A snap, a fizz, a rumble; some stupendous roaring tones-- And where upon earth's surface was the recent Mrs. Jones? Go ask the moaning winds, the sky, the mists, the murmuring sea; Go ask the fish, the coroner, the clams--but don't ask me. [Illustration] CHAPTER X. A PICTURESQUE CHURCH--SOME REFLECTIONS UPON CHURCH MUSIC--BOB PARKER IN THE CHOIR--OUR UNDERTAKER--A GLOOMY MAN--OUR EXPERIENCE WITH THE HOT-AIR FURNACES--A SERIES OF ACCIDENTS--MR. COLLAMER'S VOCALISM--AN EXTRAORDINARY MISTAKE. [Illustration] There are but few old villages in the United States that contain ancient churches so picturesque in situation and in appearance as that which stands in the centre of our town, the most conspicuous of its buildings. The churchyard is filled with graves, for the people still cling to that kindly usage which places the sacred dust of the departed in holy ground. And so here, beneath the trees, and close to the shadow of the sanctuary walls, villagers of all ages and generations lie reposing in their final slumber, while from among them the snow-white spire rises heavenward to point the way their souls have gone. There are many of us who were not born here, and who are, as it were, almost strangers in the town, who can wander down the narrow paths of the yard, to out-of-the-way corners, where the headstones are gray with age and sometimes covered with a film of moss, and read in the quaint characters with which the marble is inscribed our own family names. Here lies the mortal part of men and women who were dear to our grandsires; of little children too, sometimes, whose departure brought sorrow to the hearts of those who joined them in Paradise long, long before we began to play our parts in the drama of existence. The lives that ended in this quiet resting-place are full of deepest interest to us; they have a controlling influence upon our destiny, and yet they are very unreal to us. The figures which move by us as we try to summon up the panorama of that past are indistinct and obscure. They are shadows walking in the dusk, and we strive in vain to vest them with a semblance of the personality which once was theirs. They should seem very near to us their kindred, and yet, as we attempt to come closer to them, they appear so remote, so far away in the dead years, that we hardly dare to claim fellowship with them, or to speak of them as of our flesh and blood. [Illustration] It makes no difference where the empty shell is cast when the spiritual man is gone, but I reverence that human instinct which induces a man to wish to be laid at the last by the side of his ancestors and near to those whom he has loved in life. It is at least a beautiful sentiment which demands that those who are with each other in immortality should not be separated here on earth, but together should await the morning of the resurrection. [Illustration]