Part 1

Produced by Al Haines

[Frontispiece: ...stood with arms interlocked and heads touching as their voices soared in the grand finale.]

_The Baritone's Parish_

_or_

"_All Things to all Men_"

_By_

_James M. Ludlow_

_Fleming H. Revell Company_ _New York Chicago Toronto_ _MDCCCXCVI_

Copyright, 1896, by FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY.

BOOKS BY JAMES M. LUDLOW, D.D., Litt.D.

THE CAPTAIN OF THE JANIZARIES.

A Story of the Times of Scanderbey, and the Fall of Constantinople.

A KING OF TYRE.

Contrasted Scenes of Jewish and Phoenician Life, 400 B.C., woven into romance.

THAT ANGELIC WOMAN.

A Story from High Life To-day.

A MAN FOR 'A THAT; OR, "MY SAINT JOHN."

A Story of City Life among the Lowly.

THE AGE OF THE CRUSADES.

Life in the XI. and XII. Centuries. _In preparation_.

THE BARITONE'S PARISH; OR, "ALL THINGS TO ALL MEN"

The pulpit and the choir gallery are closely related in our city churches. It is, however, a sad fact that the "sons of the prophets" and the "sons of Korah" usually know but little of one another; and this is to the loss of both. To the musicians the minister often seems a recluse, and the clergyman comes to look upon his choir as a band of itinerant minstrels.

It is therefore very refreshing to note that between the pastor of St. Philemon's, the Rev. Dr. Wesley Knox, and Mr. Philip Vox, there sprang up an intimacy almost from the day when the new baritone sang his first solo. It was Shelley's "Resurrection," which had been rendered as an offertory after one of the doctor's finest efforts at an Easter sermon.

Deacon Brisk, the chairman of the music committee, met the preacher at the chancel-rail within fifteen seconds after the benediction had been pronounced; before the sexton could deliver a message that a parishioner was in momentary expectation of death, and required the pastor's immediate attendance; before Lawyer Codey had adjusted his silk hat like a falcon on his wrist preparatory to his stately march down the middle aisle; and even before the soprano had adjusted her handsome face and bonnet over the front of the choir gallery to inspect the passers-out.

Deacon Brisk was like most music committee-men in that he knew little about the musical art; but he was a hustler in getting the worth of his money in whatever job he undertook. Rubbing his hands in self-congratulation upon the new baritone's engagement, he delivered himself of a panegyric which he had spent the time of the closing prayer in composing:

"I tell you, doctor, Vox was a catch. Why, he sang

"'In slumber lay the brooding world Upon that glorious night,'

so sweetly that you could almost hear the stars twinkle through the music; and when he struck

"'Let heaven's vaulted arches ring,'

it seemed as if the sky were tumbling down through the church roof. That's great singing; eh, doctor? Cost only three hundred extra; worth a thousand on the church market!"

"Yes," said the doctor, "I was pleased with the man's voice. I am impressed with the idea that there is more than larynx and training in him. There must be bigness and sweetness of soul behind those tones. Men can't sing that way to order. Come, Brisk, introduce us when those young women get through talking to him. I know I shall like him. But I didn't know that you were so well up in musical judgment."

"Why, doctor," rejoined Brisk, "it doesn't require that a man shall be an electrical engineer in order to invest successfully in a trolley."

The dominie was a bachelor. That was a pity; for a wife and family of ten could have homed themselves in his heart without detracting from the love he had for everybody else. But having no wife to console him after the efforts of a hard Sunday, he was accustomed to ask one or another of the young men to come to the study and "curry him down," as he said, after evening service.

Soon Vox came to occupy permanently this place of clerical groom. The saintly folk who thought that the light burning until Sunday midnight in the sanctum was a sign of the protracted devotions of their pastor would, on one occasion at least, have been astounded to see the reality. On the lounge was stretched the tired preacher, his feet on a pile of "skimmed" newspapers, reserved for the more thorough perusal they would never get. In his lap lay the head of a big collie, whose eyes were fixed on the handsome face of his master. Do dogs have religious instinct? If so, this was a canine hour of worship, and the dog was a genuine mystic. In some famous pictures of the adoration of the Magi less reverence and love are depicted on the faces than gleamed from beneath the shaggy eyebrows of the brute.

By the study-table sat Vox, his big bushy head and square Schiller-cut face (except for the very unpoetic mustache) bending over a chafing-dish that sent up the incense of Welsh rarebit, the ingredients of which were the offering of the landlady's piety.

"Doctor," said Vox, suddenly poising the spoon as if it were a baton, and dripping the melted cheese on to the manuscript of the night's sermon before the preacher had decided whether to put it into his "barrel" or his waste-basket--"doctor, do you know that I feel like a hypocrite, singing in a Christian church?"

"You a hypocrite, Vox? You couldn't act a false part any more than you could sing a false note without having the shivers go all through you."

"Well," replied the singer, "that is just what is the matter with me. The shivers do go through me. I am shocked at the moral discord I am making. I am striking false notes all the time. My life doesn't follow the score of my conscience. I don't mean that I have committed murder or picked pockets, but it seems to me that I am breaking the commandment by bearing false witness about myself, making people think I am a saint, or want to be one, when the fact is that I put no more heart into my singing than the organ-pipe does."

So saying Vox strode across the floor, holding a plate of rarebit as if it were a sheet of music, and jerked the toasted cheese off it as he seemed to jerk the notes off the paper when he sang.

The doctor slipped from the lounge just in time to escape a savory splash which was aiming itself straight for the space between his vest and shirt-bosom. The dog growled at the apparent attack upon his master, but was diverted from further warlike demonstrations by the bit of toast that fell under his nose.

"Your dog is as good as a special policeman for you, doctor."

"Yes, he defends me in more ways than one. Do you know why I call him Caleb? Caleb is Hebrew for 'God's dog.' One day, when he was a pup, I forgot myself and dropped into a regular pessimist over some materialistic trash I was reading. The pup seemed to notice my sour face, and put his paws upon my knees, lolled out his tongue, and searched me through and through with those bright eyes of his. It was as much as to say, 'Master, you're a fool. Look at me. Didn't it take a God to make such a marvelous creature as I am?' So I have called him Caleb ever since. He tackles many a doubt for me, as he would any other robber."

"I wish I had your faith, doctor," said Vox, putting his arm around Caleb's neck, and dropping another piece of toast into the waiting jaws.

"Faith? You have got it, Phil; only you don't know it."

"Nonsense, doctor! I suppose I believe the Creed; at least I don't disbelieve it. But I don't feel these things. That's what makes me say that I am a hypocrite to sing in a Christian church. To-night I saw a woman crying during my solo. I felt like stopping. I never feel like crying, except when the notes cry themselves; then I confess to a moistening that goes all through me. Now what right have I to make another feel what I don't feel myself? I tell you, doctor, I am nothing but a bellowing hypocrite. I'm going into opera, where it is all make-believe. You know that I've had offers that would tempt a singing devil; and I believe I would be one if it were not for you."

The doctor eyed his guest quizzically for a moment, then deliberately stretched himself again on the lounge.

"Phil, that cheese has gone to your head. I didn't think it was so strong. Yet I can understand your mistake, for I used to talk that way to myself when I was as green and unsophisticated as you are. I would scratch out the best sentences from my sermons, because I didn't feel all they meant, and would accuse myself of duplicity and cant because my experience was not up to my doctrine. But what if it wasn't? My brain isn't as big as the Bible. My conscience isn't as true and vivid as Moses' was when he wrote down the Ten Commandments. My heart isn't as tender as Christ's. If a preacher says only what he is able to feel at the moment, there will be poor fodder for the parish. So it is all through life. People talk in society on a higher level than they habitually think. They ought to. That is what society is for--to tune up to key the sagging strings of common, humdrum life. All politeness will cease when everybody acts on your theory. We must not say 'Good-morning' to a neighbor because at the moment we do not really care whether his day is going to be pleasant or not. You must not take off your hat to a lady on the street, unless at the instant you are possessed of a profound respect for the sex. Who was that composer that said that he never knew what a piece he had written until he heard Joseffy play it? They asked Parepa to sing 'Coming through the Rye.' She said, 'Pshaw! I've sung it threadbare. I grind it out now as the hand-organ does.' But she sang it, and brought down the house. Why shouldn't she? Feel! Do you suppose that old violin feels anything of the joy that thrills through its fibers? Shall I smash it for a hypocritical contrivance of wood and catgut? Did I kick Dr. Cutt out of the study the other day because he didn't realize the good he had done me in reducing the swelling of my sprained ankle? Yet you want me to let you kick yourself out of the church because you are not one of the 'angels of Jesus,' or haven't had all the joy of life crushed out of you by affliction, so that you are 'weary of earth,' as you sing!"

The doctor warmed with his theme, until, standing up, he put his big hands on Vox's shoulders, and fairly shouted at him:

"Sing, Phil! Sing the brightest, happiest things that God ever inspired men to write. But don't go croaking like an owl because you don't feel like a nightingale."

"Well," said Vox, drawing a long breath, and letting it out in a whistle, "that cheese or something else has inspired you, doctor. I never heard you so eloquent in the pulpit. Why don't you preach at us that way? Take us, as it were, one by one, and go through us, instead of preaching at humanity in the lump. I confess that you have persuaded me about my Sunday work. I am not going to leave it off. But now for the other six days in the week. I can convince you that they are full of husks that do nobody any good. Here's my diary. Isn't it contemptible for a man with even a singer's conscience? Monday, sung at Checkley's musicale for fifty dollars and a score of feminine compliments; Tuesday, in oratorio for one hundred dollars and some newspaper puffs, which were all wrong from a critical standpoint; Wednesday, moped all day because I couldn't sing--raw throat; Thursday, made believe teach a lot of tone-deaf fellows who can never sing any more than crows, and took their money for the imposition; Friday, ditto; Saturday, rehearsal. Now who am I helping by peddling my chin-wares?"

Vox stopped for lack of breath, as well as from the fact that his week had run out.

"Go on," said the doctor, nonchalantly. "You can certainly slander yourself worse than that. What! no more? Why, Vox, I know there are worse things about you than what you have told me."

Vox colored.

"You needn't blush so over it, Phil," and the doctor burst out laughing at him. "I am not going to twit you on any disagreeable facts. I didn't say I knew what those worse things were; but I do know that you are not such a sweet saint as to have only the faults mentioned. If they were all, I would have a glass case made for you at once, put your bones up in leather, and place a basin of holy water at your door for passers-by to dip their fingers in. But soberly, Phil, I think I can size you up, or down."

"All right; try it. You may find me so big a fool that it will take some time to get my full measurement."

With that he stretched himself to his full height, and posed with his fingers in his vest-holes. The attitude interested Caleb, who stretched himself out to almost corresponding dimensions horizontally along the floor, recovering his legs slowly to the accompaniment of a long and dismal whine.

"He does that," said the doctor, "only when there is going to be a death in the neighborhood, or when I begin to read my sermons aloud in the study. He knows I am going to lecture you. Charge, Caleb!

"Dearly beloved Vox! you have two first-class deficiencies. First, a purposeless life. You happen to be doing good with that wonderful voice of yours; but that is nothing to your credit. You can't help cheering people when you wag your jaws any more than Caleb can help being a comfort to me when he wags his tail. You didn't study music for the sake of helping anybody, but only because music gave you a pleasurable means of getting a livelihood. So you have no soul-satisfaction in your profession, for all you are succeeding so grandly in it. You are like that piece of music which you said was a failure, because, though there were some fine harmonies in it, it had no theme, no prevailing idea, no musical purpose."

"That's me," said Vox, _sotto voce_, holding his head in his hands. "I know that I am a mere medley, part sacred, part profane, and both parts played by the devil! Go on."

"Stop your pessimism," rejoined the doctor. "That poetic head of yours reminds me that Schiller in the 'Bell' gives utterance to the same idea I am trying to beat into you."

"The Bell? That's me, too; all brass and clapper!" grumbled Vox, twisting Caleb's ears until the brute whined.

The doctor, not heeding either the singer's soliloquy or the brute's, quoted in oratorical style:

"'So let us duly ponder all The works our feeble strength achieves; For mean, in truth, the man we call Who ne'er what he completes conceives.

And well it stamps our human race, And hence the gift to understand, That man within the heart should trace Whate'er he fashions with the hand.'"

Vox groaned. "That's rather heavy poetry for creatures of our caliber, isn't it, Caleb? But I guess that I catch on.--It means the same as the line of the hymn you gave out to-night, doctor;" and Vox sang:

"'Take my voice, and let me sing Always, only, for my King.'

"That is, if I'm a bell, I should be one on purpose, whether a church-bell, or a door-bell, or only 'God's dog,' to growl"--patting Caleb. "But what is that second thing I lack? Since you've taken the contract to make me over, I want you to be thorough with the job."

"The second thing you need," said the doctor, "is in some way to be made to see that you are doing good. From your perch in the gallery you don't get a glimpse into the people's hearts. I couldn't preach if I didn't go among the people during the week, and get the encouragement of knowing that I had helped somebody."

"Yes," said Vox, "I've heard Joe Jefferson say that he couldn't act worth a cent if the people didn't applaud. I beg your pardon, doctor, for comparing the pulpit with the stage. But go on with your lecture."

"Oh, you've knocked the lecture out of my head with your nonsense, Phil."

"But you knocked it pretty well into mine. I'd like to see somebody I've helped. Show him up."

"Humph!" grunted the doctor, and, after a moment's silence, said abruptly, "Phil, will you go with me to-morrow night?"

"Where?"

"Leave that to me."

"That's a blind sort of an invitation, doctor. But, of course, I will go anywhere you want me to. But what is it? Some holy Sorosis? That reformed theater you talk about? Any charge for admittance, or collection? Of course, going with a distinguished clergyman I shall have to appear in swallow-tails and arctic shirt-front."

"Not a bit of it, Phil; your oldest clothes, so that you will look just as mean as you say you feel; then, for once, you can't accuse yourself of being a hypocrite."

There was a motley crowd in the front room of a Bowery twenty-cent lodging-house. The room was the parlor, but the occupants called it the "deck," in distinction from the rest of the house, which was filled with bunks. There were hard old soakers in a periodical state of repentance; or, to speak more scientifically, in that state of gland-moistening that comes after a certain amount of poor beer has permeated the system. There were young prodigals, in there for the night because they had no money for a night's carousal elsewhere. There was a sprinkling of honest men, thankful for even this refuge from the sleety streets. There were some two hundred pieces of the great human wreck made by the hard times, which were beached in Brady's Harbor, as the place was called.

The usual hubbub had calmed while a story-teller, who sat on the edge of a table, and whose slouch-hat and high ulster collar did not altogether conceal the genial face of Dr. Knox, entertained the crowd with old army yarns, which, as usual with such literature, were taken largely from the apocryphal portion of our national annals.

"Bully for you! Give us another!" was the encore, emphasized with the rattle of backgammon-boards and boot-heels.

"Haven't any more; but I have a friend here who will bring up the reserves in the way of a song."

"Song, song! Rosin your larynx, old boy!" greeted the suggestion, while the crowd gathered closer about Vox, and several who had "turned in" for the night turned out of their bunks again, minus coats and boots. A friendly slap on the back by something less than a ten-pound hand helped the singer to clear his throat.

Vox gave them "O'Grady's Goat" and one or two other classics of the Tenderloin district, with the rapt appreciation of his audience. Tom Moore's "Minstrel Boy," to the genuine old Irish melody, struck the heroic chord in the breasts of men most of whom were deserters from the real battle-fields of life. Then Vox dropped into a lullaby. The tender mother words given in his masculine tones seemed a burlesque as he began; but the deep bass took on the softness and sweetness of a contralto, and made one think, if not of a mother cooing to her baby, at least of some rough, great-hearted man who had found a lost child and was rocking it to sleep in his strong arms. More than one greasy sleeve got into its owner's eyes before Vox ended.

"An' 'aven't ye a Scotch sang, me laddie?" asked an old fellow, knocking the ashes from his pipe against the window-sill.

"My Ain Countrie" followed. As the music floated, the thick smoke of the room seemed to drift away. The land of birds and beauty lay before eyes that for months and years had looked only upon the crowded misery of slumdom. When the voice ceased the illusion continued for a while in spite of the picking sleet at the window-panes.

At length the silence was broken by a voice that came from a distant corner of the room. It repeated the last verse in tones as pure as those of Vox himself, though a high tenor in quality. Some of the notes were broken by hiccups.

Vox looked in amazement at the singer--a half-drunken youngish man curled nearly double in a chair which was tipped back against the wall. His battered derby and unscraped chin did not effectually disguise the handsome fellow beneath them. He was like the Apollo Belvedere when first exhumed from the mud of Antium.

"Who are you, my friend?" asked Vox, in as kindly a tone as his surprise allowed.

"Friend? (hic) haven't got any friend," replied the man; and he struck up the verse that had just been rendered. His voice was husky at first, but after a few notes it clarified itself, as brooks do in running. His tones became marvelously sweet, touching the highest note without the slightest suggestion of falsetto. It was a transcendent voice, one that might have once belonged to some spirit, and gone astray among men. The singer went through the verse this time without hiccup or slur; but the instant he stopped the drunk resumed its sway. Down came the chair with a bump on to its front legs, which sent the man headlong into the arms of Vox, with whom he wanted to fight.

"I won't fight you," said Vox, helping him back to his seat; "but I'll dare you to sing with me."

"Sin' wi' you! 'Cept your challenge. I can whip you with my--my tongue (hic) as bad as my wife she (hic) whipped me with her (hic) tongue."

"What shall we sing, old boy?" inquired Vox, with that easy familiarity which showed that he had seen such customers before.

"Sin' a song o' sispence, Pocket full o' rye,"

sang the man. "Say, what's the use o' havin' your pocket full o' rye (hic)? 'D rather have a belly full o' rye; wouldn't you (hic)?"

"You've enough rye in you for to-night," said Vox. "Come, pull the cork out of your throat, and let's have a song."

Vox got a chair, and tipped it back by the side of the maudlin fellow, then struck up Mazzini's two-part song, "The Muleteers." The stranger joined in. Such singing was never heard before nor since in Brady's Harbor, nor, for that matter, in Carnegie Hall. After a bar or two the men rose to their feet and stood with arms interlocked and heads touching as their voices soared in the grand finale.

The noise brought in Brady, who said it was "galoreous," but for all that they'd have to "bolt up their chins," as it was past twelve o'clock, and the "perlice wasn't so easy on lodgin'-houses as they was on the swill-shops."

"See here, Vox," said the doctor, "I am going home alone to-night. Find out your pal. Chum him a bit. A man with that voice has had culture. Scrape the rust off him, and you will find something polished beneath, or I am no judge of human nature. Take him for your parish, Phil."

"A heathenish sort of a mission that," replied Vox, looking at the fellow, who was trying, as he said, to find his night-key to get his boots off with. After a moment's hesitation, Vox added: "All right, doctor; you've had as hard a field with me, if it wasn't so dirty a one. I'll take him for a sobering walk in the drizzle, and then get him into better quarters than he has here."