So far, everything went well.But it was next discovered that it was difficult to hear the minister, who had a very handsome little desk in the apse, somewhat distant from the bulk of the congregation;still, we could most of us see him on a clear day.The church was admirably built for echoes, and the centre of the house was very favorable to them.When you sat in the centre of the house, it sometimes seemed as if three or four ministers were speaking.
It is usually so in cathedrals; the Right Reverend So-and-So is assisted by the very Reverend Such-and-Such, and the good deal Reverend Thus-and-Thus, and so on.But a good deal of the minister's voice appeared to go up into the groined arches, and, as there was no one up there, some of his best things were lost.We also had a notion that some of it went into the cavernous organ-loft.It would have been all right if there had been a choir there, for choirs usually need more preaching, and pay less heed to it, than any other part of the congregation.Well, we drew a sort of screen over the organ-loft; but the result was not as marked as we had hoped.We next devised a sounding-board,--a sort of mammoth clamshell, painted white,--and erected it behind the minister.It had a good effect on the minister.It kept him up straight to his work.So long as he kept his head exactly in the focus, his voice went out and did not return to him; but if he moved either way, he was assailed by a Babel of clamoring echoes.There was no opportunity for him to splurge about from side to side of the pulpit, as some do.And if he raised his voice much, or attempted any extra flights, he was liable to be drowned in a refluent sea of his own eloquence.And he could hear the congregation as well as they could hear him.All the coughs, whispers, noises, were gathered in the wooden tympanum behind him, and poured into his ears.
But the sounding-board was an improvement, and we advanced to bolder measures; having heard a little, we wanted to hear more.Besides, those who sat in front began to be discontented with the melodeon.
There are depths in music which the melodeon, even when it is called a cabinet organ, with a colored boy at the bellows, cannot sound.
The melodeon was not, originally, designed for the Gothic worship.
We determined to have an organ, and we speculated whether, by erecting it in the apse, we could not fill up that elegant portion of the church, and compel the preacher's voice to leave it, and go out over the pews.It would of course do something to efface the main beauty of a Gothic church; but something must be done, and we began a series of experiments to test the probable effects of putting the organ and choir behind the minister.We moved the desk to the very front of the platform, and erected behind it a high, square board screen, like a section of tight fence round the fair-grounds.This did help matters.The minister spoke with more ease, and we could hear him better.If the screen had been intended to stay there, we should have agitated the subject of painting it.But this was only an experiment.
Our next move was to shove the screen back and mount the volunteer singers, melodeon and all, upon the platform,--some twenty of them crowded together behind the minister.The,effect was beautiful.It seemed as if we had taken care to select the finest-looking people in the congregation,--much to the injury of the congregation, of course, as seen from the platform.There are few congregations that can stand this sort of culling, though ours can endure it as well as any;yet it devolves upon those of us who remain the responsibility of looking as well as we can.
The experiment was a success, so far as appearances went, but when the screen went back, the minister's voice went back with it.We could not hear him very well, though we could hear the choir as plain as day.We have thought of remedying this last defect by putting the high screen in front of the singers, and close to the minister, as it was before.This would make the singers invisible,--"though lost to sight, to memory dear,"--what is sometimes called an "angel choir,"when the singers (and the melodeon) are concealed, with the most subdued and religious effect.It is often so in cathedrals.
This plan would have another advantage.The singers on the platform, all handsome and well dressed, distract our attention from the minister, and what he is saying.We cannot help looking at them, studying all the faces and all the dresses.If one of them sits up very straight, he is a rebuke to us; if he "lops" over, we wonder why he does n't sit up; if his hair is white, we wonder whether it is age or family peculiarity; if he yawns, we want to yawn; if he takes up a hymn-book, we wonder if he is uninterested in the sermon; we look at the bonnets, and query if that is the latest spring style, or whether we are to look for another; if he shaves close, we wonder why he doesn't let his beard grow; if he has long whiskers, we wonder why he does n't trim 'em; if she sighs, we feel sorry; if she smiles, we would like to know what it is about.And, then, suppose any of the singers should ever want to eat fennel, or peppermints, or Brown's troches, and pass them round! Suppose the singers, more or less of them, should sneeze!
Suppose one or two of them, as the handsomest people sometimes will, should go to sleep! In short, the singers there take away all our attention from the minister, and would do so if they were the homeliest people in the world.We must try something else.
It is needless to explain that a Gothic religious life is not an idle one.