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!"