mamma, when our Daisy here refused to compromise one inch of the way, I knew that my tower of defence was broken, and that I must own that Christ had been sufficient for one soul, and could be for another."
By this time the tears were falling fast from his mother's eyes.
"My boy," she said, "it is what your father believed; but I have let the mother in my heart come between me and Christ. I was so anxious for you, that I thought I must yield even his honor to save you."
But Blanche, bewildered, and flushing red, declared this:
"I must say I don't see why a boy should coax a girl to do what he is ashamed to have her do; and be all changed around because she refuses to do it."
Yet there is many a boy who coaxes a girl to go where he wishes in his soul she may have Christian firmness enough to refuse.
OUR CHURCH CHOIR.———
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 bannerI-n'every lan-d'unfurl';An' be the shout hosannerRe-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 diademAnd 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.
THIS was the beginning, but by no means the end. The smiling Theodore was a perfect gentleman, no doubt, as regarded affability of manners, and he carried his point, whatever it was, by sheer good-natured audacity, but reverence for the house of God seemed to have no place in his nature.
When he wanted to hum a new tune during prayer time, why he hummed the tune, in decorous undertone, it is true, and looking perfectly good-natured the while; but to hum tunes and turn leaves seemed to be the gentlemanly Theodore's idea of decorum in prayer time. Indeed, as time passed this grew to be by no means the most trying part of the proceedings of the choir. It became necessary to transact a great deal of business after the services had fairly commenced. It suited the leader's idea to sometimes change the tune but the moment before singing, and of course the whispered word had to be passed down the choir. This proceeding served as a sufficient explanation or excuse whenever one of the more daring spirits ventured to criticise: "Why we have to consult, of course. What would you have us do?—Sing hap-hazard? Why must there always be such a fuss made over the consultation of singers? Deacon Simmons can squeak down the aisle and consult with the Brother Sharp about the hour for prayer meeting, in a whisper which can be heard all over the room; and it is all right; but the moment one of the choir ventures a whisper, people act as though we had committed the unpardonable sin." This will serve as a specimen of the spirit in which criticisms were received. Generally the fault-finders-were subdued by these hints of volcanic eruptions, and did not venture to explain that Deacon Simmons and Brother Sharp were never caught giggling behind their fans, nor, however loud their whispers, no such sentences as these floated through the room from their lips: "Have a chocolate drop? Chocolate's good for the voice, you know;" or, "Isn't the sermon dreadfully long drawn out this morning? I do wish he'd get through."
The winter waned, and the good-natured Theodore kept his position, and introduced innovation after innovation in his gentlemanly way, until it is a wonder the old church knew itself. Among other things the old reed organ, which had done good service for several years, was pronounced a wheezy, squeaky, harsh-throated old thing; in which opinion let me hasten to confess my sympathy. I had no love for that organ, which, when all the stops were out, had the power to drown any voice, however sweet. It was declared that a pipe organ was the only thing fit for a church, anyway; and here, again, I must admit that my heart approved. I love the music of a pipe organ.
It was found that a certain church, known to the friendly Theodore, was about to set up a new organ, and would dispose of their old one, purely out of consideration for the said Theodore, at a very low figure indeed. And our choir, which could be very enthusiastic indeed when it chose, declared its intention of raising enough money, forthwith, for that organ.
Vigorously did they set to work. A busy winter we had of it. And by pop-corn parties, and white-apron parties, mid post-offices, and prize pincushions, and grab-bags, necktie sociables, and sheet and pillow-case sociables, and every other kind of sociable or game of grab which was ever invented, the organ fund actually swelled to respectable proportions. Never was a busier winter, nor a more popular man than the gentlemanly leader of our choir. His good nature and his self-sacrifice knew no bounds. Indeed, the young people were all self-sacrificing. They sacrificed the prayer meeting, and the mission band, and the reading circle, and almost everything else except the skating rink, in their zeal for the pipe organ. "It is all for the sake of the cause, you know," grew to be the motto of the young people, and it was really wonderful what marvels of ingenuity they became!
And they succeeded; just as a band of young people, plunged heart and soul into anything, are almost certain to succeed. The everlasting pity is that so often success is not worth the price paid!
But there came a happy day in which the pipe organ was set up by skilled hands in our church, and the Sabbath following the choir outdid themselves. It was long since Auntie Barber had attempted to sing; but on this particular day she was seen moving her lips. She explained it afterwards. "The critter rolled so loud, and the girls all sang so high, that I just put in Old Hundred, softly, because I wanted to have a share in the praising. I thought nobody would mind. They drownded it, you know."
But Auntie Barber was mistaken; the echo of her tremulous notes:
"'Praise Him all creatures here below,'"
went up to Heaven, and the angels minded it very much. And the good-natured Theodore happened to notice the movement of her lips, and whispered to the first soprano during an organ interlude:
"Look at old Auntie Barber mouthing it; won't she have a time, though, keeping up with the next strain!"
Whereat the first soprano giggled, and whispered to the second soprano, who giggled, and passed the whisper down the line, and all were so much amused that they liked not to have been ready for the next strain, which ran so high that they expected to leave old Auntie in the lurch. But this time the gentlemanly Theodore was mistaken. Old Auntie's mouthing reached higher than any strain of music his small soul had ever felt.
Whether the pipe organ was at fault, or whatever was the cause of it, hilarity seemed to develop in our choir, during the spring, to a really alarming extent. The gentlemanly Theodore took to writing notes, not always about the next selection, as was proved by finding one or two ran thus:
"Father Stearns didn't approve of our last effort. Notice his face; it looks as though he had eaten a ten-penny nail preserved in vinegar."
At another time a paper containing advice as to the next selection was found, and read as follows:
"If Dr. Prosy ever subsides, let's sing 'Oh, long expected day begin,' as more appropriate to our feelings than the one we have chosen."
Those notes, of course, had to travel the entire length of the large choir, and great was the amusement created; fans, handkerchiefs and hymn books were in constant requisition to cover the explosions of untimely mirth.
There were also sundry little private missives, passed by the leader to his special favorites, which, of course, must be answered; and as there were young men in the choir who had favorites, and as a leader is to be followed of course, this form of entertainment became very popular.
The gentlemanly Theodore also developed artistic talent, and adorned the fly-leaves of his note book with certain photographs labeled "The Deacon in the dumps," or "Old Auntie in a seraphic state;" and down the line would be passed the caricature of Deacon Slocumb with his chin dropped into his shirt collar, his thumbs interlocked in the act of twirling, and a frown on his forehead so deep that it seemed to cast a shadow over his whole face. Then dear old Auntie Barber's face would travel from one simpleton to another— her rather old-fashioned black bonnet exaggerated until it was larger and queerer than any she ever thought of wearing, and yet looking enough like it to suggest the old lady, even though her placid face hadn't peeped out from under it, her head slightly thrown back, her eyes closed, a pair of immense spectacles pushed up on her forehead, and a sort of exaggeration of satisfaction on her old face; the whole calculated to make the young and heedless laugh. It was really a good comic likeness of the old lady; there is no denying that the affable Theodore had other than musical talent. But there was that about the picture, after all, which it seemed to me was calculated to make a young person who had a dear old mother flush with indignation.
It always seemed to me a bad sign to see people amused with caricatures of good, pure old faces.
I don't remember how long the members of our choir indulged in these various entertainments; but I know that, as the weeks went by, they waxed bolder and bolder. Candies, nuts, and even lemons, circulated freely; notes were industriously written and boldly passed, and the whispering became almost incessant. The fact was, our choir was becoming noted for something besides its music; some of us were actually ashamed to take a guest to church with us, lest our choir might shock them. Well do I remember the Sunday on which the crisis came.
The whispering had been almost incessant during the first part of the sermon, and more than once an audible chuckle had rippled down to those who sat nearest. The minister, good, long-suffering man, tried earnestly not to let his annoyance be seen; but he had borne a great deal; and those who knew him well watched anxiously the steadily rising flush on his unusually pale face. Once he stopped in the middle of a sentence, and waited for full half a minute, which of course seemed to us anxious ones like half an hour, for the whispering behind him to cease. I do not know to this day whether it was unusual and almost unaccountable heedlessness, or a spirit of defiant recklessness, which took possession of our choir for the rest of the morning. Whatever it was, Satan must have been proud of them, for certainly he had it very much his own way among most of them. Suddenly the minister made another ominous pause; so sudden was the silence that part of the loud whisper behind him was heard in the still church; "Tell him I'll flat in the next hymn awfully if he doesn't—"
WE never knew what the accomplished flatter wanted when she spoke out in meeting. She became suddenly aware that the noise just below her had ceased. The minister turned slowly around and faced his tormentors, and into that tremendous silence came his voice: "I shall have to ask the members of the choir to desist from whispering during the sermon; else it will be impossible for me to continue."
Had an angel from Heaven appeared suddenly among us, more startled quiet could not have ensued. The members of the choir did not even dare to glance at one another. One by one their faces dropped behind book or fan or handkerchief, and some of them, at least, shed indignant tears. The minister continued his sermon, and perhaps somebody listened, but Uncle Charlie Bennett cleared his throat several times, with hoarse growls, a way he had when much agitated; and Auntie Barber fanned violently, though the day was cool. As for the affable Theodore, he presently took his hat, and slipped quietly and decorously from a side door; and part of the choir rendered the last hymn as best they could without him.
What a week was that which followed. The whole town was in a ferment, and seethed and boiled in an alarming manner. The choir was large, and many homes had been touched. There was every shade and grade of indignation and disapprobation expressed concerning the minister, from the extreme wrath of Miss Armitage, the first soprano, who thought that "after insulting half his congregation, he ought never to be allowed to show his head in the pulpit again," down to patient old Auntie Barber, who said she knew the minister had been dreadfully put to it, poor dear man; she didn't blame him, but then, if he could have spoken to the young things kind of softly, she would have been dreadful glad.
Well, another Sabbath came; and with much fear and trembling we went to church. The minister was in his place as usual; but the long rows of seats behind him were vacant. Not a singer put in an appearance. Here and there through the church were scattered a few of them, seated decorously beside their parents, wearing ominously set lips, which boded silence, so far as they were concerned, but for the most part the choir had followed the example of its leader and remained away from the sanctuary.
The hymn was announced, and read; and silence followed; even the new organ was dumb. The young performer thereon had been one of the most efficient whisperers, and was, of course, aggrieved.
Deacon Slocumb fumbled for the spectacles with which he saw to read, and exchanged for them the spectacles with which he saw the minister and commenced—
"Alas, what hourly dangers rise,What snares beset my way,"
and suddenly stopped. He had been snared in his haste and perturbation by a long metre tune for this common metre hymn, and it was too long drawn out, even for Auntie Barber, though she quavered in tremulously, on the last word. Of course the members of the choir who were present giggled scornfully, and Joe Slocumb, the wicked, disgraced himself by an audible laugh, but the deacon, red in the face, tried again, and acquitted himself better, and all the congregation lived through that hymn.
Stormy times ensued for our church. In fact there was a time when Satan must have gloried in it, so wonderfully did it live up to his ideas of church management.
Really, it seemed as though the throes of this eruption would rend us to pieces. It had been made plain to the church and the world generally that the long-suffering Mr. Pemberton was now roused. He said with severe dignity that there was a time when patience ceased to be a virtue, and that time had come to him. He had endured enough. He should never enter the doors of that church again, until the minister should either in person or by letter make satisfactory apology to him, and to all the members of his choir, for the insult which they had received. Just what he meant by having "endured enough," or what had so exercised his patience, did not appear. But the roused and indignant Theodore wore all the time a look which translated would have filled volumes. Every member of the choir heartily sympathized with this outburst, and waited for their apology. Now in regard to this apology there was one difficulty. The minister declined to make it! It was not that he was not willing to "become all things to all men," it was not that he did not "study the things which make for peace;" it was simply that he could not very well tell a lie.
He was willing to say that perhaps he had erred in judgment in thus publicly addressing the choir; though even here, in justice to the truth, he would have to explain that he had heretofore spoken seriously and gently with several individual members, with no apparent results; and that he came to the serious conclusion that the course he pursued was the best, and perhaps the only one calculated to remove the difficulty.
No explanation of this sort would the affable Theodore admit for a moment. The minister must say in so many words that he was sorry and ashamed for his sin in thus publicly disgracing his choir, or the choir would refuse to perform, and Mr. Pemberton would never again enter the church. As I said, there was a constitutional and moral objection on the part of our minister to this decision, so it seemed to be necessary for the accommodating Theodore to stay without.
Several miserable weeks ensued, during which time our music was at its worst. It had not even the redeeming feature of being enjoyed by Deacon Slocumb and Auntie Barber. The Deacon sang under protest; and dear old Auntie seemed to understand that her voice was in disgrace, and wailed forth her notes with a tremulousness not all due to age. It was during this time that certain of us made a discovery as to why our congregational singing was so unusually poor. It was apparent that the fresh young voices which had rolled out so jubilantly from the choir seats were absolutely dumb when they were scattered about in the congregation. Look where you would, during Deacon Slocumb's struggles with a tune, and among the young people you would find only apathetic faces and closed lips. They could sing like birds, but they would not.
In due course of time the important question, "What shall be done about our church music?" came up again for official discussion. Some things which we could not do were plain. We could not again enjoy the services of the good-natured Theodore. Not only did he refuse to yield one inch of his dignity, but the triumphant hour came when he refused to return, even though a dozen apologies were furnished him. He declared with dignity that he had waited a reasonable time for advances, and could not be expected to do more. Certain wise ones hinted, however, that the real reason was because the Park Street church had borne him off in triumph, at an advance of fifty dollars on his salary.
In the midst of our perplexities came a ray light in the shape of H. Beethoven Smith, the common-placeness of the surname being utterly lost in the melody of the given names, "Handel Beethoven." He, too, was a newcomer, and came heralded as a musical genius of no common order. It was represented that a wonderful series of accidental, not to say providential, circumstances had given us opportunity to secure his services.
In fact the incidents which seemed to point in the direction of Handel Beethoven Smith became so marked that it would have seemed almost like a tempting of Providence to ignore them. Yet there were difficulties in the way. In the first place, he demanded a much larger salary than had satisfied the genial Theodore; and, in the second place, it was rumored that he had in time past lent the glory of his voice to an opera troupe. But with perseverance these and other difficulties were overcome, and Prof. Handel Beethoven Smith was duly installed as leader of our choir.
Prosperity seemed to crown our efforts. The members of the choir came trooping back; it was folly to nurse their wrath to the extent of losing such an opportunity as this. But we had hardly settled into calm, when it became apparent that it was a deceitful calm.
HANDEL BEETHOVEN SMITH proved to be of uncertain temper. At times he was sullen, or sarcastic, and he was always severe. He would not have this, and he would have that. He told the leading bass that his voice sounded like a trombone, without its correctness of pitch. He said the Emmons girls had harsh, grating voices, and that Carrie Fowler's singing reminded him of a certain rooster which used to disturb his morning slumbers. You hardly need to be told the results of all this. They became apparent to us by degrees. One by one the choir grew smaller. The leading bass accepted an invitation elsewhere. The Emmons girls felt their throats needed rest from regular singing. Cissy Burton decided that she preferred a seat by mamma. Poor Cissy was a nervous little thing, her mother said, quite unused to Mr. Smith's brusque ways; dear Mr. Pemberton had always been so considerate of people's feelings. It is true that Mr. Smith had been rather brusque. He told her savagely one day that she was always half a tone behind, and sang with no more expression than a hand-organ! Nor was it the choir alone, who were the subjects of these home thrusts. Handel Beethoven Smith carried things with a high hand in every direction. He told Dr. Powers, who asked to have the chant, "Suffer little children to come unto me," rendered the Sabbath after the funeral of his little child, that they had sung it but three Sabbaths before at somebody's request, and he couldn't afford to establish such a precedent as that; a leader of a choir couldn't be all the time practising funeral chants because people's babies would die. That "Suffer little children" was nothing but trash, anyway; ought never to be sung; he had strained a point to sing it once, and he didn't mean to get caught in that way again.
I must do Mr. Smith the justice to explain that when he called the chant in question "trash," he referred to the words, not the music. Words were the merest nothings to him; indeed, he had been heard to say that all music ought to be rendered in Italian, that the clumsiness of the English tongue might be lost sight of. Handel Beethoven Smith had a very cultivated ear.
Dr. Powers was by no means the only senior whom Mr. Smith subdued with savage speech. The long-suffering minister ventured one day to suggest to the organist the wish that he would not send the people out of church to the sound of music which seemed to belong to the dance, or the parade, or some festive scene, when the organist assured him that he was himself under orders, that he did not dare to hint to the leader that his soul was his own, much less his fingers. After due consideration, and also after the minister had preached a sermon on the betrayal, and heard a young lady exclaim, as she fluttered down the aisle a few minutes after its solemn closing, "Oh, isn't that music perfectly exquisite! I can hardly keep my feet from whirling off with me in a waltz," he determined to brave the fierce Handel Beethoven himself; and little did he gain by the operation. The great artist informed him that he did not presume to dictate to him what texts he should select, nor, indeed, how long he should make his discourses; however much he might dislike their length, he was in the habit of leaving that matter entirely to the minister's judgment, and he desired and expected to be treated in the same way as regarded the music. If the minister would see to it that his part of the service was properly managed, be sure that he, Handel Beethoven Smith, was entirely capable of attending to his part.
Neither did the constant resignations from the choir apparently disturb the leader in the least. Indeed, he sometimes, with an approach to almost complaisance, remarked that they were well rid of such an one, and the choir improved with each departure. He had no very high opinion of chorus choirs, anyway; you could never do really classic work with a mixed chorus.
He imported in the place of the irate bass singer a young man with a faultless voice and dress. To be sure, this importation created dismay; it was whispered abroad that the owner of the divine voice supported himself by selling fancy liquors in a fashionable up-town saloon! Could it be endured that he should roll out the praises of God in our choir on Sundays, and deal out liquid death to our young men during the week? There were many who thought it could not, and Deacon Slocumb was appointed chairman of a committee to interview the savage leader, who, after hearing his somewhat lengthy complaint, silenced him with the severe statement: "You are laboring under a foolish mistake, Deacon Slocumb. I engaged the young man because of his voice, not because of his business. He does not sell his fancy drinks in our choir on Sunday, and it is a form of business which has not, as yet, affected his throat. He has a very cultured voice, which can be said of very few singers in this town, I assure you; music is at a very low ebb here, and lower nowhere than in your church. I tell you frankly I do not think there is a man among you who knows real music when he hears it, and therefore it is absurdly impossible that you should be permitted to dictate to me."
The deacon was silenced, but not convinced. Still, we had been through such seas of trouble with our choir that we trembled at the thought of touching it. And then, there was dear old Auntie Barber, who murmured: "Well, the young man gets to church twice a day by this means; and they do say he hasn't been in the habit of going to church for years. If he has a mother, poor soul, she must be glad of something that brings him within sound of the Gospel." And yet Auntie Barber remembered, within her honest, sinking heart, how they had rejoiced in bringing the affable Theodore under the sound of the Gospel, and how disastrous had been the apparent results.
There came a morning in our church which I am inclined to think was a triumph to our highly cultivated leader. One by one the chorus had slipped away, until now there were left just four singers—the leading soprano, the best alto we had, the divine bass voice of the saloon clerk, and for tenor, Handel Beethoven himself. That he was satisfied with the situation he showed in his face, and the first piece they rendered certainly astonished the congregation. Joe Slocumb, who was learning to take notes of what was said and sung, for the benefit of the dear old grandma at home, gave the following copy of the words:
"Whytee ugh seeeepro take tip ou-ou-ou-ouurBeem I'ven wiiiish us till,Nan mate is conseek raaateee tower,We uth beeeta ropes by Phil."
In vain did grandma don her spectacles and study carefully for a familiar word. Then she laid the paper down with a sigh and a protest:
"I didn't think, Joe, that you would be for playing tricks on your old grandma."
Then Joe, virtuous and indignant: "I didn't, Grandma, do any such thing. Them's the very words, jist as near as I can make them out. It wasn't a piece the minister read; they just squealed it out, without anybody telling what it was; and if them ain't the words, then it didn't have any words."
By all of which I trust you will understand how entirely Handel Beethoven Smith succeeded in training his choir to overcome the clumsiness of the English language.
BUT, alas for us, the day of peace was not yet!
It took a great deal to satisfy our leader, and he sat down after his last effort, gloomy and unsatisfied. His fierce brows remained drawn and unbending during the entire service. Almost before the "amen" of the benediction was pronounced, he expressed his mind, quite loud enough for the soprano to hear: "It is of no use to bring classic music into this choir; the singers are not equal to it. After all our drill, that A was flatted wretchedly! This is the last time; I shall never again attempt anything but the most ordinary psalm tune."
I regret that I cannot give you his rendering of the word "psalm." It was spoken as though the "ordinary psalm tune" was the lowest and most discouraging of all human productions, and to be reduced to the necessity of singing it conferred a degree of self-abasement below which it would be hard to fall.
Alas for our leading soprano! It was she who had flatted that miserable "A." It was she whose cheeks now glowed a painful crimson as she listened to the stinging criticism. It was also she who handed in her written resignation to Handel Beethoven that very afternoon, couched in language which he could not fail to understand. Since she, who had for years borne the name of being the most correct singer in town, and of having an unusually pure soprano voice, could not give him satisfaction, she was more than willing to resign her seat, and let him fill it when and where he could.
Over this note Handel Beethoven did look thoughtful. Soprano singers whom he could control were certainly growing scarce.
In his perplexity, he actually consulted Deacon Slocumb, or, at least, he grumbled before him to the effect that he didn't know what they were going to do, as their soprano had a severe attack of ill humor. He presumed he could hardly be expected to manufacture sopranos to order, free of charge; though almost everything else was expected of him. If the church had a paid quartette choir, as it ought to have, all these nuisances would be avoided.
Deacon Slocumb had no word to offer, but when was dear old Auntie Barber other than sympathetic in any form of trouble? She, waiting in the aisle, overheard the grumbler, opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it and moved on, then turned back and stood in the leader's way, wrapping and unwrapping her hymn hook in a painfully embarrassed manner. She was very shy of Handel Beethoven.
"Well," he said in a surly tone, "do you want anything?"
Then Auntie Barber found voice. Mrs. Adams, her neighbor, had a niece visiting her, a young thing from Boston, who sang around the house like a lark, and Mrs. Adams told her they set store by her in a church in Boston; she had come to the country for the summer, to rest, and Auntie Barber did not know but maybe he would like to get her to help him for a little while; at least, she thought it would do no harm to mention it.
Handel Beethoven Smith forgot to thank her, did not relax one muscle of his gloomy face, and merely remarking that because somebody in Boston "set store" by a singer, was no sign that he would be able to tolerate her, brushed past meek old Auntie, and went his way. Nevertheless, in the course of the afternoon, he did call on Mrs. Adams, and hold a consultation with the niece from down East.
Evening came, and those who knew of the latest disturbance in our choir, waited, some of them in anxiety, and some in amusement, to see what development we would have next. A little thrill of comfort stole into Auntie Barber's heart as she saw the down East niece in the choir, but the rest of us did not know the fair-faced stranger.
The organ, contrary to its usual manner, was filling the church with slow, sweet sounds, as the people gathered, and then, suddenly, we had a sensation. A voice, sweeter, it seems to me, than could ever have sounded on earth before, rose on the hushed air, and rolled in melody down the aisles, each word as distinctly spoken as though it was a sermon by itself, reached our hearts:
"While Thee I seek, protecting power,Be my vain wishes stilled,And may this consecrated hour,With better hopes be filled."
What was there in that voice to make us feel the solemn hush of the great "protecting power" all around us? Why, under its spell, did we feel our petty strifes and bickerings and jealousies hushing into stillness? How came the longing stealing over us for a higher life, and holier aims, and "better hopes?"
Perhaps none of us understood the "why," but we were under the spell. And certainly none of us knew or even dreamed that we were listening to the same words which Joe Slocumb had taken down verbatim in the morning.
The wonderful voice continued its marvelous sermon:
"Thy love the power of thought, bestowed."
What a wonderful thing to have bestowed upon us, and to what uses had we sometimes put it! But the voice went on:
"To Thee my thoughts would soar."
Oh, yes, gracious, protecting Power, lift Thou our thoughts up into thy plane!
"Thy mercy on my life has flowed,That mercy I adore."
Did we need a sermon after that? We had had our sermon; and yet, our minister had never preached a better one. We could feel that his faith had soared upward on the wings of that prayer-song, and taken fresh heart for work.
For the first time in our lives we had the pleasure of seeing Handel Beethoven Smith in thoroughly good humor. The wonderful voice which he had invited into his choir shed a reflected glory on him, and filled his small soul with as much elation as it could hold. His expressions of satisfaction might not have sounded remarkable to the fair singer, but for him they really were profuse:
"It is certainly a great pleasure to hear your rendering, after the soul-torturing performances which I have endured so long. I permitted you to use the same selection which we attempted in the morning, in order that this obtuse congregation might feel the difference, if it has any musical taste, which I doubt."
Then was the pretty singer discomfited: "Is it possible I chose something which was sung here this morning? I was not here; I went with Uncle to his church. I wouldn't have done it for the world! I am afraid I hurt somebody's feelings."
Our leader made haste to reassure her. No solo had been attempted; he had been too wise for that. It had only been sung as a quartette; and really, she need not be troubled. Nobody in that congregation knew good singing from bad.
Perhaps there was truth in the statement, but some of the congregation went away that night with a queer feeling tugging at their hearts that their lives, so wonderfully encircled by that Protecting Power, ought to be living exponents of its greatness, as they could but feel they were not.
THERE was much looking forward to next Sabbath's services, and much eagerness to hear the glorious voice again. And we were not disappointed. With much elation did Mr. Handel Beethoven Smith spread the news. Miss Haviland, of Boston, was in the country for rest, but a little quiet Sunday singing she would not mind in the least: indeed, she would help them all she could; would like to do it. And when Handel Beethoven repeated this gracious acceptance of his invitation, he added thoughtfully that he presumed she would not be sorry to have the benefit of his training for a few weeks, and that it was a comfort to him to feel that he need not accept her help without being able to give a very adequate return. However that was, Miss Alice Haviland made glorious music for us all that Sabbath day.
"She sings like a nightingale," said Deacon Slocumb, "but when I look at her I can't think of nothing but one of them little bright-winged critters who flutter all ways to once."
As for Joe Slocumb, when he tried to describe her to his grandmother, he got no further than to say: "She's all in white, bunnit and all, only some blue ribbons a flying, and fluffy hair, the color of—say, Grandmother, do you s'pose the angels wear hair, and ribbons and things?"
A second Sabbath came and almost passed. The hush of the Sabbath evening was upon us. Our church was very full; people not accustomed to church-going had been drawn in to hear the singer whom we were all beginning to understand was wonderful. We had almost held our breaths that evening in the fear that she would not be there. For she came a trifle late, and looked flushed, and troubled. But she sang the soprano in the opening hymns with her usual power, then dropped back into her seat, and some of us noticed that she kept her eyes shaded by her hand during the entire sermon. Mr. Smith touched her hand just before its close and whispered: "The doctor wants you to sing this as a solo. The words are mere doggerel, but the music will set off your voice to good advantage."
Her face, which had grown pale, flushed a little over that; and I knew her afterwards well enough to understand that she would have refused to sing it, had not the minister's name been in the direction. She took it, however, without demur, and presently her marvelous voice filled the church:
"Take my life, and let it beConsecrated, Lord, to Thee.Take my hands and let them moveAt the impulse of Thy love."
Each word as distinctly enunciated as though the singer was reciting them. On, through the description of mental and physical powers, until she reached the words:
"Take my voice, and let me sing,Always, only for my King."
She was singing from sheet music, and the arrangement was such that the word "voice" rolled up into the higher notes, strong and pure, as though the singer would reach up, even to the throne, with the offering.
"Take my voice, and—"
Suddenly the singer faltered, the voice ceased. The organ, which had been keeping only a modest undertone of accompaniment, hurried into the melody, the player striking the chords with firm hand, as though to encourage the singer, but in vain. She only looked pleadingly at the leader and shook her head. And the minister who had been listening with closed eyes, and a heart attuned to the words wafted to him, caught the pleading look, and, rising, lifted his hands in benediction.
Following hard on the "amen" came questions. Anxious friends had hurried to the choir gallery. "What is it?" "Were you faint?" "Get her a glass of water." "Where's a fan?" "Do you feel sick?"
She turned from them toward the leader: "Mr. Smith, I am very sorry, but, indeed, I could not sing it; those words are awful!"
"Words!" he said, in high indignation. "Is it possible you stopped for them? I told you they were mere doggerel. It was the marvelous tune, and your voice fits it. What are words?"
She shivered as she answered him: "Words are awful, Mr. Smith—those words are. I could not speak them. Think of me calling God to witness that I give Him my voice, to sing only for Him, when I never sang a line for Him in my life!
"'Always, only for my King!'
"And I have never owned Him as my King! I tell you I could not speak those words. It is mockery. And, oh! How much of it I have done. It is all mockery; I do not mean any of it."
And she buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.
Utter, silent consternation took possession of us. Not one seemed to know what word to offer.
But there was more than consternation on the face of Handel Beethoven Smith, and he was the first to regain power of speech as he turned to move away:
"Well, I had supposed myself familiar with all the forms of hysteria in which lady singers can indulge, but this is new!"
The minister had come to offer sympathy, but had been struck dumb by the singer's outcry. But now he rallied:
"My dear young lady, there is a remedy for your trouble. He is ready to blot out all the past. Will you give your voice to Him for the future?"
The rest of us were moving away, but the singer suddenly arrested us again. She seemed not to have heard the minister; but at that moment she caught sight of the wistful old face of Auntie Barber.
"Auntie—Auntie Barber," she said, springing up, and leaning over the choir rail, "Wait! I want to see you." And then she vanished from our sight.